Jonah and the Tissue Box

I remember as a child, hearing the tale of Jonah and the Whale, marveling at what a remarkable story of survival it seemed to relate. Swallowed by a whale…three whole days in the belly of the beast…spewed-up onto a beach and living to tell the tale…wow! Little did I realize that the day would come when, I would be (metaphorically speaking) swallowed by a whale named Herman and live to tell the tale…

It all began about fifty years ago, during my childhood…about five years ago when I initially planned the current excursion to Europe…and then again about six weeks ago, feeling miserable and meaningless in a French campsite, wondering what on earth we’d gotten ourselves into. Where to begin? Naturally I’ll start in the middle, get to the end and go back to the beginning like all modern storytellers….

Five years ago the idea of signing-up to the Dept. of Education’s Deferred Salary Scheme sounded hugely attractive. In fact it’s been one of the best decisions of my life. The Department holds back 20% of one’s wage for four years, paying you out the accrued 80% wage during the fifth year - not to come to work. Certainly the light at the end of the tunnel helped my flagging motivation whenever the going became tough. With a year left to serve, I decided to drop out of teaching for a variety of reasons I won’t bore myself with here, but continued to pay into the Scheme until July 2011.

Many things happen in that final year (2011). I became a born-again Christian (the whole works – baptized in the river, joined bible-study and fronting up at church), became a casual teacher, took over my mother’s care (packing up her house and moving her into our home), had some long-distance motorcycle/camping journeys and undertook some long-awaited home maintenance projects. 2012 however always remained the year when the family was going to put everything else aside and trundle off to the Philippines for two months and then to Europe for a further eight months.

As the anticipated departure date inevitably loomed larger, the doubts began – “After all I’m only working part-time now, isn’t it a waste of money…it’s a very long trip…disrupting the girls’ schooling…what’s the point?” Eventually, after my mum was rehoused under the divided care of my two brothers in Tasmania and a young couple had agreed to rent the house and care for our cat, Merv, we were ready (notice I’ve skipped the months of research, re-organisation, careful planning and booking).

Was it all going to be an exercise in vacuous self-indulgence, like the extended remix of yet another singing mannequin’s latest hit? As each friend was quizzed about the merits of the undertaking and whether it represented a scandalous waste of resources – the response remained the same. “Go forth – if it all goes pear-shaped – come back. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity. The girls will never forget it.” Still apprehensive about the potential folly of it all, we departed.

The value and timing of the Philippines leg of the journey was never at issue. The litmus test was always going to be the European leg and more specifically, living and traveling in a campervan. Despite a hiccup involving the forces of darkness (our bank), purchase of the van went remarkably smoothly. Within a week of our arrival in the Olde Dart, we were trundling down the road in Herman the German, a 1993 Hymer camper conversion on a Fiat Ducato light-truck body. Yet two weeks later, Herman had been dubbed ‘The Mobile Tissue Box’ and there were beaucoup tears before bedtime. So where did it go so horribly wrong? Perhaps we should consider the setting...

Imagine your house is being seriously renovated. Temporarily, each member of the family must restrict themselves to whatever will fit into a small cupboard drawer, before the whole family moves into the storage pantry next to the laundry (sorry kids, no TV). The second-toilet off the laundry is available, but must double as a shower and airing cupboard. A kitchen sink and stove-top cooker are shoehorned in along with a table, which conveniently converts into a double bed, two bench seats for added comfort and bunks. Oh, did I mention that the yard has been dug-up? So visiting friends/family, in fact any contact with your normal life is off limits for the time being. The mobile-phone rings – the good news is that you’re going to end up with a great house, the bad news is that the builder fell off the roof of his last renovation and the temporary arrangement will have to last for six months.

A friend from the Philippines had a different perspective. “Yeah - that describes our whole house growing up! You got to know each other pretty well and you just had to learn to live with it…” In fact, for we citizens of Minority World, such conditions beggar belief. While for the vast bulk of the earth’s human inhabitants (Majority World – aka Third World) it represents situation normal. At this point I consider changing the blog’s title to ‘Rich Kid has Hissy-fit over Tissue Box’, but reflect that I’ll be cast in a very poor light indeed… I digress.  

So, apart from the obvious discomforts to the average westerner afforded by our circumstances, I should mention the daily teaching regime (the eldest has been diagnosed with measles, followed by chicken-pox and headlice so you can’ t get the kids to school until September sometime. The teacher has kindly dropped off enough work for the next two to three months. Naturally the children are grizzling about missing their friends, but no-one’s allowed out of the house. Welcome to the belly of the whale!

Who needs to pay exorbitant rates for a shrink? All manner of deep-seated psychological issues are soon bubbling to the surface adding a new ingredient to the mix. Naturally we don’t book tantrum appointments, so the day comes when two members of the family experience a simultaneous, Fukushima style melt-down. The tissue-box has become a whale and three hours later the erstwhile head of the family is vomited onto an unsuspecting Frenchman.

Back to the beginning of the story and mention of the biblical prophet Jonah:

‘God says to Jonah – “Get up and go to the great city of Nineveh. Announce my judgement against it because I’ve seen how wicked its people are”.

But Jonah got up and went in the opposite direction…by sailing to Tarshish.’ (Wouldn’t you? The population of Nineveh – a city so large that it took three days to see it all - was a heaving 120,000 souls, fond of debauchery and violence). I’m reminded of Bob Dylan’s opening lines to Highway 61 Revisited:

‘God said to Abraham, “Kill me a son.”

Abe said, “Man you must be puttin’ me on.”

But God doesn’t give up on Jonah. Instead he sends a tempest. The terrified crew throw their cargo overboard, before they discover Jonah’s starring role in their imminent demise. Jonah asks to be thrown overboard, whereupon the storm ceases, the crew are converted on the spot and God arranges for him to be swallow by a great fish. It’s there, in the belly of the whale, that Jonah decides to repent, and follow God’s will. Jonah cracked after only three days, whereas we romped ahead at three weeks, (then again we could see out the windows and although the sink lets out some funny smells at times whilst driving, Herman wasn’t half-full of rotting krill).

So God orders the great fish to spit Jonah out onto a beach and he trudges off to Nineveh to deliver the original message. Imagine his surprise when the Ninevites immediately adorn sackcloth and ashes and repent – Jonah’s reputation as a prophet goes on the line because God then reconsiders his wrath. Hugely miffed, Jonah sulks on a hillside still hoping to watch the fireworks. Concerned for his comfort, God arranges for a leafy plant to grow beside Jonah to ease his discomfort, but soon after commissions a worm to demolish the plant and a scorching wind to boot. The story ends with Jonah throwing another hissy-fit and wanting to die...

“Maaaate, I know just where you’re coming from…” thinks Paull.

Although Fukushima wasn’t a planned destination, it was certainly on the cards that living in such close quarters (for folk not used to such privations) was going to press a few buttons – particularly as we’d already been on the road for over two months, before we met Herman. Don’t get me wrong – traveling in a mobilehome is luxury camping – but it requires Heather and I to be; teacher, parent and friend for our girls all rolled into one, as well as love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. I’m afraid that my scorecard nudges ground level on a regular basis, causing me to feel like a creep, a rotten dad, a fake Christian or more commonly all three in succession. Heather manages a better score, but in a three-legged race like journeying around Europe together, it’s the slower runner that sets the pace…

Back in Australia, teachers are almost finished weeks of testing and are putting half-yearly reports together. Carefully choosing their words so as to use the clearest language and best possible description of each child’s learning journey over the past five and a half months. Trying to inform and not offend, to encourage yet not create false perceptions. Meanwhile the Department of Education and Communities (I think that’s their latest moniker after yet another name change) are busy sawing off the teachers’ legs above the ankle. I’m well out of the whole sorry affair.

Spending time with your family is both painful and immensely satisfying. Certainly, it far exceeds my expectations of fullfilment. I suppose that I’d imagined our odyssey in terms of observing things together and sharing in our children’s wonder at the immensity and scope of European history, where was forged, the artefacts created and the richness and diversity of contemporary societies. In fact the girls are far more likely to remember the Colosseum as the place we were headed to when we saw a cat like Merv sunning himself in a carpark with six other cats just before the train arrived.

As it transpires - the opportunity of a lifetime has actually been; the chance to participate intimately in the daily life of my family; to experience communal life with a bunch of girls (I grew up without sisters); to notice small changes in my daughters’ development towards understanding and adulthood; to notice that in growing old together with my wife – that we still love and respect each other. I wouldn’t swap it for quids… Still, I spend a lot of time reflecting on my kinship with Jonah and where the great fish is taking us.

Thirty-four years ago I came to Europe and stayed for four years. My mum bought me a small camera, from which I developed the single roll of film I’d managed to shoot, upon my return to Australia. Perhaps I’ll be more successful with a postcard:

Hi Mum,

Traveling through Europe with the family - having a whale of a time.

Your loving son,

Jonah

Welcome to our country, as long as you’re French.

I have to say that the people whom we encountered in Northern France were very curt with us, despite our best efforts to communicate in their language. As opposed to say Filipinos, Spanish or Italians who are, in general, delighted with the most basic attempts to express oneself in their respective languages. So what’s the problem in France? Why does one get the impression that ‘La Belle Pays’ only comes back to life after you reach the exit. “Yes, count yourself lucky that I was able to understand your incomprehensibly garbled rendition of the national language and fortunate that we consented to allow you to enter the country – now run along.”

As far as I’m aware English has become a fairly major language in the world at large. It originates from the quaint, wet little island to the north of France, but still a neighbouring country. So buying a Sat –Nav in France, one might expect to find some English translation, as the packaging boasted instructions in four languages – yes that would be – Italian, Spanish, Portuguese and French.

During the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, French became the official diplomatic language of Western Europe, just as Ancient Greek was spoken around the Mediterranean, by the Romans. But the world has turned and French is now spoken only in a select few countries beyond the borders of France. English on the other hand is widely spoken throughout the world. Let’s face it - the French must be disappointed that their language is no longer considered important.

Perhaps the snide indifference and feigned ignorance of other languages is their collective response to the shrinking significance of the French language? Perhaps it’s a kind of 'little man syndrome' (you know, the one who’s irascible and aggressive towards others, throwing his weight around while looking for the encouragement of his fellows). To this visitor, it manifested as coldness and indifference and a conquest to insist that unadulterated French be spoken, even at the expense of their international tourist industry. To give a few examples:

·        Although English is taught in the French public school system, to refuse to speak in (zat filthy pig-latin) English.

·        At times when tourists try to communicate in French, to feign non-comprehension (Heather famously trying to order bread in a boulangerie (bread shop) in Paris to shrugs and an unwillingness to serve her).

·        Giving French-only instructions in aires, campsites and public places frequented by international tourists.

·        Shops using tills, which neither display the price for the customer to read, nor offer a receipt.

·        French internet sites which fail to offer the information in any international languages.

One remembers the French indifference to the protests of Pacific Nations and the international community to their repeated testing of nuclear weapons at Mururoa Atol.  The French had a national obsession with maintaining a nuclear arsenal whilst finding it acceptable to test their weapons in the Pacific Ocean.

One also remembers the subsequent actions of the French secret service in scuttling the flagship of the Greenpeace movement – ‘The Rainbow Warrior’ in Auckland Harbour – murdering  a member of the crew.  The lurid details of their attempts to evade detection became known to the world when they were arrested, tried and found guilty of murder. This was no ‘Victory at Entebbe’, rather a second-rate shambles in which the observations of everyday New Zealanders led to their early detection and capture.

So how can we register our latest protest to the French nation? Here are some practical suggestions for Australian tourists to follow:

·        When speaking French, use a very broad Aussie/Ocker accent with a very cheerful smile.

·        As neither toilet paper, nor soap is ever provided in the (filthy) toilet facilities – always enquire of any food purveyors or restaurant staff if they have washed their hands with soap since their last toilet visit - before ordering (ask to sniff their hands if unsure).

·        Always do the reverse of the instructions provided in French language-only sites with a cheerful and innocent disposition. For example, use plenty of newspaper after doing number twos, being sure to shake hands with any startled Frenchman as you exit.

·        When paying, always deposit a large quantity of small mixed notes and coins, which is at least two Euros short (ten Euros for larger orders), before smiling and swiftly exiting the shop.

·        Leave messages on all French-only internet sites making reference to the hopeless French secret service and their pathetic efforts to be recognized as a European nuclear super-power.

·        Don’t visit France in the first place. Go somewhere friendly – there are plenty of other places in Europe to choose from.

 Having exited France, can I say how friendly and welcoming the Spanish people are….

Aw reevwah mon-sewers ette maid-mowselles!

Paull