WAKING UP IN DREAMTIME
A little stone cabin with a huge water tank, nestled on a riverbank, was perfect. Underwater spring water bubbled up from the river bank and ran down through the dry water bed, filling various holes with cool, clear water. Hand basin size holes, bath size holes, even an Olympic pool size hole, it was a delight to choose what size to laze in, depending on mood.
The resident taipans, death adders, brown snakes, black snakes, and snakes of every other color were warned we were coming, as we always made heaps of noise.
Ancient secret sacred Aborigine meeting places were scattered throughout the area, and we would occasionally stumble upon them.
One, in particular, Sacred Canyon, was spectacular, a mountain which had a natural swathe cut out of it through the center so two halves faced each other, there were carvings all the way up the faces of the two sides, even where it appeared to be impossible for anyone to get a grip there were perfectly carved circles and symbols in the rock.
No one knows how old they are, but the Adnyamathanha people believe they were not made by people, but created for them by ancestral beings during the “Dreaming”.
The wind whistled fiercely around the mountain, yet not a whisper entered the mountain's passageway. In the center was a large natural spring around which were the most beautiful ochres in colors I hadn't seen before, purples, reds and blues. I climbed to the top of the mountain, the highest in the area, and could see forever while eagles danced in the air currents above me. A very powerful, yet amazingly peaceful place which naturally drew you into a state of meditation on the magic of the dreamtime.
Absorbing the pure energy of such a pristine environment, we passed a few lazy months, being still, immersed in nature.
The largest hessian sack of brown rice we could find, we had bought to use as supplies, and lived on a simple pure diet.
I’d started to use the Kombi like a four-wheel drive, driving off-road on numerous spontaneous adventures
It was great fun, but my ignorance of mechanics caught up once again. The dust filter had been filling with dust, and the oil became mud, letting the dust be sucked into the engine, slowly sandpapering the sides of the walls and losing compression.
In the middle of nowhere, it gave an exhausted wheeze and shuddered to a halt.
We managed to hitchhike to the closest town and managed to get a tow back where we set up ‘house’ in a caravan park.
Another old Station wagon, the only car dealer in town, was prepared to swap us for the Kombi. It moved, the Kombi didn’t, it was a fairly simple decision as we had no cash.
We decided to head to Adelaide, maybe get some work, then continue to Bali.
Thick blue smoke and spluttering came from under the bonnet after about 100 miles; now this wagon had taken us as far as it was going to. We left it on the side of the road, packed the swag, stuck the thumb out, and headed for the fruit-picking areas.
No sooner had we entered 'civilization' than the police began picking us up for the mandatory search.
My hair now reached far past my shoulders, my beard had a texture similar to barbed wire, and the good old eyebrows created an ever greater menace of their own. Not surprisingly, the Police warned me not to walk the streets at night so I wouldn't scare the locals.
Our hair flew in the wind, and I felt like an RAF pilot on leave in England. We had found a classic Austin 40 convertible, the perfect car to tour around the more conservative 'English countryside' of the Adelaide Hills. We headed into the orange growing region, looking at the various orchards until we saw a beautiful old homestead beside the Murray River with huge orange trees. This looked perfect, visually beautiful, and very peaceful.
We had heard of the huge sums 'gun pickers', exceptionally fast fruit pickers, could get and were determined we were going to be 'gun pickers', we got a job as pickers and were given a small picker's shack on the orchard, simple but cute and romantic.
The trees were proving to be something else, we soon discovered it was one of the oldest orchards in the area, so these beautiful trees had years of growth and were huge and very tall. It didn't take long to realise the ‘Gun pickers’ chose orchards with small trees for ease of picking. I was soon dragging a huge ladder from tree to tree to get to the top of our trees.
Then, on top of the ladder, I’d reach far into the middle of the tree for that one last orange. Too far.
I’d often come crashing through the tree, branch by branch, before landing with a sickening thud on the ground and lie surrounded by squashed oranges.
My fear of snakes was growing and it seemed the more it grew, the more it attracted them. Walking along a track I'd have a sudden feeling I was not alone, sure enough a few more steps and there would be a snake sun baking or just waiting to scare the shit out of me.
I’d lift something off the ground and, sure enough underneath it would be a snake waiting to scare the shit out of me.
I’d walk down to the river to see if there was any fish in our traps and there would be a snake waiting to scare the shit out of me.
I’d go to sleep and there, in my mind’s eye, was a snake waiting to scare the shit out of me.
I gave myself a good talking to and acknowledged my fear was the attraction, and by letting go of my fear I’d be letting go of my attraction. It worked, and as my fear diminished so did the number of sightings.
Soon, the oranges were all picked, and we still needed more money. So we moved down the road to a pea farm.
Instead of stretching up to pick oranges, we were bending down picking peas along neat rows that were like a race track.
We were the only Australians amongst many Italian families.
We’d all start equal, and then surge forward. We’d look up and way ahead of us would be the Italians, tiny ones who could barely walk but still pick peas, big round ones, and old ones who were so bent their shape gave them an unfair advantage in pea picking.
We’d been flying around in the 'Tourer' feeling like I was a fighter pilot on leave. Our hopes were shot down.
The Tourer decided it had done enough touring, and in a fit of anger blew a head gasket.
Another monument to my lack of mechanical skills left on the side of the road and we hitched back to the farm.
The Italians had cleaned out all the peas.
Time to move on again.
We needed wheels to keep moving, so we scoured the local car yards and unearthed a Morris Minor utility, probably the smallest utility ever made. Fully loaded we looked like a miniature version of the Beverly Hillbillies as we headed back to Sydney.