Return of the anomaly

It feels surreal. I am walking around the streets of a sleepy hilltop hamlet in Queensland's Sunshine Coast hinterland. Courtesy of the workout playlist on my i-pod, Nirvana, Daft Punk and Fatboy Slim hurry my pace. But while my hearing is locked in angsty urban adulthood, every other sense has slipped into a childish netherworld. I am overwhelmed by the smell of wet leaves, ripe fruit and rotting mulch. The taste of sunblock and wet. The feel of hot, heavy air desperate to unload. The sight of palms, ferns and morning glory. Ants swarming over red concrete paths. Cane toads flattened on the bitumen.

No-one passing me with puffing dogs and pleasant smiles is i-podding. No-one is power-walking or wearing black. I am an anomaly. The locals are probably thinking tourist, city type.

In fact, I'm from these parts. I was born and raised in Ipswich, about two hours' drive from here. And I spent the happiest time of my childhood even closer -- living in a caravan at the back of my grandparents' house in Caloundra. My father planned to go into business with my mother's brother, distributing smallgoods in this region. So we camped for a few months while they tried to sell the house in Ipswich. Kids were everywhere. Mum's widowed sister and her three sons lived with Grandma and Granddad. And Mum's brother and his wife lived in the house next door with their four kids. Ten cousins on two blocks. We walked to school barefoot through the sandy scrub and ghostly white gums, making bows and arrows out of wet saplings and dried branches. We threw ourselves into the dumpers at Kings Beach, bobbing up with eyes stinging and noses snorting or tumbling into the wash. We played hopscotch and marbles on dirt roads. We chased each other around after dark, leaping over cane toads.

I ran away from this world twenty years ago. I reconstucted myself. The fear and loathing lessened. The look sharpened. The Queenslanderisms disappeared -- togs replaced by swimmers, port by suitcase, fordy by forty. But this region retains a powerful hold on me. It's where I was last truly carefree.

Later, I'm reminded of this when Mum and I are watching TV and I hear voices outside. The house we're borrowing is down a long steep driveway so I know I'm not hearing harmless passersby. "Who's there?" I call. Through the rippled stained glass surrounding the door, I can see there are children outside. Thinking they're dangerous delinquents on a trick-or-treat mission, I say "We've got nothing for you". Lame I chide myself. "We just want to sing for you," a voice replies. So I open the door on the safety chain and see eight or nine innocent-looking teenage girls. They launch into Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer, the back line supplying the comedy. I open the door fully and Mum and I start laughing, as much with embarassed relief as amusement.

When the routine is done, my cousin Robert appears from the shadows. "Three of these girls are related to you," he says. "Which ones?" I ask. "The black ones," a gorgeous Islander girl says. Robert introduces his half-Samoan daughters, aged between 12 and 15. I've never met them before. For that matter, I haven't seen my cousin since he was even younger than they are.

I apologise for our nervousness. We'd just been watching a news report about a home invasion. He says, "I should have known. City folk!" but his tone is cheerful and his visit breaks the ice for the big family bbq we're due to attend the following evening. We go to bed with smiles on our faces. And next day a girl runs past me with i-pod wires flapping.

I don't feel like an anomaly any more.