GOLDEN BLUE;
Curse
of the Mother-in-Law
©Jim Morris 2020
GOLDEN
BLUE;
Curse
of the Mother-in-Law
Chapter
1 Love Begets Courage
Chapter
2 Digging In
Chapter
3 Consolidation
Chapter
4 Adventure
Chapter
5 Cauldron
Chapter
6 Vortex of
Chaos
Chapter
7 Demon’s
Teeth
Chapter
8 Biting The
Bullet
© j1moris 2020
(Warning; this book may not change your life.)
Introduction.
This story
has been told just the way it happened because it makes sense to do so.
I’m not Shakespeare.
This is simply an out in the world love story for men who may enjoy it as an example
of the way life can change unexpectedly.
Things
have changed since the events of the nineteen-seventies and eighties depicted
in this story occurred; especially in the love department.
Life in
Australia was far freer than it is today and ‘relationships’ hadn’t become the
focus of politics. If you were young and in love nothing required analysis. You
simply followed your feelings; and “Went with
the flow”.
Nowadays
it seems that everything, particularly male/female dynamics, have become loaded
up with weird power politics. Everything is more complicated than it seems, or
needs to be.
That is
not how it was back then. Thankfully.
The freedom
was taken for granted because we couldn’t imagine that future generations would
fritter that freedom away.
jm 2020
Chapter 1.
Love
Begets Courage.
The nineteen-seventies
in Australia were a high time to be young, idealistic, and committed to changing
the world. I certainly was. We certainly were. And even ‘the
world’ seemed to be going in that direction.
Ever since
I’d been at
primary
school I’d envied the older guys who seemed to have so much freedom. Especially
the surfers, so when I turned eighteen in 1970
the world was at my feet and my second-hand surfboard was the
magic carpet that put me in contact with exciting ideas and inspiring people.
Later,
after various jobs and some compulsory time in the army, I stumbled onto
Buddhist philosophy while travelling in Thailand where I
ordained as a monk to learn
more, and be in an ideal environment for meditation, contemplation, and study.
Buddhism
was the first philosophy that made sense to me. I wanted to do good. To be a
righteous person, as most people do. And Buddhism is primarily a code of ethics
with the purpose of freeing the mind.
During a
pilgrimage to the place of the Buddha’s enlightenment in India I witnessed such
profound suffering and struggle that I adopted the adage Live Simply So Others
May Simply Live so it seemed obvious that when I returned to Australia I should
commit myself to a more spiritual, organic and sustainable lifestyle.
With that
motivation I put my energy into helping to establish an ‘alternative-lifestyle
‘community on the east coast of Australia with a whole bunch of like-minded people
who’d chipped-in to buy a large parcel of degraded dairy-farming land.
There was
plenty of rainfall, the soil was fertile, and the grass was green, but the
dairy industry had become uneconomical and fallen apart. The properties were
over-run with weeds, buildings dilapidated, and the fences in need of repair,
so the land was selling for ‘peanuts’. We bought a thousand acres for a couple
of hundred thousand dollars and a ragged band of idealists and refugees from
‘exploitative capitalism’ took up residence in existing buildings or set up
small camps at various locations around the property.
Being
sub-tropical it was relatively easy living but there was much for us city kids to
learn about growing food and building structures. Fortunately enthusiasm
counted for a lot and the ability to put up with discomfort, self-imposed
poverty, and often having no choice, took care of the rest.
The spirit
of sharing and helping each other strive for self-sufficiency was our fundamental
philosophy. The readiness of people to work together made big projects a
breeze.
Most of
the people were straightforward and sensible despite the spectrum of dress and
hairstyles, and of course there were plenty of
strange and usually unproductive people, but that made things interesting, at
first, and the ‘social experiment’, the ‘communiversity’, functioned remarkably
well. Of course some people were organizers, usually university types, who’d
drawn up the plan and tended to run the meetings while others went along with
it. And voted at the monthly meetings. A budding bureaucracy had almost
immediately sprang up.
A ‘red
line’ had been drawn onto a contour map of the valley. It had something to do
with the fantasy of drawing water from the top of the falls and distributing it
all around the valley. I never could figure it out. Where were the kilometers
of required pipe coming from? But nonetheless all houses had to be built above
the red line, on the steep sides of the valley. It was an ongoing disaster for
the community because it made everything difficult and it atomized the
community which should have had a village at its centre.
Instead, people were lugging loads up each side of the valley, sometimes at
night, and often in the rain. Even using a vehicle was not easy. There weren’t
any ‘roads’ and people complained if you did; unless you had an excuse that
calmed them.
The
utopian fantasy seemed like a great idea at the time but in all human activity
the results are hardly ever what was originally in mind. We had an
amazingly complex combination of beliefs and values in an anything-goes
environment, and ‘the straights’ to function as an ‘enemy’ to bind us. The
world was poisoning itself and coming apart. We stood for mother nature, but
soon realized that we quite often tended to compromise or develop defenses
against the truth when it differed from our hopes. People left, other people
came. The community grew in many different ways.
The first thing
I built was a small geodesic dome on the eastern side of the valley but until
about nine it was in shade so I soon moved
across the valley to a perfect north-east slope I could see shining in the sun
each morning. The slope was covered in a weed called lantana so I hacked a
track through the lantana to a level area where there was deep basalt soil. In
the small clearing slashed with a brush-hook I constructed what was basically an
over-sized four-poster bed with a roof and began to clear an ever larger area
within the acres of invasive lantana. At first I only had enough open space to
assemble the structure but within a few days there was a clearing about the
size of a real house, with four large stacks of green lantana smelling strongly
in the noonday sun.
The lantana, although very scratchy, was relatively easy to cut with a
sharp brush-hook. The method was to remove the branches blocking access to the
base of the plant where the shallow roots could be easily severed with a sharp
blow and the entire plant pulled out with the remaining roots still attached.
The soil beneath was deep and fertile so once the lantana had been burnt
it was time to begin planting the fruit trees I’d been able to afford. They
were expensive but it was surprisingly exciting shopping.
The transformation from weedy wasteland to productive open space was
rapid, which was great, but doing it alone began to wear me down after a couple
of months, especially in the afternoons when I’d sit back on my favourite large
rock and cast an eye over the scene to appreciate the way it was progressing. The
citrus trees I’d planted looked happy and patches of grass were beginning to
cover the bare earth. Various cuttings I’d been given had taken root. Things
were certainly happening and I felt all the more that I wanted someone to share
it with. A partner, a soul mate and a workmate.
On a particularly hot afternoon I downed tools and rode my dirt bike
into the nearby small town in order to find a shady place to drink a cold beer.
It wasn't what I really wanted to do but I had nothing better on offer.
Upon arrival in town two attractive
young ladies were just then leaving the hotel as I parked my bike so I spontaneously
engaged them in conversation.
"Where are you girls off to?” I enquired.
"Once-upon-a-time!" The blonde with freckles repeated. That’s the name
of the place.”
“Well
that’s an offer too good to refuse.” I said as I remounted my bike
and prepared to follow their old car.
The
house must have been a hundred years old judging by the colour of the chamfer
boards and the size of the jasmine vine that climbed all over the place. A stream
ran by in front on the other side of the narrow road that continued on to the
far newer farmhouse somewhere out of sight. A fence enclosed the large yard mostly filled with
well-established shrubs, flowers and fruit trees. Just as we arrived the
lightest of sun-showers had
begun.
Jane and Karen, if I
remember correctly, were both excited because they’d eaten magic mushrooms some
time before and apparently there were two more girls somewhere nearby swimming
in the stream so as soon as we’d eaten the rest of the gold-tops they held in
the palms of their open hands we were going to join them!
By
following the sounds of giggling we soon found the other two girls sitting on
large, round rocks beside a small waterfall that spilled into a deeper swimming
hole. It was the perfect place for a trip
and the girls were eager to share their psychic adventure.
One
of the girls gave me little kisses that felt like a thousand lips caressing my
skin. It was a sensuous and exciting experience but gradually the
mushrooms wound down so about four-thirty we wandered back to the house.
song. It was perfect and my mind was starting to work out which
one of them I might spend the night with until I discovered that they were all
visitors to that charming little place and the woman who lived there was named
Helen; and she’d be there soon. Despite the previous hours of joy I was having
a negative expectation. Being the only man amongst five young women each of
whom I felt sure would’ve welcomed my advances.I
was feeling too lucky!
I
wasn’t doing anything wrong but
I was nonetheless feeling a twinge of guilt. More a
question to myself about whether I should be
feeling guilty for something, or not.
As
the shadows lengthened the inevitable return of the ruler came ever closer.
It
had been dark for half an hour when a car pulled up outside the house. A single
globe lit the kitchen end of the dining table where four of us sat. Belinda was
brewing another pot of herbal tea and Laura remained on a stool against the
wall practising her songs.
The
engine died and then I heard the car door open for a few seconds and then shut
with the sound of an early model Holden. There was a squeak from the hinges on
the front gate and then within moments the woman who’s home it was appeared
into the kitchen carrying a bag of things in her right hand. “Hello everybody”,
she said as she lightly swung the bag onto the table and glanced up at me with
the sweetest smile. Everything about her was beautiful.
And
then she was taking off her jacket as she turned and went into the bedroom. Out
of sight.
That
had been the most intense eight seconds of my life
She was medium height with smooth coffee-coloured skin, black wavy hair to
her shoulders and a slightly crooked smile. Our eyes had met
for an instant before she turned to cross the room, out of sight again, but in
that instant I knew that she was the girl I’d been searching for.
I was already in love.
Seeing
the flash of her shining eyes had been an astounding event. The smirk which had broken into a smile
told me she’d taken in the entire scene and its significance. That fleeting
happenstance was more important than everything that
had ever happened
until then. There she was and then she was gone. I
sat there in a daze.
Five
minutes later, after all of the laughter and
quick confused stories about the afternoon they were all in the car and heading
off to a party that Helen had
announced. I followed on my bike to another not-so-old farmhouse a couple of kilometres
up the road.
.
As I approached she smiled, said "Good morning" and asked what
I was doing there. "Just wanted to come to see you and tell you how much I
enjoyed meeting you" I replied.
She seemed pleased with my answer and turned to look at me several times
while she continued to pull milk down the pinkie brown teats, "Yeah, just
wanted to see you again to say good-bye." and she let me bend down and kiss
her on the cheek before leaving.
I fairly danced away feeling fantastic. Just to see her had made me
high. My brain had taken in her shapes and contours and teeth and eyes and how
she moved and spoke. It
was great to be zooming away on my bike but by the time I arrived in town I was
wondering why I was there and not back at "Once-Upon-a-Time" with Helen.
When I arrived that time she was inside the house but met me at the open
front door. "You back again?”. I just looked at her.
“Forget something?" she continued with a cheeky smile.
There
was a small grassy knoll with a very mature mulberry tree on the top of it and
beside its shade we sat. I took Helen’s hand and looked into her deep, dark brown
eyes.
”Helen,
what I ‘m going to say might sound crazy, or you might think I’m joking, but I
really mean it. I want you to come with me, make a home together, and have
children. Be a family together, forever.”
again.
I
only had the bike so we agreed that she’d bring her gear over to my place in
her female friend’s car the next day but when she hadn’t arrived by late
afternoon I was concerned. What could have gone wrong?
I
decided to
ride over to find out.
She
hadn’t told me that she’d been cohabitating with a guy although I must have had
a fair idea. The guy, whose name was John, had gone out West to work on the
wheat harvest. Word must have got through to him very fast that something was
amiss so by the time I’d arrived at Once Upon a Time Helen had already left but
John was there, alone, and mad as a cut snake for sure, that some guy
had stolen his little lady away from him.
I
was so naively committed to doing the right thing that I knocked on the front
door and when he answered I introduced myself and asked after Helen. How he
restrained himself from attacking me I don’t know, although over time I got to
know what an honourable person he is. He
told me that
Helen
had left about an hour before and that I should make
myself scarce before he overcome the resistance to beat the shit out of me. He
was definitely large enough.
I
rode back to my place to find
Helen
was already there. Her friend had chickened out, to
best disassociate herself from what had happened in the eyes of her boyfriend,
so Helen had abandoned most
of her belongings, walked to
the road, and hitched a ride with an artist type dude
who I’d get to know all about much later on.
I
wasn’t interested so much in the details. More glad that she’d arrived safely
and we were together. It felt as though we’d been
waiting for each other all our lives. She’d unpacked the
few things she’d brought with her and we began setting up house together.
That
she’d been driven to her new ‘home’ by ‘the artist dude’ was a strange coincidence.
Maybe it was the point in time when he became infatuated with her. Who knows?
But it turned out to be particularly significant.
The first
time I’d met ‘the artist’ he’d asked me to help pull his car back on to the road
with the red truck when, for the first time in commune history someone else was
driving the red truck; me. Because I was the only other person who had a truck
license. It was the afternoon of a stinking hot day when plenty of ‘communards
‘had wanted to hit the beach so we’d piled into the red truck and driven across
to the coast to cool off in the ocean.
When we’d
arrived back in town the guy asked me to help him
tow his car. He was the same guy who’d driven Helen to my
place so I felt like I owed him a favor.
I drove
out of town a few kilometers and there was his Valiant half in a paddock,
sitting on the floor-pan. It was clear to see how he’d lost it on the corner
and spun off the road so he must have been driving much too fast on that poorly
maintained back-road.
I hooked the
chain to the back of the truck and gave the Valiant a half-hearted pull but it
wasn’t moving and I was dead scared the differential in the old truck would
break or something just as horrible would go wrong, so I called off the attempt
and went back to town. The ‘artist-dude’ seemed a bit cheesed.
Having
returned the red truck and all the ‘communards’, not really, no-one ever used
that word, I returned to my place, making a bird sound as I came up the track
to let Helen
know it was me. Coming around the final bend in the lantana-lined ‘tunnel’ I
saw her
holding a cutting she was in the process of planting. That smile. The most
welcoming sight in the world. All of a sudden everything was perfect and became
more perfect as we showered under the hose before preparing a stir fry in a wok
on an open fire. All that peaceful night I had my dream-girl companion cuddled
up with me and the next morning we continued happily working together to make
for ourselves the cosy little home we both desired.
She
was a hard worker so we chopped out weeds and dug holes and cut and chiselled
with basic hand tools. There were always ten things to do.
Helen’s coffee-colored
skin was perfect for outdoor living but so were her green fingers. She was
natural, unadulterated grace and beauty who liked salty plums and cooked all
sorts of delicious nutritious dishes. She soaked beans and sprouted sprouts; loved
chooks and children. She was always taking cuttings and being given plants by friends so the
garden was really growing in every way.
It is
difficult to credit how basic our existence was at that stage. Our plot was a
few hundred meters from the only dirt road so we had to carry everything up
from the car-park, sometimes using a wheelbarrow, and ‘our’ car we shared with several
others. The only light was from candles or a kerosene lantern but reading by
candlelight was okay if there wasn’t a breeze. We cooked on an open fire and
water was piped directly from the stream but it was beautiful, romantic, and
healthy. We were usually asleep soon after dark and up and about at very first
light. Reading by candlelight is okay when it’s not too windy.
The crazy
idealism all around us was energizing because we took seriously the ‘utopian’ nonsense
and mish-mash of new-age philosophy because of our limited knowledge and desire for
it to be so. There were working bees, meetings, full-moon dances, and a food
co-op to run. We were trapped in the zone between the ideal and the real. Too many
rules and too much compromise, often to parties with no direct involvement.
During our
first wet season we got used to the sound of constant rain, leaves dripping, rivulets
forming, birds sitting patiently tucked into themselves. On those days we did a
lot of reading and Helen practiced her guitar. We had our own little world where love was
everything and her body was mine. We’d become ‘one’ in a profound way. It was
spontaneous physically but also a meeting of our minds. We shared the same goals
and purpose. A synchronized world view, both wide
and narrow.
There was
plenty of time to chew the philosophical cud, and every gathering was a
talkfest. New ideas both profound and trite. Having left school at sixteen both my
vocabulary and general knowledge were limited. I was learning that a knife could
be used to peel fruit or kill something. Earth and earth have two meanings. A
leaf was very similar to a feather.
My main line
of thought was that Buddhism was the right kind of non-religious metaphysics
but to live one’s life by statements such as, “If thieves were cutting you to
pieces with two edged swords to feel anger would be to ignore my teachings”
confused me somewhat. I mean, what would you do if somebody was hurting a
child? Rise above it? Transcend the mundane plane? Ignore it because it’s all a
dream anyway? Whether I was in your dream or you were in mine.
I was
intrigued by ten thousand things but curling up together with my sweet darling was
the dream come true so in the big picture not much else mattered.
The
universe was my everything but I was insignificant to the universe. What’s real? What isn’t? These were
the facile pre-occupations.
Although I had a million other things to do I relented when asked to
drive a bus load of pre-teens up to a wilderness island for a ‘kid’s adventure’
because I was the only person with a bus license.
The two weeks were fabulous, especially for the kids. The island was a special
place where rainforest grew in sand so the streams were uniquely beautiful. The
kids were well-behaved and fun to be around but one day Helen and I wanted to
get away on our own for a while so we went for a walk across the dunes and
through the forest to a small lake with a sandy beach we’d seen on the map. It
was very secluded and entirely peaceful.
The water was a dark red from the infusion of tea-tree tannins but the
lake’s surface was so still and black that it looked like a huge flat polished
stone reflecting the surrounding forest.
We made a fire close to the shore and as we settled down for the
night some
large seeds I’d collected earlier fell out from where they’d been tucked into
the rolled-up waist of my sarong.
I’d picked-up the seeds because they had tiny teeth-marks in them, which
indicated to me that they must be edible. Wrong! They’d been nibbled, but not eaten, by a small animal for
precisely the reason that they were extremely toxic.
Unwittingly, I tossed them into the hot coals to roast like macadamia nuts.
We hadn’t carried any food with us so when they were cooked they were
delicious; a
taste between macadamia nut and baked potato. We ate all four of them and would have eaten more if we’d had more but several hours later, after
we’d both gone to sleep I woke up feeling absolutely terrible. I needed to
throw-up but couldn’t. Helen was
already there on hands and knees dry-retching so I crawled over next to her.
For the rest of the night we shuddered and spasmed as tiny chewed-up
fragments of the nuts were gradually regurgitated from deep in our intestines.
It was horrible, and exhausting but once the sun had properly risen we had to
half walk, half crawl back across the sand-dunes to the main camp. A good
lesson learned. One that could have easily been fatal.
The rest of the camping trip went smoothly and I delivered the children back
safely to their parents, despite probably driving the bus too fast.
Once again it was great to be back in our little paradise. The main frame of our modest dwelling was up
but we were still sleeping in our four-poster at the side, where the veranda
would be.
Helen always helped with construction but when I didn’t need her assistance with the build she often spent time exploring the bush along the creek where the original forest still grew. She excitedly told me about the birds and the animals she saw. One day a lyre bird, the next maybe a platypus, but I usually distracted by the joists and rafters I was working with.
Helen always helped with construction but when I didn’t need her assistance with the build she often spent time exploring the bush along the creek where the original forest still grew. She excitedly told me about the birds and the animals she saw. One day a lyre bird, the next maybe a platypus, but I usually distracted by the joists and rafters I was working with.
A lot of the posts and beams had been salvaged from an old timber mill on the property so they
were odd sizes with sometimes inconvenient joints cut into them, or very convenient bolt holes. For the main build I
had to utilise the available stock of timber but small stuff like battens I
bought. The recycled hardwood saved us a lot of money.
At night we were both tired but felt so exhilarated by our little house
taking shape that we made love enthusiastically with the eastern edge of the awning lifted to see the expanse of star-filled sky afloat on the sounds
of the peaceful night. Afterwards we lay together with our temples touching. The
insects buzzed, an owl hooted softly and a broad leaf fell onto the roof and
slid to the ground. Helen was
very happy. We were happy together.
The next morning she went early to the swimming hole and trod quietly
hoping to catch another glimpse of the platypus hunting for worms, but instead
she saw a bundle of feathers amongst the low bushes and native grasses. It
appeared to be a dead owl.
Helen picked it up and felt it still warm. It didn't move, except one
eye slowly opened half way and then closed again.
She felt protective towards it, and naturally, wanted to help, so she carried
it back to discuss what we should do.
I wasn’t all that interested, I had a joint to cut that was getting me
confused, "Don't worry about it sweetheart. It’ll die anyway.” I said
carelessly. Haven't you tried to save a bird before? They seem like they’ll be
okay and then suddenly drop dead. It happens every time."
Helen wasn't convinced. No way was she going to throw it back into the
bush so she decided the least she could do was offer it some comfort and protection
from predators. Maybe it’d been bitten by a snake, she suggested, so it might
recover if given the chance.
Throughout the evening she checked it where it lay in a cardboard box
with a small bowl of water pushed up against the rumpled old towel used for its
bed.
It hadn't moved so maybe I was right, but it hadn't died either so there
was hope.
Finally I convinced Helen to come
to bed. We curled up together and watched the trees moving back and forth
slowly against the grey velvet of the night sky about to welcome the waxing
moon. Crickets chirped and the darkness hummed.
In the morning the box was empty. Suddenly Helen realized the insecurity to
which she’d committed the bird. What had been stopping a cat from choosing it
like a fat-lady plucking a chocolate from a fancy box? How thoughtless! The big
wide world stood before her and only conceit had deceived her into thinking
that her proximity would offer protection during the hours she’d slept.
I put the box aside and asked Helen to hold a stud while I marked the correct angle. She was distracted but held
it steady, despite a pensive frown.
All that day we worked hard. It was important to have the place ready
for inspection by the council’s man so we could continue the construction
uninterrupted.
That night we fell into bed and Helen lay there looking out at the stars, tired and silent but more attuned to
the lonely feeling that had come with the loss of her feathered friend. It’d
been so beautiful. She’d never seen such a creature so close, just as she’d
never appreciated nature until she’d come to live amongst it. Everything about
it spoke of harmony. The feathers laying half upon each other. Strong without
meanness. Powerful without being gross. Functionally evolved. Perfect
in every way.
Trying to split her from what I thought was a morbid track,I held her
and soothed her as she had soothed the broken bird. Tiny tears spilled from her
eyes. The senseless sentimentality one facet of her that was so loveable. We
lay there silently, comforted by the weight of each other’s embrace.
Out in the night the usual sounds pulsated and tripped. But one sound
caught us flat.
It was the sound of an owl close by, calling, and calling to us.
I reached for the torch and pointed it toward our half-built house from
where the sound was eminent. There awaiting us in the circle of light were two
owls perched side by side on the veranda railing.
As the torchlight played on them the birds began a simple rhythmic bobbing
dance back and forth along the rail before very purposefully joining. The male
hopped onto the receptive female as they looked gratefully to the lovers who had
saved them.
It felt like we’d earned our place in that little piece of paradise as we watched in awe those instinctively balanced birds.
A few months later
we were living in a cute little house with a thriving garden and a whole lot of
established trees. Not yet bearing fruit of course, but on their way. We were
really happy, very much in love, and
life had never seemed so sweet but even as the months passed and many of our
friends were having babies Helen wasn’t
conceiving even though we were making love whenever we wanted to.
I’d taken the trouble to have a sperm test at the Country Women’s
Association of all places. I considered it my first legitimate wank. The result
was fine.
No rush, no hurry. Everything happens in its own time, and what could be
more enjoyable than making sweet deep love to the most beautiful girl in the
world?
A
passionfruit vine grew across the front of our ‘bedroom’ and we both loved
passionfruit so within a few months we could sit on the bed poking our tongues
into organically cared-for fruit picked fresh from the vine.
There
was no sign of human habitation anywhere around us so brown pigeons were our constant
companions. Always in pairs methodically picking the ripe seeds of the wild
tobacco trees or sitting with their feathers puffed-up, patiently waiting out
the rain.
The
sounds of whipbirds in the morning was constant though we’d seldom see them because they preferred to
remain concealed in the underbrush.
Paddy
melons, a diminutive variety of kangaroo, only came around when there was
something good to eat. Several times we’d planted a newly-cleared area with a
variety of leguminous plants and they’d be growing beautifully until one
morning the entire area would’ve
been mown by their mouths. It was fine with us that they consumed the
leguminous leaves but they must have been so quiet; both nibbling and hopping
while we dozed so close nearby.
Only
once did we see sugar gliders. Going home late at night, there were two of them
right beside the track, hanging upside down by their bushy
tails in the lantana together. They had huge eyes, tiny
pink noses, delicate fur, and
about as big as a child’s doll. I shone the torch on them for a moment. They
didn’t look startled. More curious than anything.
We
didn’t ever see them again but we were glad to know that there were some around.
While
doing research on the gliders
I found a book, The Furred Animals of Australia, that had a photograph of a
ridge on the edge of the latest piece of adjoining property we’d bought, and
the caption stated, “This is a perfect example of a slope which should never
have been cleared” so I took down a list of the endemic eucalyptus species,
bought the seeds from the forestry department, grew the seedlings and eventually
had a whole bunch of other people help me plant that entire ridge so that the
furred animals may sometime return.
Tree-planting
sessions were high-spirited actions because each person knew how long it took
for one person to plant a patch so they got a boost from the rapid progress going
on around them. And for evermore, every time you saw that area of land it was always
and
forever becoming a forest, taller and denser, with maybe a couple of birds-nests
in the branches. Or possums. Or
even koalas.
The
reddish/chocolate soil was a derivative of basalt from the caldera to the north
that had spewed out a lava flow eighty metres deep for one hundred kilometres
in every direction, so the derivative soil
was very fertile. One problem, it made for very slippery
paths when wet.
During
the wet season the lantana grew overnight so it was always a good idea to carry
a sharp brush-hook when walking around. During those years we all did so much
clearing with brush-hooks, quite often several people hacking away at close
quarters,
but,
quite astounding with hindsight, there never were
any accidents, despite every one being most often stoned.
Exploring
new territory, beyond the lantana, we’d occasionally find the actual bower of a
bower bird. The satin bower birds stole anything purple
for decoration so it wasn’t
surprising to discover a whole lot of purple things had been accumulated as
lures for his mate. I was glad to help out but where’s that five dollar bill
that went missing!
We
didn’t ever find the bower of the far rarer and more brightly coloured Regent
bower bird. To
see one of them was quite a treat.
The
blue-black spangled
drongos with their exotic split tails
only came down from Nuigini for a few months of the year but it was impossible
to ignore their antics nor miss them when they were gone. When the over-ripe berries
were fermenting the drongos lived up to their name by getting drunk and flying
about squawking like idiots.
I
liked just being the two of us but we very often had to walk down past the
nearest ‘group’ so it wasn’t long before we were quite often eating with them
and helping out with jobs, and they did the same for us. An old tent doubled as The Kitchen and emergency sleeping space where the guys
smoked huge joints of home grown heads and ate all-vegetarian food. It was a
healthy lifestyle with plenty of fresh air, hard work and fresh food straight
out of the garden. Stopping to share a joint was hard to resist, but who was
trying to resist?
On
the track to the kitchen we’d often see land mullets here and there. They are
the world’s largest skinks. A big one which hung out next to a round boulder
beside the track was jet black, fat and shining. The first few times we came by
he rushed off to hide but by the end of the week he didn’t even bother moving.
He or she’d learnt we were friendly.
Although I took advantage of every opportunity to get stoned my main
argument against smoking pot was exactly that, the smoking of it. I’d been
shown early on how to cook it with butter so I much preferred to eat it, if I
had any, which I didn’t because I hadn’t grown any. One of the guys had
fashioned a bong out of a gourd he’d grown and dried out, with the hollow leaf stalk of a
paw-paw as
the pipe stem. Although it was quirky and very organic I didn’t like the look
of it.
“Either smoke that or don’t smoke at all” was the message in a bottle so
I stopped getting stoned for a couple of months until one day while the others
were taking turns pulling on the ‘bong’ the bottom fell out to reveal a rotten
black kind of evil mould that filled the inside of the gourd. I had a good
laugh. Nobody died.
First chapter down and enjoying the read!
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