• one dead goldfish
• four towels covered in blood
• fingerless gloves
• a broken stair banister
• a toothpaste penis on the bathroom wall
• vomit splashes on the cupboard doors
• the garage door no longer opens
• someone drank half my vodka
• my birthday book got stolen
• somebody pooped in our bin

And sometimes it’s better to let your co-workers think you are a victim of domestic abuse, because that is less embarrassing than the skanky, horrible truth.

If you mentioned South Africa to me, in any context, and perhaps even in passing, I would smile awkwardly and change the subject. This is because South Africa cost me the following:

• approximately $6,000
• a month of sleep
• 4kg
• a pantload of bad karma

When I was twenty-one and full of goodwill and energy, I applied to go overseas and perform 6 months of volunteer work. “Sure,” I lied during my phone interview, “I love kids!” And then, “Oh yeah, small towns are awesome!” Lord only knows why I decided to get myself into this, but (similar to my decision to go to uni) I was bored and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

And so, at the crack of 2008, I flew to South Africa, where I attended a 2-day orientation program in Johannesburg. The gist of this seemed to be, “do not take drugs, do not stop at red traffic lights, do not use ATMs, do use condoms but do not have sex with your students, and if you catch malaria you shall lose a spectacular amount of weight.” Armed with this knowledge, I was then sent to the north-east coast, and driven to a leetle village which shall remain nameless.

“Here you will be a boarding house mistress,” Francois, the teacher I was to share a house with, informed me, “And you will teach cricket and swimming at the school.”

“I’m not really into sports,” I explained, lighting a cigarette.

“Just take grade one,” he said, as he climbed into his ute and drove off.

I sat on an upturned bucket on the driveway and glared at my volunteer partner, Zoe. She came from a small town in Victoria, had too many freckles, and required prompting to do absolutely anything. I hated her, but we played cards sometimes and I was interested in the fact that she had recently had breast-reduction surgery. “What did they do with the extra boob-matter?” I would ask, but because she was boring, she would just shrug. On the upside, she followed most of my instructions without question. “Fetch my washing and take it to the boarding house,” I would say, and she would disappear inside to collect the sweaty T-shirts and dirty underpants from my bedroom floor.

Our house was small, hot, and not air-conditioned. I was provided with a fan to keep the mosquitoes away at night, but scheduled power-cuts throughout the district meant that we were without electricity for roughly 2-hours, three times a day. We did not have a working television or cooking facilities, and the internet was a distant memory. We also ran out of water several times. I was dying for a pedicure.

Our “meals” were cooked for us at the boys’ boarding house. And while we were treated to the odd piece of fruit or vegebetalia, our staples were frankfurts, meat pies, fried chicken strips, and oven chips. Not having the palate nor the metabolism of a fifteen year old boy, more often than not, I drank a glass of cordial, ate a piece of bread, then left the table to sit on my bucket and smoke.

Our days were spent at the school, where we began each day helping the first, second and third graders read. These kids were either total show ponies or complete morons. I tried to shame them into learning (“You are in the third grade and you cannot even read, Monte, how will you ever bust out of this miserable village?”) but they had no respect for my volunteer authority.

Once the day’s reading had finished, I was supposed to help out with art or computer classes. I didn’t like art or computers, so I re-organised my timetable so that it appeared I was fully booked. I then walked back to the house, sat on the bucket, and smoked until lunch time.

In the afternoons, I almost always had to take PE. When I was rostered to teach soccer or cricket, I would put the students in a line and instruct them to kick or throw a ball to each other while I worked on my tan. My swimming lessons were unfortunately more involved, as I was required to be in the water at the same time as the children. There they climbed on top of me and dragged me underneath the surface. I then pushed them away and swam to the edge. They chased me around the pool, and I suppose that in some way, they did get a bit of swimming practice. As long as none of them drowned, I felt I was doing my job.

After school finished, I was either required to supervise homework at the girl’s boarding house or amuse myself in some way. I spent my spare hours playing the piano in the school’s empty hall or walking aimlessly around the village. But most of the time, I sat on the bucket and smoked.

There were, of course, some pleasant little pockets in all of this. The students were generally polite and well-behaved, appealing kids. They called me “Ma’am” and wished me good morning when they saw me around the school. When I was alone at the house, the matric boys would come over from the boarding house and we would sit together on the driveway and smoke cigarettes and look at the stars, while they put together very convincing arguments on why I should buy beer for them. I was also getting the best tan of my life.

However, a few weeks of this routine began to take its toll. I was awfully homesick, losing weight and suffering from terrible insomnia. The villagers were gossiping about me, because I was young and female, and half the boy boarders claimed to have slept with me. I was bored as fuck and Zoe was about as entertaining as a fence post. I called my airline on the sly and quietly enquired as to how long it would take to get a flight back to Sydney. “Four to six weeks,” the plane lady told me. I hung up, sat on the bucket, lit a cigarette, and decided to go home. The only problem was working out how to extract myself from my volunteer duties.

I began to weigh up my options. How could I leave and cause offence to the least amount of people? And more importantly, how could I get out ASAP?

In the end, I lied.

I called my father early one morning in February to wish him a happy birthday.

“How are you doing?” he politely inquired.
“Oh you know, I’m just- BAAAAHHHHHHH URRGGHHH!”
“Oh. Well. Um, hang in there, sweetheart.”

And so, using the tears so instantly produced by hearing my father’s voice, I walked into the kitchen and when Zoe asked what had happened, I told her that my mother had developed breast cancer and was scheduled for surgery in a week’s time.

Over the next three days, before I climbed onboard a jam-packed flight that I was able to join after being granted compassionate priority, many of the students and teachers shared their personal stories about cancer with me. The school’s art teacher, in particular, took me under her wing, as her husband had been battling various types of cancer for years and was on his last legs. Most of the students, staff and boarders approached me privately to offer their condolences, love and prayers. Francois sat with me on the bucket and smoked, then took my hand and placed it on his crotch. Zoe cried and asked me not to leave. I smiled sadly and nodded.

A week later, as I sat in my parents’ sunny backyard in Sydney, sifting through the assortment of “Get Well” cards the South African children had made for my mother, I related this story to my friend Mark. He listened quietly, took a long pull on his beer, and squinted at the sky. “You’re going straight to hell,” he told me, and I figure he’s probably right.

My mother does not cook. She has fed her family for twenty-five years using a process known as “food assembly.” Food assembly involves cutting and chopping, adding water to various items, and putting things in the oven or microwave. Dinner guests are perfectly aware that 80% of their meal has come pre-prepared and will often turn to my mother in between courses and compliment her. “This is excellent, Lyn. Did you make it? AHAHA OMG HAHA.”

As a result of all this culinary ineptitude, I have no idea how to do basic things such as boil rice or fry fish. If I had my own house, and you came to visit, and I pleasantly asked you, “Can I get you something?” it would be a filthy lie, because I could not get you anything except a glass of wine. I can, however, make an acceptable carrot, walnut & banana cake, because my father is a most excellent baker.

As a kid, Dad spent every afternoon after school at either one of his grandmother’s houses, where they taught him to bake, sew, and stay away from black people. He’s pretty crafty in all areas of the kitchen and he can mend a button before you can say, “Why doesn’t your wife do that for you?” Visiting men often frown at my father as he zips around the kitchen in his apron, stirring frantically and humming to Rick Wakeman. “I’ve got to get these muffins on before my aerobics class starts,” he would explain, and I’d be even just a bit more proud of him than I had been fifteen seconds earlier. Oh yes, my father may have done the cooking, the cleaning, the sewing, the ironing, and the fruity gym classes, but he was just as talented at changing the oil in my car or mowing the lawn. The only task I ever saw him defeated at was attempting to rename a word document on his computer.

Unfortunately, because my father wanted to teach me important things in life, like how to use condoms and mix prescription medications safely and play the Pink Panther theme on piano, he never imparted his domestic knowledge to me. And rather than observing him closely to learn what I could, I simply sat back and enjoyed being waited upon, cooked for and cleaned up after.

So now, between my stints of living at home, I walk the streets of Sydney with tatty clothes and a growling stomach. I can still make that cake though.

Three years ago, I sold my Yamaha Pacifica. I was living out of home, studying full-time, working part-time, drinking heavily, and dirt poor. I really needed things like bread and dental work, so I flogged my guitar on eBay for $150.

To be honest, I had no regrets at first, as I had purchased Francine mainly to hold while I struck rockstar poses in front of the mirror in my bedroom. She was also useful for creating extremely loud and distorted noises while my parents attempted to hold bible study lessons in the living room. But apart from that, I didn’t play her often. Sure, she was soft and sleek, but I always seemed to come back to my Maton acoustic because he complimented my voice better.

However, now that I’m getting older and more experimental with my music, I really miss Francine.. She allowed me to do so much more than Mate, and was smaller, thus allowing me to dance more freely while playing.

The worst part is I don’t even know where she is.. I have no idea who bought her, because I made my friend sell her online, not having the guts to do it myself. I simply told her that I needed a “break” and that she was going to spend a little time away from home.. then I collected the cash, had a boozey night out in the cross, and awoke the next morning fully dressed with a splitting headache and a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my thigh.

I’m really worried about Francine. She could be sitting in any old geyser’s garage in Australia, cold, alone and unsatisfied. I’ll bet whoever bought her has put his filthy hands all over her.. By now he’s probably stroked her neck, removed her g-string and touched her entire body. Thank god she’s not acoustic or he might have put all kinds of things in her sound-hole.

I guess I just have to hope that Fran has gone to a better place. Perhaps she’s in a nice house in the country, surrounded by a loving family, romping through fields of daisies under a bright blue sky.. Or maybe she is the pride and joy of some young budding guitarist, the next Nathan Cavaleri, and will rocket him to early stardom..

I will never know for sure. I just hope she’s okay.