Material ThingsBy G
The house was buzzing with activity. There were brown cardboard boxes stacked up against the walls, half-filled with belongings that had been carefully wrapped up in old newspapers. A woman was rushing between the rooms, making mental notes about what still had to be done. Today was moving day, it seemed that they were behind schedule already and it was only 10 o'clock in the morning. The woman entered the smallest bedroom, where her youngest daughter was kneeling in the middle of the floor next to an open postage box full of letters.
“What are you doing G? We don't really have a lot of time for you to be reading right now.”
“I know Mum, sorry. It's just that -” but at that moment there was a crash heard from the kitchen, along with the tell tale sound of dozens of cookbooks crashing to the floor. The woman hastily told her daughter to keep packing, as she went to go sort out her husband, who had been assigned the task of packing up the kitchen.
The girl, after watching her mother exit the room, turned back to the piece of paper that she had been clutching. It had been quite a while since she lad last read these letters, but they had always been special to her. This first one was dated March 2003.
Dear G,
You may not remember me, but I remember you. I am your old Stradbroke Schools blue cloth hat. I was living quite a nice life before you went and lost me, you careless girl. Your mother, I'm sure, always told you to look after your things, but you did not heed her, and I can therefore blame all the horrible and exciting things that have happened to me since that day, solely on you.
Since I was torn roughly and unceremoniously from my comfortable life atop your head, I have changed. I was left amongst the bark chips at a playground for a full two days, before some kind stranger took a few minutes out of their day to pick me up and drop me off at a Goodwill store. Goodwill! Now there is a very depressing place for the likes of me. Thousands of discarded items (probably lost by foolish schoolgirls, no doubt) wistfully remembering their old lives and fearfully thinking about what they have in store for them every time the next toothless person comes into the shop.
Thankfully, I was bought by a man who, although interesting to say the least, and treats his hats with nowhere near as much care as you did, has all his teeth. He is a traveller, you see, and I have visited many different countries since the last time I saw you. I have also, you may be pleased to discover, become famous! I have been written into a 450 page book on Russia that was completed last year, and will be translated into many different languages upon publication, including English, Russian and Gobbledegook.
My new owner and I had planned to spend 7 weeks in north-west Africa last August, but this notion disintegrated when the Mali Consulate in Paris stole my owner's passport. It has been decided that it was probably sold on ebay to a rich refugee because it had pretty Antarctica, Mozambique and Russian visa stamps in it.
That certainly put a spanner in the works, so to speak, but it was only a few more months of me lingering in a smelly cupboard before the door creaked open and I was dusted off for my present adventures: Sri Lanka and India. Yes, that is where I am now, on someone's head at present. It's very hot up here sun above, greasy hair below, I could think of much better things to be doing with my time.
There are a billion Indians all milling around in such a crowded country that mating needs to be done standing up (you would think that this would deter them, but it does not). I wish Gandhi could see me now. Mother Theresa does not send her prayers any more, the cows still linger, chewing their cud, while Peugeots wend their way through the plethora of bicycles and saris. Local people speak many languages, so India must still be a third world country. The rubbish piles up and up, getting closer to the greyish horizon every day, but I still wish you were here to experience the exotic taste and smell of this unique continent before it bursts at the seams and the natives take on the physiological characteristics of lemmings.
Until next time,
H
Your Hat.
The girl carefully folded up the letter, and placed it back in the envelope that had the Indian stamps on the front. Someone had very thoughtfully written “15 rupee stamp=50 cents” on the back. She looked at the handwriting of that and her own name and address on the front. All the letters she had received from her Hat had the same handwriting on them, but that was all the evidence she had of their origin, because all the letters had been typed. She placed the first letter back into the box, picked up the second, dated June 2005, and began to read:
Dear G,
Remember Stradbroke? You knew that you could keep failing at school and get a pension when you turned 60, but you didn't play the game; you passed. I in fact came to visit you about two years ago, but alas, you were not home. Since you lost me (careless girl), I have been crumpled, photographed, x-rayed, bathed in stagnant water, heated, frozen, attacked by mosquitoes, and almost torn to pieces in the process. I have you to blame for this.
Apart from the strain that my delicate threads have been under since I left you (or you left me), I have seen so much of the world. I was bought by an adventurer for $4 and have been carted, economy class, across the world. We have been to Brazil, Paraguay, Uruguay, French Polynesia, Argentina, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Namibia, South Africa, Mozambique, Swaziland, Japan and now eight weeks travelling through Indonesia and Malaysia, spending most of the time on the Indonesian island of Sumatra.
There are some truly beautiful places to be seen, and I hope that one day you leave the town of Adelaide (I am very happy that I did) to explore all that this world has to offer you. Despite having to endure more than one 20 hour bus ride, rising cliffs two inches from one side of the bus and a very steep precipice two inches from the other, the destinations that cannot be reached any other way than by road are well worth it. At the end of the first 'death-bus' trip, we had arrived in Bukittinggi, which translates to 'high hill'. After being in Indonesia for a few weeks, you get used to the locals stopping you to tell you how nice the colour of your skin and hair is, and asking for photographs with you. Bukittinggi was the same, with people leaning out of cars taking photos on their mobile phones, and giggling behind their hands when you walk past them.
After another 'death-bus' trip, we found ourselves at Lake Toba, where my new owner and I stayed in the island in the middle of the lake, called Tuk Tuk. There were an interesting array of signs posted out the front of many of the huts there, saying things such as “We're not the best place in Tuk Tuk, but we try to be” and “Try the special mushroom omelette, it make you feel good”. My owner I think, appreciated the honesty, but did not try the omelettes that Tuk Tuk had to offer. And G, could you believe it, but I was almost lost, in this remote Indonesian village when my owner rented a motorbike for a day (50,000 Rupiah=$5) and hurriedly spent the better part of the early afternoon driving into thorny bushes, and embarrassedly asking the laughing locals for help disentangling the now battered motorcycle from the fray. Needless to say, the woman from whom we hired the bike did not smile as much when we returned it.
Anyway, I have about run out of time for this edition of my adventures, and I would like to reiterate that if you hadn't lost me, I would have led a much more dignified life. I hope you are taking better care of your new hat, and the rest of your appearance.
Regards,
H
Your Hat.
The girl looked up from the letter to see her mother walking past her doorway. She hurriedly threw the letter into the box and tried to look like she was packing. Her mother was not fooled.
“Um G, you seem to be in the exact same position in which I left you half an hour ago. Could you please hurry up? The moving van is going to be here soon. Unless you want us to leave all your stuff behind?”
“Sorry Mum, I got distracted-”
“A likely story. What are you reading that has got you so distracted anyway?”
“Remember the letters I got from my Hat? I came across them as I was packing.”
“Oh yes, how could I forget? It's a shame that you weren't home when he came to call. He seemed like he really wanted to meet you.” The woman sat down next to her daughter and picked up the final letter. It was dated February 2007.
Dear G,
I very much regret to advise you of the end of my effective life as your ex-Stradbroke school hat. In January 2006, when I arrived in Moscow Airport, my owner and I had no idea that that was to be the last time we arrived in a new country together. We did not know that we would be parted, as I had been from you, forever. Eight weeks travelling through the Russian Federation took it's toll on me, and before I was misplaced, there were a great deal of happenings to add to the end of my life.
Upon our arrival, we discovered that a reasonable room at a reasonable price in Moscow was unheard of, so in a state of exhaustion, my owner simply walked across the road and into a forest. There were a couple of frogs (we could hear them) and a few billion mosquitoes (we could hear and feel them) but he lay on the grass in his sleeping bag in a mosquito net while the insects stared at him through the netting all night.
The following day at 6am we went back to the airport and joined a group of German hikers who had been planning on going climbing in Kamchatka in far eastern Russia. We flew there that day, and after my owner having to purchase a pair of expensive climbing boots (he didn't realise that his hiking boots would be like slippers for this sort of climbing), off we set with the Germans up the 2,750m of mountain. Unfortunately, the night in the forest made my owner quite unwell, it seemed. After a while, it became apparent that he was puffing and sweating a little more than normal, and our group was overtaken by a gaggle of young Russian teenagers wearing only bikini tops and were lying on the ground sunbathing when we reached the crater ridge.
My owner then slept for two days straight.
About a week later, we went on a helicopter ride to a National Park to photograph bears and their cubs. Two of the Park's guides accompanied us, and despite the old rifles they brought with them, it was a lovely day. When we returned to the helicopter, we found that a bear (which can be as large as two photocopiers) had ransacked the helicopter and chewed out the foam from the front seat.
But what of me? Did you read all those words searching for the truth about my demise? Well, that owner and I were torn apart with one fell swoop when we went berry picking in the forest. He was wearing his mosquito hat (alas, sometimes I was just not enough for him, despite being faithful for so many years) and I was sitting on top of it (still the favourite). In amongst the almost 2 metre high grass, I slithered off and tumbled down a dandelion stem to fall on the leaf-carpeted forest floor.
While I must say that my EX-owner needs to have his hat screwed on, I am resigned to think that I am probably never to be found again. Perhaps a bear will sniff me, certainly mosquitoes and flies will settle on my blue cloth until the snows come and temperatures drop to -40 degrees Celsius. As winter envelops the Peninsula, the ice will become several meters thick and remain so until the late spring when, perhaps, sunshine will slant through the trees and bore into the ice crystals until finally, they condescend to melting away into the freezing undergrowth and creeks. Alas, I am at my end, and I will not be writing to you again. In two weeks my EX-owner will be flying to Iceland, then to Ireland before arriving back in Adelaide in March. He, like you, has a new hat now.
Best wishes.
H
Your disintegrating Hat.
The end.
The girl and her mother looked at each other. The girl sighed as she folded the letter up along the well-worn creases. “I was hoping he would come back and visit again, you know, before we moved.” She said.
“Well, it has been a while since the last letter, but we can't stay here forever.”
“I know.” The woman stroked her daughter's hair and stood up. The girl continued to look at the letters from the Hat she had so carelessly lost when she was about eight years old. She did remember losing the Hat, and she remembered the decision to write her full name and address in the lining, but she couldn't give the reasoning behind it.
Receiving that first letter brought the girl a great deal of confusion, but also joy, because it was something special. Someone exciting, a traveller, had acquired her Hat and taken it on adventures to places she had never been. She had imagined what the traveller had looked like – glasses, thick, greying hair with a red face and brown, freckled skin. She imagined him wearing khaki pants with a brown belt and a red and white chequered shirt, she imagined him as the type of man to wear socks and sandals, and of course, with her old school Hat perched on top of his head.
The girl, her mother having left the room to go and breathe down the necks of her brother and sister, closed the lid of the postage box in which she kept all her letters from friends and pen pals, and packed it safely away in the half-full cardboard box in the middle of her room, which was filled with other, material things.
