I am putting together my own collection of fragments from the exhibits to illustrate some of the artefacts and ephemera which I think are important. I will share this with the students when we have time in the classroom, putting together their projects. I think I am developing a really collaborative teaching style and that I may have found a successful strategy for communicating with the girls.
I’m starting with this scientific model of infection which is presented at the exhibition, which is difficult to understand but presents the scientific information available to Internet users at the time:
FIGURE SA-4 The Convergence Model
At the center of the model is a box representing the convergence of factors leading to the emergence of an infectious disease. The interior of the box is a gradient flowing from white to black; the white outer edges represent what is known about the factors in emergence, and the black centre represents the unknown. Interlocking with the center box are the . . . ‘focal players’ in a microbial threat to health—the human and the microbe. The microbe-host interaction is influenced by the interlocking domains of the determinants of the emergence of infection: genetic and biological factors; physical environmental factors; ecological factors; and social, political, and economic factors.
SOURCE: IOM (2003).
IOM (Institute of Medicine) Microbial threats to health: emergence, detection, and response. Washington, DC: The National Academies Press; 2003.
From the iPhone of John Gallagher
10th January 2020
FROM: Sussex, Andrew R.S. (DHHS)
TO: Gallagher, John L.
Looking forward to seeing you both. We usually have a fish supper on Saturday, hope that’s ok? Places to visit—you should be able to fit in shopping, convict history and MONA, Hobart isn’t very big! How’s Caro’s research going? What was it again—major death events in the first 100 years of European settlement?
Cheers A
Dr Andrew Sussex
Acting Director of Public Health
Tasmanian Department of Health
PREVENTION IS BETTER THAN CURE
From a notebook belonging to Caroline Burns, January 2020
Hobart—time for Port Arthur? Blood-soaked, fatal shore . . . Maybe Female Factory would be quicker?
Massacres—how many in Tasmania? Obviously, Port Arthur 1990s. Worst act of genocide in Australian history—act/s—Aboriginal history?
Ask A about epidemics. Any deliberate infecting of natives? Diseases must have spread through the convict quarters. The first one I can find on Wikipedia was 1826—water pollution? Typhoid/dysentery/cholera...?
Weather—cold. Pack layers. No rain forecast. But Hobart must get winds straight from Antarctica? Even in summer?
From surveillance recordings at the home of Dr Andrew Sussex (A) and Roz McAllister (R). Also present, John Gallagher (J) and Caroline Burns (C). 15th January 2020.
20.02
C—This paella is wonderful, I had no idea you could do paella on a Weber, I’ll try that when we get home!
A—Pity about the mussels. I couldn’t find any. Rumours of a contaminated batch. You managed not to get leptospirosis in Fiji, let’s not kill you in Tassie!
C—I could not believe we had to fill in those Ebola forms on both flights! I thought they were only for people returning from Africa!
A—Thank our Prime Minister for that. He’s so determined that Ebola won’t enter Australia that even people returning from Antarctica get those forms. I want the Department to produce a sticker saying TASMANIA—KEEPING ANTARCTICA SAFE FROM EBOLA.
C—I’ve got a Facebook friend who’s working for the British Antarctic Survey. She analyses ice core samples.
R—There’s Internet at the South Pole?
C—Apparently! Not always, and not reliably. But they need it to transmit data from experiments. And there is less chance of people going troppo if they have contact with the outside world on a recreational basis. She posts on Facebook maybe once a week. It must be very isolating down there; I think it is sensible to let them have a bit of ‘chat’ with friends.
21.33
J—We’ve done the Female Factory, Salamanca Market, MONA. Is it worth going to Port Arthur?
R—You’ve hired a car? It’s definitely worth it. REALLY creepy. On the surface it’s quite attractive—neat ruins, lovely scenery—and then you read all about the floggings and the battlefield medicine and the inadequate food rations. And it’s impossible to forget the massacre, either.
C—Why is everyone so obsessed with THAT massacre? And not the mass extinction of Tasmanian Aborigines?
J—Good question. Do you know what Tasmania’s main sources of income are? Tourism, gourmet food, and Commonwealth grants. Genocide doesn’t attract money.
C—Don’t you think it’s weird how genteel Hobart is, and how blood-soaked its history is? It looks lovely, all that sandstone and Salamanca Place and everything. And how short the trading hours are—nothing like Melbourne at all. We ate at a restaurant at 7 o’clock last night, were finished by 8, went for a bit of a walk, then popped into a whiskey bar to settle down with some excellent but ruinously expensive single malts. We liked the look of the band fiddling around with their instruments—they looked like the folksy rock type, just perfect to end the day. And then it turned out that they were PACKING up, not setting up. At 9pm on a Friday!
22.45
R—Stick around another day or two, it’ll probably snow again. And yes, I know it’s mid-summer.
C—So much for global warming! Hey, what would happen to Hobart if the Antarctic ice sheets started melting? That must be a public health concern?
A—Far less so than flu or viral meningitis. But, we have contingency scenarios. There could be a sea level rise of a metre, which could inundate about 2,500 thousand homes in the Greater Hobart area . . .
J—Urban renewal . . .
From a report on surveillance recordings at the home of Dr Andrew Sussex and Roz McAllister, as above. Report author
This surveillance was authorised by under counter terrorism legislation. Dr Andrew Sussex, Acting Director of Public Health for Tasmania, is suspected of cover-ups and conspiracies with regard to biological warfare. Reliable sources, who cannot be named even in this report, informed our unit that Tasmania was being used as a testing ground for substances which, if sufficiently virulent and transmissible, would be disseminated throughout the mainland. This information enabled us to forestall an attempt to poison the Tasmanian mussel supply. Other information suggested an Antarctic connection, with the possibility of defrosted viruses from ancient ice core samples being tested for their epidemiological potential.
No parties were detained on the evening of this surveillance recording.
Blog post, ‘Sheeprustling’, Caroline Burns, 14th January 2020
I find Hobart very disconcerting. It is beautiful at first glance, especially when the sun shines on the sandstone buildings and I stand at Battery Point and look at the flotilla of small craft bobbing cheerfully on the sparkling choppy water (for it is always windy in Hobart—wind straight from Antarctica). And then I remember the Tasmanian history I have read. The vicious convict settlements, for the worst of the worst. The genocide of an entire race of native people deemed to be merely ‘in the way’. The wholesale slaughter of native animals because they ate the sheep of greedy settlers. And it is impossible to forget the massacre at Port Arthur, 24 years ago this year. Always this slaughter of the innocents.
There is a huge disconnect between the genteel bourgeois values floating on the surface of Tasmanian society like oil on water, and its blood-stained flagstones. I cannot help but feel that, slipping and sliding in the interstices between competing versions of past, present and future, lies another st
ory waiting to be told.
From the laptop of Dr Freya Smith, British Antarctic Survey, January 2020
15th January
FB message from Suse—have I heard the latest rumours about global warming/polar icecaps melting/oceans heating up/polar vortexes/mad penguin disease? No, I made that last bit up, she’s not THAT gullible. It amazes me sometimes that my best friend is so scientifically illiterate! Funny how her sister Caro isn’t a scientist either, but so much more up to date with the world and how things really work.
Should get the results from the latest ice sampling tonight. It’s taking longer than usual, hence the FB timewasting!
16th January
Results don’t stack up, repeating tests. I hope the machine isn’t malfunctioning, it will take far too long to get it fixed. Sometimes I get SO frustrated at the limitations of working here. Repeating the tests will be pointless, but I can’t just send off those results, I’d look incompetent.
Going for a walk. Not the Captain Oates variety!
17th January
Results the same, second time round. Reported machine. Not reported what I saw when I went for a quick stroll around the building last night. I’m sure it’s not right for blood to be oozing out of a penguin’s ear.
Final panel in the exhibition commemorating the 50th anniversary of the Bloody Plague of Tasmania, National Museum of Tasmania, curated by Dr McArthur Barry
This exhibition has drawn on numerous sources from the National Archives of Australia to illustrate the days leading up to the Bloody Plague of Tasmania. I consider it an important task to demonstrate the paranoia of the security forces in 2020, in a world full of fear and suspicion, when Australia was felt to be on the brink of being engulfed by illegal immigrants who apparently shared none of our then fondly-held values. This should be viewed as a cautionary tale. As is now well known, the Bloody Plague was not an act of biological terrorism, but the consequence of global warming melting polar ice caps and releasing long dormant viruses. In this sense, of course, it was man-made. Every person named in this exhibition was posthumously exonerated of all blame.
What have Tasmanians, and Australians in general, learned from this period in our history? It was the catalyst for serious co-operation between all political parties, and most major international powers, to work together to mitigate climate change. The signing of the Townsville Protocol in 2022 assured a safer future for the world. Unfortunately, Tasmania itself suffered a near complete depopulation after becoming a quarantine station to contain the haemorrhagic fever which spread via ice samples on a returning Antarctic vessel. The disease was so virulent that it had a 99% death rate among those infected. However, the strictest of quarantine measures ensured that only the population of this island was affected.
Extracts from the Practicum Diary of student teacher Hannah Graves, March 2070, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia
5th March
We all found the exhibition very touching. It was an excellent way for the girls to learn a bit more about the history of their island home. As with most Tasmanians, they are almost exclusively descended from families who migrated here when the island was reopened after the quarantine and decontamination period. As am I. Australia did find a way to open its heart to asylum seekers, after all—in the form of an empty island with infrastructure, and a need to make it economically viable and to improve Australia’s standing in the international community.
After this project, I am going to teach the girls more about Australia’s path to becoming the welcoming, multi-cultural and multi-faith society it is today.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: JUDY Peters has studied history, creative writing, librarianship and textile art. One day she will embroider a story and catalogue it. She is interested in the feminine gothic, speculative fiction and alternative history. Her work has been published in ‘Verge’, she will be publishing a collection of short stories later in 2020, and she is currently researching an urban historical fantasy novel. www.judy-peters.com.au
Bazza and the Ring by Evelien Clarke
IT WAS THE SMELL THAT hit me first. Even with the windows up, as I parked the car in the centre of town the stench invaded my nose. I knew not to expect the eucalyptus, gravel dirt and fresh cut grass from my childhood. But it still hadn’t prepared me for the smell of boiled paint, burnt chemicals and smoke. The stench clung to my skin and seared my mouth, nose and lungs as I left my beat-up car.
I continued on foot up the old melted streets to Nan’s place. My old hometown had been decimated by the recent fires, and as the family member who was had the least at stake in regards to Nan’s estate since her passing 3 months earlier, I had been elected to see what, if anything, remained of Nan’s house.
The once lively and colourful town filled with joyful memories was gone. It had been turned into a greyscale wasteland, more fitting for an alien planet than the town I grew up in. The silence of my lone walk was only broken by my own footsteps, and the occasional cry of lament for memories and treasures lost being blown on the breeze.
I took a big breath as I finally made it to Nan’s street. The first thing I noticed was Big Bad Bazza’s tree. That magpie seemed to hate everyone but Nan, as she fed him. He was a menace, especially in September. Once magnificent, the tree was split in two as though it had been struck by lightning and its dead branches were charred and black. I gave it a wide berth as I headed onwards.
Nan’s neighbours’ houses were naught but ruins. The smoking timber, crumbling brickwork and twisted metal were positioned in a manner that looked unnatural. They looked like houses from a war movie set or an apocalyptic creation from a modern artist’s mind. Or as though a fire elemental had devoured them and what remained was his leftovers.
I mentally slapped myself for my creepy thoughts. I have a bad habit of using my imagination to run away from my problems, that I am working on breaking.
I forced myself to walk on towards the warped remains of Nan’s front gate. I thought I could hear Nan’s collection of wind chimes welcoming me. I looked through the smoky haze. It was gone. Just like Nan. I tried to regain the air that had been sucked out of my lungs. I took a breath and then another. Numbed, I got out my phone and started to film and take some pictures for the insurance company. With the fires being widespread and the city so far away it was just easier to give the insurance people the information than wait. Besides I couldn’t let the rest of the family see Nan’s house like this. I couldn’t let their golden happy memories of this place burn away like mine.
What was once a sturdy brown brick house built by my great-grandfather was now a pile of ash, dust and rubble. The immaculately kept garden filled with a seemingly endless variety of roses, gardenias, and azaleas was replaced by a layer of dirt, dust and ash. It swirled around my feet as I walked. Tears streaming down my face, I stopped filming. I as sobbed I thought I heard wind chimes again. Nan loved wind chimes. I looked up to see nothing, but for the first time I felt like some part of Nan was here with me. I tried to pull myself together and started to carefully poke around the wreckage that was once my Nan’s home. I spent a good half hour silently crying as I sifted through the remains of the house; taking photos and video where necessary, finding comfort in the echoes of chimes on the wind.
Then I heard it. There is nothing quite like hearing the warbling song of a magpie. I looked up to see Big Bad Bazza staring at me with his cold intelligent eyes. He squawked at me, flapping his wings, hopping on his one good leg.
“You thirsty, Bazza?” I asked, pouring some water into a piece what appeared to be the remains of a terracotta pot.
He flew over and had a quick drink.
“Such a clever boy to survive this,” I cooed.
Nan would have been pleased to know he was all right, if she was still with us. The sound of chimes hit my ears as though they were coming from where the veranda once was. Bazza hopped a couple of times, then flew around me, and then started hopping over to where Nan used to sit on the veranda and feed him and the o
ther magpies.
“Yeah, mate. I miss her, too.”
He stopped, looked me right in the eye, squawked and began to peck savagely between the floorboards.
“Cut it out. You’re going to get hurt doing that.”
I carefully made my way through the ruins towards Bazza to try stop him from hurting himself. The sound of chimes blowing in the wind was growing louder despite there being no chimes or breeze. Sure enough, as I got closer one of the pieces of decking broke and Bazza went tumbling out of sight.
“Bazza!” I cried as I hurried to try and rescue the silly old fellow.
I bent down and there was Bazza covered in ash but otherwise unscathed. Next to him was a small fabric-covered box that I hadn’t seen since I was a child. The last words Nan ever spoke to me echoed in my head; ‘My Grandmother found it after a flood washed away her home, I found it after the mortar hit my house in the blitz and it will be yours to pass on. Just remember you will only find it when you need it most.’
I shivered. I fished out the ash-covered Bazza first, before retrieving the box.
Shaking, I went to open the box. The silver ring was there, as worn and scuffed as I remembered. Bazza hopped onto my shoulder as I gingerly picked up the ring that was far too large for me and held it up to the sunlight. I could make out words engraved on the inside of the ring. Words glowing as red as the fires that tore through the town over the end of the year. When Nan showed me the ring as a child there were no words to be seen, but here they were burning brightly.
Stories of Hope Page 24
