Recently in the news was a man up north who broke his
leg in three places, stomping on a white tail spider.
This is something I can completely understand.
2006 is Bunbury’s Year of the White Tail. The house is
_infested_ with them. A couple years ago it was the
international Year of the Redback, preceded
immediately, and understandably, by the Summer of Ten
Thousand Redback babies. Little fuckers.
Before that was the Chinese year of the Dugite. (Being
a very large, black, deadly venomous snake.)
In fact the house is pretty much being taken over by
invertebrates at the moment. Damn this warm weather.
Spiders, cockroaches, flies, moths; right now there’s
a cricket chirping in the potplant beside me and a
beehive in the wall above my bed. Took me ages to
figure out what that soothing humming sound was. Some
mornings there’s a little lost honeybee at the back
door, waiting to be let out.
Bless em.
But death to all white tails. I’ve been tracking down
and exterminating them, (the great white tail hunter,
ha ha) after one bit grandma. She’s fine. Luckily.
Turns out the whole ‘will make your flesh rot off your
bones’ thing is a myth, but they can make some people
pretty sick.
And though redbacks and dugites are far more deadly,
at least you’re not likely to find one in your pillow.
Or cornflakes. Or undpants. I’ve been getting into the
habit of flicking out my bath towel before use, a
technique devised to ensure that if there is a spider
within, it will be propelled out in a random direction
at high speed, and extremely pissed off.
I do it anyway.
Of course I realise all these things are more
frightened of me than I am of them.
That’s what makes them so dangerous.
The last thing I want is something with a mouth full
of nerve toxins getting all panicky.
But I have to admit that it’s still better than
something like a Tiger snake, which is a) extremely
lethal b) aggressive to the point of psychosis and c)
surprisingly quick. They’re one of those rare animals
that will actually hunt you down and kill you out of
pure spite.
So when one sauntered past us on the logging blockade
in Tasmania, I was like ‘well, it’s been nice knowing
you all, didn’t think I’d go out like this but I guess
it’s the price we all gotta pay, right?’
People weren’t entirely sure what I was going on
about. Turns out that while the Australian mainland
Tiger snake will certainly run you down, rip your face
off, and then go looking for your next of kin, being
Tasmania their version is actually super chill and
more likely to shout you a drink down the pub.
So where did I leave off? Umm..... Hmm. I hope you all
don’t actually give a shit about my time in Tasmania,
because I’ve forgotten it.
I think the next thing of interest that happened was
Green Party senator Bob Brown paying us a visit, feral
media crew in tow. He hung out for the day, was hauled
up to Ji’s tree platform (when one is a politician,
one does not climb one’s own trees) and got us all
thoroughly terrified of bird flu. He seems like a
really nice guy.
The most valuable thing I brought to the blockade was
my trusty Leatherman (tm). When we were hoisting the
fourth platform they had a couple of penknives for
cutting ropes, all of which were dull as hell. So when
I give John my Leatherman to trim a rope used to haul
Bob up the tree, John doesn’t expect it to be all that
sharp.
So he exerts the usual amount of force, the blade
slips through the rope like it isn’t there, and by the
time he’s stopped his arm flying through space the
point of the knife is about a centimeter from Bob
Brown’s neck. Luckily he’s looking the other way and
doesn’t notice.
See, I have a camera, I just never have it on me.
Other missed photo opportunities: 2) Jules sitting in
the driver’s seat of the car she ran halfway off the
road the previous night, grinning her grin and wearing
a rock climbing helmet because if the car slips any
further as we try to tow it out, it’s going down a
small cliff and her seatbelt isn’t working. 3) Scott’s
face level with the tabletop as Jess uses the
Leatherman (tm) to saw through a porcupine quill he’s
shoved through his nose, but is too long on one side.
I’ve been trying to track down the photos that were
taken on the rafting trip, a fundraiser which we
tree-sitters got to do for free. I haven’t been
rafting since my outdoor education course, last year
of high school. That was a grade 3 in the worst flood
conditions the instructors had seen in fifteen years
of going there, this was a little calmer. I was in the
raft that kept starting, and invariably losing, splash
fights with all the other rafts. We could never
maneuver or escape because our raft was slowly
deflating over the course of the day.
Saw a fallen Huon Pine by the river’s edge, very rare,
protected, would be worth thousands if you could get
it out without anyone noticing.
I was at the blockade for about five days before
heading off on a hitching mission around the state. Ji
and some others knew a guy nearby who ran a vineyard
and took wwoofers (Willing Workers On Organic Farms,
as opposed to Unwilling or Indentured, I guess). As
luck would have it he’s picking up his son from
Hounville, so I get a ride to their place.
I keep thinking wwoofing is something I do. I keep
failing to factor in the whole ‘willingness to work’
thing. So I’m sitting in the sun, on my own, putting
sand into old milk cartons, planning my escape. To
cool off I’d occasionally roll round on the wet lawn,
until I got a look at a few of the biiiiig grass
spiders wandering past, eyeing me up.
I mean, I’m not really complaining. A couple hours
work for a bed for two nights, good food, tour of the
vineyard, laundry, conversation, and a bottle of
blueberry port. Pretty sweet really. But the main
reason I was there was social (I miss foreigners) and
I was the only one staying. So back on the road.
Man I got picked up by some interesting characters,
that hitch. Pretty rough bastards, most of them. I
mean, harmless, I made sure not to mention anything
logging related, they were all right. Quite often had
the alarming habit of drinking while driving, but they
always gave me one (or two) so I guess that makes it
ok.
Made epic time, initially. By the first night I’d made
it as far as Ouse (known for its inbreeding) where I
camped with two French girls who were having a
surprisingly hard time hitching up from Hobart, and
got stuck. But then two is always harder. The guy
who’d dropped me there (mechanic, Jim Beam & cola)
reckoned a cherry farm back the way I’d come was
hiring pickers, so the next day I turned round and
went back to check it out.
Got taken back the whole way by an opium farmer. Did
you know Tasmania is one of the very few places in the
world they grow opium for use in pharmaceuticals? I
didn’t. I was stunned. He didn’t offer me any. In fact
he rather strongly warned me off it altogether.
So I get to the cherry farm and no, it’s nowhere near
season yet, so I reverse again and carry on the way I
was going. By noonish make it back to where I’d
started that morning, picked up and driven six hours
by a woman who’s idea of conversation was nervous
laughter and silence. I don’t think she picks up too
many hitchers, but she loosened up after a couple of
hours. She took me through the national park between
Lake St. Clair and Queenstown, which is definitely
some of the most unique scenery I’ve ever seen.
Tasmania feels so much more like New Zealand than
Australia. Hobart is almost exactly like Dunedin
without the city center and most of the landscape is
very much the same, if you squashed it down vertically
by a factor of five. Not that park, though. I haven’t
seen anything quite like that. Must’ve freaked the
hell out of the English when they first got there.
Man Queenstown’s a messed up place. Mining town. Has
the Queen River running through it. Lucky it isn’t
called the Clean River or they’d have a case of bitter
irony on their hands, the things bright orange and
toxic. It’s also their drinking water. The ride I got
out of there (boilermaker, Victoria Bitter) was the
biggest redneck I have ever met in my life. Spent most
of the drive telling me about life in rural Tasmania,
with the incessant adultery, brawls, and occasional
revenge killings. He was good fun. I’m not being
sarcastic, I really enjoyed that hitch. Somehow we
ended up talking about climate change, and I don’t
think it was me that brought it up.
I was thinking about this recently (don’t worry, this
isn’t going to get political), about how since leaving
New Zealand, everywhere I’ve been the weather was
going mental. Here’s a quick tally, as best I can
remember it:
2002 - summer - New Zealand - worst drought on record
- summer - Western Australia - worst drought
on record
- spring - Malaysia - hottest on record
- winter - Ireland - wettest on record
- autumn - Ireland - mildest
2003 - summer - Australia - worst drought
- summer - United Kingdom - hottest summer,
hottest day
- summer - New Zealand - highest UV index
2004 - summer - British Columbia - longest
- summer and autumn - British Columbia -
worst fire season
2005 - winter and spring - Victoria - wettest
- summer - Australian east coast - hottest
- summer - Western Australia - coolest
And that’s just what I remember. Doesn’t take a
weatherman... Someone should do a website of the
most-on-records for the world each year.
The Australian government recently banned any state
funded scientists from answering questions or
publishing papers on climate change.
Just quickly, while we’re on the subject of things
like this...
A few mails back I mentioned the conspiracy theory
that during hurricane Katrina in New Orleans, the
levees were deliberately breached by the military in
order to flood and displace the poor black areas,
which are sitting on some pretty prime real-estate.
Let me stress: this is not a theory I subscribe to. It
sounds a little too paranoiac and I still haven’t seen
any significant evidence for it. But something in the
news recently is worth mentioning; laws have now been
passed that if the people who’s houses were damaged or
destroyed cannot prove they’ll be able to completely
rebuild in a certain timeframe, their land will be
seized and sold to the profit of the city.
Anyway, back on topic.
By the end of the day I was just short of Launceston,
having made nine hours driving for two waiting. Which
in hitching terms is rather good.
It was not to last.
The next morning I end up having to walk halfway
across Launceston because of where I was dropped. Two
hitches, quick enough, to the top of the east coast
and what should be a straight run back down to Hobart.
Nuh.
Long story short, I ended up making about twenty
kilometers in four hours, and it was _pissing_ down
raining. Bizarrely, one of the two people to stop
during that time was Wazz, from the blockade. He was
on a quick trip with one of the girls who’s name I’ve
forgotten (sorry) but they were only going a few kays
before turning inland and stopping. They had to stop,
it was raining so much most of the roads were closed
due to the worst flooding in twenty years. It is at
this point I discover that my jacket no longer repels
water.
It was almost bearable providing I didn’t touch the
sides of my clothing. I was freezing, too far from
anywhere to even consider walking, still too early to
really want to pitch tent (although I was keeping an
eye on how cold I was getting, and would’ve if I
thought I was getting hypothermic, the first symptom
of which being a steadfast denial that you have
hypothermia), and the only cars occasionally passing
were old couples who don’t pick up hitch-hikers.
I was ok. Worse things happen at sea. Tho if I had
been drowning I quite literally couldn’t’ve been any
wetter. Then an oldish couple pull over - good! But
they’re only going a couple of kays - bad. But they
own a bed and breakfast - good! And they’d maybe think
about letting me have a cabin for $35 - bad. But then
they say to hell with it, I can stay for free - new
personal heroes. For some reason there was a car
parked by the side of the road where I was standing,
they thought I’d broken down.
So I end up with my own little cabin for the night, a
hot shower, heater to dry my clothes, they even give
me a breakfast platter with bacon and eggs.
I knew my jacket had been leaking to some degree, but
when I took of my jersey it was so heavy with water
the pegs couldn’t keep it on the line. I rung it out
and so much water hit the floor that I had to go
change my socks again.
The next day is sunny so I decide to backtrack a few
hours, for the coastline I missed the day before due
to low cloud. Apparently it’s worth it. I never found
out. Wait, short ride up, long wait, short ride, very
long wait, give up, cross road, very long wait, short
ride down, long wait, then I’m pretty much away. Four
hours waiting for no ground gained. God I hate
weekends. Got to some little town I really at that
point was not giving a shit about, had lunch, walked
to other side of suddenly not all that little town,
wait, picked up by girl who takes me all the way back
to Hobart.
She works in childcare and sees a lot of kids
practically raised by the state, their parents work so
much. She was very concerned that the new Industrial
Relation laws are going to make this far, far worse.
Anyway, back on topic.
I thought I might fly back to Melbourne at that point,
but I’d still only been in Tas a week and a half, so
dropped back down to the blockade. I ended up staying
there two more weeks.
It was so nice. 2004 I was in a house of ten, 2005 it
was down to three. Which was fine and everything, but
I like to have lots of people around, if possible. I
lived in a hostel for two months, for chrissake.
They were interesting people. Not as feral and
hard-line as I was expecting, and I wasn’t really
expecting anything too hardcore. Just some folks who
dig trees and making a stand. Largely local, but from
all over as well. I gave up trying to have
conversations of any depth tho, I have to say. I just
got sick of constantly having to explain everything I
said.
I’m used to people not really getting me. It happens a
lot; I’ll say something which I think is completely
rational, if not obvious, and just get blank dial-tone
stare in return. Then, providing time and inclination,
I’ll go through everything I just said, rebuilding all
the foundation ideas largely from scratch, developing
the hierarchies until, at the very peak of the
conceptual pyramid and usually about two hours later,
I’ll finally get back to what I said originally.
At which point, and to my credit, the response is
usually: oh, ok. Fair enough.
Now, this is in no way because I’m any more up with
the play than anyone else, I just come out with some
pretty random shit sometimes. But damn it, it does
make sense. You just may need to set aside two hours.
But it was especially bad on the blockade. I was
coming from a fairly different mindset than most other
people there. Like when I say: technology is never
evil, it’s completely neutral. It’s the usage of it.
Everything is both good and bad, depending on context.
Everything has its place. To which I’d get: bollocks.
What about nuclear weapons? To which I’d say: I’ll
agree that we shouldn’t have them, because any
positive side is hugely outweighed by the negatives,
but that doesn’t mean that no positives exist. Like if
we needed to blow an asteroid out of space, or we got
invaded by aliens or something. The chance of this
actually happening is practically nil, so we therefor
shouldn’t have the weapons, but that doesn’t mean the
positives, even in this extreme example, don’t exist.
And maybe they’d agree, and maybe they wouldn’t (they
usually wouldn’t) and either way having to do that all
day just got exhausting, so I gave up. Especially with
American John. If I told him I liked kittens he’d have
a go at me about it.
So we just hung out, built stuff, ate, had a laugh,
hung out some more. Lots of people came through. Then
I got food poisoning.
And people ask me, so Daniel, what do you think made
you sick?
Shit man, what didn’t?
It’s amazing how your standards of hygiene drop in
situations like that. Cutlery’s been rubbed between
thumb and forefinger? (hands unwashed). Clean enough.
Chopping board’s been wiped down at some point today?
Clean enough. Food came from a skip? Hell yeah!
But look, for all that, it was much more likely just
something that happened. Could’ve been something I
touched then ingested, could’ve been a random spore of
something in the water. No one else got sick. These
things just happen, wherever you are.
But god it sucks being ill in the bush. No running
water. Thank Christ we never ran out of toilet paper.
The first night was the only time it was all that bad,
threw up for the first time in five years. That
sucked.
Actually I’ve realised that I throw up every five
years. _Exactly_. Ages: 27 (food poisoning), 22 (food
poisoning), 17 (generic alcoholic beverage, never
again), 12 (jetlag) and 7 (chickenpox). That’s really
weird. I was aware of the whole seven year
psychological development cycle, this is a little more
obscure...
So with the exception of the second day ill, the
entirety of which I spent trying to throw a rock over
a tree, because I’m stupid, I took it pretty easy.
Gave myself three or four days to get right, then made
my way back to Melbourne.
It was kind of a shame, but time to go anyway. You do
get a little morose when you’re not feeling your best,
as it was at Burning Man with the nosebleeds; it’s
hard to feel upbeat when you’re not in complete charge
of your fluids.
The thing with the rock throwing was what we in the
trade call ‘tree fishing’. To get up a tree you need
to somehow get a line over a branch. By far the
easiest way is with a bow, but Ji had the bow and he
wasn’t around. So I had an idea for something like an
Aboriginal spear thrower. I got a thin branch with a
natural fork at the end, between which I slung some
netting we’d been using to make bags, then put a rock
in the little pouch formed by the netting. Worked
really well, could get it over the highest branch
every time, until I tied a line to the rock. I gave up
after about four hours. God damn my freakishly long
attention span.
Back in Melbourne, on my way home. Just been ripped
off by the Australian taxi system (I got talking to a
Dutch girl at the airport, we lined up two other guys
and split a taxi into town rather than taking the
shuttle. Turns out if you drop someone off a block
before everyone else gets out, they have to pay their
share of the fare, but for some reason that share
doesn’t count and the people left have to cover the
whole fare again. It’s the law.) And I’m on a train
that I haven’t paid for because the stiles at the
station were wide open and no one was around.
So I’m fine as long as ticket inspectors don’t get on.
So ticket inspectors get on. Luckily I was able to
psychically stun them, (or something); they just
hovered at the top of the carriage. I quickly jumped
off at the next stop (not too quickly, of course) and
they immediately started checking everyone’s tickets.
So I’m fine as long as I don’t miss the last bus. The
stop is a couple kays away.
Actually I managed to make it, the bus just pulling up
as I arrive.
So that’s that. Tasmania. When I get home I discover
that Jo and Dave have got a new puppy, named Elke,
which Jo calls Elkido (presumably due to her mastery
of trips and takedown techniques) and I call El-Keda,
due to her wanton destruction of private property led
only by her own twisted ideology.
She’s a sweetie, really.
Next issue: festivals (x3), Sydney (x2), digital media
expo’s and everything else to bring you up to date.
Finally.
Love
Daniel.
