Loneliness and Letters Port Hedland Australa 1977
Readers mail…..
From Eren Erdogan, Melbourne, Australia……
Port Hedland. Just saying the name brings back the heat, the red dust, and the feeling of being slapped in the face by a blow dryer set to “hellfire.” I arrived full of hope and youthful hunger for something big, something better. Instead, I was greeted by the kind of isolation that could make a cactus cry.
For the first time in my life, I was truly alone in a town where I knew no one. It hit me hard. But there was no use feeling sorry for myself—I had to pick up the pieces and get on with it. Still, the loneliness was a gut punch.
Gone were my Cypriot mates—Max and Şükrü from Melbourne. Gone were the late nights cruising through St Kilda in Max’s Ford GT, the auto transmission humming, the exhaust pipes roaring, and those ridiculous flame decals on the front fenders . Gone was the chaos, the comfort, and the city that knew me. Now it was just me… the Pilbara… and a sun so relentless it felt like it was personally trying to kill me.
Single Men’s Quarters
They put me up in the SMQs—Single Men’s Quarters, which is a fancy way of saying “boxes for broken dreams.” It was like army barracks: small, cramped rooms with a thin mattress, an even thinner desk, and walls made of wet cardboard. Privacy? Forget it. I knew my neighbour’s snoring patterns better than my own.
The mess hall was the town square of the forgotten—a cathedral of tired faces and smoke curling like ghosts above our heads. You came to feed your stomach, numb your thoughts, and maybe lose yourself in the same old debates—spanners, footy, or the last woman someone thought they saw in Perth. She was always beautiful, always laughing, always just out of reach. There were a few real women in Point Cook and Hedland—mostly nurses and a few who worked around town or at the hospital—but with ten rough-edged men for every one of them, hope didn’t stand a chance. Trying to talk to them felt like whispering into a dust storm—your words vanished before they reached anyone who mattered.
But through all the heat and homesickness, I had my lifelines.
I wrote letters. Constantly. To my sister, to my brother in Melbourne, to my parents, and my childhood friend Kemal in Cyprus. I described where I was and how depressing this place felt. Ink and paper were my therapy. Each letter was like a lifeboat floating out of this desert, keeping me tethered to the world I’d left behind. And when one came back… oh, the joy of it. Holding a bit of home in my hands was like water in the desert.
And then there was my friend, Jennet—my lifeline and lifesaver.
Jennet had a soul warmer than the Pilbara sun and a knack for sneaking joy into my weeks. I remembered meeting up with her in Melbourne a few times when I was back there. She introduced me to the “Spaghetti Theatre” on Collins Street—a lively Italian joint just a few doors down from her workplace. I’ll never forget the best spaghetti Bolognese I ate there. She worked as a secretary at Vogue magazine and part-time at a pharmacy. Every now and then, she’d send me a letter with a tiny sample bottle of aftershave—probably leftover stock—but to me, they were elixirs of existence. Her letters came sprinkled with perfume and kindness. She reminded me I hadn’t been forgotten. My gratitude to her was immense.
I’d known Jennet since around ’72 or ’73 from the Cypriot dances in Melbourne. She was a friend of my sister’s—a vibrant whirlwind of a girl who would drag me onto the dancefloor whether I liked it or not. In 1976, she was crowned Charity Queen for raising the most funds that year. My sister and I proudly went with her to St Kilda Town Hall to watch her get crowned. Somewhere, I’ve still got that photo. If I ever find it, I’ll post it—and blush. (Jennet in red ribbon )
Looking back now
Looking back now, I realise she may have had feelings for me that I never knew. But at the time, I thought we were just good friends. I was only 17 or 18—too green, too distracted by dreams of a grand future. She loved to dance and wasn’t shy about grabbing me by the arm to spin me around a room.
A few years later, when I was about 20, I was invited to a house party for a girl named Yıldız—someone I truly fancied but didn’t know how to approach. It was her 21st. I turned up in my best white suit and white Panama hat, thinking I looked like a Cypriot Casanova. But every time I tried to talk to Yıldız or ask her for a dance, Jennet would swoop in like a hawk. I think I danced with her seventeen times that night. Poor Yıldız must’ve thought I wasn’t interested. The truth? I never stood a chance. And that was Jennet. Always there. Always circling. But always kind. Always innocent. We were just awkward kids fumbling through our emotions and expectations.
Jennet kept writing for a while. Her letters were a comfort—little lifelines scented with warmth and kindness. But they also started to make me feel something else: guilt. The kind that creeps in slowly, not because you did something wrong—but because you didn’t do the right thing soon enough.
Typical 20-year-old cowardice. I was afraid to break the spell, afraid to admit I didn’t have the same feelings, or maybe just afraid of letting anyone down. So I let it drift.
But sometimes… the past doesn’t go quietly.
Eight or ten years later, long after the letters had stopped and life had shifted, we were invited to a friend’s BBQ. It was one of those casual gatherings where old faces resurface. I was with my new wife. And there was Jennet.
She still had that same spark—but that day, the mask slipped just enough for me to see the ache underneath. Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the years, maybe just the mood—but she let loose.
Nothing cruel. Nothing loud. Just a few comments, half-jokes, that carried more truth than laughter.
The kind of things you say when you’ve been holding on to a version of a story that only ever existed in your own heart.
She talked about our “non-existent relationship,” and though it was brushed off with a smile, there was something bitter beneath it. A flicker of hurt in her eyes. Not because she hated me. But because she wasn’t the one standing next to me that day.
That was when I realised just how deeply she’d cared. Maybe always had.
And just like that, the past tilted slightly. Not enough to knock me down. But enough to make me wonder how things might’ve been—if I’d been a little older, a little braver, or simply paid more attention.
Some loves don’t explode. They echo. Quietly. For years. I’m sorry, my friend.
Jennet continued to be our friend after that weekend. She became a recruitment agent and even placed my wife into casual temp work for short periods. If I ever find that photo of us with my white suit and Panama hat at Yıldız’s 21st birthday and at St Kilda Town Hall—her smiling in that crown, me awkwardly trying not to—I’ll post it with this story. Not just for nostalgia, but as a reminder that not every kind of love has to end in heartbreak. Some just quietly fade into memory.
I’m sure 90% of people of my vintage have similar stories. I’d love to hear them in the comments below if you’ve read this far.
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