14. WHAT IF I NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN? or ... not waving, VIBRATING!

My daughter will kill me if she knows I've told this story;  but it's worth telling, if only as a posthumous legacy.

She'd intended breaking up with her Australian boyfriend on her return from Paris, only to be mortified that he pipped her at the post, announcing he'd found someone else.   A few nights later, after she'd done a few drive-by stalker tactics to check out her replacement, I heard her carrying-on like a professional mourner at a funeral.  When the wailing and shoe throwing hadn't abated by 2am I went into her bedroom.  

"Why are you so upset?" I asked, nervously poking my head around her door.  "You wanted to dump him!"

"I KNOW!" she sobbed, from underneath a mound of damp tissues.  "but I didn't get the chance!"  "You didn't even like him any more! " I reminded her.  "Remember how you were carrying on in Paris? Thinking of a hundred ways to leave your lover?  Wanting to throw yourself off the Eiffel Tower?"  

"Oui, Oui," she wailed like an ambulance siren, "but that was Paris and there were millions of suitable men there!"  The wailing accelerated to a crescendo. She lay with her head on the carpet and her feet on the bed in a tangled doona, and yanked tissue after tissue from the box.

"You didn't want him anymore!"  

"So What!" she sobbed. "I didn't get the chance to break up with him!"

"What are you really so upset about?" I asked gently, touching her faces gingerly as I would a baby who'd been prematurely plucked from a nipple. 

She stretched out her 21 year old, beautiful,  long,  lean body to its full length. She sniffed aristocratically, pushed her mane of dark tangled air out of her bloodshot blue eyes,  rubbed her blotchy porcelain skin, and wailed ... 

"WHAT IF I NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN?"

or Good Good Good Good Vibrations ..

Picture this: Valentine's night in Perth. It's hot hot hot.   Couples sit under trees illuminated with fairy lights.  Other sit on ice cubed coloured lightboxes watching a Jim Bean ads on a Big Outdoor Screen.  Groups stick sweatily to seats at pink plastic tables decorated with warm carnations and deflating heart shaped balloons, hoping that of all nights, tonight's when they should get lucky.  The lingerie is limp, the chocolates have melted, the champagne has warmed to pee temperature, but damp, sweaty, couples are peering into each others eyes making small talk until they can go home and tear up some sheets.
  
My two Perth BFF's and moi, are happily dateless in Northbridge,  infamous place of pubs, brothels, hookers by the corner, bottle attacks, extreme parking difficulties and off the scale road rage. Chinese takeouts and betting machines rake in the money.  BFF#1 is dark and long and lean and Amazonian and drop dead part-the-oceans staggeringly gorgeous, and always looks as if she has just stepped out of court. (Which she has).  BFF#2  is multilingual, blonde, cute and flirty,  pretty and stacked, and always looks as if she has just come from the gym.  (Which she has). I am a messy red haired multicoloured mishmash who loves high heels but once tried to accidentally commit suicide by falling off them; currently with a who-gives attitude if my clothes are not ironed as I'm living proof of I Can Wear The Same Dress Ten Times Trust Me regime. (Which I am, and can, because I'm A Travellin' Woman.) Which would kill my mother, if she wasn't already dead.  Which is a good thing, really. Considering.

So, after eating Chinese sticky duck at a sticky revolving table shared by a squeeze of sweaty strangers with We Love Perth teeshirts, (while being blown to bits by gummy, fly infested fans whirling above our heads), we ventured out to see what mischief three fifty somethings could get up to on Valentine's eve in the heart of Perth.  Pubs were a no-no.  The detractors were too many: stubbed out cigarettes and their pall of acrid smoke, the stench of warm beers from damp cafe-like bars with the outside night time temperature veering towards forty; the only persons of interest sported dragon tattoos and deep hairy bum cracks, lime green Haviana thongs, singelets (sic) and floral board shorts. The art gallery was closed. So were bookshops.  Hark! This is Perth, after all, the West Australian, coastal equivalent of Canberra, known for politics, misdemeanours, sex romps and sex shops and pornographic dvd enterprises. 

The lurid lights lured us:  Barbarella's,  Risque Erotica, Outer Limits, Libido Adult SuperStore, Club X, all hysterically advertising in neon-tube flickering their half-naked women gyrating down greasy poles.  Celebrate Valentine's day in red net and lace maid outfits, or red and black lace bras and crotchless g-strings appliqued with hearts in all the right places!  Flickering windows promised two dollar peep shows and Yes You Can watch real live sex!  These outlets to heat addled imaginations always did a roaring trade, clustered together along one grubby strip so one could sidle from one libidinous outlet to another, hands in pockets, collar up, sunglasses on, cash in hand. 

BFF#1, a head taller than anyone, attempted to remain inconspicuous in her black leather sheath dress, diamante sandals and aubergine toenails. We braced ourselves, arm in arm, for our advance into Unknown Territory.  We tottered in, giggling, on the purple stained carpet and approached a pink grimy-with-fingerprints counter that had flashing neon lights around its edge, behind which slouched a slight, slope shouldered, yellow-wispy-haired man in rumpled jeans and a football jumper who was vacuuming the carpet.  Let's call him  MBC:   Man Behind Counter)   

MBC looked anxiously around, probably hoping his off sider had returned from wherever he had gone to. 

"Well, hello," I said, in my best Come Up and See Me Sometime Voice:   "What else is there for three single women to do on a hot Valentine's night in Perth except look at your toys?"   I could hear the musical score from "the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly" playing in my imagination.  

He turned off the vacuum.  He jumped and twitched at we approached him.  On a wall of glass shelves behind him, were a selection of implements that would have been less out of place in Officeworks, or The Tower Of London. Items resembling foam covered pencils, silver mouses with dual controls, large pink paper clips, a classy hot pink aluminium memory stick, rubber aprons, waterproof cameras and handcuffs.

MBC smiled nervously.  He'd never heard this line before. "How can I help you?

BFF#1 pointed:  "Show me that one, the one that looks like a stapler!"
MBC: "That's not a stapler, that's the WeVibe, a couples vibrator!" His terror had evaporated the  moment he touched the toys.  " Put out your hand.  I'll show you how it works. It looks like a set of duck bills, don't you think?  

BFF#1 delivers her elegant hand into this turquoise rubber ducky thing which clamps onto her palm and fingers.  Internal studs and knobs hum and vibrate like an Indian generator in a power failure.  

She squeals.  She sighs.  Her eyes glaze over.
MBC:  Er, it's not for your hand, I'm just demonstrating.   It's supposed to go over the woman's furry bit, and this other half goes inside, like this, look, make a fist.  

BFF#1 is flushed.

MBC: It comes in different colours - pink, purple, also black - so she gets double stimulation when the man is inside her - works the g-spot and clit. It's the most popular.  Cutting edge, ten speeds, unbreakable. Waterproof.  You can charge it from your computer.  Not dishwasher safe, though

BFF#2:  (Always so considerate) Doesn't it hurt the man if there's something inside pressing against him?
MBC:  Na, don't think so.  
Moi: But if he's inside hard at it, wouldn't it rub off his skin? Blisters, or whatever? What about the woman's lotus pond? Won't that hurt?
MBC:  Dunno! I'm not into vaginas!

We collectively make a cluster of commiserating noises. 

MBC continues.   "This one is $350.  It fits any computer port and can charge while you're working, ready for when you get home.  Faster than microwaving your chicken.  It's the working woman's vibrator. Perfect for travelling 'cos it doesn't show up on x-rays. Guaranteed not to make loud noises from your briefcase."

I get a nudge from BFF#1 and BFF#2.   Not on my Morocco and Istanbul watch, I hiss. Have you heard about their CUSTOMS? Anyway, my case is already overweight.

BFF#1 having recovered slightly, mops her flushed chest with her Gucci scarf:  Hand over mouth, looks around, whispers: "How much is this thing?"  Winks at us:  "Ah I love a good hand massage in the morning."

MBC:  "Only $179.  If you buy two, that's $358.  Includes the fancy high tech box, with safety features like automatic shut off.  Worth every cent.  Five year warranty.  Rustproof."

BFF#2 wants to see the pelvic floor exerciser.  I've tried to explain the PVC - er pelvic floor exercises you can do at the bus stop, or while you're waiting to see your dentist.  Costs nothing, nobody knows you're doing it, except the smile on the face of a person with Vaginal Visitation Rights. But BFF#2 had seen a mechanical battery operated substitute demonstrated on TV.  

MBC brings it out.  It looks like a medical device used after a multiple hip fracture.  BFF#2 back off in horror.  It doesn't even have the fun of the remote controlled thingo that goes inside and against a woman's Special Bits. You know, the kind that's remotely activated by your man on his way home with the same press of a button that opens the garage door. By the time he's had his second beer, watched the last cricket innings, scratched his nuts,  and asked what's for dinner, you are. 

"Come," says MBC.  " I'll show you our best sellers".

He leads us past racks of magazines involving Women and Dogs, Men and Snakes, Spas and Skin.  Rubber aprons and wetsuits hang above our heads like enormous bats.  Bottles, tubes, jars and cakes of lubes, jellies and potions to Bring Out The Man in You.  A gift kit, perfect for a 40th birthday, for making a plaster cast of your man, just in case you needed something to do on a winter's night when there's nothing on TV.  

We reach the vacuum section - large suckers and poles and - oh, no , this is the You Must Be Joking vibrator section. We crowd around MBC in this hardware store for the pelvic region.  Heavy duty instruments, chains and pulleys that would be used more effectively for cutting down trees or drilling planks. Black and Ballsy, Pink and Pumped, Penis to Put your Pubic Blues to Shame.  A Pussy Snorkel for Pete's Sake! A mammoth pink plastic mouth, named JONE-AH,  for inserting around a lonely penis when the missus is at the cake bake.  A plump, salmon coloured fat and hairy pillow thing with a secret opening leading to an  "Easy to clean WASHABLE!!!!" internal plastic container with a twist cap.   Don't want to leave THAT one around when Auntie Millie comes visiting with her lamingtons.

MBC pulls A SuperDaddy off the shelf, and we back off in horror.  It's sparkly blue, about a foot long, wide as a can of Ajax, filled with silver marbles. It has spikes and what looks like rubbery horns from a sea urchin on the surface. It looks as if an angry bat is growing out the side of it's trunk. 

MBC lifts it off the shelf with two hands, and flicks a knob.  It glows luminous  green, then it turns pink, and the aroma of strawberries wafts around.  It hums and thumps.   It starts to moan. OOOOOH!   AAAAAAH!

Is it a rocket ship?  Is it a Russian missile?  Is it a message in a bottle? Is it an alien, coming to steal our Virgins?

MBC twists the knob and the thing takes off like a bicycle in the Tour du Farce, gyrating across the counter top, moaning and whirring.   He catches it just before it crashes to the carpet.

"Ten Speeds!" he exclaims as he holds it aloft like a Logie Award.  "The fastest on the market!  Only $1200!  Six months warranty!"

"OMIGOD!" I splutter. "It's The Terminator!" 

"YEAA! Good name!", grins MBC,  "Also, it rotates so hard it gives the vagina a Good Hammering.  Some women have even passed out!"

"Hammering? Pass Out? Who wants a hammered vagina?" we splutter in horrified unison, clutching our glory boxes. "Don't you have anything that wouldn't cause us grievous bodily harm and a pelvic reconstruction surgeon?  Have you any idea what these ... these ... THINGS feel like inside our tender little lily petals?"

"How would I know" huffs MBC indignantly, "I told you, I'm not into vaginas!

BFF#1 is petrified she will bump into a Judge from one of her Courts and wants to flee. Apparently, this is where they hang out, looking for powdered wigs and flapping black coats.   We assure her that if she did bump into one of her cronies in Barbarella's on Valentine's night, The Wig would want to make a faster exit than she could, and would probably also be hiding behind Blues Brothers sunglasses.  She tries to hide under a see through latex raincoat to remain incognito, while BFF#2 and I pose in front of the grubby mirrors with various bondage, straps ons, nurse outfits with cut out butts, black tutus with wings, and schoolgirl skirts.

Done with unisex, we saunter into the MEN ONLY section. In my world, a penis looks like a penis, but in this expanse of Doric Columns, Totem Poles, Javelins and Prizewinning Zucchinis that would take two men to carry it, I'm all agog.  Speechless.  Tongue tied.  Talk about coming in colours! My Stars! And going down on the Titanic!   Black, pink, steel, knobbled, giant mushrooms; leather steel studded strap ons, chain mail vests, blindfolds and gags with metal spikes. A something the dentist uses when he's making a model of your teeth, to hold your mouth apart. Handcuffs and ankle cuffs and nipple pinchers and prongs;  skewers and staples, hooks and hoods.

What happened to good old tender lovin?  

Some creations truly demand much of even my imagination;  some remind me of those awful tables made of elephants' lower legs with a rubber alien growing out of it. Where would Uncle Barney put that fist shaped lamp base?  

We bend to examine a contraption that defies category.  It's a long, wide, transparent cylinder, with struts and clamps on either side, the sort that would be strapped to a broken leg while in traction.  Huddling together like ducks in a storm for protection, one of us pokes a finger at it - What the ?

MBC rolls his eyes.  "Duh.  It's a Penis Extender."

Really? smiles BFF#1, remembering a recent failed dalliance.  How does it work?     

"Eh, eh" smiles MBC. "Easy.  I've had a LOT of experience with this one.   "I mean my friend has.  " I, mean he, the man, puts his dick inside it, straps it to my, er his leg, ties the rubber weight on with that piece of leather,  and wears it all day, under his jocks.  Unless he wants to eh eh, you know.  He just rubs it up and down.

Kinda like those Africans who strap rocks to their penises to enlarge them." 

(Really? - Na, we all know, being African ourselves.) 

Doesn't it hurt?  Doesn't it tear the ligaments? Can't you see it in the pants?  (Is that a gun in your pocket, that prizewinning zucchini, are you delivering my gourds .. or are you just glad to see me ...)

"Yea!" MBC's eyes glint.   "A bit of pain never hurt anyone.  Come with me."

Oh dear god, now we are in the Strap A Dick To Me and Knock Me Out section.  Whips.  Chains. Spikes. Handcuffs.  Anaesthetic goops.  Tongue depressors.  Red Velvet Glove with built in bristles - washable.  Blow up dolls of all nationalities, shapes and sizes, and rows and rows of John Does with erections so large they would topple a normal man and render instant vaginismus on any normal woman. 

What are men thinking?  Do they think we LIKE this?

I pick up a thing the size of my palm that looks like a roll on deodorant.  It smells like Jasmine in a Russian Forest.  There aren't any buttons or knobs;  it seems inert; but there's a tiny hole at the top of the penis, I mean roll on.  I twist it and turn it, and can't work out what it does, when suddenly a small amount of slimy white goop spurts out the top.  

"EEUW!" I shriek, dropping it disgustedly back on the counter, and wipe my hands frantically on the yellow checked apron of a blow up doll that looks like my fat auntie Dora just after her she'd reapplied her lipstick.

"What the **&^ was that?" I splutter, "it came all over me!"

"That," says MBC  theatrically, rolling his eyes again to the red ceiling,  "is a self lubricating vibrator.  $49.95, comes with one refill."

Duh.  Now I definitely can't visit the pub.  Not that anyone would notice anything unusual. Eh. Eh.

BFF#1 has disappeared.  We totter back into the teeming, noisy night to look for her,  without even a condom or battery operated "toothbrush" to prove we'd been there.  

I told my daughter a short version of this story.  She looked at me sadly and said: "Why did you go there? Are you missing being in a relationship?"


And the answer is no, I am not.  I'm having fun with my girlfriends, and that is something I missed for all the years I was in a relationship.

And then, there was the problem with MONEY!

GlobalTravelCard  Rip Off - or SHOW ME MY MONEY!

 

I've done it.  I've gone.  I've peeled off all my layers, and I've done plenty of crying and I'm stripped down to my core.  In the meantime, my geographical neighbours have had floods, fires, cyclones, tornadoes, earthquakes and drought.   I've watched scenes of horror and devastation: it does indeed seem as this is a year of cataclysms.

 

On a greater personal scale, I managed to survive without seeing Pubic Enemy #1 = D, even though every bit of me was screaming for contact with him.  I’d changed my phone number to keep him away, but he messaged me via friends. He stalked my family.    I wrote previously that if I saw him again, this journey would be threatened, so I had to keep my promise to myself.  It was bloody hard.   I'm too hurt to be with him:   He'd turned up in a new leather jacket, uninvited, at my host's house, with a new, shiny, throbbing, backfiring Harley and a promise to throw me off a cliff rather than answer questions about where my money went. 
 

The tension was unhinging me, so I left Perth a few days early; at 2am the temperature still crackled around 32 degrees.  I felt alone, exhausted, brittle, weepy.   But then I looked the departures board, and I was taking the least exotic destination - Singapore.  It was a start.  Other cultures and languages surrounded me, jumpy with nervous excitement about their own reasons for travelling.  I patted my bag as it was swallowed into the bowels of the airport.  So long, I said, Don’t get lost. Keep your lid on. Don’t let anyone repack you. Don’t accept lifts from strangers. If you get there before me, be patient. I’ll turn up. See ya in Kathmandu. 
 
I wheeled my cameras and laptop behind me, and set off In Search Of Me.
 

Twelve hours to arrive at a new life.  I sat mute, still, and grateful in my own space, as I put my bits and pieces together. Around me language and clothing, the colours of peoples’ skin, food aromas and perfumes changed at each destination. Some people hurried, some cried, many laughed. Some had a briefcase, others had cardboard boxes tied with string. All had A Plan.

 

In Singapore I wheeled my luggage capsule past mini hanging gardens of orchids, bromelia and anthiriums through a super-chilled space of super-organisation, sleek, silent transit trains and permanently smiling staff.    Windows misted with moisture and warmth and gushing waterfalls clattered around the aromas of Oud perfume and Thai soup.  Nobody knew I was here.  Nobody knew where to find me.  Nobody could harm me.

 

Unseen in a busy throng, I stared up at the flipping boards. Casablanca.  AbuDhabi. Paris.  Bhutan.  Istanbul.  Madrid.  Uzbekistan. Zanzibar.  Kathmandu.  I checked my ticket. Yes. That’s me. In an hour. 

 

My spirits lifted and I gave myself the liberty of a little pinch of happiness.  

 

The Silk Air plane to Kathmandu is small and narrow.  Inside it  smells of yak butter, thick coats, a whiff of cow dung and even muddy snow.  There’s a hint of ice in the air.   Or perhaps it's the sense of adventure attached to the rumpled backpacks and heavy walking boots, and well used coats that I can smell. People are going Somewhere.   I realise I'm surrounded by people I'm attracted to for their exoticism and ability to move into their dreams. Dark, handsome people, fit men ready for tough hikes, pretty Nepalese girls, smiling monks in their red and orange robes rattling their rudraksha malas. Old, bent couples huddling close in woollen hats and red gloves, sharing their wrinkles and making new stories. Women in vivid green and red embroidered sarees, slicked down hair dark with ghee, wearing elaborate silver nose rings and kilos of silver.

 

A Nepalese man gave up his window seat for me so I could watch the mountains, the rivers and flood plains as we approached the terrifying mountain top strip of path that is Kathmandu’s international airport.  I’m a doctor, he said, call me if you need me; I’ve been travelling solo for four months, I know what loneliness feels like. 

 

 

What a welcome relief from Perth - which smelled of dry brittle nothingness; not even Home.   Stifling hot days, one after the other, a huge whiteout bright blue sky where clouds would threaten then evaporate. Not a drop on the ground.  Blisteringly hot winds that rustled scorched leaves. Polish stripped off cars so they lack luster, giving off heat hazes as they hobble home.  

 

It's hard to imagine I spent 22 years there.  And how difficult it was to leave, even in the final moments.

 

I had six thousand dollars cash from the sale of my car that was going to be my bread, butter and tofu money for the next few months.  I'd researched whether to take Australian dollars to Morocco (No, they don't like them;  to Nepal - not sure, and to Turkey – yes,  but not everywhere.  Not everyone takes American Express credit cards.  Most take Visa but deals are better with cash. I'd researched TravelEx but the fees for deposit and withdrawal were high.  I followed the advertising blurbs and assurances of several Amex telephone assistants, and a woman touting the product at the Travel Expo I attended in Perth last week,  (where I entered a completion for a cruise). I went to my local post office, and asked her, as I had everyone else, if I could use this card in Nepal.   

 

YES, it's worldwide.  

 

I gave her $A6000, and converted, this came to US$ 5840, a fee of $160 even though the dollars were at parity.  I wanted the card because the withdrawal fees were minimal compared to the others. It also meant that I'd be safe from theft, and I'd be able to give my backup card to Luda in case of disaster. 

 

Instructions were clear: activate as soon as possible. This took two days as the first time I called, apparently 23.5 hours weren’t long enough. I called again and the centre was having technical difficulties. Six hours before my scheduled departure I was diverted to a call centre to activate the card.  I'd given the Nice Indian Man all my identification details, but as I'd left out an A next to the numeral of my street, he wouldn't process me.  Finally I remembered the A, difficult anyway because I don't live there any more, but they had to have some address. The process took over a half hour.  Activation was complete.  My card will work in Nepal?  

 

“Nepal?”  said the Nice Indian Man from the Call Centre.  "Where is that?  Is it in India?"

 

No, I said, it's Nepal.  It's a country.

 

How you spell that.  

N E P A L

 

M I T E L?  Where that?

 

N E P A L

 

Oh, NAPLES?

 

No, Nepal.  Above India.  Look above your head.

 

Africa?   

NO, NEPAL.

 

Is that in Spain?

 

NO!!!!!  It's the top of India, it's not India!  For god's sake, it's one of your neighbours!

 

Am sorry madam, I must consult with my supervisor.  This conversation is being recorded for training purposes.

 

I held for fifteen minutes. 

 

Am sorry madam. I cannot find a place call Nepal.  

 

Well, that's very funny, I said, because I'm flying there in six hours with $6,000 and I need to know if I can use the card there.

Am sorry madam, I will have to ask my supervisor again.

Ten minutes elapse.

Hello madam sorry for holding thankyou for your patience.  There is no Nepal.

What do you mean, there is no Nepal.

Am meaning Madam, that you cannot have that card in Nepal.

WHAT!  You mean my card is useless there?

Indeed madam.

So what the **&^ am I supposed to do with the money, in your American Express card, that I can't use in a country your representative told me I can?  Can I cash the money at the airport on my way out and cancel the card? 

No madam is not possible. You cannot use it in Australia because it is in USD.  You cannot withdraw it also because it won't work where you are going.

 

But that's MY MONEY!   I can't go to N E P A L without cash.  What do you suggest I do?

 

You going somewhere else? 

Singapore, I sniffed. 

Oh good, madam, can go to the bank du something in Singapore and cash out your money there.

 

SINGAPORE!  I'm in transit at 6 am for 1.5 hours.

Am sorry madam, I will consult with a supervisor.

Twenty minutes elapse.  Then I'm cut off. 

 

In the meantime D+ my host, has managed to get onto an English speaking person at the Perth office of Amex and used her travel agent skills for assistance.  We're told the only option is to rush into town in the next 25 minutes in peak hour to the Amex office where they will refund my money in Australian dollars before they close for the weekend.

 

Well!  Fan bloody tastic!   Five hours to liftoff, and besides the $160 I've lost in the first transaction, I'll have my Australian dollars back - and no time to take out a debit card or to deposit my own money in the bank and withdraw the way I usually have.  It's 38 degrees and rush hour and everyone has road rage and I have AMEX rage. 

 

D+ double parks and uses her I'm blonde and pretty face to prevent being ticketed while I rush down the mall at peak hour like a demented lemming swimming upstream, sweat dripping off me and making unsightly circles in more places than under my eyes.  Sweat in Perth, and you'll find creases you never knew you had.

 

I ask for my full $6000 back, seeing that's what I put in.

 

Oh says young Brett, you're only due to get back $5680; the rest are fees.  WHAT the **&^ are you talking about? This money was locked in at the USD rate two days ago; why are you giving me international exchange rates? I'm not SELLING you money, I'm asking for the return of MINE because I was given incorrect information.

 

Well, says Brett, we suggest you go back to the place you bought this card and have it out with them ...

 

They're in INNALOO! I shouted. It's a post office.  It's 5.15pm now and you don't have bloody daylight saving here so everyone goes home an hour early.  

 

Well, says Brett, sort it out when you return. Then he narrows his eyes and glares at me: We don’t want our children getting cancer.

 

RETURN!  Why would I return to this place!  I'm travelling for a year.  I don't even LIVE here.  (By this time I was ready to be straight jacketed. I had stuck my Sydney driver's licence up against the steamy glass safety panel. I had shoved my travel writer’s accreditation card (out of date) under the two notes only security panel.

 

I'll have you know!  I shouted I'm a travel writer!  I'm going away for YEAR!  I don't BLOODY LIVE HERE!  How can you take $500 in TWO transactions in TWO days of MY MONEY!  You're going to hear much more about this. I'm going to Current Affair!  I'm going to the Ombudsman!  I'm going to Channel Nine.  I will write about this on my blog. This is worse than Ned Kelly!  You can't just take my money from me - NOWHERE on all that advertising stuff you keep trying to give me, does it say that NEPAL is not covered.

 

By now all three Amex workers were cowering behind each other, whispering to themselves and shaking their heads.  Maybe they were deciding in my favour, to get me out of here,   maybe a hand hovered dangerously close to the panic button. 

 

Brett gnashed his teeth. Said:  I can give you today's rate .... or nothing.  Take it up when you return. 

 

"I'M NOT RETURNING HERE EVER EVER EVER!" I wanted to scream.   "It's too bloody hot and you're all fried from the heat and irrational!"

 

With Brett's two women standing behind him in case I flung myself through the plate glass and rifled the till, Brett counted out the $5680, slid it under the counter, issued me a receipt for foreign exchange, and suggest I take it up with Amex, the Post Office and the Dispute Centre.   

 

FROM PAKISTAN?  I shouted!   How the hell am I supposed to do this from PAKISTAN?  (where the hell did that come from!  I'm not going to Pakistan, but I must admit it sounded impressive, although I was the only one being impressed.) 

 

Are you NUTS!  I raved!  THIS IS MY MONEY!  This is grand larceny!  This is outright THEFT!  I can't use the bloody card where I am going!!! And I'm being penalised?

 

I noticed a shoe shop across the mall.  "If I returned a pair of shoes, the day after I bought it, I wouldn't lose 25% of the value because they didn't fit!   

 

I snatched my Australian dollars, less $500, and the receipts for my rip off. Brett slammed shut the glass window, missing my fingers by millimetres.

 

Then I shut up because my fury would have set that place alight.  It ruined my last day in Perth. It made me late for everything that was planned for my farewell that evening.   I didn’t have time to change, or feel like making anyone laugh. I felt too sick to eat.

 

I asked my daughter to lend me $3000 which I’d repay in a few days, direct to her bank account.  She refused on the grounds I may never return.   I asked D+.  She unlocked her bathroom cupboard and gave it to me.

 

I was angry, and hostile, fed up with everything Perth represented.  I  boarded the plane to the rest of my year looking and feeling like someone not to be messed with, ever. You want space in the overhead locker?  Sure, I will keep my 8kg of Toblerone and Brandy on my lap for the next nine hours.  You want the window seat? I’ve never seen Australia from the sky, but here, take it.  You want my armrest? I’m huge and fat and usually roll drooling over onto my passenger’s side, but now, definitely, I don’t need one.  We don’t serve champagne in cattle class, but here’s your complimentary glass.

 

As Perth receded, so did my black mood.  All I needed was to sort out the Problem with the Money.

 

At Perth Airport I changed $700A to US and lost $60.   In Singapore, at the Amex counter, I changed my remaining 5500 AUD back to USD and all it cost me was $65.00.  Another $65.   So far, changing $6000 to USD has cost me $620.  That's 10%.

 

But I did learn that if you want to change money and you are passing through Singapore, their commission is very reasonable.  Do it there, bugger the card, just keep your money safe.  This was the least of my problems.

 

And Go With The Flow.  AKuna Matata.  Breathe.  Repeat.