It’s a drizzly winter’s day. The roads are glistening in the rain’s afterglow, and the dense eucalyptus trees make me feel right at home. (The fact that I grew up about 300 meters down the road probably helps in this respect.)
I pull into Ruby Pilven’s driveway and I’m surrounded by the calm of the native surrounds. As I close the car door behind me, Ruby steps outside her charming mud brick home, coffee in-hand and a look of subtle apprehension on her face. “I just woke up,” she admits. She doesn’t look it though. She’s perfectly put together, her short brunette hair swept to one side and her make-up impeccable.