That much-discussed local topic—the weather—has presented another challenge. The rain that deserted us the year before the fire has barely let up. From autumn 2009 it seemed heavier than usual, incessant, and loaded with hail. ‘It’s like it used to be when we first came here,’ Sean remarked frequently, as winter tailed off into spring. When it was dry everywhere else, the mountain was subject to a torrent—either that or maddening, gale-force wind. Our new water tanks were constantly overflowing; outdoor activity would bog down for weeks. On the plus side, though, there was a sense of everything being washed clean, refreshing catchments, sending up dense new growth (weeds and all) from barren black earth. The rivulets came down the slopes like they used to, heading for rivers and streams.
The undue rains also caused the remnants of our herb and vegie garden to have insane growth spurts. Dill that once waved low, feathery foliage in the breeze hurtled to shrub proportions; the parsley grew to more than a metre high; the globe artichokes looked like small trees. Even with zealous watering, they had never behaved like that. The garden beds, which were bereft of foliage but which we weeded out with hopes of starting to replant, soon fostered a miniature forest of messmates, and baby wattles that sprouted like a carpet; sorrel invaded the paddocks. Whatever the fire had left behind in the soil changed its composition too. I had to have a new lemon tree; culinary life is incomplete without one. But whereas they’d previously grown without much attention, producing bumper crops, the new ones just looked sad and dropped their leaves once they were in. Bulbs we’d never seen flower before suddenly barrelled to the light.
While immediate physical changes were obvious, for us, like many other survivors, simply trying to regroup and keep our loved ones safe masked the horror of the physical destruction on all sides. By the time six months had passed, though, the environmental impacts were causing widespread grief. Some members of the community were threatening to chain themselves to trees in an effort to stop the wholesale removal of what remained of our precious flora; the contractors brought in to remove ‘dangerous’, remnant tall timbers became a much-abused species. (We stopped them in Deviation Road after they sliced through what seemed to be healthy and resprouting trees. On that occasion we were on the receiving end of the abuse as the crew, their work interrupted, packed up and left.) While many residents had little choice but to remove large dead trees if they were to rebuild safely, and the removal of anything in danger of toppling onto roads was obviously justifiable, the fact is that much of the initial destruction was carried out insensitively and without consultation. It was difficult enough for residents to inventory the plants that needed to be removed from our own properties, let alone to handle the seemingly random ripping that was taking place on public land. The middle section of Deviation Road looked like a logging coupe—a gouged, ragged, splintered mess.
And just to drive it home with a cruel irony, even our pastures began to fill up with weeds, the opportunistic noxious flora that we’d battled for so long to eliminate. And these weren’t just any weeds, but the most tenacious; they populated the road verges as well. It would be a brave shire council that dished out weed-eradication notices to private landholders unless it has got its own roadside in order. The blackberries, too, were having a ball; thistles were back, and big; turnip weed scattered its loaded seed-heads to the four winds; cape weed was choking anything in its path. The surrounding state and national parks constitute a potential nightmare, as they too offer an open-slather opportunity for the invaders. Our task seemed overwhelming: there were months of work ahead just on the weed front.
For some people, the combination of personal trauma and such massive destruction of their surroundings, followed by extreme and ongoing environmental change, was too hard to come to terms with. It was the catalyst for many to leave the area forever, and there were stories of people who couldn’t drive back into the community at all, the firelines a psychological barrier they just couldn’t cross. Around 40 per cent of any community, it is estimated, will leave following a major disaster. Kinglake is reaching that point, and in the case of further-flung places such as Marysville, where local employment has been annihilated, the figure is expected to be much higher.
‘This is not the place I came to live in. What it meant has gone’ sits at one end of the response spectrum; ‘Nature is amazing: it will regenerate. It’s still a beautiful place to be’ is at the other. Many people are still hovering somewhere in the middle. Those with little choice but to make the financial most of their land simply had to accept it, but of course that didn’t mean they were unscarred by the experience. There have also been divided opinions among couples, one partner wanting to return while the other can’t face the daunting workload or constant reminders of that fateful day. Others began rebuilding and then just walked away as it all proved too much.
And as you try to deal with your particular challenges, the people around you are also making life-altering decisions, dealing with personal demons, reordering priorities and just trying to move forward as best they can. It changes the way they are and how they interact, and in so doing irrevocably transforms entire communities. On the mountain, houses and land have been sold to new residents since the fires, many of whom had absorbed the views on weekend visits, then discovered that this part of the world was in commuting distance and more affordable than an inner location. My Ash Wednesday mentor (a colleague who lost her house in the 1983 fires that razed parts of South Australia and south-western Victoria) identified this phenomenon in her community too, and says that twenty-six years later it is still divided into those who were there before the fires and those who moved in afterwards. The construction activity and ongoing clean-up is finite, of course, but we are destined to live with it for a long time yet. What will the overall neighbourhood be like in another year, two years, five years? Familiar buildings have been replaced by unfamiliar ones; we’re all having to get used to other people’s taste and choices.
Our way of coping has been to project the positive over the negative and to appreciate that many people have faced natural disasters, survived and moved forward before us. We are by no stretch of the imagination unique. The tsunamis and earthquakes that hit the Pacific region in 2009 struck an extremely raw nerve; knowing intimately what those affected will be facing in two months, six months, a year, when the initial shock has worn off, gives such news bulletins a different edge now. The stark reality is that our surroundings have changed forever: you either walk away from that or set about creating a new environment, whether collectively or individually, or both.
I hope somebody is writing a manual on how to cope with the environmental changes following a natural disaster. Perhaps some wise counselling in this regard might convince more people to stay.
9
A nation’s
generosity
ALMOST immediately following the fires, we heard reports of the generosity that was flowing, seemingly non-stop. The first trickle of vital goods and emergency payments was all we could focus on and it was many weeks before it dawned that what was coming into our local emergency centres had turned into an avalanche of furniture, clothing, household goods, toiletries and more. The main depot at Whittlesea had been expanded to house it all, and more local centres were established in Kinglake, Pheasant Creek, Flowerdale, St Andrews, Hurstbridge and Yarra Glen. On top of all this, millions of dollars were pouring into the Red Cross Appeal Fund that was set up on 8 February: more than $379 million was eventually transferred to a state government trust account for distribution. At that stage, we had no notion of how such funds would be allocated, but assumed that the most needy—the uninsured, families, the elderly, injured, ill and disabled—would take priority.
There were also phenomenal efforts by individuals, volunteers and not-for-profit organisations. Their offerings were, in many cases, including our own, just what was needed at the right time— often small gestures but with a huge personal impact: a bag of bulbs to plant on a devastated block for spring
; warm, waterproof coats for our dogs, sewn by a stranger; even books to replenish lost home libraries—this was special soul food, since books weren’t on the list of necessary goods.
My first day back at work, on Monday 16 February, revealed a microcosm of what had been inspired in the wider community. My colleagues had raised a considerable sum of money and with it purchased thoroughly practical gift vouchers for things such as clothes and day-to-day items; the company had also put money in my bank account. Others had brought in items of clothing and cooking appliances; one anonymous person left an envelope of cash at the reception desk. Once again, it was a very strange feeling to be the beneficiary of other people’s generosity.
Sean had the same experience in his workplace, his colleagues having raised a considerable amount of cash. They, like my workmates, had spent a horrified weekend watching the events unfold, knowing our family was in the middle of it. These things always happen to somebody else: it was now close to home, personal, and they reacted in the most generous and thoughtful way. Rather than contributing to the community appeal fund, they decided to help the person they knew. It was months before we used those vouchers, which we filed away until we were capable of more rational decision-making and also could organise storage. We felt absolutely compelled to exchange the vouchers for goods that truly meant something.
Other friends took the same approach. When we’d decided what we needed, they would buy it for us or keep it until we were ready. We still couldn’t quite articulate our requirements to anyone close, so they’d take the initiative: turn up with plants, lend a caravan, put aside some clothes or surplus furniture, arrive with a wheelbarrow or tools, give their time and skills to help with the barn fit-out. Sean’s daughter, Claire, arrived with an amazing collection of bedding, cookware and skincare products donated by Myer, where she works. It’s what friends and family do and we’d do exactly the same if the circumstances were reversed.
For us, there was incalculable value in the replacement of goods such as tools and fencing. Sean can turn his hand to most things, but the complete lack of even a screwdriver and hammer, not to mention power tools, made these a logistical and financial priority. All due respect to the tradesmen of the world, but with our own tools we knew could save a small fortune. Lions Clubs mobilised to amass shovels, garden gear and general tools that would at least get people going.
I’ve already mentioned Blaze Aid, which was for us a stunning example of Australians’ generosity and can-do spirit. But it was about more than posts and wire: these people were a practical salve for the soul and whenever their crews were working on our property I felt an overwhelming sense of relief and admiration. The volunteers included elderly, retired farmers from far north Queensland, couples, people who had been laid off from jobs, young intellectually disabled people, and the inspiring team leader Craig, who got it all rolling. And they came not only from all over Australia but from across the world: there were New Zealanders, Swiss, English, Argentinians, Canadians, Americans and Austrians—all sweet, generous, self-sufficient.
The 2700 or so volunteers constructed 400 kilometres of fencing on seventy properties. After eight months, Blaze Aid had to wind up, as the volunteers fell away and the organisers got back to running their own properties and businesses. But all of the tools that were donated to them have been safely stored away and will come out when the next bushfire disaster demands it. As a community, a state and a nation, we can’t put a value on the love and labour provided by those people.
In our confused state in the immediate aftermath of the fires, we weren’t up to giving the larger financial implications any sensible consideration, let alone realistically calculating what our needs were. At the same time, I seemed to fix on smaller-scale money matters. I recall, on our second trip off the mountain to Whittlesea, ringing the phone company to pay a bill I knew had been in the house. There was also a credit card that had become overdue: I was frantic about this, since we always pay the full amount by the due date and resent accruing any interest.
Many organisations, including phone companies and banks, announced that they were suspending payments due from bushfire victims; power companies were working out the time people had been without electricity and would recalculate all bills. But the fact was that these debts weren’t going to go away—at the end of whatever period of moratorium was offered, there’d be a mountain of catch-up requirements. Keeping track of it all was likely to be a bit of a mind-bender for our still-addled brains, so we wanted to clear debts as they arose and avoid nasty future surprises. We became a little fanatical about not having any financial matters outstanding, or any borrowed goods that had to be kept track of.
It was several months before we began to receive correspondence outlining our expected entitlements from the Bushfire Appeal Fund in the wake of our losses. The magic piece of paper was a Department of Human Services ‘green form’ that included a registration number indicating whether you’d been totally destroyed, partially destroyed or not destroyed. It was the key to material-aid centres and the number to quote for any claims, and remains the key form of survivor identification. The green form became a much-handled and tatty document in a short space of time and was subsequently replaced with a laminated card.
One of the most frequently asked questions, almost from the time money began to be dispensed, was whether it was going in the right direction—being used for what it was intended for—and whether people were able to handle the influx of large sums. It is a fair thing to ask, but I can’t see how such a distribution can be audited or moral judgements be made about personal decisions on how it should be spent. The total amounts received by individuals can cause an intake of breath—until, that is, you start to calculate what it costs to build a life from ground zero upwards.
The first payment was an emergency grant from Centrelink for up to $10 000 for a family or $7000 for a couple or individuals in the fire-affected areas. In our case, it went into our bank account and was used for immediate necessities; to this day, I couldn’t give a detailed accounting of how it was spent, but the amounts for even basic items such as underwear and a modest new handbag, since I couldn’t get the smell of bushfire smoke out of my original one, soon added up. In addition to publicly raised funds such as those from the Red Cross Bushfire Appeal, there were also charitable offerings from rural organisations, services clubs and a vast array of community-minded groups. It was announced in March that owners whose principal place of residence had been totally destroyed would receive a $50 000 payment from the Bushfire Appeal Fund, whether they were insured or not, and there would be no means testing. We got our fair share of ‘Wow, you’re doing all right out of this’ comments as soon as it hit the news. Insured and still copping a lump sum like that! Such throwaway lines made us feel guilty and embarrassed, compelled to somehow justify our situation. Again, we hadn’t by then made any final decisions about how we would use the money, so it remained in the bank until we were ready to place official orders for the barn project.
Material aid also continued to pour by the truck-load into each of the local relief centres. Free-meal venues sprang up, along with the first stopgap army tents for those who had been left homeless. Aid agencies doled out supermarket and petrol vouchers or cash for people who were struggling to make ends meet. Some of the material-aid centres were still there after eight months. For us, they were a fabulous first reclothing resource, but we were travelling very light while living with others and had no desire to acquire extraneous ‘stuff ’ that had to be stored. Was the aid system rorted, were there people who took advantage of public sympathy and generosity? Sadly, the short answer is yes, some did. Eventually a number limit was placed on certain items, after people were seen taking goods away by the trailer-load. We would look on, bemused, as a large load of dog food was hauled down the road; cars were filled to their rooftops with pallets of bottled water; tools were almost fought over.
While there are unique aspects to the Black Saturday experie
nce, previous bushfire events, such as Ash Wednesday, had lessons to teach us about the impact of charity on affected communities, such as neighbours resenting neighbours, and those who were uninsured obviously battling to regroup their finances in order to rebuild to the same level as previously. The distribution of anything ‘free’ invariably raises the thorny issue of equitable decision-making. Who deserves what? Are some more deserving than others? What circumstances are taken into account? Where does means testing come in? From my observations, once the aid started to flow the diviseness inherent in such charitable handouts began to emerge. As we knew well from firsthand experience, some people seemed to assume that those who had suffered a total property loss and received all of the so-far-available grants from the Bushfire Appeal Fund were, as a result, rolling in financial clover.
There were whispers from those who felt some entitlement but were excluded from claiming. The insidious rumour mill targeted people who had supposedly splashed their grant money on new cars they could never have afforded previously, or on a ritzy new house to replace their modest, old weatherboard; someone who took off on a luxury holiday; people who quit jobs. Who knows what anyone’s personal financial circumstances were before and after the fires? If anyone had compared my modest replacement car with the brand-new, fully optioned sporty number that sat in our driveway beforehand, the assumption would have been that we hadn’t had insurance. On the contrary, the cost-effective vehicles Sean and I chose to replace what we had lost were simply our most sensible economic options. But assumptions and badly drawn conclusions are a fact in affected communities and can be extremely disruptive.
Without Warning Page 14
