by Di Morrissey
‘Just looking. Tell me about the district. What’s the climate like, the land, the people?’
‘Wettest part of the State. Subtropical, green and misty. The locals are conservative solid farmers and timber workers. What is this, “Pick-A-Box”?’
They began to wind through countryside dotted with farmhouses, paddocks, fat cows, and banana plantations. The driver spoke softly, knowledgeably, and with obvious attachment to the area.
‘These mountains are extinct volcanos and as you go higher and further north you get into real rainforest country. I’m from the Tweed Valley outside Murwillumbah and that’s truly God’s own country. My family go back to the mid-eighteen hundreds — the first cedar cutters. Can’t say I blame them at the time, but it’s a damned shame what they did. The lure of red gold they called it, forests that had been there for thousands of years were destroyed.
‘The first farmers came in the 1860s. Scottish and Irish emigrants. They started clearing for agriculture and, of course, that wiped out the local Aboriginal tribes who were hunter-gatherers — they lost their food supply. Then came the sugar cane and after that the dairy industry, bananas, timber and small crops.’
‘Why do you live in town? You obviously care for the countryside.’
‘We were never farmers; my family always lived and worked near town. Couldn’t talk my missus into moving away from all the mod cons now.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’d go bush like a shot. I’m not a pub man, I get fed up with town life. But what to do? Given half a chance but, I’d muck in with these new settlers.’
‘New settlers? You know about them? Tell me what you know,’ asked Odette with interest.
‘City people. Mainly from Sydney. Started moving up here a year or so ago. Bought up a couple of adjoining dairy farms that’d gone broke and have set up their community trying to live off the land, building homes, educating their kids and trying to fit in with the landscape, so to speak.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?’
‘You didn’t ask. Specifically.’
Odette made a mental note. Some reporter. ‘Right, I take your point. Do you know where they are?’
‘Sure. I go out and see them a lot. I run a couple of women into town once a fortnight for supplies. Though they have themselves pretty well organised. It’s more a social outing for them really.’
‘Could you take me there?’
‘Not now, be dark and the track is risky at the best of times. How about tomorrow?’
‘Done. Would they mind me just dropping in?’
‘Wouldn’t think so. They’re civilised people. Got different ideas to some folk, but I have to say I’m pretty impressed with what they’ve done and what they hope to do. Idealists and dreamers to some extent, but someone has to make a move and try and sort out the mess we seem to be slipping into, eh?’
‘What sort of mess?’ Odette leaned forward, craning her neck to try and see the tops of the trees lining the crude dirt road. In the distance jagged peaks tantalisingly appeared between clouds and tree tops.
‘Too many people, too much rubbish, too much greed . . . ah, you’ll hear about it tomorrow.’ He glanced at her curiously. ‘Why are you so interested anyway?’
‘I’m a reporter.’
‘Figures. You going to take the mickey out of this mob or take them seriously?’
‘Neither. Just tell what I see and hear. Will they mind? I don’t want to go in and pretend I’m not a reporter. I don’t work that way.’
‘Then you’ll be welcome. The road gets a bit rough from here, we’d better start back. I’ll show you the Cat Waterfall if you like.’
He turned the taxi into a muddy trail and drove several hundred yards and stopped. ‘It’s just a short walk from here.’
Odette followed the chunky driver, who was wearing shorts, knee-length socks, sandals and a white short-sleeved shirt.
The track led to a small lookout suspended at the edge of a cliff. Opposite them a high rock face formed a semicircular curve of grey and rust granite, its wet surface glinting in the last shafts of sunlight. In the centre of the long drop of rock, danced a sliver of misty water, falling to an unseen pool below. Fringing the bare wet slice of rocks clung bird’s-nest ferns beside tallowwood trees and parasol tree ferns.
‘Why is it called Cat Falls?’
‘Listen.’
Above the rumble of tumbling water came the plaintive wail of a cat.
‘What is it? Not a real cat surely?’ asked Odette in astonishment.
‘Catbirds. Live on fruit and nuts in the tops of the trees and meow like a cat. Hence the name.’
The catlike call rang out again and Odette laughed. ‘I’ve never heard of them. What do they look like?’
They’re hard to spot — a fairly big bird with bright emerald-green plumage. You generally only hear them at sunrise and dusk, like now. Nobody knows why they call like that. Certainly not imitating cats, as there have never been cats in rainforest country. Nor dogs. Even wild ones.’
They headed back towards the parked taxi. ‘You certainly are a mine of information.’
‘You can’t live in an area like this and not learn a thing or two. Maybe if more people came here they’d appreciate what we have and look after it a bit better instead of buggering up the country. I tell you, by the time we get into the 1980s it might be too late.’
Odette nodded thoughtfully, but preferred not to get into a discussion. Her driver had given her more than enough food for thought and she was beginning to long for a hot mug of tea or a long cold beer. She bet Max was already propping up the bar back at the pub.
The drive back to town was spectacular and they travelled in silence as the last of the day was gently enfolded in a mist that wrapped around solid trees and floated across the land, obscuring the valleys where sleep and stillness seemed to settle.
Odette found Max at the bar as she had expected.
He waved to her. ‘Where’ve you been? What’re you having?’
‘Dinner. Let’s eat, I’m starved. I’ll have a drink with dinner. Do you want to eat here or up the road at the Chinese?’
Max picked up his schooner of beer. ‘Let’s go into the dining room. The locals tell me the grub’s good.’
Odette followed Max as he slid his bulk from the narrow stool and headed towards the hotel dining room. ‘And what else have the locals been telling you?’
‘Seriously, Odette, we could be onto a weird story here.’
‘Is that right? Let’s order, then tell me.’
They settled on roast beef for Odette and a well-done T-bone for Max, who then pushed the plastic menu to one side and leaned across the table, lowering his voice. ‘There are some funny stories going round about these people up in the hills.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like sex orgies, and devil worship, and drugs and sacrifices!’
He leaned back, raising an eyebrow and nodding sagely. Odette burst out laughing. ‘Rubbish!’
‘How do you know it’s rubbish?’
‘How do you know it’s true?’ she retorted.
‘Where there’s smoke . . . ’
‘Come off it, Max. I don’t believe a word of it. I have totally the opposite opinion. Anyway we’ll find out tomorrow.’
‘How’re we going to find out that kind of stuff? They’re not going to admit it. We might have to snoop a bit. And, say, have you found out where they are?’
Odette sipped her glass of gin and flat warm tonic. ‘Maybe we’ll have to pretend we’ve come up to join them. Maybe get involved in some wild orgies and stuff; what do you reckon, eh. Max?’ She grinned at him.
‘Now you’re pulling my leg. But why would people with good jobs, nice homes and all that, toss it in to hide out in some hills far away from regular civilisation?’
‘Maybe they don’t think too much of what we call civilisation.’
‘Well, it’s not normal to want to go back to the Stone Age.’
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‘Max, let’s just wait and see what we see. Here’s your steak. Cripes, how can you eat meat that’s been grilled near charcoal like that?’
‘I like to make sure it’s dead.’ Max eyed the pink juices around Odette’s roast beef with distaste. ‘Cheers!’ He downed his beer and they chatted casually throughout the meal. After their fruit salad and custard had been served, Odette excused herself and headed for her room as Max decided on one for the road before turning in.
Odette trudged down the hall with the thin and scratchy hotel towel, shut herself in the cold tiled bathroom, washed her face and changed for bed. With no radio in her room and the hotel’s sole television set blaring in the lounge below, she sat up in bed with her notebook and jotted down the taxi driver’s remarks. There certainly seemed to be some dichotomy between what Eveready had picked up in the bar and the attitude of the taxi driver. She yawned and switched out the small bedside lamp. Hopefully the muddy waters would begin to clear tomorrow.
It was a sparkling day as Max and Odette followed the taxi into the meandering valleys hidden in the verdant hills.
‘This taxi bloke seems to know the area,’ commented Max as they turned off the dirt road along a dense forest track.
The track came to the crest of a hill with a breathtaking view of the valley with terraced slopes layered in tropical growth. On the valley floor were neat fields and a wide stretch of a calm river which reflected blue sky and fluffs of clouds. In the centre of a cluster of trees rose a simple wooden spire from a barely visible arched and shingled roof. Drifts of lazy smoke rose from secluded areas. Snatches of brilliant flame tree flowers glittered amongst an emerald greenness that appeared soft and friendly. The setting, thought Odette, was idyllic, unreal . . . almost paradise.
‘Looks like a movie set,’ remarked Max. ‘What was that film . . . The Secret Valley or something? Where everyone fell apart and became a hundred years old when they left.’
‘Lost Horizon,’ murmured Odette.
The taxi wound down the track which was now overshadowed by palm trees and tree ferns and lined with clumps of bracken.
They arrived at the base of the valley and the taxi, bumping across a grassy area close to the river, pulled up before a large building which appeared to be some sort of community centre. But its graceful sweeping roof and circular shape was unlike any building they’d seen. The driver got out and came over to Max and Odette.
‘This is the Hub — the meeting place — but as no one knows you’re coming, I suggest we go up to one of the houses and introduce you. The Rawlings are just up the hill.’
They got out of the car and Max locked it.
‘Not necessary round here,’ grinned the cabbie.
‘Ah, force of habit. If I lose the gear it’ll come out of my pay.’
They walked through some Bangalow palms, a clump of banana trees and clusters of sweet-smelling white ginger plants, then suddenly came upon a stairway of rough log steps leading to a house so well hidden in the foliage, it caught them by surprise. Not so much hidden, Odette mused, as blended into the hillside. It seemed to grow there like part of the natural vegetation. She and Max stopped to stare in delight.
The house was built from old wood and hand-made mud bricks. It was open and airy with an encircling verandah, yet it seemed cosy and inviting. Large round windows set with stained-glass birds and flowers punctuated the walls. Plants and flowers were hung around the verandah where woven hammocks swung and a wind chime tinkled in the breeze. A chook eyed them momentarily from the garden then went back to scratching among the flowers and herbs.
The driver headed up the steps calling out, ‘Anyone home?’
‘Yes. Come on up.’
Peter Rawlings came around the verandah to greet them. Tall, fit and tanned, he had shoulder-length hair streaked with grey, was clean shaven and comfortably dressed in a tie-dyed T-shirt, a batik sarong wrapped around his hips and muddy gumboots on his feet. He grinned broadly and warmly shook the driver’s hand.
‘Hi, Nev. Good to see you. You’ve brought some friends.’
‘Well,’ the driver suddenly realised he didn’t know their names.
Odette stepped forward. ‘Hi. I’m Odette Barber and this is Max Jenkins. Nev has been kind enough to bring us up to see you. We sort of hired him as a guide. And right off, let me say, I’m a magazine writer, Max is a photographer, and I’d like to discuss the possibility of writing about your community here.’
‘Hmm. I see.’ Rawlings studied Odette with a frank and friendly stare. ‘Come in and we’ll talk about this over tea. It’s not up to me, you know,’ he explained pulling off his boots.
The driver kicked his shoes off and Odette did the same, indicating to Max to untie his desert boots.
They walked into the main living room of the house and Odette caught her breath. ‘What a lovely room!’
There was an open fire with a large comfortable sofa in front of it covered with colourful rugs. Several sheepskin mats were spread on the floor along with what looked like valuable Persian scatter rugs. An iron potbellied stove stood in a far corner, its chimney disappearing through the roof. A skylight was set in the centre of the peaked roof and sunlight slanted into the room. The rest of the furniture was rustic, hewn from chunky, natural shaped wood.
The room was filled with light and colour, and interesting bits and pieces — a spinning wheel, an artist’s easel, huge pottery urns filled with stems of ginger and wild flowers, books and several wood carvings.
Peter Rawlings lifted a kettle of hot water from the edge of the potbelly stove and put it directly over the heat. He fetched a tray set with ceramic mugs, a jug, teapot and a bowl of honey.
‘This is my wife’s pottery. Lemon grass tea okay?’ He poured the hot water over some crushed green stalks in the teapot and set it on the coffee table made from a slab of tree trunk, polished to a smooth golden gleam.
‘I realise this is a bit of an intrusion but there didn’t seem any other way of contacting you people other than just turning up. My editor’s dentist moved up here, which was how we heard about you,’ said Odette anticipating his question.
‘We aren’t seeking publicity. Most of us are professional people who have decided there’s more to life than accumulating material possessions and pushing and shoving in the corporate or professional world. We’ve found other like-minded people and, as other friends and family see what we’re doing and how we live, they too are joining us. But we don’t want to become a tourist attraction, we are just ordinary people leading our lives in what we think is the best way possible. I believe more people should consider what we’re doing — we devote ourselves to our families and friends, we care for our environment, for now and for our children, we try to be self-sufficient and to learn new skills. We have found a peace of mind not possible in the hurly-burly of city life.’
‘It seems you wouldn’t be here without having achieved some status or financial gain in that world, though,’ said Odette, dropping a spoonful of dark honey in the clear hot tea.
‘That’s true. This is run on a share basis — you have to buy in — and we pool money for community expenses. It’s actually very structured and organised. However, there are people living here who haven’t bought, they work in return for housing. We’re pretty flexible.’
‘And children?’
‘We run our own primary school, it’s rather adventuresome — two of the wives are teachers disillusioned with the narrowness of standard education. We encourage a lot of self-development and experimentation. But they stick to the basics enough that the children can attend high school in the town. However, in the future we might educate our teenagers ourselves.’
‘What about if someone gets sick?’ asked Max.
‘There’s a healing centre. We have a midwife, a nurse, and specialists in other medical therapies like acupuncture, Chinese herbs, massage and counselling.’ Seeing Odette’s questioning look, he explained. ‘A lot of us follow certain Eastern belie
fs and we believe what goes on in the mind and the heart can affect the whole body. But I shouldn’t be going on about all this. You will have to meet our community leaders and talk to them and we’ll all decide whether we can allow you to write about us. I feel it can be beneficial to other people, but the majority rules here. A lot will depend on your attitude and understanding.’
‘I appreciate that, it sounds fair. Can I meet the . . . er . . . leaders?’
‘There is a meeting planned in the Hub — that’s our meeting place — at sunset. Spend the day wandering about and meet us there late this afternoon. You are welcome to stay overnight, on the understanding that you do not write about us if we do not agree to it.’
Odette shook his hand. ‘Fair enough. No pictures I assume?’
‘After the meeting, if they agree. You’ve got the day off, Max,’ laughed Rawlings. ‘I’m off to do some work in what we call the food basket . . . where we grow our basic crops . . . if you’d like to join me.’
‘I’ll be heading back to town. I threw some magazines and newspapers in the cab if you’re interested, Peter,’ said the driver.
Odette and Max watched the two head back down the track to the taxi. ‘I think the driver is telling him we’re okay,’ said Odette. ‘He wouldn’t have brought us here if he didn’t think so.’
Peter Rawlings, who turned out to be a solicitor, introduced Odette to his wife Ruth who was working in a vegetable garden behind their house. She was wearing shorts, a man’s cotton shirt and a big shady hat. She wore no make-up, was pretty and, Odette guessed, in her early forties.
She straightened up and brushed the soil from her hands. ‘I’m just off to the studio. Come with me, I think you’ll find it interesting.’
In a large airy room made of mud bricks with a thatched roof, a group of women were working at all kinds of crafts: preparing fleeces for spinning and dyeing, painting, silk screening, weaving and woodworking. In a smaller studio divided from the main room, a group of potters worked on bowls and pots. Small children were dotted about, working with clay and paints and coloured wool.
Odette wandered about watching and chatting to the women who were friendly and laughed a lot. Just outside the studio an attractive woman wearing a marvellously hand-painted sarong sat before an easel putting the finishing touches to a canvas of flowers and gardens painted in naif style.
