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