Half my lifetime ago, and a quarter of the world away, I
started my first job in a tiny rural town on the edge of the Australian desert.
At night I could jog 10 minutes over the crest of a hill and see no artificial
lights, only stars. There were no public busses, no parks, no traffic lights,
no supermarkets, one policeman, one doctor, one store, two pubs and a school of
100 students where I taught.
Every other weekend I drove 10 hours round-trip to visit the
girlfriend I had left still studying in the city. The first hour of the drive
was along a single-lane bitumen road that, in line with popular practice, I
would travel at 120 kilometres an hour slowing to 100 to put my left wheels in
the gravel if I met a car coming the other way. I might pass 4 or 5 cars before
I hit the T intersection with the main highway and could relax onto the
two-lane road that would carry me down to the city.
Half way along this first stretch of road was a small shop
with a section of concreted footpath and a wooden bench. I assume the building
was a shop because it sat so close to the road but it no longer served any
commercial function. A section of wire fence on one side enclosed the dry weeds
of what once was a garden.
As I whizzed by I would see two old men sitting on the
bench. All I’d get was a snapshot glimpse of two hat-clad men sitting in the shade
looking out across the road. I never stopped. They sat watching and I drove by.
What strikes me most, in retrospect, is the speed of it all.
In a place of such stark beauty and timelessness, I passed, regularly, meters
from these two men and knew nothing of them. Perhaps they knew that I was the
young teacher - one of a regular cycle of young teachers who would stay a few
years before moving on. Perhaps they didn’t notice me at all and just waited
for the dust to clear and their view of the wheat paddocks to re-emerge.
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In Singapore where cars are so expensive, I ride a bike. In
the park each morning I pass dozens of old men and women out for their morning
exercise. One man always waves and says “good morning” as I ride by. No dust
here. The sky is much closer and regularly washes everything clean. Strange,
though, that in such a fast-paced city I find myself travelling so much more
slowly.
The younger me never took the time to wonder at what those
two old men might be seeing as they looked into their memories.
