It’s begun raining heavily, and consistently, here in Atherton, and although it’s supposedly still hovering around the 23 – 25° mark, it feels decidedly chilly. After last week’s heatwave which rendered the short walk into town an endurance test (I passed), it feels as if I’ve been transported home, only without any suitable clothing. Nobody takes a fleece to Queensland in summer! It’s a good job I found one hanging up, but I do miss my Ugg boots. The optimist in me is certain it’s only temporary, though I’ve stopped looking at the forecast, which predicts heavy rain, light rain, showers and thunderstorms for the rest of my stay here.
Even the cat won’t go out, and yowls at me instead, as if I’m responsible for it. I can’t console him.
In an effort to console myself, I reach for the tried-and-tested remedy for such occasions: chocolate. But alas! Several supermarket searches have come up fruitless, because in Australia they put cow’s milk in everything. It’s true that I’m in the middle of dairy country, with rolling grassland and cattle all over the place. This pastoral landscape is considered beautiful, but to me it just forms a nondescript foreground to the true prize, and I gaze straight across it to the gum-covered hills, concealing the waterfalls I have yet to see. I suppose the whole idea of livestock farming; cows, butter, cheese and all the rest of it, is deeply ingrained in the Australian – and the New Zealand – psyche, in the way it once was in the UK. For me, it’s become a wearisome battle.
It was here in Australia, on my last visit, twenty-two years ago, that the penny finally dropped after drinking a rum-and-raisin ice cream shake. The whole idea of it makes me shudder, now; both the rich, sickly indulgence of the drink itself and the fact it took me until I was forty to discover what had ailed me since childhood. That which should have been so obvious from the beginning but wasn’t, because milk products were a part of everyday life when I was small, and no-one thought to question it.
In a small Sussex village in the late 1960s, it’s morning break-time at my primary school. Summer is here; it’s already too hot, and I’m one of the kids huddling in the shade of the school building, just outside the entrance. Around our feet, metal crates of miniature milk bottles are festering in the sun; most are already empty, their silver foil caps peeled back just enough for the flies to get a good taste. The sweet-warm smell makes me nauseous, and I try to breathe through my mouth. Listening to the slurps of the other children and watching them wipe their mouths on their clothing makes my stomach heave and I dread, as I do every day, the moment when the last unopened bottle will be spotted, and my cover blown. Occasionally, though not often enough, I can persuade a classmate to drink two; unfathomably, they seem to enjoy it. For me, it’s a daily battle.
Today, a stern-faced teacher stands over me until I drain the last drop, tongue and tummy protesting, tears clouding my vision. This afternoon I’ll bring it back, on the floor of the school corridor, and be sent home. I know what they’re thinking. I’m a greedy child; I love school dinners. Sometimes, I ask for seconds. But this is not why I throw up, and I understand so instinctively. It happens at night, too; I must sleep with a towel across the bed for when I wake in a hurry. Mum is becoming impatient with me, and I’ve started to dread bedtime. There’s nothing in the world I hate more than being sick and I would do anything to make it stop. But nobody thinks to ask what’s causing it; it must be a stomach bug. Schools are full of these things, aren’t they?
It’s now the early 1980s and I’m getting ready to go out. I’ve just eaten dinner; I’m still living at home and Mum, a reluctant cook and a would-be vegetarian, invariably rustles up something smothered in butter and cheese. Whatever it was tonight I’m suddenly on the floor, screaming out in pain and writhing around like a horse with colic. Will I twist a gut? I’m genuinely scared; the spasms came from nowhere and it’s so severe I can’t speak, only groan. Mum is paralysed – should she call an ambulance? Appendicitis is ruled out; this is in the middle, higher up, deep within the gut. It feels like someone has pushed a knife through my belly button and is moving it around in circles, just for fun. The waves eventually slow, then finally stop. I get up off the floor, dust myself down and go out. Nobody questions what I’ve eaten.
It’s the 1990s, I’m fully-grown and living in Scotland. I do my own cooking and try to keep it healthy. I’ve been vegetarian for a decade now, but Alan isn’t, so tasty, cheesy cuisine seems like a reasonable compromise. I’m quite a good cook, if I say so myself. I’m having a lot of problems with gas, though, and it’s getting worse. I’m bloated and sluggish and have regular stomach pains. Occasionally they are almost worth writhing on the floor for. I go to see the doctor, one January. Feeling around my abdomen he opines that I’ve ‘overdone it a bit’ over the festive season. Maybe I have. Chastised, I carry on as normal.
In February 2003 I’m somewhere in Western Australia. I’m staying in hostels, as cheaply as I can; I can’t afford to eat out, but I’ve become addicted to the fresh juice and milkshake bars I’m finding on every street and in every mall. It’s become a guilty pleasure that I allow myself two or three times a week, in place of lunch. I get the most calorie-laden concoction I can find, to make sure I have my money’s worth. Today I’m feeling good; I take my sweet, creamy glass of rum-and-raisin outrageousness and sit outside on a bench in the sun. It’s thick to the point of solidity, and I have difficulty sucking it up through the paper straw; it reminds me of the first time I went to MacDonald’s, before a worker informed me the ‘milkshakes’ were made from lard. Before I understood they’re a company to be avoided like the plague, in any case, for myriad reasons.
Despite the odds, I finish the drink and sit back, content, for about ten seconds. Then a tidal wave of nausea sweeps through me along with the familiar, griping pains. I stare at the empty glass and the realisation hits like a slap. A videotape of my digestive history whirrs through my mind as everything falls into place. I will never touch milk again. The knowledge brings both dismay and liberation; I feel as if I’m preparing to leave a toxic cult. In a sense, I am.
I felt the difference quite literally overnight and never looked back. The hardest thing to give up was cheese, but until I went (almost) fully vegan I discovered that I was okay with a little if it was hard and mature, whereas anything mild and creamy was out. Mozzarella on a pizza finishes me off completely; its value doesn’t even begin to justify the consequences, and that’s without the humanitarian or environmental concerns.
Travelling with Angela recently, and choosing motels with cooking facilities, we pooled our food when practical. One day I was suffering the familiar symptoms, unable to understand why, because I couldn’t think of anything we’d eaten that could possibly be responsible. Until I saw that some innocuous-looking crispbreads of hers actually contained milk powder. Milk! In a cracker! I began reading the labels on absolutely everything, and could assume nothing.
It’s everywhere:
* Vegetable soups, even the ‘home-made’, fresh variety, no matter the flavour, unless made with coconut milk. Even then, one needs to check.
* Crisps: even plain, salt ‘n’ vinegar and salt ‘n’ pepper flavours are booby-trapped. Especially the cheapest ones.
* Dips such as hummus can, unimaginably, contain cream.
* Almost all instant noodles, which I wouldn’t make a habit of buying, except they’re handy for hostels and rooms with only a kettle.
* All biscuits, even chocolate-free ones.
* All chocolate, even the extra-dark, save for some I found in a health shop in Brisbane, when I baulked at the $12 price tag. I wasn’t so desperate, then.
* Muesli, supposedly a health food.
* Vegetable stock cubes.
* Rice crackers and just about every type of snack; I’ve even seen it in Bombay Mix.
* Any kind of processed food, no matter what else is in it. Better read the ingredients on that ketchup!
Yes, the answer is, of course, don’t eat processed food. And I don’t, usually. But it just astonished me how, and why, it’s deemed necessary. I mean, it’s hardly a preservative, is it?
With one in twenty Caucasians intolerant or allergic to dairy products, whether it’s lactose or one of the proteins, and the proportion far, far higher in other ethnic groups, Australia must be suffering an epidemic of stomach cramps and all other attendant symptoms.
I can’t live like that. So it’s off to the Atherton health food shop I trot tomorrow. If I can find an umbrella.