There is no difficulty that enough love will not conquer.

There is no dis-ease that enough love will not heal.

No door that enough love will not open.

No gulf that enough love will not bridge

No wall that enough love will not throw down.

And no sin that not enough love will redeem.

It makes no difference how deeply seated the problem.

How hopeless the outlook. How muddled the tangle.

How great the mistake.

A sufficient realization of love will dissolve it all.

And if you could love enough, you would be the happiest

And the most powerful person in the world.

(Author Unknown

April 2002 ... Brisbane

After spending six months on Norfolk Island and a further six in New Zealand, it's good to be holidaying with my two children on Stradbroke Island, a twenty minute ferry ride from Brisbane. Olivea recently turned twenty-two and Bobby is eighteen months younger. While their father and I separated when they were three and four, up until their early teens, they continued to have a loving relationship with him. Sadly, yet understandably, they haven't wanted anything to do with him for a number of years. Therefore, I'm pleased Olivea recently contacted the Salvation Army, hopeful of their assistance in finding him, and that Bobby has done a lot of soul searching and is keen to resolve whatever he's been holding onto.

       I mention to them a phone call I received from their father's sister in West Virginia, the week before I left for Norfolk Island. At the time, I was in Brisbane, and as she hadn't heard from Steve in over a year, she hoped I would shed some light on his whereabouts. I told her that the last time I saw Steve was outside a bottle shop on the Sunshine Coast, two years earlier. At the time, he was staying in a cheap motel, having recently been evicted from a caravan park. I promised her I would make some enquiries and get back to her. The next day I phoned the motel and was told Steve had been evicted more than a year ago for failing to pay his rent and hasn't been seen since. I then phoned Centerlink, a government agency, to enquire if he still received a pension. Despite explaining the purpose of my call, I was informed of the ‘Privacy Act', which prevented confidential information being disclosed. Time wasn't on my side to go to the coast and investigate further, so I promised his sister I would do so on my return to Australia.

When I tell Olivea and Bobby I intend making enquiries as soon as I return to the Sunshine Coast, they're pleased. Bobby's recent ten day stay at a Vipassana Meditation Center at Pomona was most enlightening, and as I'm having difficulty stilling my mind and am in need of spiritual nourishment, I phone the centre for an application. It so happens there's a cancellation for the next course, beginning the week after we leave Stradbroke Island.

        Vipassana means ‘to see things as they really are' and is a universal technique the Buddha taught. It doesn't involve dependence on a teacher, but rather teaches those who practice it to be free of attachment to race, gender, religion and spiritual belief. The ten day course includes vegetarian meals and accommodation, and expenses are met with donations from students who have completed the course. Past students are encouraged to volunteer their services so that future students may also benefit. These days, Vipassana is taught in some of India's worst prisons with amazing results - not only in the prisoners who participate, but also in the prison guards watching over them.

Ten days of ‘noble silence' - meaning silence of body, speech and mind is challenging, as is sharing a room with someone and not acknowledging her. Getting up at 4 a.m. poses no problem, but meditating sitting cross legged on the hall floor for a total of seven hours throughout the first day does. I wonder if I'll last the distance. On the seventh day, Anzac biscuits are served for afternoon tea. This brings to mind it is Anzac Day, and as it also falls on Steve's birthday, I wonder where he is. Having abused his body to the extreme, I wouldn't be surprised if he has passed on. But what if he hasn't? Is he still on the coast, or has he moved elsewhere? Whilst meditating later in the day, it's made very clear to me that if he is alive and in need of help, I will do whatever I can to ensure he receives it. Not because I feel obligated to do so, but because it is what my soul compels.

After I leave Pomona I book into a noisy Noosa Heads Backpackers, which is quite a contrast to the tranquility I've just left behind. At dawn next morning, in a secluded spot on the beach, I meditate to the sound of waves, feeling very serene and ever so thankful for having experienced ten days of ‘noble silence'. The following seven days I stay with various friends. I consider returning to the Sunshine Coast to live, but as I need to finish writing a book I'm working on, without fear of distraction, I head further south to check out Bribie Island.

Bobby and his girlfriend are going their separate ways. Struggling to get his business off the ground which he operates from home, he had asked how I felt about him moving in with me for a while. Ever since marriage and motherhood I've taken care of everyone else, so putting my own needs first since he and Olivea left home made for a welcome change. To do exactly what I want, when I want and with whom has given me an exhilarating feeling of freedom, and not something I want to relinquish. Nevertheless, taking into consideration his spiritual quest and searching mind, I anticipate it to be a time of sharing and learning for us both

.

Bribie Island is separated from the mainland by a long bridge, half way between Brisbane and the Sunshine Coast. It has a lovely feel to it, and after filling out an application form for a spacious three bedroom, fully furnished unit on the waterfront, I return to the Sunshine Coast with the intention of posting my references as soon as I am back in Brisbane.

 Busy doing my own thing I almost forget about Steve. When I phone his sister, it's disconcerting to hear that six months earlier, someone at the Maroochydore police station informed her that a man fitting Steve's description was sighted sleeping on a bench near a shop. I make enquiries at the police station, yet no one knows anything about it.

      Before moving to Norfolk Island I had sold my car, so I walk everywhere in search of a bench near a shop, but to no avail. At the caravan park where Steve used to live, new caretakers have taken over and the one or two people he associated with, moved on.  At the block of motel units where he lived when I last saw him, I leave none the wiser. In case he's passed on, I phone the Births and Deaths Registry. He isn't listed as deceased, so I phone Lifeline and other welfare organizations. Each time I come up against a brick wall. 

       By going to Centerlink in person and explaining the situation, I hope to achieve more then when I phoned the year before. As with all government departments, everything has to be done by the book, and I'm again informed of the ‘Privacy Act'. The receptionist is sympathetic to my plight and suggests I write Steve a letter. If he's alive and receiving a pension, she assures me it will be forwarded to his postal address. In the letter, I write of his sister's and children's concern. I also enclose several phone numbers where I can be contacted. I've done all I can and assuming he's left the Sunshine Coast, I walk two blocks to a café and order a juice.

I've barely sat down at an outdoor table when an elderly, bare-footed man walks past at a snail's pace, his head bowed down as if carrying the world upon his shoulders. Thrown over his shoulders and trailing behind him on the ground are two blankets. In spite of shoulder length grey hair and a grey beard reaching down to his chest, I instantly recognize him to be Steve.  I expected the worst but nothing has prepared me for this.

       Flashbacks of the countless times I thought he had reached rock bottom, only to be proved wrong each time come vividly to mind. Surely, he can't go any lower than where he is now! As I watch him, I observe others also following his movements. I suspect they are wondering, just as I have done whenever I saw a homeless person, what could possibly have happened in his life to bring him to that level. Would they look in contempt, pity or judgement at his exterior and see a down and out drunk who deserves to be where he is, or would they look deeper into his soul and see a man, who was once a loving and caring father and a mother's precious son. Someone who had so much to offer but sadly never realized it.  Someone, whose only means of escape from the pain he felt at the loss of five children, three failed marriages and one failed de-facto marriage, as well as all of his insecurities was to drown himself in alcohol.

       Not wanting to approach him in view of everyone, I follow him to where we can speak in private. At a car park behind a block of shops, I momentarily lose sight of him, when he bends down behind some cars.  Not until later, do I realise he was looking for cigarette butts. Retracing his footsteps back to the footpath, he crosses the road and walks in the direction of the post office.  Keeping my distance, I follow. 

       As if sensing my presence he turns around. As he does so, he lifts his head and looks directly into my eyes.  It's so unexpected I haven't time to escape from view.  He smiles.  As we draw nearer, he asks what I'm doing on the coast. I'm surprised at how sober and coherent he is and that his body odour isn't at all offensive. I find out later that he showers several times a week at the Cotton Tree pool. I tell him I've been looking for him and that less than half an hour ago I had written him a letter. He's aware his sister contacted the police and I suspect shame prevented him from phoning her. In response to her offering to raise the money for his fare to West Virginia, and if need be I will also contribute, he say it's too cold for him there and the Sunshine Coast is his home. 

       He asks after the children and promises to phone when he receives his pension. Standing at arm's length from a phone box, I suggest he phone them there and then. He's reluctant to do so, but I insist. Bobby is on the internet and as Olivea is at work, I phone Steve's two sisters instead, without letting on I'm placing the call. It's long past midnight in West Virginia, but I know they'll only be too happy to hear from him. In response to his older sister's concern, he says he is sixty-one and capable of looking after himself.

       After the phone call, we sit on a bench outside the post office. Aware of people staring, I suspect they think I'm a caring person taking time to speak with the ‘down and out'. I muse to myself, ‘if only they knew!'  I'm shocked that his shoes were stolen by youths six months earlier and he was bashed in the process. I find out later the story made the front page of the Sunshine Coast Daily. He receives $400 a fortnight from the government and as the owners of the Chicken Shop give the day's leftovers to the homeless, he claims to eat well. I assume his sober state is because it's Tuesday, two days before pension day and he hasn't any money left.

       He claims to wants to get off the grog, but can't because there isn't a Detox Unit on the Sunshine Coast. I promise to make enquiries when I return to Brisbane the next day. I'll need to contact him, so I ask where he's staying. I suspect pride prevents him from telling me, and I'm to send any information to the Cotton Tree Post Office. When I offer to buy him something to eat, he says he isn't hungry and can always book something up and pay later. I know that any money I give him will be spent on alcohol, so I wish him well and go on my way. After walking a few paces, I know that I can't just leave without getting him something to eat, so at a nearby supermarket, I buy two rolls and some sliced ham - enough to tide him over.

       On my return, I find him sitting on the curb outside an office block, metres from where I had left him. Cigarette butts, emptied from his pockets and scattered on the ground isn't something he would want me to see, and it tears at my heart-strings to see how low he has gone. Rain begins to fall and when he offers his umbrella, which I suspect is his only other possession, I assure him I enjoy walking in the rain. Fighting back the tears, I continue on my way, my heart filled with sadness.

       Wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I walk further up the coast to my friend Diana's home. Along the way, I stop at a phone and inform Steve's sisters of my intentions. I then phone Olivea and Bobby. Whilst on Stradbroke Island, Bobby had spoken intimately about his feelings and of the times he cried at losing his father to alcoholism. After listening quietly to what I say, I ask how he feels. It pains him to know Steve is living on the streets, and he's pleased I'm doing whatever I can to help him.

       I suspect Olivea will react on a more emotional level, so I decide to wait until I see her in person before telling her Steve is homeless. She asks for his address and when I say I haven't got it, she angrily accuses me of keeping things from her and playing mind games. It's typical of what I've experienced since drugs became a part of her life. She always apologises, yet I still allow her negative reactions to upset me. 

        Later, in the comfort of a bed within four walls, I listen to the rain pelting down and I know I can't leave the coast until I get Steve off the streets. When morning arrives, I decide to stay on longer to find out what kind of help is available for him  Diana invites me to stay as long as need be and to make as many phone calls as necessary, and if I need a lift anywhere to let her know.  

I make enquiries and am informed of a Detox Unit at the Nambour hospital, a twenty-minute drive from Maroochydore.  Unfortunately it's only for outpatients and I'm told to phone the Detox Unit at the Royal Brisbane Hospital (RBH). I'm also given the numbers of several rehabilitation places. Moonya in Brisbane, operated by the Salvation Army seems the best choice. Unfortunately, there are more people needing help than beds and I'm advised to phone again Friday.

      It's imperative I find Steve before he receives his pension the next day and wipe himself out. As he has requested I post any information to the post office, about 2kms from where I encountered him, I assume he lives in the vicinity. I look everywhere I think a homeless person might seek shelter, but without success. 

       I begin searching again the next morning. At a picnic shelter by the river, I ask a guy who looks homeless if he knows Steve. Its pension day, so he could be at the bank when it opens - in the meantime he could be at a number of places looking for dumpers, which he explains are cigarette butts.  He suggests I try the car park shopping centre first. I do the rounds, but no Steve. Undecided where to look next, I run into Anne, a former customer from ‘The Natural Nook', a vegetarian and wholesome food cafe I used to own. I tell her of my mission and appreciate her kind offer of assistance, if I should need it.

        Concerned I may have missed Steve, I return to the park. A man and a young girl are with the guy I spoke to earlier. They had seen Steve fifteen minutes earlier, outside the bank waiting for it to open. By the time I get there he's gone. At the bottle shop inside the shopping centre, I enquire if anyone fitting Steve's description has been in. No one has. I head for the hotel. As I walk towards the café where I bought a juice the day before, I'm pleasantly surprised to see Steve sitting there, eating a well filled salad sandwich and drinking a coffee.

       I share my news with him and promise to do whatever I can to get him into detox and rehab, but only if he truly wants help. When I remind him of the many times he attended Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) and never stuck with the program, he assures me that he wants to get his life on track and be the kind of father Olivea and Bobby will be proud of. I arrange to meet him at the café the next day at three. By then I will know if there's a bed for him at Moonya.  If there isn't, Diana has kindly offered a roof over his head, until such time I can get him off the streets. Steve declines her offer. Bobby is waiting to hear from him, so I suggest he call from the phone across the road. Meanwhile, I order a juice. 

       A male friend who I haven't seen for several years walks by and sits down to chat. Rather than go into great detail when he enquires about the blankets draped over the chair, I tell him I'm helping a homeless person get into rehab. Steve returns, claiming both phones out of order. He's noticeably uncomfortable in the presence of my friend and after introductions leaves to make the call from a phone around the corner. My friend is quick to remind me that the hotel is in the same direction. 

       Sure enough, when I follow several minutes later, Steve is at the bottle shop buying a 750ml bottle of Bacardi rum, a large coke, a plastic cup and a packet of tailor made cigarettes. Less than a fifty-metre walk back to the cafe, he stops several times to rest. He says he has cirrhosis of the liver. He should be in hospital but is adamant about not going. The sooner I get him off the streets, the better. He pours himself a drink and accompanies me to the phone.  I dial Bobby's number, and when father and son speak, I am joyous at the connection being made.

I visit friends in the area and by the time I make my way back to where I'm staying, it‘s going on dark. Curious to know where Steve sleeps, I walk via Cotton Tree. A homeless person recognizes me from earlier in the day. He tells me Steve sometimes sleeps near the library. I look in every nook and cranny but can't find him. I pass the park. A group of homeless people are gathered beneath a picnic shelter. From where I stand, I can't distinguish whether Steve is there or not, but by the sounds of the raised voices it's obvious they're arguing. I keep walking.

       Further up the road, a homeless guy I had spoken to in the morning is about to enter a driveway, leading to the back entrance of a block of shops.  I assume it's where he sleeps. After chatting a few minutes, I wish him a good night. Even as I say it, I wonder at the irony of it. At least I have the comfort of a bed, but what does he and all the other homeless people have to look forward to?

       When I phone Moonya the next afternoon, I'm told there still aren't any beds available and to phone again after the weekend. I then phone the Detox Unit at the RBH and I'm told to bring Steve in the next day.

Steve is waiting at the café at the appointed time. I'm delighted to see he's had a haircut and shave. According to Steve, the barber, fearful of accidentally cutting himself and getting hepatitis or AIDS (neither of which Steve has) left him with two days growth. Even so, it makes a vast difference to his appearance. The rum, purchased the day before is finished and replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka. He also has a full packet of tailor made cigarettes, which I later discover is usual procedure for the first few days after receiving his pension. As the money dwindles, he resorts to buying sherry. Yet, he continues to buy tailor made cigarettes until down to his last dollar. Only then, does he go in search of dumpers.

       I order a juice whilst Steve drinks Vodka and coke from a plastic cup.  The owners of the café, a kindly couple turn a blind eye. They comment on how handsome he looks. It's obvious they care and are genuinely pleased he's getting help.  

       I suggest he buy a pair of shoes and change of clothes and as it gives him less money to spend on alcohol, I accept the $30 he gives me. He's reluctant to accompany me to the shoe shop across the road, so I tell the shop assistant the shoes are for an invalid who's unable to get out of the car. Without even paying for them, she allows me to take the shoes and a pair of socks, so that Steve can try them on. Four times I return to exchange one pair of shoes for another, all under the curious gaze of passersby - before finding a pair that fits. Ever since his previous pair was stolen, Steve hasn't worn shoes. To ensure he won't be robbed again, he intends sleeping with them on that night, as well as every other night.  Another friend is taking us to the train station next morning and I tell Steve to be dressed and ready when we pick him up from the park at ten.

My friend and I arrive at the appointed time. Steve and several other homeless people are at the picnic shelter. He's still wearing his old clothes. I tell him we'll come back in half an hour, giving him ample time to change. Yet when we return, he still hasn't changed.  I insist he do so - not because I care what others think, but because I want him to start feeling good about himself. A guy who looks as if he's had a very hard life gives him a hug. His parting words of not wanting to see Steve back in the park couldn't have been more sincere.

 By the time we arrive at the train station, the near empty bottle of vodka, purchased the day before is finished. After a thirty-minute wait, the two-hour train ride with Steve very much on edge seems to take forever. In an effort to keep his mind off his cravings, I talk about the children. He says how much he misses me and I tell him that when he gets better, he'll find himself a good woman. He says he doesn't want another woman, so I quickly change the subject.

       There isn't a taxi stand at the station, so we begin walking in the hope of hailing one. None comes along. The five-minute walk with Steve walking at a snail's pace and stopping every few minutes for a rest takes half an hour. He's craving for a drink, and as he needs to be reasonably sober for his assessment, I'm relieve there isn't a bar or bottle shop on the way. At the Emergency Ward, an abrupt and uncaring woman in her fifties gives me a form to fill out. When that's done, she directs us to the Psychiatric Ward for Steve to be assessed.

       It's almost five when I phone the children. Olivea offers to come over after work, but as Steve would have been accessed and admitted by then, there's no point in her doing so. Awaiting the doctor's arrival from another hospital, Steve becomes even more agitated. He keeps going outside for a cigarette. In case the doctor arrives, I need to remain inside. I dash out every so often to ensure Steve doesn't take off in search of a bar.  Thankfully, the doctor, a kindly middle-aged man finally arrives. The assessment takes half an hour and Steve returns to where I'm waiting, very distressed because he can only stay five days, which he says won't be long enough.

       When I converse with the doctor in private, he explains how extremely busy they are and as beds are always needed, no one ever stays longer than five days. He asks if Steve came willingly and I tell him everything - from the moment I found Steve on the streets.  He's surprised Steve took it upon himself to go to the barbers - it's a positive sign and not something he usually comes across.

Whilst waiting for Steve to be taken to the Detox Unit, and having established he's been homeless for more than a year, I comment on how he must be looking forward to a bed with clean sheets. I'm shocked when he tells me he's been sleeping on concrete. Finally, a staff member comes to take him to the Detox Unit. I give Steve a hug - something I couldn't have done a few years ago, and as I watch him walk away, I'm relieved he's in a safe place getting the help he so badly needs.

       His sister is of course pleased when I phone and tell her the news, and it goes without saying that both children are joyous. Bobby has already received emails from cousins in America expressing their happiness and Olivea can't wait to phone Steve's son from a previous marriage. I haven't as yet divulged to her Steve is homeless and will see how I feel about doing so, when I see her in person the next day, on Mother's Day.  Knowing what it means to her and Bobby that their father is getting help is by far the best Mother's day gift I could be given.

Needing to put into words how I felt when I stayed with her during my first week back in Australia, as well as an incident on Stradbroke Island, I write Olivea a letter. I give it to her when we meet for a Mother's Day lunch at my favourite restaurant by the Brisbane River. It's one of many letters I've written in the two years since she began her love affair with drugs, and as always, I emphasize the importance of learning to love and accept herself for who she is and to go beyond the conditioning ingrained in her - the consequence of two troubled father figures and my negative reaction to them. She may not have read the books I gave her, but I know she reads my letters, and I'm forever hopeful she'll eventually take heed.  She's in good spirits, so I fill her in about Steve. 

Family and friends aren't permitted to phone the RBH Detox Unit. However, Steve can phone out. He speaks with Olivea and Bobby every night. Both are supportive.  He's not allowed visitors at the RBH, and they have promised to visit him at Moonya as soon as he is allowed visitors.  I'm staying with my mother and as I don't want her worrying unnecessarily, I haven't given Steve her phone number. The doctor, aware of my predicament has given permission for me to phone directly to the Detox Unit, where a male nurse keeps me informed. I phone Moonya and am advised to make an appointment as soon as I know when Steve is being discharged, but warned it doesn't necessarily guarantee a bed. I look at my options. Olivea has volunteered for Steve to stay with her, but because she's in a dysfunctional relationship with another girl, also struggling with drugs, I don't think it a wise move. Bobby is presently staying at his girlfriend's parent's house and isn't in a position to put him up either. I inspect several boarding houses in the vicinity of Moonya. I find one that's clean and respectable, but as I can't risk leaving Steve alone, I'll stay with him if I have to. Therefore, I'm thankful when Bobby agrees to stay with him, if the need arises.

       As soon as I know when Steve is being discharged, I make a nine-thirty appointment at Moonya, but when a friend who's taken a street kid there, tells me, ‘it's first in, first served', I organize to pick Steve up from the RBH at eight.  I soon discover that arriving at Moonya before anyone else isn't advantageous and we are in for a long, frustrating morning.

       Steve is very much on edge, yet tries to convince me he's not craving a drink. He claims he can stay sober without the aid of Moonya and only when in the company of others who drink, temptation beckons. I take it all with a grain of salt. Conversing is arduous. We speak mostly about the children. He repeatedly tells me how much he's looking forward to spending time with them, and he again tells me how much he's missed me.  He's emotionally and physically fragile, and as I don't want him to have false hopes, I tell him I'll be living like a recluse until my book is finished, but promise to visit him at Moonya on the odd occasion I come to Brisbane. And, as soon as he's up to living on his own, I'll help him find a place to move into. He's anxious about not being allowed contact with the outside world for several weeks. I tell him it's for his own good and Olivea and Bobby will keep in touch regularly by correspondence. Olivea has promised to take him on an outing as soon as he's allowed a day out and Bobby has told him that he's looking forward to being taught woodwork by him, as well as doing weights together.

      When nine thirty finally arrives and Steve is taken away for assessment, I wait anxiously. An hour later, he returns with the person who assessed him. Just like Steve predicted, he needs a few more days detoxing which can be done at Moonya, providing there's a bed available

      We are left to wait. Time passes. Steve becomes more agitated by the minute. No sooner has he smoked one cigarette, he lights another. I leave him to find out whatever I can. A very caring woman remembers him from the RBH. Concerned he may not get a bed after a further two or three days detoxing, she's of the opinion that the five days he's already had will suffice - at least that way he'll be assured of a bed. After more anxious waiting and much bed shuffling, Steve is accepted at Moonya.

In order to be accepted for rehab, I had made it very clear to Steve, when we first discussed him going to Moonya that he would have to pay $100 up front before being admitted. I also explained that Moonya would keep three quarters of his pension for food and lodging, leaving him enough for toiletries and cigarettes. He received his pension three days before his admittance to the RBH and was with me for most of the third day, so I'm shocked when he tells me he has only $90 in his bank account. The Vodka, Rum and coke cost $60 at the most, food probably cost no more than $20 and all I took from him was $30. Surely he couldn't have spent $300 on cigarettes!

       When I go to pay the $100, comprising his $90 and $10 from me, I'm told his account can't be accessed until the necessary paper work has been taken care of. I haven't been able to access my credit card since returning to Australia and as Steve doesn't have access to an ATM, I can't withdraw from his account without the required documentation - none of which he has. The solution to the dilemma is for him to come with me to the nearest bank, several suburbs away. The bus stop is a two-block walk up hill.  Taking into consideration a possible half hour wait for a bus, the entire procedure could take two hours. After explaining the quandary to the receptionist, a staff member offers to drive Steve to the bank after lunch.  In case he doesn't have enough money in his account, I ask the receptionist to phone me and I'll return immediately with the balance.

      The pack of twenty-five cigarettes Steve had when we left the hospital cost $10 and is almost empty. Even if he only smokes a pack a day, the cost is an astronomical $140 a week. And as everyone at Moonya is in the same boat, there won't be any dumpers left lying around when the money runs out. When a Moonya resident tells me a large $20 packet of Drum tobacco and two packets of papers provide him with 150 thinly rolled cigarettes, I calculate that if Steve limits his smoking to twenty-five a day, one pack of tobacco a week will suffice. Regrettably, I'm not aware that during the first few days of his pension, he smokes as much as seventy-five tailor made cigarettes a day and that his addiction to nicotine is just as strong, if not more so than his addiction to alcohol.  He can book things up at the canteen, but not until the next day.  To put his mind at ease, I go to the nearest shopping centre and buy tobacco and papers. I also buy chocolate which he says helps him with his cravings.

       On my return to Moonya, I phone Bobby and tell him the good news.  He says I should be proud for what I've achieved. I am of course exceedingly happy with the outcome, but am quick to point out, that from the moment I made up my mind to find his father, I felt a guiding force with me each step of the way. I then hand the phone to Steve so that Bobby can give him last minute words of encouragement, and before leaving, I give Steve a hug and wish him well.

       I catch a bus to where Olivea works and when I tell her the news, she expresses great delight. She says that if her father can overcome his addiction, then so can she. It's been quite a day and I marvel at the healing taking place in all our lives. As always, I give thanks to the Universal God Force connecting us all.

I arrive at my mother's unit, two hours after saying good-bye to Steve, tired but ever so relieved he's getting the help he needs. No sooner have I taken off my shoes, the phone rings. My elation is short lived. The caller informs me Steve walked out of Moonya an hour after I said goodbye to him. In response to me asking why no one tried to prevent him from leaving, I'm told it isn't a jail and people are free to leave at any time.

Time hasn't permitted Steve to be taken to the bank. Assuming he told me the truth, he has $90 in his account, but no cash on him for a bus fare.  It's 5kms from Moonya to the suburban bank and not much less to the city and as he's flat out walking five minutes without stopping, it would take him forever to walk to either place. I try to remain optimistic.  Hopefully, he's booked into a boarding house, having convinced himself he can remain sober without rigid rules imposed on him. But what if he hasn't?  To be a homeless person in the city isn't the same as being a homeless person on the Sunshine Coast. And as he isn't a well man, I can't sit back and not do anything. I phone several boarding houses listed in the yellow pages. He isn't booked in at any of them, so I go in search of him, uncertain as to which direction to take. 

       If he's intent on drinking and managed to get to the bank closest to Moonya, his next stop would be a bottle shop. After that, he could be anywhere.  Forty minutes and two buses later, I arrive at the bank. Steve is nowhere to be seen. I search two parks in the area. He isn't there. I catch a bus to the city. I check the parks and do the rounds of city bars. Upset and close to tears, I stay long enough in one sleazy bar to drink a glass of wine.  It helps relax my frazzled nerves. When I phone Bobby to find out if Steve contacted him, he makes some comment about his father wanting the reward without even trying to put any effort into getting it.

Pedari House, owned by the Salvation Army is a place for homeless men, and a twenty minute walk from the heart of the city. I phone and ask if Steve is there. Because of the privacy act, they can't disclose any information. The only thing the receptionist can do is to page him. I had hoped that by going there in person would be advantageous, but it makes no difference. There's no response when Steve is paged several times, but that doesn't mean he isn't there - he could be in a deep sleep and not hear a thing. I'm advised to leave a message on the notice board and if he is booked in, hopefully he'll see it, if and when he goes to reception.

       I phone Olivea. She volunteers to help me look as soon as she finishes work. We arrange to meet in the city. I phone another shelter for homeless people, run by St Vincent de Paul, a catholic organization on the other side of the river at South Brisbane. I'm confronted with the same red tape. When Olivea and I meet at six, we decide it's best for her to be at home just in case her father phones - that way she can tell him to catch a taxi to her place and be there to pay the fare. In the meantime, I'll have another look in the parks near the suburban bank. Before doing so, I phone Bobby. Steve hasn't contacted him and when I tell him of my intentions, he suggests that maybe I need ‘to let go'.

       Public transport isn't the best in Brisbane at night and after a twenty minute wait, I find myself on the wrong bus. Physically and emotionally drained, I see it as a sign to ‘let go', just as Bobby advised.  After all, it was Steve's decision to walk out of Moonya. His words of wanting his children to be proud of him keep ringing in my ears and I can only hope that he is safe and sound in a boarding house. Later, when in bed, I pray for the Forces of Good to be with him, and before falling asleep I ask for guidance. Regardless of the outcome, it's comforting to know that even if Steve was to pass on during the night, he will do so knowing his children love him and that I had reached out to him with love.

When I awake several hours later, I know I have to do whatever I can to find him. To determine whether he's in the suburbs, the city or made his way back to the Sunshine Coast, I visit a branch of the bank in which his pension is deposited. After explaining to the cashier why I need to know if and where Steve may have withdrawn some money, she is most apologetic, but the ‘Privacy Act' prevents her from divulging such information. I hate to think what a parent is up against when looking for a missing child, when the ‘Privacy Act' prevents relevant information being disclosed.  

       I phone the boarding houses again but come up with zilch. I return to the city and check out the Mall. I then return to Pedari House. The message is still on the notice board and Steve doesn't respond when paged. Night is falling when I arrive at St Vincent de Paul. With so many lost and desperate souls waiting for the dining room to open, I'm not too fussed at being there. It's probably pointless anyway. An alcoholic, possibly in his forties walks alongside me for several blocks. He claims to have been successful in the music business and if what he says is true, his ex-wives have taken him for every cent. For whatever reason, he isn't receiving any government assistance and survives by rolling people for their money.  It's not a comforting thought knowing Steve could be amidst such desperation. The several boarding houses I visit in the area turn out to be almost as depressing as the shelters.

       Not wanting any negative input or added concerns, I haven't involved my family. However, as my nephew is in the police force and can't betray my confidence, I hope he can find out which bank Steve withdrew the money from, as well as ascertain if he has booked into a shelter. But the only thing my nephew can do is to report Steve as a ‘missing person'.

Curious to know why Steve walked away from help, I speak to the person who had accessed him at Moonya. He's of the opinion that Steve saw me as a lifeline, and up until I said goodbye was probably hopeful of me taking him with me. I suspected as much, but then again it could be that the thought of four weeks of isolation from the outside world was too much for him, or that five days detoxing wasn't long enough and his cravings too strong.

       When I question the doctor at the hospital, he suspects Steve is living in the past and hasn't let go of me in his mind - not at all unusual for someone in his condition, and that more than likely he had made up his mind to leave Moonya before I even walked out the door.

I phone Anne, the woman who offered to help if I needed any assistance, to ask her if she would mind stopping by the park to see if Steve has returned there. She phones me back that evening. Steve wasn't in the park and when she enquired at the café where I first sighted him, the owners told her they had seen him on the other side of the road that morning.

       Anne returns to the park the following day. This time Steve is there.  He isn't hungry when she offers to buy him some food, so she gives him $10 to buy some later. It's a loving gesture, but I tell her the money will probably be spent on booze. She promised Steve she would return another day for a barbeque and for him to invite his homeless friends. When she says she feels love for him, I think it wonderful she cares and that someone is watching out for him.

 While disappointed he has turned his back on help - nonetheless I'm relieved he's back on the coast. Whereas Bobby is philosophical and intends putting into practice what he's learnt on loving detachment, Olivea is angry and upset. I understand her feeling that way. In the past, I too had felt those very same emotions and had also acted upon them. The broken promises, the lies, the disappointments and heartaches had been prevalent in my life, more times than I care to remember - not just with Steve, but also with Ian who was my first love, and also with my father.

Too preoccupied with Steve, I haven't contacted the real estate agent and so I miss out on the unit on Bribie Island. I return to do the rounds again.  I find one to my liking, but as it won't be vacant until the weekend, I make an appointment to inspect it on the Saturday, five days later.

       Curious to know why Steve walked out on Moonya, I return to the Sunshine Coast.  The sun has been up several hours, when I find him with half a dozen other homeless people at a picnic shelter at Cotton Tree Park. I flippantly remark he must like the park and the style of living it offers to have returned there. He says he doesn't, but wasn't impressed with the Salvation Army wanting two thirds of his pension and then expecting him to work as well. I had explained it to him before we left the coast - the money covered food and lodgings and the light duties would help him adjust to everyday normal living. A doctor would have diagnosed him first and if he wasn't well enough to work, he would have received medical care, and if necessary, admitted to hospital.

       It was a cold night. The blankets he had prior to going to Moonya passed on to someone else, and the solitary one in his possession, very thin. I'm tempted to get him another one from the Salvation Army store, but as he managed to make his way back from Brisbane, I figure he's capable of walking the few blocks to get it himself. I tell him he has two choices - either keep on the way he's going and more than likely die all alone in the gutter, or get help and hopefully have a few years of quality living ahead of him. I promise to find out what other rehabilitation places are available and to get back to him before I leave for Bribie Island. I give him a hug and wish him well. As I walk away, I hear him say ‘I love you'.  I fight back the tears and keep walking.        

At the Nambour Hospital Detox Unit, I speak to a very compassionate young woman, who tells me that most of the ‘out patients' are drug addicts on the Methadone program. However, if Steve decides to get help, he can phone and make an appointment, and after he's assessed, she will make the necessary arrangements. She assures me I've done everything I can possibly do and that it's now up to Steve.  She is also of the opinion that as I have planted the seed in his mind, it could be just the catalyst for him to get help.  I hope she's right.

       I phone the numbers given me. The Shangri-la at Cooroy on the Sunshine Coast hinterland, accommodating six men and boasting a large lake seems the ideal place for Steve. The Christian owner comes across as genuine and caring. He even takes the guys fishing and on other outings. It's also miles from the nearest pub. Visitors are welcome to come at any time, and just like every other rehab place I phone, a good portion of the pension is taken for food and lodging.

Before leaving the coast I return to the park. Steve arrives a few hours later, wearing a very thick jumper. He also has two blankets slung over his shoulder.  In one hand he's carrying a plastic cup with rum and coke - in the other, a bottle of rum.  Extremely red and bloated in the face, he looks much worse than four days earlier. I suspect he's been drinking solidly since receiving his pension. I give him the brochures for the various rehab places, as well as the written information about the Nambour Detox Unit.  He says it's too far to travel to Nambour, and I remind him that he made his way back to the coast from Brisbane okay. I strongly advise him to phone the guy at Shangri-la and I promise to enquire about other rehabs in Brisbane and the Gold Coast, and to post the necessary information to him. And, if and when he changes his mind about getting help and he no longer has the necessary information, he can always contact me via my mother and I'll post him the information. 

It isn't easy walking away, but having done all I can, it's now up to Steve as to which road he takes.  My belief in miracles hasn't diminished and I hope and pray that the road he chooses will be the one to sobriety.  After boarding a bus to Bribie Island, I allow my thoughts to drift back in time to the six months of serendipitous events, which brought Steve and me together - two people as different as chalk and cheese, yet both holding onto unresolved pain from the past.

May 1978...New Zealand Tonga Samoa Hawaii L.A.

The month is May, the year 1978 and I am footloose and fancy free.  Surrounded by friends and family at the airport bar, in the days when Brisbane resembles a big country town and its airport small and personal, I look forward with eager anticipation to yet another overseas adventure.  Three years have passed since the car, driven by Ian collided with a tree on a lonely stretch of road near Mount Isa. He was killed instantly.  It wasn't his first accident when under the influence of alcohol, and that he surpassed his thirty-second birthday was more good luck than good sense.

       In the five and a half years we lived together, most of our fights were because of his over indulgence with alcohol. Far too many nights, I had waited anxiously for him to come home, forever fearful of a knock on the door by a policeman, informing me Ian had either been killed or maimed - or even worse, that someone else had been killed or maimed as a consequence of his reckless drink-driving. I had left Ian long before the accident and in an effort to forget him, I travelled overseas where I worked and hitchhiked my way around Europe.

       Almost three years would pass before I returned to Australia, and another four months before I saw him again. I still loved him, but not wanting to leave myself open to getting hurt again, I refused to go away with him when he asked me to do so. Two months later, I was on a prawn trawler on its way south to Cairns. In my possession was a letter to Ian, expressing how I truly felt and that I wanted to give our love another chance. I intended posting it as soon as we arrived in Cairns, only to find out on our arrival, he had passed on two days earlier.  

      Devastated as I was by his untimely demise, life goes on. And while there have been others who I've been in loving relationships with, Ian continues to remain a ghost in my closest. And as lasting happiness has so far eluded me in Australia, I'm hoping to find whatever it is I am looking for, by going overseas again.

My friend Clare and her partner Leo manage a hotel on the Swiss/French border and are keen for me to manage the hotel disco during the skiing season. In Holland, a former boss has offered me the executive housekeeper position at a large new resort on the dunes at Kijkduin, providing I am there by the beginning of summer.

      Three and a half years have passed since I tearfully said goodbye to Hans, a Dutch guy, who I had shared some very loving times with in the six months I lived in Holland - and there's no denying that I'm looking forward to seeing him again. But before arriving in Europe, I have New Zealand, the South Pacific islands and the USA to look forward to.  

In Paihia in the Bay of Islands, I stay several days with a former workmate, and in Russell I stay two nights with Lani, a beautiful Māori woman. It was her son Whetu who I had a brief, yet loving relationship with thirteen years earlier. He has since married and lives in Canada. Two days later, I return to Paihia on a large trimaran, owned by two brothers I met the night before at the Swordfish Club. After a cold night in Auckland, I look forward to my stay in Tonga, where I'll be wearing sarongs instead of multi-layered clothing.

Waiting in line to board the plane, I strike up a conversation with a good looking Tongan who introduces himself as Dan. He's an Economist with Qantas and returning to his island home for one week. With him are his two children from a failed marriage to an Australian. On our arrival, he organises a room for me at a friend's guesthouse. I look forward to spending more time with him.

       As I walk along the oceanfront next morning, a royal guard and his wife invite me to a picnic lunch. Wherever I go, adorable uninhibited children follow. The market, abundant with fresh fruit and vegetables is the height of activity and ever so cheap. Tonga is a poor country with a basic wage of $2.50 a day, yet I see no signs of poverty. 

Dan's father is the head doctor at the hospital and I'm welcomed into the home of their large and prominent family. I attend two large family gatherings. One is in a cave where we feast on two suckling pigs, yams and other delectable island delights - the other is at his grandmother's on Mother's Day - the food prepared by her son, the king's personal chef.

       Before the Mother's Day feast, I accompany Dan to church.  Directly opposite and facing the congregation is the King of Tonga, a giant of a man. Sunday is a holy day. It's okay to walk along the beach, yet it's forbidden to swim, play sport or partake in any other activities. While it's acceptable for Dan and me to walk together during the days unchaperoned, it isn't acceptable for us to hold hands, at least not in public. 

       At the Dateline Hotel, we dine with a nobleman married to a princess.  At 5ft 6ins, I'm reasonably tall - even so, I'm glad I packed my three-inch high heels as I dance in the arms of Dan's massive 6ft 4in frame. His two sisters have come along as chaperones and after taking them home, we break protocol and go to a popular night club.  Official closing time is midnight, but the bar remains open until 3 a.m. for select clientele.

        I had suggested to Dan and his sisters we all go to the movies, and when they arrive without him, I'm told it's frowned upon for a brother to go with his sisters.  TV hasn't as yet reached the island and the two storey, dilapidated wooden cinema is jam-packed with a very boisterous and appreciative audience.

To see more of the island, I travel on the local mode of transport, which is a truck with a canvas canopy and benches on either side for sitting. It's dirt cheap, unpredictable, and time inconsequential. An American artist who resides permanently at the guesthouse accompanies me to the spectacular blowholes. We wait one hour for the ‘bus' to arrive and another hour for it to fill up with people and their produce. With umpteen stops along the way, the 20km journey, on roads nothing more than dirt tracks takes another hour.  Having gone as far as we can on wheels, it's a one hour walk to the ocean. It's well worth the effort as there are hundreds of blowholes along an 8km stretch of terraced coastline - the largest spouts going as high as thirty metres.   

       I attend another family feast on the night before Dan's return to Sydney, ever so grateful to him for sharing his island culture with me and to have known him, albeit so briefly.

Whilst relaxing by the pool at the Dateline Hotel a few days later, I meet an American who claims to be investing millions into the island. He boasts it will help the Islanders, but I suspect he's more interested in filling his own fat pockets. His colleague tries to persuade me to accompany him to Honolulu in a private plane, but as I don't want to miss out on my planned stay in Samoa, I wave him good-bye, having dined the night before with him and the captain on board a German ship.

After two weeks of the warmest island hospitality, I board a plane for West Samoa. It's the twenty-fourth of May when I leave Tonga, yet two hours later I arrive in Apia, one day earlier on the twenty-third, having crossed the International Dateline.

...............

At the Apia Guest House, I'm soon on friendly terms with a Yugoslavian couple from Melbourne, who are backpacking to Europe with their children. Tracey, a twenty-one year old Queenslander, I met briefly in Tonga is another happy resident. She's on her way to the USA for a modeling assignment. An Australian in the import/export business invites me to a Fia Fia (traditional Samoan dancing) and a tropical feast at the famed Aggie Grey Hotel. The palusami (creamed coconut baked in taro leaves) is absolutely mouth watering. I've just finished reading James A Michener's, ‘Tales of the South Pacific' and as his association with Aggie Grey inspired him to use her as the character ‘Bloody Mary', mentioned in the book, I'm thrilled when my dinner date invites her to join us for a drink.  At eighty plus, she is still vivacious and entertaining.

       I rise early to go snorkeling with an American couple. We dine that night on freshly caught fish bought at the markets. Commencing at sunrise the next day, I set off to explore the island on foot. At Solo Beach, I chat with Elinis who is a teacher at the local school. I graciously accept her invitation to visit her village the next day and to stay the night in the one room home she shares with her husband Peni, siblings and parents.

      The house is the only one in a village of thatched roof and grass huts. On my arrival, I am given the warmest of welcomes. Except for a thin mattress, obtained for my comfort and placed in the centre of the room, the house is devoid of furniture. Everyone else sleeps on mats which have been rolled up and placed against the wall during the day.

       Later, Elinis and I swim in pristine, crystal clear waters. On the beach, happy children throng around as I dance to the rhythm of their ukulele, melodious voices and squeals of laughter. Back at the village, Elinis, her family and I sit cross-legged in a circle on the floor to eat our evening meal. Several dishes of food are placed in front of me and after helping myself, the dishes are then passed to the parents. Not until the parents and I have finished eating, do the other family members help themselves.  Dinner is followed with prayers and hymns. I can't understand the language, but I certainly feel their love.

       I invite Elinis to accompany Tracey, the Australian/Yugoslavian family and me on a chartered boat ride to Monona Island, where we are told some scenes in the movie ‘South Pacific were made. A torrential downpour lasts the entire trip, yet on our arrival, in what can only be described as paradise, the sun shines in all its glory.  The toilets resemble Aussie outdoor dunnies minus the flies, sawdust and stench and are strategically positioned at the end of rock paths, above the ocean.

On our last night in Western Samoa, Tracey and I both stay the night with Elinis and her family. My restlessness at sitting cross-legged hadn't gone unnoticed and I'm deeply touched that Peni has obtained a table and two chairs, God only knows where from. Before retiring, the family encircles our mattresses, and for the next hour serenades us with Samoan songs, wishing us a safe journey. Elinis gives me a lava lava (sarong) and her mother gives me a shell necklace. Over the moon with the Australian souvenirs I give them, I regret not having more to give. But then I realise it's the exchange of friendship that's paramount - and that's priceless.   

A half hour flight and Tracy and I are in Pago, American Samoa for a fourteen hour stop over. We hitch into town. The American influence is prominent with wider roads and big cars, and houses instead of huts. At a luxurious resort, catering to the idle rich, we make ourselves at home on its private beach, reserved for guests only. The exorbitantly priced menu is way out of our price range, so we give our bodies a cleansing by eating papaya bought at the markets. 

      We're the only occupants in a cable car, when it comes to an abrupt halt on a steep and spectacular ascent across the harbour. Dangling unsteadily metres from the top, for what seems an eternity, we eventually reach safety. After our harrowing experience, and not wanting to risk a repeat performance, we make our way down the mountain on foot.

................

At Honolulu airport, Tracey boards a connecting flight to LA whilst I remain in Oahu. Before making my way to Waikiki Beach, I book into a hostel.  There's no risk of shark attacks in the water, but I've been warned of two-legged ones on land, who prey off wealthy divorcees. I don't fit into that category, yet could easily be mistaken for one.  Sure enough, only minutes after I lie down to bask in the sun, I'm approached by a bronzed, good-looking blonde guy, no more than twenty-one. A smooth operator, he knows the right things to say to make a woman feel good, and a lonely and unsuspecting female could easily be sucked in. For fifteen minutes, he does his upmost to persuade me to accompany him for a swim. I suspect that as soon as he entices me into the water, an accomplice will take off with anything of value left behind.  Realizing he isn't getting anywhere with me, ‘Mr. Smooth' goes in search of his next victim.

A friend in Dubai has given me the address of a guy who used to work for him. Believing Hawaii to be a safe haven like Tonga and Samoa, I hitch to Kaneohe on the west coast where he lives.  A man drives me right to the front door and when no one is home, he kindly offers to take me on a tour of the island. Arriving at the most northern and isolated tip at dusk, I find myself in a precarious situation, when he lets it be known his intentions aren't honourable. Sizing up the situation, I play along and let him think I'm a willing partner, the same as I did in a similar situation in Greece.  When he veers off the main road onto another one void of traffic, houses and people, my mind is racing with a plan of escape.  On one side is the ocean with miles of isolated beaches - on the other side is bush. Inside the confines of his car, I don't like my chances, and to jump out unless he slows down isn't an option.  He's about two stone over weight, so my only chance of escape is to make a run for it when the car is stationary.

       We pass a phone box. A solitary car, parked on a beach a half kilometre further back gives me the opportunity I'm looking for. Having convinced ‘my captor' I'm a willing participant, I tell him that I forgot I'm to have dinner with a girl from the hostel, so need to leave a message informing her of my delay. I must have sounded convincing, as he does a ‘U' turn back to the phone box.  My only hope is to make a run to where I saw the car. With heart pounding, yet trying to remain calm, I make out as if I'm dialing the number, all under the creep's watchful gaze. When he hears me ask a fictitious person to page the girl, he lights up a cigarette. He then sits back in a relaxed position to savour what lies in store for him.  It's exactly what I had hoped for. My heart beats fast as I make a run for it. Without once looking back, I run as fast as I can on the sand, towards the direction of where I saw the car, ever so relieved it's still there.

Not knowing whether I'm jumping from the frying pan into the fire, I approach the sole occupant with trepidation. But the Forces of Good are with me. Don Kelly, a Russian linguist with the US Army is not only an officer and a gentleman, but my angel in disguise.  After a two week stint in Korea, he's staying at Schofield Army base for two days, en-route to Boston and was enjoying his solitude when I appear from nowhere and ramble on about my traumatic experience. He kindly offers to drive me to the hostel. Somewhat shaken by the ordeal, yet feeling safe once more, I'm able to relax and enjoy the company of the stranger beside me, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. He's a happily married man, but he enjoys my company and wanting to prove that not all American men are bastards, he invites me to dinner at the officers' club.

       A band plays as we sip on cocktails in the bar, before adjourning to the restaurant. The next night, his last in Honolulu, we meet for a farewell drink. I feel very fortunate to have known him and will remain eternally grateful for the kindness he bestowed on me.

A conglomeration of interesting travellers are booked in at the hostel, but there are also local desperados to be wary of. To get away from it all, Kathy, an English girl who is hoping to hitch a ride on a yacht all the way to Australia, American Bill and his thirteen-year-old son (both gorgeous and feeling the loss of a loving wife and mother, recently passed on), English Andy, and yours truly, all catch a bus to Waimanalo on the western side of the island.   

       It's a clear night on our arrival and rather than share Kathy's cramped two-man tent, I feel relaxed enough to sleep in the open beneath the stars.  Unbeknown to us, the campground has the worst reputation for theft in Oahu. David, an Aussie I met in Western Samoa joins our little group the next day. Another guy stops to chat. In the half hour he stays talking, his car is broken into. Fortunately, he carries his valuables with him. Another guy who has been away for the day returns to find his tent gone! I continue to sleep in the open, but Kathy isn't taking any chances and sleeps with her guitar tucked inside her sleeping bag! 

       David wakes to find a slit in the tent near his head. Luckily, his money was in the money belt around his waist, but the airline tickets and passport, placed beneath his pillow are missing.  And as Kathy had sprung an intruder, sticking his head inside the tent during the night, the decision is made to leave. In Honolulu, I had on several occasions felt prejudice towards me as a white person - something I haven't experienced anywhere else, and as the only people targeted at the campsite were Caucasians, I suspect we are experiencing prejudice again. And while I suspect they have good cause to feel the way they do, it isn't a pleasant feeling to be on the receiving end. I had felt perfectly safe in the South Pacific and assuming it would be the same in Hawaii, it's a huge let down to learn otherwise. Everyone, except Kathy and me return to the hostel.   

Kahana, a further 70kms north is recommended as safe, but we are warned to be on our guard.  We decide to chance it and catch a bus there.

      Hawaiian families are camped on the beach in huge tents and tarpaulins for the three months summer vacation and that's how we meet Linda. We tell her of our ordeal and she invites us to camp close to her.  She proves extremely helpful and a trustworthy friend. In the ensuing days, she tells me she used to be married to an Italian and after the youngest of their three children commenced school, she was accepted at the Honolulu University to study law. It was there she fell in love with a fellow student, another big Hawaiian woman. Her husband took it badly when she left him, but when he realized she had left him for another woman, his male ego suffered all the more. The children seem to have adjusted, but he's having a hard time coming to terms with it. He visits the campsite often and even more so after meeting Kathy.

       We're on the windward side and despite the lousy weather, Kathy's little tent holds up against the elements of nature. The night Kathy gets high with ‘Wild Bill', an intriguing American who is into yoga and meditation, I fall asleep reasonably early, oblivious to the rituals and paranormal taking place around me. According to Linda, Kahana is the sacred place where spirits congregate and as they're out in full force that night, she sprinkles salt around Kathy's tent and leaves offerings of food near the entrance. Further down the beach, at ‘Wild Bill's' campsite, Kathy is so spooked out by what she experienced of the supernatural, she returns to the hostel the next day.

Now that Kathy and the tent are gone, I move my sleeping bag beneath Linda's tarp. We have some wonderful in-depth discussions and I question how a woman in her early thirties, who has never desired other women before can suddenly find herself in love with one. Invariably, there is so much to be gained when people open up to each other without reservation.  Travelling solo, as I have often done since leaving home at sixteen certainly broadened my mind and I'm thankful for that part of me which has embraced people from all walks of life - just by having known them has enriched my own

On my last night in Hawaii, four weeks after my arrival, Linda invites all her Hawaiian lesbian friends from university over for a party. They're all large and very butch, but that doesn't bother me. Accepting those for who they are and not judging them for their sexual preferences is paramount. Even so, after a few puffs of a joint passed around, I know it's time to bid them all goodnight when they begin to look even more like men. 

       After an exhilarating drive back to Honolulu next morning in Linda's red MG sports car with the hood down, and later a farewell lunch at the university, I board a flight to Los Angeles.

................

Jane, an American lady who I met on the Greek island Tinos, four years earlier is at the airport to greet me. In her luxury cliff top home overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, in the prestigious Los Angeles suburb of Palos Verdes Estate, I am made most welcome. 

       A letter from my Egyptian friend Nadia awaits my arrival.  I haven't seen her since our London days and when I wrote to her several months earlier that I was returning to Europe via America, she had decided to take her holidays at the same time and meet up with me in Houston.  Due to unforeseen circumstances in Cairo, she's not arriving for another five weeks. With limited funds to last me until I commence work in Europe, I'm anxious about not having enough money to see me through.  I'm more than welcome to stay with Jane until Nadia arrives, but Palos Verdes is miles from all the action and public transport almost non-existent. Jane offers me her car, but driving in heavy Los Angeles traffic on the opposite side of the road to what I'm accustomed to isn't for me.

It's disappointing to meet with subtle disapproval from my hosts for contacting Malcolm and Jeri, a black American couple, mutual friends asked me to look up. Concerned they won't be greeted too warmly, I arrange to meet them in downtown Los Angeles. Malcolm is a private detective and his long time friend Larry, who he used to work with at the Narcotics Bureau is Director in Charge of Securities at Universal Studios, and I'm over the moon when I realise we're going there.

       From Larry's office, we have a bird's eye view of the entire complex.  In the hallway leading to his studio, black and white portraits of famous stars line the walls. It isn't public knowledge that Rock Hudson is gay, so I'm shocked to see the lips on his portrait painted red. In the Celebrity Room Restaurant, not open to the general public, we dine amidst stars, directors and producers.  I try to act nonchalant when introduced to several actors I'd seen in movies and on TV. After lunch, two commentators and one driver take us and twelve visitors from various parts of the globe, on a fascinating tour on the VIP bus - hired out at $250 an hour, which is more than the basic weekly wage in Australia. We pass a mini train in which 150 passengers are seated in half a dozen small carriages with only one commentator. When Larry takes us by car to show us what goes on behind the scenes, he drives through sections open to the general public. As curious eyes stop to look, hopeful of catching a glimpse of a famous movie star, I have an inkling of what it must feel like to be a celebrity.  

I attend several cocktail and dinner parties. At a Bel Aire home, we sip on martinis on the patio. Our host points out a mansion, which he claims is in the process of being built for Mick Jagger. I'm introduced to a divorcee on the lookout for another wife, but as the talk consistently revolves around money - not only on that night but at every other social occasion I've been invited to, I find the whole scene boring and superficial.

       Needing to be on my own and in a different environment until Nadia arrives, I make the decision to travel by train and bus to Central America.  Cost of living is cheap south of the border and if I live frugally, I should still have enough money for the rest of my stay in the USA. To ensure I won't spend more, I leave the remaining traveller's cheques with Jean, who has kindly offered to drive me to Long Beach. From there, I catch a bus to the border of Mexico.