My Woodford Story or The Invisable Gumboots

Aquapella World Choir. First concert at Woodford 27th Dec 2010

My hand fumbled in the dark looking for the clock. I was guided by the light of the telephone stable. A little to the right of that...got it...3 am. Words moulded into opening lines of a story rumbled through my head. I should get up and start my version of the Woodford experience now before it is watered down. My bladder is beckoning too. Get up, get up... get up quick!

My last thoughts before this  when I put my head on my pillow at 10:30pm were  'How beautiful the smell of clean white sheets, how soft and comfortable the bed that cradles my tired and sore body, how quiet and peaceful the space outside my bedroom, no thumping beat that penetrates the still washed air. There is no river of mud a metre away guarded by my gumboots, there are  no damp  foul smelling socks  hanging over my head and no bag of soggy soiled clothes patiently waiting for their journey through the wash cycle to destroy the colonies growing rapidly in the armpits and crotches of my shirts and shorts...indeed all over. Everything has returned to normal...well almost. I can still feel my gumboots on.

Boxing Day 2010, ‘flight number J 375 leaving Townsville for Brisbane at 11:10am cancelled. Please ring and discuss your refund,’ read the text.

“Refund! I want another flight and today. No! I can’t go tomorrow. Tomorrow will be too late.”

Tears run down my cheeks after nearly an hour waiting on the phone.

“Okay she said....wait a moment...Qantas has a flight at 4:40pm.”

“I’ll take it!”

If I at least get to Brisbane I will worry about the rest of the trip from there.

Nothing of value comes easy. Anything I have taken on in the past that has been really worthwhile has always been accompanied by mini dramas. Mind you doors falling off airplanes could hardly be called a mini drama which is what happened once while embarking on a life changing event, so by comparison  a cancelled flight and a bit of rain seemed trivial never the less a hurdle.

Thankfully the doors stayed on my Qantas flight and I arrived around 6:30 a little ahead of time. I raced to the baggage collection and searched the vastness of the airport lobby for a sign that said ‘WOODFORD’ possibly attached to a person who would take me to a transfer bus.

Found her! She pointed to the direction of a coffee lounge at the very end of the airport.

“Go wait up there with the other artists.”

Artists?

 Is that what I was?

Then it dawned on me. I am an artist. I felt rather strange finding myself in a position of being with company who called themselves performing artists. Something new to ponder.

Mud outside our tents. This was the track to the road
which crossed a flowing creek when raining!

I wasn’t there long when Kristine arrived, my tent buddy for the week. She had taken a later flight. I was supposed to get there and set up camp before her. In hindsight, if I did we probably would have got a closer tent and not had to wade through all that mud and a river to get to it. Even a few steps less would have been a bonus! I was due to get on the next bus to Woodford but gave my seat up so Kristine and I would at least be together to find our lodgings. First mistake was to not have gumboots on when I stepped off the bus. At least the track to the tent was still firm even though wet. The first tent already had a lake in it due to a hole in the floor so we decided to check the next one out. You could feel the water under foot but at least there was canvas and a carpet mat between it and us. We took no notice of the two tarantula spiders that had taken up residence before us. As a matter of fact I took it as a sign that we will be dry. I had a chat with them both.

“You are welcome to stay just don’t walk on me through the night or you might find yourself out in the wet.”

Damn thing run up my arm when I was foraging for my clothes the next morning. It had roamed through my bag. It would not have wanted to do that on the last day what with the smell of damp socks and all! I think it got more of a fright than me and I didn’t see it or its friend again .

Unzipping the tent door, tent city by daylight lay before us. The tent across from ours had a hole in each end of the floor. Water was literally washing through like a creek; in one end and out the other. It was empty. Figure that!

We were starting to feel very grateful for our arachnid infested river front lodgings.

At this point in time neither of us had been officially booked in. We had been scurried through the system to our final resting place the night before to avoid getting wetter than necessary (actually I think the bus driver didn’t know he had to stop, it was his first run.) I made a dash back to front gate to get my tag...a tag that said I was an artist. It was official now!

It was on my journey through the village and to the other end of the facility (that doesn’t feel like the right word to use for Woodford does it!) anyway ...I realised that I would be spending the next week lost as I attempted to find my way through the maze of streets... Left-hand Lane, And-off-he Road, Lois Lane, I-love-a Parade . Whoever thought up the road names must have had a great time. I can picture hysterics as they tried to outdo each other.

My first day was a big one. Practice with the Fire Choir and then AQUAPELLA WORLD CHOIR'S concert and meeting up with Gail after nearly a year was of particular importance. I was chastised for waving to her while still at practice; it was bought up every session after as well. I am usually disciplined but it was just too much to expect. I have been running on automatic since her departure. Seeing her sitting there watching I wanted to be next to her. Mind you it made me also want to really be the best I could be for her as well as the choir.

Gail Cyn and me.

We had made a plan some weeks before over the phone that we will stay up all night and play. She was only having the one day at the festival so I would follow her around and do and see what ever she wanted. After all I had the rest of the week to play. ‘Stringmansassy’ had to be one of the top acts....amazing voice and guitar. The sounds that Kacey made where inspired by natures perfectionist, birds. And I thought it wouldn’t be possible to do better!

A bit of Dance Therapy and then off to find a place that sold socks to sort the blisters forming on my feet. I hugged the woman who sold them to me. I had socks but they were back at the tent. I didn’t want to go there any more than I needed to, which was a plan adopted for the rest of the week!

I was lucky to see Kate Miller-Heidke’s only show. She was amazing also. She finished off a song with a burst of operatic gusto. I was doing that for the rest of the night! I am waiting for my chance to do it at practice when I get home. Yeah...I learned something Beat!

 Monsieur Camembert, Sally Seltmann and I think a comedy act finished the night for me. It was 1am. Eyes drooping, feet dragging I left my friend to find her way to her car while I took a left instead of a right and ended up at the furthest end away from my humble lodgings, something that would happen more than once during this week of finding my way around the maze called Woodford.

View from tent looking towards Amphi hill.

My tent mate and I had telepathically arranged that we would eat breakfast at the tent. I took a weeks worth of Muesli, juice and milk plus bowls and spoons. She had a mini gas burner with tea and coffee and jug. That cuppa in the morning was the thing that got me through I am sure. It is the simplest of things that make a difference. Everyone should do a Woodford type experience to bring back the simplicity in your life; boil it down so to speak, back to basics. Makes for a whole new approach to life and see things in a different light. For instance I had packed a pillow that I would not take home with me. My intention was to have a bit of space to bring home treasures. It was old and deflated and the stains were beyond removing. Its life would end at Woodford. Packing up done, the last smelly dead sock stashed away and now to remove the pillow slips hiding the shabbiness of the pillow. What’s this I see? A transformation before my very eyes! This pillow doesn’t look so bad after all. That is what a week of living in the damp and muddy hole has done. Things that look grey and dull, now have shining new aura. I still threw it away. I was not going to be fooled by my euphoric state! It was the same with smelly wet socks as I sniffed to measure the degree of repulsiveness each day. “I may be very glad of these sometime this week” as I hung them out to dry.    

I decided to have an early night that second night to make up for the previous outstanding achievement. I couldn’t see me doing that for a whole week. Mind you I don’t think I did too badly overall. I didn’t have Nana naps at all and stayed up till 11pm most nights and New Years Eve 1am. By that time I was a bit of a Dya Singh groupie along with the Tibetan and Mongolian singers. Weird I know but I did tap into the spiritual side of their music without any trouble at all. I thought I may have even been able to transport myself back to an ashram in India! 

Hare Krishna Wagon

I was in the line up at the Green Room confirming my bus back to the airport on that last day when a  nice young man who looked a lot like James Mathieson ( I am sure it was him) was guarding the door and checking that the queue was not jumped. I asked him if I was real...was I actually standing in front of him. He gently ran his hand down my arm and said ‘Yep...you’re real alright. Don’t worry ...it’s just Woodford.’  I had been feeling invisible for a couple of days. I felt like I was drifting through the crowd unseen, moving with the horde undetected, leaving no impression just being. No I wasn’t on weed or alcohol either!

I wasn’t aware that there was still the best yet to come.

We had to be at the Amphi at 7 pm, in white and hydrated. Our practice sessions as it turned out was not going to prepare me for what lay ahead. I have a new found appreciation for performing artists as of that night. The choir stood for 2 hours in total, waiting for the Fire Show to start...the closing ceremony....along with the bands and a children’s choir. As the story unfolded before us with the weeks work of street theatre and creating of lamps and other effects, we sang or played the accompanying songs. Every now and then fireworks would light up the hill and you could see the hundreds of people watching...watching us. It was breathtaking. From where I stood in the choir I could see minimal. Nothing could stop the intensity of the emotion that flowed numerous times during the show though. It was awe-inspiring. The sacrifice and discipline required was well worth the effort for the gratification of both us performers and audience.

Kristine had gone back home earlier than planned, to see her hubby off to another job in another country. Can’t say I blame her sentimentality. I would have been too. I have to say at this point if it wasn’t for the concert I would have gone too. I was over it by this stage... Woodforded out! An entire week was too much for me. What I’d almost kill for was my lounge room or office, QUIETLY sitting and doing nothing! I was still in awe of the concentrated artistic creativeness though that I was immersed in. I had been to more concerts in these last few days than I had in my whole life. I think if I was a true artist I would never be sick of it. At least I was there (and loving it really). I tried to read the programme and plan my days but once I got into the village and wandered around I was mesmerized and ‘channelled’ into shows that I didn’t even know who they were. I just knew they were worth watching and I enjoyed it. There had been so many acts and concerts that I would have loved to see. My disappointment so far now that I am home is looking at the programme I see what I have missed. I don’t think it humanly possible to do all of Woodford even if you had a month!

As the year ended and the new one began I felt nostalgic. It was the first year that Tim and I had not been together at New Year. I decided it was an omen of change for the better...a better time for us...new and improved! I miss him and the comfort he brings me.

Zoe Quinn at Mr Perceval's Singing workshop.

New Years Day I rose early to participate in Mr Percival’s singing lesson. What a treat. I wish I had been able to make it every morning. His program crossed our practice times. He was amazing and especially so that morning with Zoe Quinn a little 8 year old girl whom he coached. She was amazing and the crowd went berserk! I applaud the experienced and stage wise Mr Percival and Mal Webb for the care and enthusiasm shown for the talented artist in her foundation years. Standing ovations for all three! The crowd laughed as both seasoned entertainers danced in the mosh pit as she had done throughout the festival at numerous concerts.

The moods of Woodford are varied. The ups and downs flow over the week; intensity – compression of community. A part from the weather and some of the loud music I decided to take ‘Woodford’ home with me regardless of my sense of fatigue. I was there a whole week and I never heard a person swear. Can you believe that!

Quote from my diary on the day of our departure.

 “This morning  urgggh! I feel like crap. If I have taken my boots off then why is it I can still feel them on? I would kill for a cuppa. I packed up the cooker to be taken home by someone else, yesterday! I will have to be content to wait till the airport. My bus leaves at 9am. I got out of the tent at 7am. I couldn’t stand it another moment longer. My boots still feel like they are on. I know they are not as I see them on the volunteer’s feet as she runs hither and thither chasing after this one and that one. I wouldn’t be a volunteer no matter how many free days at Woodford I got! She had a sign up ‘donate your wellies’. I made a B line for it. One thing for sure the relationship I had with my boots was fast coming to an end. I did not want to risk the association of me and my boots ever trying to make it for a second time round. I told her they were new and that my feet were clean’ish....apart from the mud under my nails. She must have needed them as a few minutes later there they were...on her feet. Yet why did they still feel like they were on my mine?”

A paper cup drops to the floor blown by the industrial fan which is attempting to circulate the stagnant  moist air. Lounge chairs are starting to fill with artists waiting for the bus to take them from this slimy sludgy viscous hell. The pong of wet socks wafts across the room. My feet are now free but I still feel like they a encased in gumboots. The Green Room is now transformed into a bus station. An older lady struggles with an errant sleeping bag that has escaped from its unclasped bag. Much laughter as it snakes its way across the floor. Some of us look particularly fresh and lively...not part of my demeanour though....not yet.

Boots still feel like they are on my feet. Maybe my feet are suffering separation anxiety.

Hire blankets and sheets are being interrogated. They come in all screwed up and in a pile. After shaking and folding a wayward sock and jumper emerge. Lucky that’s all! The girls who were working the office at 11pm last night are still here this morning....have been everyday...smiling and cheerful right to the end!

At last no mud. We wait at the front gate to catch the bus to the airport. Already I am beginning to feel human again. I meet up with a few of the choir and we have lots of discussion about coping and fending for ourselves in almost 3^rd world conditions for the last week and how life looks very different to us now...how we appreciate the finer things in life and from now on we will not take our near perfect lives for granted. Lots of laughter and relief that it’s over for another year...the wettest on record...and my boots still feel like they are on my feet.

Once off the bus it was a B line for the check in. Get rid of the bag that feels like it weighs 10kilos over what it was when I arrived a week ago. I decided it must be that I am weary as it weighed the same. Food, coffee, water, clean dry tables with clean dry floors...ahhhhh!

I love travelling....the people, faces, colours and styles of extraordinary frocks and attire. I could snap away but I dare not. I feel bogan by comparison. Bandaids on my blistered toes are outlined with mud...under my toe nails too. My linen pants crushed and flecked with Woodford Mud from those last steps taken back into the real world...the only testimony that I was there. Hope my washing machine copes. Hair is brushed but only just...who cares? Not me. My boots are still on though, is how it feels. Damn feet are as big as balloons.

I am busy taking notes as I wait for the plane to take off. Cheeky hostie says to get his name right ...DANNI. I assure him the story is about him and he shall have the first copy! I remember saying one time that I would never fly Virgin ever again for some reason ( may have been the time the door fell off) but the nice young man made me feel visible again. He asked me if I was writing about him.

‘Of course I am...how do you spell your name?’I ask.

My ears pop...EVERYTHING IS LOUDER NOW.....feels like we are going downhill descending into Townsville. Yep...turbulence and cloud. Must be nearly home.

Yawning now....sleep stolen during flight has been insufficient. I am really looking forward to my soft comfy bed....clean white sheets, walls that don’t seep, floors that don’t ooze and only the sound of the frogs. Oh, and I hope my boots come off!