Blue Flip flops

by Alice Dodd (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

Making a local connection Australia

The Australian town of Cairns has a reputation for being both a backpacker Mecca and for having a large community of Aboriginals. As I begin my walk home from work, I hope to not run into either. The road back to my hostel is an isolated one, the midday sun beats unrelenting, the tarmac glistening as it melts. Within minutes, I feel my ankle give-way against an unseen pothole, and I am falling. As I hit the ground, two dark feet in blue flip flops appear in front of me and I can’t find the words to protest as I’m lifted upright.“Sit here”, a deep voice says with the unmistakable intonation of an Australian accent. I look up to see a man much older than myself looking down at me, his hair long and grey, dreadlocked around a black, weathered face. “Thank you. I’m fine.” I force a smile and slide off the wall. I gasp as my bare foot hits the sidewalk. For the first time, I notice my flip flop on the road, the broken strap a casualty in my fall. I jump back onto the wall, aware of two voices laughing. We have a companion. A young man, taller and wider than the one who helped me, is passing an aged football between his feet, ignoring my gaze. Suddenly, I am aware of the emptiness of the road, spanning for miles ahead of us. No cars have passed since we began this exchange, the humidity feels suffocating. “Thank you,” I say again. “I need to go." I watch, as the man before me slips off his flip flops. “You can walk in these. You cannot step on the road without shoes.” He faces me defiantly as his own shoeless feet land on the baking gravel. I know he is right. I hold his gaze and take the blue, faded flip flops he is holding out to me. “I’m going this way,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest. “So are we,” replies the man. “We will walk with you.” We begin to walk. The distant sound of a football being passed between feet signals the younger man is following us. “You are European?” The man breaks the silence first, and I nod, feeling his eyes on me as we continue to walk. We are the most unlikely of companions in Cairns, a place I’d found to be more divided by skin colour than language, or education, or nationality. A place where backpackers congregated together, where we made friends with the local Aussies on nights out and on day trips, but only the white ones. “I’m English”, I say. And he laughs again. This deep laugh which I initially took for mocking, but I realise now, is genuine humour. “You are strong.” He pauses. “For an English person.” His eyes shine as I meet them, still laughing, and I understand that my feelings of embarrassment towards the large, rowdy groups of sunburnt Europeans are reflected in his adversary to them. “Thank you.” We are almost at the turning to my hostel when the other man appears on my right, his eyes still on his football, now clasped between large hands. “This is my son,” the older man says, “He does not trust you.” I take in the man on my left, bigger in size and height than me. He stares at his ball. “Why?” I ask. He doesn't answer. Neither does his father. We continue in silence until we reach Bunting Street. It is sheltered by trees on both sides, and I realise I can likely walk in their shade. Fo the first time, the son speaks, “We will leave you here.” I slip off the shoes and press them into my companion’s hands, “Thank you.” I say. On either end of the blue flip flops, we are contrasts. Contrasting in age, in size, in colour, in gender. The man is smiling at me. I let go and the two men turn towards the road. They are walking back towards the town, retracing our steps. The younger kicking his football, the older still holding his flip flops, walking barefoot in the midday sun.