Map of Tasmania

My first effort here. Please vote and leave comments! This is an entry to the Summer Lovin' 2024 contest. For anybody not aware, a 'Map of Tasmania', or 'Map of Tassie' is Australian slang for a woman's pubes.

Lightly updated in Sept 2024 to improve the text

Part 1: February

Sweat poured off me as I started to climb down off the ridge: normally a notable achievement in southern Tasmania, but this had been a hot summer, and I was out of shape. I'd been bushwalking for some hours, and I was beat and heading home.

It was a Wednesday in February. Australian summers are from December to February, unless you're up north in the moist tropics, where people talk about the 'Wet' during October-April, and the 'Dry' for May - September. You'll never guess why they have those names. Australians are pretty subtle with language sometimes.

Anyway, down in our cooler island state of Tasmania, I was taking a rare day off before the start of a new project at work. I hadn't seen a soul on the track, with most of the tourists from the mainland already gone after the school holidays, and the backpackers fleeing the European winter at sexier places like the ever-popular Overland Track. A Tasmanian walking track on a quiet day has an unparalleled beauty, with the delicate colours of the Australian bush, a constant murmur of birds and insects, and the odd lizard or small marsupial scuttling off at my approach. My stress had sloughed off during the day and my work worries seemed miles away (yes, we still say 'miles' in figurative speech, but we measure in metric kilometres like sensible people). Despite the heat, it had been a great day.

It's not really a good idea to bushwalk alone, but I like my solitude, there was no rain on the forecast, and I wasn't too far away from our capital city, Hobart. Plus, I was still young, male and stupid enough to be over-confident. Everything was all good.

Until it wasn't.

One moment I was stomping down the path, making a bit of noise in case of snakes sunning themselves on the track ahead, and the next, I was slipping on a patch of loose scree, landing on my arse with a thump.

As the echoes from my fall faded, two things became apparent. First was a burning pain in my left ankle. Second, that I was sitting on a lump in my right back pocket where I'd been carrying my mobile phone. Gingerly, I reached around and wriggled to get it out, only to confirm the worst: a smashed and dead screen.

"You fucking idiot!" I helpfully snarled at myself, and then took a few minutes to contemplate my circumstances and the options. I had:

- no communications

- a snack and some water

-nobody who knew where I was (hot tip, kids -- always file a plan when you go walking). I lived alone

- what felt like a busted ankle, although I didn't know how bad it was

- no first aid kit, flares, radio, satphone, or anything else useful.

It could have been worse. By my reckoning, I was only about 2 km or less from where I'd parked, close to the main road. If I couldn't get out by sunset, I'd be a bit cold overnight, but I wouldn't freeze, and it was unlikely I'd be bothered by animals (overseas readers, do NOT believe what you hear about the drop bears in the Australian bush: they are very rarely dangerous). Being Tasmania, there might be Tasmanian Devils around, but they mainly eat small prey and carrion of various sizes. Fun fact: if you look up 'Tasmanian Devil' on the Internet, you'll find that though they are 'typically solitary, a carcass is one of the few things that will bring devils together'. So all good: no real threat from wild animals unless I was dead, and in that case I'd better be on the lookout for marsupials with sharp teeth and poor social skills.

Everything was very survivable if I didn't do any more stupid things like crawl off in the wrong direction. Which, of course, some dazed people in my situation do.

Ever so slowly, I unlaced my shoe (another mistake -- a proper hiking boot would have been so much better to wear), and eased it and the sock off my foot. It hurt like hell, but I couldn't see anything massively broken -- and that was the limit of my medical knowledge (sorry, the world needs accountants too, and I'm very good at that).

Now what? As I contemplated my foot in a stupor while trying to run through all the potentially useful accounting tricks I knew, I started to hear some noise from further up the ridge behind me. The sound got louder, and around the corner of the path came a youngish, slim woman, about my age, wearing a daypack, shorts and shirt, and (of course) sensible hiking boots with long socks. Her head was partly hidden by a floppy hat and sunglasses, but I could see that she was a brunette with tanned skin and a long ponytail. Not that this particularly mattered to me at the time -- her hair could have been green and she could have been an 80 year old man for all I cared right then, but I know some readers will want to know. I draw the line at estimating her bra size at this point in the story though, because frankly that's a bit creepy and any guy who claims to be able to do that at first glance is not somebody you want to be around.

When she saw me, she did a double-take and called out the inevitable, unhelpful but socially necessary question.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"I slipped over. My phone's smashed and my ankle's killing me."

Without wasting any more words, she dropped her day pack, knelt down beside me, and gently touched my ankle, near the bone.

"Ow!" I said, trying for the right mixture of honesty and manly fortitude.

"Mmm," she said, and shifted her hands to the soft tissue part, giving it more of a squeeze.

"AH!! FUCK!" Manliness be damned.

"Mmmph," she grunted, and looked thoughtful for a second. Then she opened her pack, and drew out a first aid kit of roughly the same size that I should have been carrying.

"I don't think it's broken, but it might be a bad sprain, and you'll need to get it checked out," she said. "I don't have anything cold to ice it with, so I suggest we bind it up and try and walk you out of here. If that fails, I'll go and get help: the phone reception's crap here anyway."

And so that's what we did, or rather what she did, because I was the useless one. She bound my ankle up, put the sock on the foot again and the shoe in my backpack, put her bag on her back and my bag on her front, and carefully hoisted me up onto my right foot with my left arm around her shoulder, so that I could walk supported by her with my left foot just lightly touching the ground. And we started carefully down the path, stopping frequently to take a breather.

By the third stop, the pain was still bad but seemed like it would be manageable, and I'd started to consider my manners. It doesn't do to be remembered forever as the 'ah fuck!' guy. And I was increasingly aware that, with our close body to body contact as we hopped down the path, and my ripe body odour by comparison to her more civilised scent (she was clearly very fit and the heavy breathing was only coming from me), she was giving up a lot of her personal space for a stranger.

"Thank you for doing this. I'm sure you had better plans for this afternoon. I'm Nathan. Nate for short."

She gave me a quick side smile, and then a deflection. "Well, I was hardly going to walk past, was I? Joanne. Jo, if you must. Ready to keep going?"

Bit by bit, we got there as the sun slowly started heading toward the horizon -- the long Tasmanian summer days were starting to noticeably shorten again. When we rounded a corner to see the car park, with two cars in it, it was a massive relief.

Jo stopped, looked at me, and then looked at my car.

"Automatic or manual?"

"Why do you want to know?" I started to say, and then realisation hit me. "Ah shit -- manual." So now, I was the "Ah shit" guy, with no way to drive my car with a busted foot.

"Mmph," and Jo put on her thoughtful look again. "My Subaru's an automatic. Reckon you can handle it? Better than leaving your car here, I think."

"Um, I think so... but God, you've already done a lot for me."

"It's fine. We'll take it slow. You're going to drive to the petrol station about 20 km down the road, and I'll follow in your car. Stop when you get there and wait in the car while I get you some ice."

And again, that's what we did. She helped me into her car, put my backpack in next to me, gave me her keys and a quick brief on the car, then took my keys and followed in my Toyota. When we got to the petrol station, she went and bought a big bag of ice, and then rewrapped my foot with ice on.

"Where do you live? We'll dump your car there and then we'll go to the hospital -- they'll probably send you home and tell you to rest and keep treating with ice, but it's good if somebody at least looks at it first."

Two hours later, we were at the hospital and waiting to be seen. Jo had insisted in coming inside with me. Miracles of miracles, they weren't too busy -- the Australian health system is good, but not perfect, and being seen for something non-life threatening within a couple of hours is well above the expected odds for an evening.

There was just one slightly tense moment, when Jo, who seemed like she had something on her mind, took a phone call. I couldn't hear the other end, except that it was a male voice and he sounded irritated.

"I got delayed. I'll be home when I'm home," said Jo at her end, and then she walked away to finish the call out of my earshot. When she came back, her lips were pursed, and she didn't look in the mood for conversation.

Fortunately, I got called into a cubicle just then, where I was given a quick examination, and confirmation that the ankle wasn't broken although it was badly sprained. After some instructions and a bit of paperwork, I was sent home with a pair of loan crutches at minimal cost and a medical certificate for a couple of days off work (these were the days before working from home while ill was a thing). Jo drove me home and helped me to the door, looking hesitant for the first time, and a bit distracted.

"I can cope from here. Thank you so much," I said firmly, then a bit more hesitantly "please let me know if I can do anything for you."

Jo gave me that half-smile again, and then a grimace as her phone chirped a text alert at her. "I've got to go. And it was no drama at all -- good luck Nate."

And she was gone, just like that, and before I thought of some lame excuse to get her number.

Part Two: December, (almost) two years later

It had been a cold winter and spring this year, and a bit of a slog, but things were looking up. The Christmas shut-down was approaching, and that would be followed by the traditional slow January, when most of Australia seemed to go to the beach, watch cricket, or of course, visit Tasmania, the most beautiful of States (as a Tasmanian native, I am completely biased on this point, but it happens to be true). I had been working on my fitness, and was looking forward to a bit of outdoor time myself.

I had also been keeping myself busier out of hours by doing some volunteering, as a finance advisor at a local community centre. I knew that my little efforts wouldn't be saving the world, and I also knew that I wasn't being as helpful as I could be for some people: I had to keep working on my empathy (maybe I should have been a doctor after all?) and keep remembering that money stuff that seemed perfectly obvious to me was much harder for some others. And I have to say that the weight of tough stories that kept coming in the door had also taught me a little bit of humility. There but for the grace of God... I had been very lucky in my boring, predictable life.

Today was the last session of the year, the final person had gone, and we were just starting to pack up. Then I saw her, hesitating at the door. A bit thinner than I remembered, and what had been a hint of sadness had turned into a full on, exhausted look. But she was unmistakably Jo, deciding whether to come in or not to our community help clinic.

She hadn't clocked me, and I realised that if she did, she would probably rather die than ask for my help. So instead of inanely yelling out her name, I quickly got up, came over to her and gently got her to a seat before she could process who I was.

"It's good to see you, Joanne -- tea or coffee?" (Not: "stay or flee")

A startled light flared in her eyes, and she shifted in her seat, but then something seemed to steel her resolve, and she said "White tea, no sugar, and thank you Nathan."

My co-volunteer, Claire, had observed the interaction, and kindly signalled to me that she would get the refreshments, so that I could stay and stop our client taking flight, while also flashing me a 'we're closed and you'd better manage this' look. Claire and I are good mates, but she takes no prisoners: if I mishandled this one, I'd be hearing about it.

"Jo, I'm sure this isn't why you dropped in, but I never really got to thank you properly that day. I'm in your debt."

She gave me a nod and one of her half-smiles, and then started to speak, silencing herself when Claire came back with the tea and a plastic packet with our few remaining Tim-Tams.

(A Tim-Tam, dear reader, is one of the most divine chocolate biscuits in the world. If you're not from the Antipodes, I can't convince you of that until you do your own research, but please just accept my word on that until you see the light. Tim Tams are sold in fine food import establishments all over the world, and they are also widely available in New Zealand, our sister country in the world of chocolate biscuit bliss).

"Nate, I'm off," said Claire. "Have a great Christmas, and don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"So, it's an open slate, Claire? Have a good one yourself, and I hope the rellies don't drive you to the brink."

With Claire gone, it was suddenly quiet. We were in a busy shopping centre and the sights of Christmas were all around us with a glass frontage and wall, but with the door closed the sound was muted enough to almost be peaceful.

I gave Jo an encouraging smile, which truth to tell probably looked more like an awkward grimace (like I said, I was still working on the bedside manner) and waited politely for her to continue what she'd started to say.

"Debt..." she hesitated. "Debt, Nathan, is the problem. I've always been proud of my capacity to manage everything. My work ethic. My skill set. My ability to think under fire. But it's been a shit year, and suddenly I'm drowning in it."

"Drowning in shit, or debt?" Oh, you smooth talker, Nate.

Another half-smile. "A bit of both."

Jo was never going to be one to break down in tears or throw herself sobbing into somebody's arms, but I could see that she wasn't far off and was making a real effort. She sat up a little, took a deep breath, a sip of tea, and a bite of Tim-Tam, and then slowly but steadily, the story came out. The brief version was this: she had been working in a small Defence barracks, and had run into a bullying problem with a senior officer, who had also been a close friend of the guy that she had been living with (fortunately, his name was not on the deeds to her house, but he'd been contributing his share of costs.) Those workmates who she'd thought were real mates turned out not to be, and she was quickly isolated. One thing had led to another very quickly, and she found herself suddenly living alone and stuck with all the household debt, no job, and no friends. Life is not fair, particularly when people choose to be pricks.

This was not going to be a quick one to solve, and like it or not, I was now part of the story. And in case you're worried that this is the kind of story where a manipulative arsehole takes advantage of a damsel in distress to bring her down to a lower level of hell, let me cut to the chase: I didn't. Not because I'm a saint, but I do manage to be a decent person for most of the time. Plus, even though I was now a bit fitter, she could probably still kick my arse to the other end of the country before breakfast, and if she didn't, then Claire would.

So, we talked, and I got a better idea of her situation, and then I asked something that did go a little beyond professional boundaries, but I thought was appropriate in the circumstances.

"We're now closed for Christmas and January, but this won't wait. Would you mind if I visited you at home, or we met somewhere else, so that we can go through all your bills and the situation in detail?"

She looked at me for a second, weighing me up, but then reached a decision. This was, after all, still the woman who had given me her car to drive without a thought.

"You can come over tomorrow, if you're free. And I might be poor, but I can still cook a mean quiche for lunch, so you only have to bring over something drinkable and we've got a deal."

And thus it came to pass that on the Sunday, we met at her place, not far from mine, for lunch. And I steadfastly ignored the signs of stress around me - the half-empty bookshelves, the unrepaired fist-sized hole in the plaster, the absence of photos, and the untended garden - and went full nerd-mode on the pile of bills and final demands. We opened up her bank accounts. We looked at the resale value on her car and her house refinancing options (difficult until she got a new job). We investigated emergency relief payments and loan relief, and started to get the strategy mapped out.

The quiche, incidentally, was delicious.

On my second visit, on Tuesday evening after work, I noticed a bit more detail. Yes, the garden was indeed a little overgrown, but it was interesting -- somebody had put a fair amount of work into it within the last few years, and (dare I say it) unusually so for any military households I'd seen before. There were lots of native plants that I didn't recognise, a nice little orchard area to the side, and there was also a lovely little pond. It just needed a bit more upkeep.

The bookshelves were a bit bare, but on reinspection, there didn't seem to be books missing: the dust imprints were of objects like video games and tech gear, and there was a big wall space where a large screen TV had obviously been removed. Some of the books themselves were quite recent and many of them were about or around Tasmania, including a just-released biography of Truganini, the woman famous for being the (so-called) last Tasmanian Aborigine. I knew that Truganini's story was amazing, but I hadn't heard of the book. There was also a copy of 'For the Term of His Natural Life', a classic book about the life of the convicts transported to Australia from England, which I had read. The comedian Hannah Gadsby's just released biography was there as well, which I had started but struggled with.

"What did you think of Hannah's book?" I asked.

Jo looked surprised but pleased at my question and the chance to talk about something other than her dismal finances.

"It's quite a download," she said, "and I kind of wish that she'd had a stronger editor. But the crap she went through and what she's done... I'll forgive her a lot of things. I saw two of her recent shows live before they went online, and they were really powerful. I'm also never going to think about art appreciation in the same way again."

"Did you grow up here?", I asked.

"No, and that's why I have so many books about Tasmania. I don't really have any connection with my family in Queensland, and I wanted to make this my new home and feel like I understand the place a bit. But it's hard to break into society here, and I've wasted too much time with army jerks. I was going to join a book club this year, but......stuff got in the way."

Over the week, as Christmas crept closer and closer, we navigated through the bastard systems of our government's social security department, which are literally set up to discourage people from seeking assistance (don't get me started....), and we kept working on all the angles that we could. Jo was a quick learner. She had mostly been overwhelmed and demoralised, but once we got some ideas on the table, the light started to return to her eyes. Which were blue, by the way. Not that I admitted noticing.