From the psychiatric ward.

There are two types of patients in here; those who are terrified of going home and those who are 

terrified of not getting out. I classify myself in the former category. I feel safe and I am getting the help for which I have long yearned. I have so many  like minded friends, there are even men who I can relate to without being afraid.

I remember taking the overdose and I remember why, but I don't remember why I thought it was a good idea. It's the same as the reason why I wanted to be drunk, it's escape, running from the truth, from reality which can be the most frightening thing to face.

I am so grateful for all the help and positive attention I have received here. I have had daily appointments with the psychiatrist, two group therapy sessions daily, occupational therapy, a social worker to help me organise my finances, a dietician, wonderful new friends, three meals a day the list goes on.

The other patients provide me with such positive energy and I've met people with the same illness as me. The intention is to pursue the relationships on the outside. Will we soothe one another due to the understanding we have of each other's illness or will we encourage the craziness and negative thought processes. 

Interestingly, I came across a very interesting article in the Weekly review section of the Guardian Weekly. The article was written about Barbara Taylor who is an academic known for her outstanding work on history and feminism. She also wrote a book called 'The Last Asylum: A Memoir of Madness in our Times'. Barbara wrote of her friend whom she met during her stay in Friern Hospital, 'Magda suffered terribly from black depression yet nearly always she would pull herself together to be with me. Usually I did the same for her. The obligations of friendship trumped madness - and this in itself could be a form of healing'.

Mowing the lawn with Hitler

The first time I met someone famous I also didn't know who they were.

Whilst waiting for a friend to finish a shift at a posh Perth hotel, I started up a conversation with someone carrying a musical instrument case. I was telling him all about the upcoming tour of the Americas with the Australian Youth Orchestra that I was involved in. People kept interrupting us to ask him for his autograph. "Are you famous?" I asked naively. "Oh I play with a band called Simply Red." "Never heard of it." "So where in the Americas is the orchestra performing?" he continued.

Whilst working in Verona, I ran into a Suzanne a wonderful friend whom I had met not too long before at the Innsbrucker Festspiele. This oboist invited me to visit her at her home near Innsbruck. As I was spending my last weeks before returning to Australia in Munich I jumped at the opportunity to visit Suzanne.

'Ich gehe Jägern!' Announced a Tirolian clad husband with shot gun folded over the crook of his arm. Going hunting? I asked myself. What's with the dress ups? I asked myself. Was he for real, or was this some kind of put on for the tourist? It was as corney as Crocodile Dundee. But he was perfectly serious and the beef bourgingon I'd been served up, was infact bambi bourgingon. He had gone deer hunting.

Suzanne's husband was apparently very famous and received much fan mail from Australia. I felt a little stupid as I had no idea who he was, he however seemed to like that I didn't know him. His humility reminded me of the Simply Red musician. He was currently playing the role of Hitler and had been studying his mannerisms and body language for many months. So not only had he a little moustache and a 1930s bowl cut he had the mannerisms of Hitler. Suzanne said she would often get a terrible fright when he entered her peripheral vision. I however had a terrific laugh when Hitler and I, beers in hand boarded the tractor and mowed the vast expanses of their farm lawn.

Fast way to heaven.

Just like in Islam, Baha'is observe a period of fasting. Nineteen days abstinence from food and water from sunrise to sunset. Travellers, nursing and expecting mothers, the ill and those employed in heavy labour are exempt.

Yesterday was the first day of my first fast (previously I had been too ill). On reflection of my day, I felt so overwhelmed by the spiritual power and the divine blessings I received throughout the day that I cried and cried. I actually felt a little frightened. I saw such clear evidence of god's love for me. It was frightening because this intangible and abstract concept is thoroughly pondered but the only evidence we have is faith. I imagine it is the type of fear one would feel on seeing a ghost. My tears were also tears of joy and tears of relief. I have never in my life felt that someone loved me. My parents were wonderful, but they were atheists and living with such hardship, they were olympians at detachment when it came to their kids. I felt really loved, cared for and safe yesterday.

At about 11am I started to feel hungry, so I figured I'd go and fill myself up with prayer, and it worked a treat. I didn't feel hungry anymore. I did suffer a dreadful thirst however. With this thirst came detachment, humility, compassion, gratitude, I was so happy, and that first drink of water at 6.51pm, how beautiful.

It has been suggested that discipline it a fasting requirement. I guess I had been very lucky here. I was unable to fast in my first two years of being a Baha'i as I was recovering from alcoholism and suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after having worked in the Immigration Detention Centre on Christmas Island. I felt that I was missing out by not being able to fast. I was desperate for the grace that was appointed in the book that Baha’u'llah had mentioned. So I was relieved from the need for discipline.

Day two of the fast and I really feel very fatigued. I must stop, sit, lie and pray. I am so grateful for this. As I am currently in a mania phase of Bipolar, I am so happy to stop, just stop. This in itself is freedom and gives me fantastic perspective. Thank you.

Merry Christmas Island

It started by seeing my students all over the island, even at the casino where I lived. They were laughing and joking, having a great time. When I questioned their escaped status, they told me they missed me and had come to visit.

After speaking to my colleagues, I understood that 500 detainees had escaped during the night some of whom were sitting on the tarmac of the airport staging a protest.

The Christmas Island facility was built to house 400 men. It was currently housing 3000+. The company contracted to run the detention centre had erected tents and filled every nook and cranny with bunk beds to accommodate the excess. Some rooms contained 60 -100 beds packed in so tight that   there was only about 20 cms between each bunk. New arrivals stayed in big tents for three months, this area was glamourously named, "Marquee". Stays ranged between 3 weeks and 36 (and counting)  months, reasons for their length of stay were arbitrary.

When I was informed that I'd be working in the single male compound of 3000, I actually became a little nervous. The only induction or training provided me was how  to use a Hoffman knife to cut someone down who was trying to hang themselves with makeshift ropes ….cut furthest from the knot so as to keep the evidence in tact. I asked if there was anything I needed to know about working at a detention centre, I continued to explain that as a teacher I had only ever worked in schools or universities, this was a first for me. They told me to be aware that these men haven't had sex for a long time so watch out. I later found out it was also not a good idea to let them through the locked gates, I thought I had been polite holding the doors open for them.

Surprisingly the men were of very high spirits and an absolute joy to teach. They treated me with complete and utter respect and were extremely chaste. They were fantastic ambassadors for the male race. Often they would queue after class to look me in the eye and say thank you teacher, I have learnt so much, thank you. Some would come to class early, sweep, clear away the rubbish, position the desks to how I liked them and wait at the door to announce that my classroom was ready. These were the most fantastic students I'd ever taught.

It was only a few days after the students had visited me. I was teaching a really fun grammar lesson with carpet and velcro inwhich  everyone was laughing and producing some great language. A colleague came running into my room and said, "quick Kate, they are burning down the detention centre, we have to evacuate, NOW!"

Acting on impulse I said, "ok can everyone follow me, we have to go". My colleague turned to me to say, "no the students stay". I was devastated. My beautiful students. How can I leave them behind?

All the detention centre staff were ushered out as the police in full riot gear ran in. Only hours later I heard a Hercules flying above and landing, more police were being flown in. The detention centre was now under their control. I had heard the way those police officers had spoken as we socialised, they revelled in their positions of power. I was therefore very concerned about my students' welfare; I knew that those now in charge, saw it as a change to teach the 'illegal immigrants' (seeking asylum is completely legal)  a lesson.

As I sit here writing now and recalling, the trauma returns…… to be continued if I can, as this was only the beginning.

Because we have everything we need.

One of the most beautiful and inspiring lessons I ever learnt was from an I-Kiribati woman. Years later I am still astounded by her naive genius, or was just pure genius?

We live in a paradigm that is ruled by the constant bombardment of advertising and marketing. If they are not selling us something they are gaining information so someone else can sell us something. The caller says, 'I'm only doing market research, I'm not selling you anything.' I know I've been that caller. Completely against my principals and in desperation for rent money, I worked in a call centre in Amsterdam doing market research in the UK. It was vial. 

Fifty years ago advertisements were kind and charming, "Omo adds whiteness to brightness", "Rowntrees fruit gums, you can taste the fruit" or "Oxo makes cooking so easy". No insults or harm there. Today our weaknesses are preyed upon. It's a two part attack, phase one creates insecurity in the potential consumer, either existing ones are fully developed or new ones are created, the finishing stage then offers a solution to our inadequacy. Other techniques such as a sense of panic are added to the formula and we find ourselves, despite our intellectual ability and vegetarianism, furnished with steak knives and other unnecessities. "But wait! That's not all, call now and you get an extra steam cleaner absolutely free!"


A part of my role in the AusAid English Language Program in The Republic of Kiribati was testing the speaking and listening abilities of the inservice teachers. I had designed a script of questions from which I was able to test their communicative competence and grammatic accuracy in both skills.

"What do you prefer about living on the outer islands?" I asked for the umpteenth time. "Coming to the capital island Tarawa is stressful because we see things for sale and you start to believe that you need those things and of course then you need money to buy them. On the outer islands we don't have money. We don't need to buy anything because we have everything we need. The ocean provides us with fish, the sky water and the breadfruit trees, coconut trees and pandanus tress provide us with more food and materials to make mattresses and houses."

I was really confused. I just didn't understand what she was getting at. It slowly dawned on me. I had spent a weekend on an outer island called Marakei and briefly experienced life without currency. I saw the happiness abounding in the people. It was this innocence and joy that stole my heart. Still to this day I continue to be astounded by the serenity and happiness I felt for those days when I had everything I needed.

Bicycle Thieves

I successfully stole a bike once so, I thought I’d give it another shot. I never would’ve guessed however that stealing a bicycle from a thief would be more difficult than stealing from a policeman.

Yes, from a policeman. My mother also didn’t believe me until she received a phone call from the Police six months after I had told her the truth. Just a courtesy call,

“Good Morning, this is Sergeant Plodd calling from Northbridge Police, may I speak to Katherine please?”

“I’m sorry she’s living in Sydney now, may I be of assistance?”

“I’m just calling to check if Katherine has had no further trouble with her bicycle that was stolen.” He continued.

“Ah no, no trouble at all thank you officer.” Replied my astonished mother.

I’ll explain how I pulled it off so easily, excessive amounts of luck were on my side that day.

I finished work at the State Library at 5.30pm as I did every Saturday during my undergraduate years. I was off to the Brass Monkey Hotel to drink and play scrabble on the upstairs Chesterfields with my friends. Forecasting my drunkenness, I left my bicycle locked up outside the library. The following day I walked to work at the library finding my bike had been stolen. Why would anyone in their right mind steal this crappy bike? To an impoverished student however, it was an immensely valuable asset, especially as I was madly saving $5000 to participate in the Australian Youth Orchestra’s tour of the Americas. 

Infuriated I called the police to report the heinous crime. The policeman at the end of the phone diligently took the details; blue bike with gears and a green lock, reminding me for a third time that stolen bikes never find their rightful owners.

Fifteen minutes before the end of my shift the phone at my desk rang for the first time in my library career. 

"Hello?" I answered enquiringly. "Hello Miss Walpole, I’d like you to come down to the station as a bicycle fitting your bicycle’s description has just been handed in."

I don’t ever recall praying in my life, but if I had, it had just paid off. I made myself known on arrival keen to identify my bicycle. I heard a bike being wheeled from out the back, it went tick tick tick as the precisely tuned mechanics heralded its arrival. My heart sank, precision was the last word to describe my bike. How will I cope without my bike? As I looked at the brand new blue 10 speed racer with a green lock, the policeman said, 

“Is this your bike?” I nearly fell backwards as I heard my mouth say, “Yep”. 

“Sign here please”, I signed and the theft was almost complete. The bike was way too big for me, I dread to think what the policeman thought as I fell from attempted mounts. It was far from an ideal get away vehicle.

Riding on the success of my previous theft, I confidently faced my next opportunity at 3am on the Herrengracht in Amsterdam. Patrick and I were visiting for the weekend. 

I had avoided the metro controllers for six months in Paris travelling ticketless. I felt the impending exhaustion of my luck and an alternate form of transport was necessary. I lived on the Place des Vosges in the Marais quarter of Paris.

A Marais is a marsh, evidently it was flat as far as I would want to travel (to the Louvre, the BHV, Monoprix and home) and a bicycle was the obvious choice.

I hadn’t thought of it until a junkie/bike thief saw the three of us Patrick, Robert and myself, stumbling home on one bicycle under the influence of Amsterdam delights. The junkie asked if we wanted to buy another bicycle. As I was driving back to Paris the next day, I thought it a very wise investment. The junkie paraded the bike in question asking for 25 Guilders. Dam, I’d just spent my last 25 guilder note on a herbal souvenir. To stall, I said I liked the bike, but would prefer a model in green. I knew full well how desperate he was to sell and that it was not as he mentioned; a bike he bought for his girlfriend who dumped him before he had a chance to give it to her. He asked me to wait a minute, while he searched for a green one. He foolishly left the brown bike in my care to fetch the green one. This was my big chance.

“Patrick get on!” I was off, Patrick was not on rather in fits of laughter, but I was still off. The seventeenth century engineer who dammed the Amstel and designed the canals did not have my get away plan in mind. I grew up in strict grid style urban planning and the circular pattern of the canals had me beat and lost. I had no idea where Patrick, Robert or the bike thief were. It’s a little hard to flee if you aren’t aware that you are indeed going around in circles. I was desperate to find Patrick and Robert and not to find the bike thief. As luck wasn’t on my side this thieving occasion, I found the thief first. 

“Oh hello, I was wondering where you got to.” I said attempting innocence. He was cross, I was scared and lost. With Dutch courage I said, 

“well come on, from one thief to another you must give me brownie points for trying.” Fortunately this amused him and I confessed I had spend my last 25 guilder note on a bag of herbs. Cutting his losses he agreed to barter the bike for the herbs. To satisfy his need to punish me, he explained that I was a very naughty girl and therefore I wasn’t allowed to have the green bike. I was soon after riding the Rue du Rivoli on my beautiful brown bike.

1.1.11

Boobies soaring, crabs scuttling, waves cliff gnashing, rain threatening, wind howling and I'm cruising down the street on a motor scooter with JS Bach in my ears.

The grotto, my favourite swimming place.

My first week on Christmas Island has elapsed. It is like a Daliesque dream. Will I awaken to find this newly found lifestyle paradise vanished? No I wont! It is really the most incredible thing ever Christmas Island. I am so happy and so fortunate to have landed this job working for Serco at the North West Point Immigration Detention Centre teaching English as a second language. It is so interesting and so bizarre, culturally and linguistically it’s like a 5 part fugue. Afghans, Tamils, Persians, Iraqis and Burmese men, hundreds of them, all locked up in the middle of this tropical island. As the rumour of changes in Australian Immigration policy run rife throughout, so do the increased numbers of arriving boats. Twenty boats are said to be waiting out at sea to be intercepted by the Australian Navy in order to be granted the most desirable status for processing. This week the storms have been so furious I can’t not worry about the welfare of those on board those waiting boats. I do not want to be one of the next, fishing bodies out of the sea in the case of a mishap. It was only a few days before my arrival on island that half a boatload of asylum seekers drowned as their boat was smashed on the sharp volcanic rock coast.   

SIEV 221

SEIV (suspected irregular entry vessel) 221

 Lily beach is closed as it is littered with body bags of the unfortunate freedom seekers. The official morgue at the hospital was designed without such a disaster in mind, it houses only two, the other forty odd lie one the beach. I was awoken some weeks after in the dead of night by the sound of a Hercules taking off. Odd I thought, until I remembered the funeral was to take place the following days in Sydney. Eerie.

Work is terrific. It is really a very light workload. No assessments, no paperwork and only 15 teaching hours in my 38-hour week. This is the lightest load I’ve ever worked. The rest of the time I can spend preparing classes, writing a curriculum and developing a library of teaching materials.  I am the teacher for the North West compound and the numbers in my classes are growing rapidly. The ‘clients’ love the classes and I appear to have already gained rock star status, as they mob me after classes to thank me for the lesson and to compliment me on my work. It may be a little later that I discover the crafty, scheming motivation behind the flattery, but for now I’ll just enjoy it.

Greta Beach

CIIDC

On Tuesday, I commence Arabic lessons with Ahmed, an Iraqi client. I hope to learn some Arabic as well as to understand exactly how difficult it is to learn a language from a different language group and script whilst getting a grasp of Arabic grammar systems. My knowledge of Arabic is extremely limited and I look forward to filling that void.

The detention centre staff lives at the decommissioned casino. It is a rather odd place as little like Miss Havisham’s dinning room from Great Expectations. One night, I snuck through a backdoor and up a staircase to find the old casino room with adjacent areas. All the tables were set up with drop sheets over them as though like naughty children everyone dropped everything and ran as soon as they had been caught doing illicit acts. My room is on the front left behind the coconut grove.

CIIDC - my work

The decommissioned Christmas Island Casino - my home

The island abounds with the most amazing natural beauty. The fish and the birds do not fear humans, as they are unaccustomed to their presence, rather they are quite curious, as are we. A lovely exchange of curiosity as we glare at each other without fear. Whilst snorkelling I found myself midst a school of hundreds of fish who came right up to my goggles and peered in like an inquisitive child to a television. The island is an extinct volcano rising out of the Java Trench. This trench is the second deepest ocean location worldwide. Snorkelers dare each other to swim to the ‘drop off’, about 50 – 100 from the beach the ocean floor vanishes, only to be rediscovered after a five-kilometre swim straight down. The crabs however, are terrified. Even more terrified is me of them. The millions of red crabs are somewhat benign in size but compensate in number. I’m looking forward to the famous annual migration, which, Attenbrough considers one of the ten most incredible things he’s ever seen. Enter stage left, the robber crab. This is exactly what happened at my first sighting. Dusk, walking carefully in respect of the flora and fauna, a horrific sight enters my left peripheral vision quickly followed by a scream Hitchcock would’ve been proud of. As I lifted my gaze the screams of my friend and I escalated due to the unfathomable size AND number of these prehistoric creatures. Robber crabs are named as such because of their kleptomaniac tendencies, yes they steal your mobile phone and keys while your back is turned! They are also called coconut crabs as they climb coconut palms and pick the coconuts then break them open with their claws and proceed to eat them. A less intelligently endowed colleague plied with duty free spirits teased one a little to closely. Needless to say she had to go to the hospital to get the crab to ‘let go’ of her hand.

Christmas Island is an amazing place and I am so so so happy I decided to come here. But alas this is not the end of the story……