Leaving Australia

The last couple of years have been...strange. Before all of this, we lived in a house on a hill in beautiful Tallebudgera, Queensland. We had an orchard with plenty of fruit-bearing trees: nine mango trees that gave us so many baskets of mangoes in the summer; star fruit trees, always heavy with fruit when in season; shiny wax apple trees with pretty, pink bell-shaped fruits, four jackfruit trees with fat, spikey fruits that sagged to the ground, grape vines that yielded fat, green and black purple grapes. We had roses in a glorious tangle flowering in the hot months; a rhapsody of blood red, yellow, blush pink and white. There was a family of wallabies that hopped outside our bedroom windows every morning at four o’clock. Possums snoozed lazily in the locquat trees and bumble bees kissed each blossom of our Thai basil bushes in the summer months. There were horses that ate apples from our palms at the nearby stables and kite flying at near-deserted beaches, only ten minutes away.

We lived in our house on the hill for four years until a great job opportunity presented itself and we flew across the country in January 2019, all the way back to Karratha, Western Australia, where our children were born. It was also a wonderful opportunity for us to be closer to my parents. We settled right in, officially beginning our first year of homeschooling.

In this little rural and remote "city" – in quotes because anyone who’s been to Karratha would know that it’s more like a glorified town than anything resembling a city – existed a then-small community of homeschooling families and we made fast and lasting friendships with these beautiful families who, like us, have decided a very different path in educating their children.

Summers in Karratha were more mangoes ripening on the tree in my parents’ backyard (we were living with them at this point); hours at the pool with our homeschooling tribe, our tans deepening with every lap swam and every underwater somersault performed; beach frolics always accompanied by potluck picnics, oftentimes shared with the gulls; stalking kangaroos out in the bush at twilight in our four-wheel-drive; blazing sunsets, lighting up the endless horizon; and apocalyptic cyclones that roared, and snarled, and spat water sideways in their rage. Winters were absolutely glorious with oceans upon oceans of pink and purple mulla mulla, a violet haze as far as the eye could see; clumps of dainty sturt’s desert peas in their bright, red skirts, lining the bike paths and dry flood ways; and the skies were always the bluest and clearest azure hue. This was that time of year when breakfasts were eaten alfresco under the moringa tree and lessons were conducted in the front yard sand pit.

Little did we know that we were a year away from extraordinary changes to our way of life.

At the start of 2020, rumours surfaced of a contagion originating from China. We had a holiday planned for March and despite the mounting fear and uncertainty, we went ahead and had an unforgettable holiday in Japan. We explored Tokyo, trying out all the different offerings of each conbini franchise. We window-shopped for anime figurines and bought little surprise toys from the vending machines of Akihabara.

We visited the monument of Hachi, the most faithful Akita Inu, and crossed that world famous crosswalk at Shibuya station, elbow to elbow with a sea of people that ebbed and flowed according to the red and green lights directing the current. We made our way to Harujuku and got a giant rainbow cotton candy, something the children were really looking forward to.

There was the amazing experience of taking the shinkanzen from Tokyo to Kyoto, our bento boxes tucked away in our backpacks to be enjoyed later on that incredibly fast bullet train. My daughter and I marvelled at the exquisiteness of being dressed in kimonos with all the layers, the meticulous folds and knots, the obi belts, the pretty purses and accessories, the special socks that went with the special slippers.

And later we walked all over Gion; in our beautiful borrowed dresses covered in printed flowers, and even more flowers in our hair; being photographed by Daddy, and Master Z, and a sneaky local trying to be inconspicuous, a massive lens attached to his camera. We fed deer in Nara and fed ourselves with some freshly grilled dangos, slathered in sweet soy sauce followed by soft-serve vanilla ice cream sold by little old ladies whose smiles were so bright, they crinkled the skin around their pretty eyes. We walked through the red gates of Fushimi Inari Shrine, under the gaze of the kitsune, all made of stone, so still and wise.

We even found some late spring snow to roll around in and build a mini-snowman with in Echigo-Yuzawa, powdery and newly fallen the night before, a first experience for Master Z. And how could we ever forget seeing the ephemeral cherry blossoms in full bloom, delicate and white, joyful in their appearing and at the same time invoking a kind of sadness because of their fleeting nature?

We had a most fantastic time in Japan, and we still remember and talk about our four weeks there with so much fondness and nostalgia.

And that was the last holiday we had outside of Western Australia in the two years that followed.

Because, as you may have noticed, the last couple of years have been...strange.

For a long while, after returning from our holiday, life in our little city was fairly normal. Normal enough compared to the eastern states where life had become drastically unrecognizable – to me, anyway. There were many meaningful conversations among close friends who dug a little bit deeper beneath the surface of events taking place globally. And although we went about our day just like before, there was an underlying compulsion to be more watchful. There was a constant need to have our ear to the ground, listening for tell-tale signs of trouble, lest we were caught unawares.

Yes, the last couple of years have been...strange, to say the least.

We left Australia on 1 February 2022. We packed up what we could in sixteen Balikbayan boxes – mostly books, Lego, photographs, treasured toys – put the rest in four large suitcases and left the country that I have loved and have called home for eighteen years. We decided to leave because we needed stable ground beneath our feet. We wanted a different way of life for us, a place where we can thrive and be safe. We left Australia to be free.

By the grace of God, He has brought us here, to the Philippines, the country of my birth and the home of my childhood. My hope is that while we’re here,my children will learn more about the culture which they have inherited in their blood, that part of their childhood would be spent immersed in a different setting, one that has tinted their mother’s story. And even though the circumstances that brought us here were unusual, we’re hopeful for the year ahead and we’re ready for a new adventure.