I am invited to a mysterious retreat that takes place at various locations in Melbourne and the Mornington Peninsula. We are not given an itinerary and when we arrive at the meeting point we are instructed not to ask anyone about their job. The focus of the day will be on the future.
First we are divided into pairs and asked to discuss our biggest fear for the future. My pair is worried about internet addiction. I’m concerned about the death of liberalism.
We are then asked to come up with a solution to our fear.
Hers is easy: you just shut down the internet one day a week and everyone takes an enforced break.
But mine is more difficult. What is liberalism anyway? And how do you prevent its decline particularly since different parts of the world have different systems of government, and are in different phases of democracy?
When asked to come up with a solution for the death of liberalism, I draw a blank.
As we drive an hour down the coast I internally berate myself for my fear: it’s too show-offy and intellectual. Why couldn’t I have picked something less lofty and pretentious, like species extinction?
At the coast, we hike down to a private beach where umbrellas have been set up for the next session. We huddle for shade (it’s 38 degrees) while eating vegan wraps (I don’t eat mine because it contains beetroot) while an entrepreneur talks about the future. The talk is really interesting and I momentarily forget my fear and dread of the future. In the future as he sees it, technology will have solved many of our problems; “we’re imagination constrained, not tech constrained,” he says.
After lunch we hike mostly uphill for an hour. The sun is scorching and my throat is dry. I swallow two flies. I haven’t got any water with me and struggle, being the last person to arrive back at the carpark. Not only are my fears about liberalism pretentious, but I’m also a slow walker who holds up the group.
In the car I down ten litres of water, then freak out when I see my appearance in the rear vision mirror. My face is purple! I look like Violet Beauregarde.
We go into a forest clearing for our next session.
“How do you feel when thinking about the future?” asks our facilitator.
I stick up my hand. “I feel fear.”
It’s 7pm – we get drive back to the city and I get a taxi to a posh publishing party on a rooftop of a bar in Carlton. It’s still around 33 degrees and the air is hot and dry.
In the taxi I start to feel very sick, like I might vomit. The top of my head feels sensitive like its been burnt, and I also have a vice-like headache. Everything feels wonky. I take out the small pink bath towel I was going to use if we went swimming. I think I’m going to be sick in the towel.
Could I have heatstroke? The causes and symptoms check out: exercising on a hot day without any water, prolonged exposure to the sun, dehydration, the lack of sweat on the hike, the puce complexion after.
At the party I feel flush and unsteady. The feeling is not like being drunk but something else, maybe similar to the early stages of a drug overdose (I have never had a drug overdose) or organ failure.
There’s only about 20 people at the party and it’s the sort of summer rooftop party that dreams are made of: comfortable couches and shady umbrellas, sweating tangerine pitchers of Aperol spritz, bottle of prosecco on ice and slices of pizza.
Then I start talking to one famous author and realise I’m making no sense. Also I am clutching a pink bath towel.
There are two Miles Franklin winners sitting across from me. Years ago I would have killed to be invited to this kind of party, now I’m praying no one introduces me to anyone else.
Trying to tell people why I am behaving so strangely makes little sense (“I went hiking without water to get to the beach to talk about the future and didn’t eat the vegan wrap”) but then that is the great irony of sunstroke – it robs you of your ability to properly account for yourself.
The symptoms – according to Google – include delirium and confusion.
To make matters worse, my hosts keep offering me alcohol.
“Water! Water please.”
A small glass of warm water is handed to me. The urge to pour it on my burning skull is strong. I try to leave the party but can’t find my backpack. The famous authors scramble for it on the ground.
“Don’t forget your towel,” says one.
In the Uber on the way home I keep the towel on my lap.
“I have heatstroke,” I tell the driver. “I feel sick.”
“This is not hot! I lived in Egypt and it would get to 43, 45 degrees.”
“Heatstroke is not just about being hot,” I say. “It’s when your internal cooling mechanism breaks.”
I asked the driver how he came to be in Egypt and he told me an incredible story. His family were from Ethiopia and his were very wealthy but also political.
His father was jailed and he (the son) was afraid of being jailed, so he fled to Egypt then onto Australia.
“What happens in an Ethiopian jail?” I ask.
“It’s really bad, lots of violence,” says the Uber driver. “You get a attacked, gashed on the leg.”
I tell him about my sunstroke: “The top of my head hurts, like I’ve been bashed on the skull, but it’s also soft and hot, like a baby’s head. I want to spew too. I am also very confused. I tweeted about it and people on Twitter told me to put a cold towel on my head.”
“No, don’t do that,” said the Uber driver authoritatively. “You need a coffee. I’ll take you out for a coffee.” He had previously talked about setting up a coffee export business and knew a good place in Footscray.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“I don’t drink coffee after 3pm,” I tell him somewhat piously.
We get to the front of my hotel.
“You can have this Coke,” says the driver, taking a can from the glovebox.
The Coke can feels like it’s heated to about 90 degrees. If it was any hotter, it would explode. It’s a coke bomb.
But I’m touched.
“I’ll put it in the fridge and drink it in the future.”
