11. My Year Without Clothes

 MY YEAR WITHOUT CLOTHES  

The Journey has changed direction slightly.  Luda and I are not going to Mali - too much long travelling through perishable heat, too many long dusty roads, not enough time - and plenty of beads from Djienne and Timbuktu in Morocco anyway.  We are going instead, after Morocco, to, ISTANBUL home of the Ottomans.  I love Istanbul.  I love belly dancing. I love Turkish Delight.  I don't know if I'll love the hookah pipes, I'll let you know. I don't like the hamams and the terrorist attendants there who last time excoriated me to within an inch of my Brazilian.   I'm not crazy about moustaches. But I'm dotty about turbans and hooked on souks. 

I leave in ten days for Perth. I'm looking forward to seeing my children. My daughter thinks I'm going to need "looking after" while there.  My son is always right behind my mad adventures.  It's always stinking hot there.  It's a different sort of stinking hot to anywhere else so the thought of taking anything warm en route to a mountainous place seems ludicrous.  I am down to 18kg of clothes; and still shedding.   I have a bikini for Perth, a hat and sunblock, and a wet towel for sleeping on.

I think I will rename this blog My Year Without Clothes. 

I've always loved my Clothes. My son Mel once commented that a dress I wore for a party was not a dress, it was ammunition.  The older I became, the more I was attracted to wilder clothes. In my twenties, I wore pink helanca hot pants with a long trench coat and white knee high plastic laceupboots which went well with my white eyeshadow and false eyelashes.  In my married thirties, mired in being a Mom,  I wore beige, beige, beige.  In my free Forties, it was taffetta and embroidered denim and f-me boots.  In my fifties, when I was with my sophisticated Latin Lover,  I was encased in Red Cashmere, scarves, leather and Silk.  In my somethings, wasting years with a younger lover, I made serious mistakes of the leopard skin polyester and floral flowing skirts kind;  hideous wardrobe malfunctions of the k-tart kind.  I looked like trailer trash. I felt like a hooker.   They went when he did.

I am a Princess, and proud of it.   I've now shed most of the clothes that made me the desperate creature I was during Those Times.  They are peeling like sunburned skin off my skinny body. Clothes I've kept forever, gone with their memories.  I have kept a few neutral t shirts, a few silk tops, and a few jodhpur-type leggings acquired on Indian journeys which are de rigeur for the travels I'm about to do.   The lift and separate uber cleavage bras that weigh as much as a loaf of bread are gone too - as my boobs are currently having their last exposure to sunlight before they are tucked away in covered-up cultures.  Every piece of clothing I still own is judged by its weight, washability and colour co-ordination.  I'm a neutral palette with a splash here and there.

So far my year's travelling allocation is:

Three pairs cotton drawstring jodhpurs - black, camel and lime green.  Fanastically comfortable for sitting cross legged on top of a bus, dries in a flap of wind, will fade like my memories of What Was, and covers up hairy legs of the Where the Hell Did I leave My Razor kind.

Four tops:  One black and camel silk slit up the side, down to my knees, from Luda. Divine for dressing up, and dressing down and covering over and weighs a feather.  One black cotton short kaftan.  One grey linen long top that will absorb sweat and crease like laughter between fifteen people sharing my bus seat, acquired because I had a $40 gift voucher from Sussan, but it goes with the pants. Three tank tops for unders.  One lime green wrap to liven up all the black.

Goes well with:

One Red Stretchy Belt.
One red and cerise shiffon scarf.
One brown and black scarf.
One bewdifool very expensive pale green and red silk scarf - for looking very classy and drawing attention away from the black pants and t shirt I would have worn for three weeks.

A note on scarves:  travel essential for every woman.  They can be used to cover a smelly pillow;  cover yourself while washing in a river;  hide a hickie, splint an arm,  wrapped into stylish turbans during belly dance lessons or detract from visually harmful bad hair days; used as a tablecloth on a rock in the High Atlas;  secure a suitcase, hold up trousers when days of lomotil haven't helped the ravages of that one small meal at a street vendor; tie a man to the bedpost so you can go shopping without being criticised;  tie yourself to your best girlfriend so she doesn't get lost in a souk, tie your bag to your chair so it doesn't get stolen;  used as a boob tube, a sarong, a veil during a thousand and one nights and a gag for the critics.

Any other suggestions?

Footwear:  Two pairs of grannie hush puppies velcro shoes. Hideous but fantastically comfortable and weigh as much as an apple. On my last trip through India, I wore Crocs; they were more comfortable than my trekking boots but wobbled over cobble stones so I ditched them.  One pair of sensible, solid, very well made walking boots. If I need some foot bling, I'll buy some smelly camel leather sandals in Nepal and then chuck them when I move on.

I've locked away my jewelery.  There is no point in having my eyelashes tinted.  Bugger the notions of Botox, I'm going to poor countries where one lip plump would buy a new roof.  I don't have roots that need touching up.  When bad hair days prevail, refer to scarves above.

I will take my kohl, my mascara, my moisturisers and my SP35.  I do not want to look like a dried apricot on my return.  If I'm going to have to cover up everything except my eyes, I'll need to work them for all they're worth.   And I am taking my razor.  I'd like to recognise myself when I've been on the road a bit and I don't want to frighten the bath time terrorists in the hamams.

I'm feeling emotionally naked, very clean, unadorned and am daily increasing the score  on my happiness index.   Clothes may maketh the man, but they can also undo a woman.  And most definitely weigh her down.

My travelling bead is a glass frog, a poignant reminder of the climate change tragedy of Queensland; a symbol of life, and a signal of trouble.   I've given one to Luda, too, and to Margaret for her love and help and to keep her connected to us during this journey, and the last one to Denese, my adopted auntie who brought me cheesecake when all hell was breaking loose in my heart. We tied them onto each other's wrists with  tough cotton. Luda and I will trade as we go, Margaret's and Denese's will come off when they fall off.

Ten days to go before liftoff.