A long, deep breath.
Words about a film.
June 2018
In April of this year, I spent a few weeks in Namibia with my family. What was, at the time of applying for the leave, merely something distant to look forward to became a pivotal few weeks in my life.
At the time, I was working in an Advertising agency that seemed to demand all of the work and none of the rumoured play of the industry’s heyday. I was deteriorating, and after months of minimal sleep, late night walks home alone and a faltering ‘chin up’ attitude, I was finally ready to admit it to myself. Though the realisation was a gradual one, a culmination of countless frustrations, challenges and the seemingly thankless air of the place I came to know better than my own home, there were a few definitive moments that helped me realise that I was pouring my zest and energy into a drain without a plug.
One morning when I was particularly exhausted, a colleague went to exchange a general pleasantry. This, I mentally acknowledged, was going above and beyond given how weighed down with work we all were. It would have been easier to say nothing at all.
“Morning Vanessa, how are you?”
Caught partially in thought, but so mentally burdened by my lack of sleep, lack of motivation, lack of desire to be there at all, all I could muster was a half-smile and,
“Yeah, (sigh), busy.”
I didn’t return the question. Shortly thereafter I looked in the mirror and saw a haggard reflection gazing dully back at me. Who was this person that couldn’t find the energy for even the most basic of human exchanges? I pictured myself even a year earlier, bounding around the office, conversing and laughing, making light of every situation. The person staring back at me looked like they had aged years since then. That was the beginning of the decline.
From that point, every burden became exponentially heavier, and the moment that solidified my decision came just weeks later. It was the usual formula - understaffed, overtired, two major campaign launches looming - and I had simply done what the client has asked of me. Even as I was briefing the task to the team it became evident that what I was asking made no sense. Surely, within fifteen minutes of the meeting ending, my boss stepped in and called a stop to work. Re-brief. Start again. She explained that I had done nothing wrong, that I was indeed following the client’s request, but that the client’s request made no sense in the bigger picture. That kind of strategic thinking wasn’t expected of me, she assured me, but in that moment I felt like a failure, because I knew I should have known better. I was no longer doing good work, I was simply reacting, some constant knee-jerk attempt at keeping my head above the water. I felt inundated, I felt overwhelmed, and as this flood of thought poured through me, I sat across from my boss and cried. Just sat there, nodding and crying.
It was that moment I knew the place would swallow me whole if I let it. By this point, I was due to leave for Namibia in ten days. So I bade my time, and the night before I was due to fly, I asked my boss whether she had a moment. Before I’d even said anything, she knew. There wasn’t much to say - she not only understood, but was glad that I was finally putting myself first, as much as it pained her to lose me. I packed my bags at 10pm that night, and by 7am the following morning, I was Namibia-bound.
I wasn’t in a great place when I arrived. I’d slept less than four hours in the last 48, and the emotional experience of resigning was still fresh in mind. I felt like I’d broken up with a long-term partner and, in many ways, I had. I remained uneasy until the familiar blur of transit - two days in total - had brought us safely to our first destination. It was there, at the foot of a mountain somewhere in the Sossusvlei desert, looking out on a rocky expanse of sand and sky, that I felt I could begin to breathe again.
The weeks that followed were transformative. They reconnected me with my family, who had been sorely neglected during my months of obsessive work (this they handled patiently, admirably, knowing I would surface again when I was ready). They reconnected me with nature, which I have always held a deep respect for (you begin to forget the sun and sky when all you know are four walls). More than anything though, they reconnected me with a part of myself I had nearly lost. I truly believe that I am a better person because of them. And now, what remains are these words, this film, and a renewed perspective - one that I have vowed to myself never to lose.
On the film
Creating the film was a journey in itself. The majority of the footage was shot hand held from jittery vehicles (cars, off-road 4x4s, 8-seater planes) on an array of surfaces, all equally unforgiving. This meant hours of trawling through footage, trying to find those optimal few seconds where I somehow managed to minimise movement. (Fitness tip - trying to stabilise yourself and a camera in a heavily shaking vehicle is a great way to exercise your core).
When you’re shooting, you’re channeling an innate desire to translate your experience as accurately as possible through your lens. Of all the marvellous beauty I encountered over those weeks, I think that which was the most poorly conveyed was the splendour of the African wildlife. I captured hours upon hours of footage of every kind of magnificent creature (elephants, lions, cheetahs, rhinos, giraffes, zebras, baboons, springbok, kudu - shall I continue?), being utterly themselves in their native environment. When I revisited the footage though, I realised that nothing I had captured had even come close to truly conveying the experience of suddenly spotting something, staying silently still, and watching in wonder as nature’s narrative plays out in front of you. Whilst I have included a small flavour of what we saw in the film, I would urge each of you, if you can, to experience it for yourself - nothing else compares.
One of the most breathtaking experiences of our time in Ongawa Nature Reserve, where we experienced most of the wildlife on our journey, was tracking a pride of lions early one morning. What started as the spotting of a single lion basking in the sun, after patient tracking (and a lot of expert driving by our guide), ended with our truck being bypassed by the entire pride. I think we lost count at fourteen. We watched in complete awe as the pride divided themselves around us, passing as close as three metres away. It was close enough to see the firm, slender muscle of the males, the regal poise of the females, the curious gaze of the cubs who were yet to realise their own strength. Though in the morning light they were calm, almost docile as they passed, their true strength and capability was evident in their every movement. The footage from that morning is among my least favourite, because it falls so far short of what I know that moment to have been.
There were also a lot of firsts. On our very first flight in the tiny planes we would later grow accustomed to, the pilot had no sooner offered to let me take the passenger seat than he asked whether I’d like to fly. I naturally obliged, trying (poorly) to contain my childish excitement. Namibia was also the first place I (or my family) had been where people were so thrilled to learn we spoke Afrikaans. There was a genuine, friendly air about everyone we encountered during our travels, from the lodge staff who came from villages near and far, to the pilots and guides that shaped our journey. There were a lot of culinary firsts too - there was no shortage of local game as we made our way across the country.
The landscapes are something that speak for themselves. What stuck me above all else was Namibia’s incredible natural diversity; our travels took us from the foot of a rocky mountain in the arid Sossusvlei desert, to the Atlantic breeze and fog of coastal Swakopmund, the towering red rock mountains of Twyfelfontein, through the endlessly flat salt pan of Etosha, to the dense wildgrass and bushland of Ongawa. All of this within a few hundred kilometres of one another.
I enjoyed our road trips hugely - despite the long stretches of dirt road - not only because it was the only opportunity I really had to listen to music (many of our stays were spent in silence, which I needed), but because it was the first time in longer than I could remember that I felt my mind begin to wander - truly wander. During those scenic, bumpy hours, I played out countless scenarios, designed and constructed studios, I launched a business, set goals and created films. I revisited a part of my mind that had been left unopened for months, perhaps more. I realised that all of the clutter, the constant stream of noise and distraction from my daily life had blocked it off entirely. Now that I was slowly starting to sort, pack away, throw out, those vivid thoughts were starting to flow again. I felt overwhelmed by possibility.
I returned to Australia revitalised, determined to keep my heart and mind as open as the desert plains that had transformed me. I saw out my final weeks of work, battling the temptation to change my mind, to remain under the oppressive wing of stability. I felt within me that if I didn’t go out on my own, try to forge a life for myself that somehow sustained the feeling of freedom, of infinite possibility, that I had experienced in my time away, that I would be failing myself.
So I walked out of that office for the last time, reflected on the things that made me truly happy, and decided to make a living out of them. But more on that later.
I hope in these words you have found some inspiration, some motivation. Remember that our lives, and our happiness, are entirely within our own control. All you have to do is choose.
V.
If you haven't seen it, watch the film here.