The Other Side - A Series

"Just living is not enough," said the caterpillar.
"One must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
Hans Christian Andersen

Gusting over icy oceans, winds gather momentum across vast featureless tracts of scorched wasteland. Their passage sculpts a land of cerise sands and insatiable thirst. The Kalahari Desert, where survival lessons learned hard, carve delicate fortunes of a wily band of wilderness survivors.
As always at dusk, elders of the burrow, the Mfundisi bhuka pompously on hind legs as if in divine respect of their ancestral suricates. A privileged lot, they face west until the uppermost crescent of the sun dips below the horizon. To bhuka is a privilege, a right bestowed upon the Mfundisi as a mark of respect to their wisdom, an acknowledgment of their elevated status within this Meerkat community. The practice, a strutting gait achieved by prancing around on ones hind quarters whilst cocking ones head to peer rakishly down ones nose is a ritual reserved strictly for the elders, an acquired skill passed down through generations. The Abanonke, everyone else privileged to serve the Mfundisi are forbidden to bhuka.
The mood was tense, stifled murmuring and smothered whispers had filled this time for months. Gripped in what seemed an eternal drought, the region and its fickle weather had tested even the most resourceful of its tenants. Days of incessant heat followed nights of numbing cold. The elders were losing control. Need for the basic necessities of water, food and shelter had seen a small group within the Abanonke take on an arrogance of their own. Small signs, eyeballing an elder, bhukaring on the quiet and flicking the tail to both the left and right, another privilege reserved exclusively for the toplofty had been noted by some members of the Mfundisi. This contemptuous behaviour and its perpetrators had been reported to Umkhulu, chief of the burrow.
"Bring the young upstart before us, let me unearth the source of Somandlas’ mutinous attitude" belched the leader, lavishly imbibing in the scarce water offered by doting chambermaids. He had known it would come to this, had even anticipated that it would be Somandla.

Somandla saw them coming across the veld. The smug grin spread across their faces and their cocky gait confirmed his fears. “Go, no matter what happens in the next few hours, go!” whispered Somandla to Mfishani, a short, petite member of the group, tension clear in his voice.
“Just stay calm brother, don’t antagonise them they’ll be looking for any excuse to give you a drubbing” encouraged a nervous voice from the crowd. “Go Mfishani, move away now and whatever happens, look after Ntombi, she must go with you at all cost.”
Then Somandla did the unexpected. He strode forward to meet the sentries at the entrance to the burrow, “Gentlemen, looking for me I suspect?” smiled Somandla, making sure not to expose the slightest hint of his diminutive canines, the height of aggression in Meerkat circles. Defusing the moment with an almost genuine candour he cast his eyes down as a further enactment of respect to the guards. The defeat of the scuffle that the sentries sought to extract from the encounter only heightened their frustration. A hushed silence enveloped a nearby group of Abanonke and spread quickly through the rest of the mob as the air thickened with the anticipation of the conflict.
“No, it aint us who seek your hide” sneered a mangy sentry in what was meant to be an aggressive impersonation of Roger Racoon, the latest folk hero to emerge from that place across the great water. It’s the old man whose gonna peel your hide sonny” scowled the Sergeant as Somandla realised that Roger Racoon aggro impressions must be the flavour of the week amongst the sentries. His coat blotchy and sparse in appearance, the Sergeant had only recently recovered from a serious bout of mange brought on by an explosion of mites that had ravaged the community, thriving in the over crowded burrows. A general lack of nutritious fodder, clean water and hopelessly inadequate lodgings all contributing to a state of poor health with an ever increasing number of newborn kits not making it past their second week of life.
“Well then, I’d better neaten up hadn’t I, can’t keep Umkhulu waiting now can we? No doubt he’s far too busy plotting solutions to our lack of food and water? Speaking of hides, how wonderful to see your mange has healed so nicely Mnugane.” quipped Somandla as he mopped a fine film of silica from his brow, a powdery, mange healing dust that settled on those of the Abanonke forced to the outer circle of the burrow. “Silica must have done your crust the world of good old boy?” quipped Somandla sarcastically to stifled chuckles from the group who knew only too well that the Sergeant had recently been cast to the burrow outers for falling asleep on duty.

The six, known secretly to one another as Istupa had met secretly all season. Somandla had chosen his cohorts carefully and had needed to. The impimpi were out there, whistle blowers afforded minor privileges by the sentry force to maintain a watchful eye and an ear out for insubordinate behaviour within the Abanonke. The group had done well to avoid detection by the sentries, let alone the impimpi. There was Stuhla, Somandla’s absolute confidant. Consistent, courageous and dependable to the very last, Stuhla knew the veld like the back of his hand and was well known within the Abanonke for his uncanny ability to detect and defeat the Egyptian Cobra, Meerkat enemy number one. Nsizwe on the other hand was conservative by nature, cunning and softly spoken, he was calculating in his ways, often pedantic Somandla had thought. Nsizwe would prove vital when situation called for level headed planning and decision making. Imbali, an outspoken and youngest member of Istupa, a kit carer, had been the first to throw in her hat. “I’m coming with you Somandla, like it or not” she had hissed, arriving uninvited to one of their meetings. Her intuition had come as such a shock to Somandla that he immediately suspected her as Impimpi. A picture of ignorance, he had denied all of her pinpoint accurate suspicions, fidgeting tautly from paw to paw, nervously awaiting the arrival of the Masosheni, a crack detail of roving sentries on duty that day. Somandla had not missed the glint in Stuhla’s eye as he had watched the young carer reserving her right to freedom. Constrained initially, Stuhla had been quick to remind the group of Imbali’s speed across the veld and her ability to ferret out food and water in the most difficult of conditions, her shiny well groomed coat testament to Stuhla’s musings. Somandla had also remembered Mfishani once telling him that Mbali was blessed with unnatural powers, an endowment supposedly governed and handed down by the ancestors to a select few Meerkats, a gift that she had needed to keep hidden from the greed and jealousy of the Mfundisi. “She has it Somandla; I see it in her eyes every time she cares for the kits” Mfishani said referring to the way in which Mbali had hurried the kits from the flight path of a swooping Bateleur Eagle.

Mbali’s intuition had served to remind Somandla that vigilance and absolute secrecy amongst the Istupa was the key to their successful escape. Boredom, frustration and the desire within the Abanonke for a future free of the Mfundisi was making them conspicuous as a group. Unsettling murmurings within the burrows told him that they needed to act fast.
Mfishani had been invited to Istupa by both Somandla and Stuhla for his uncanny negotiating skills. Somandla himself was well known amongst the Abanonke for his ability to taunt the Mfundisi and the sentries but Mfishani was in a class of his own. Umkhulu himself had publicly attested to Mfishani’s intelligence and rumour had it that from time to time, members of the elders secretly sought his counsel. Ntombi, the last member of Istupa had grown up with Somandla. The two were joined at the hip and it was fait accompli that the wispy mongoose would be part of the great escape.

Asserting authority the Sergeant kicked Somandla to the ground in a clamour of dust, urging his retaliation. Remembering Mfishani’s words Somandla merely smiled, reached for the hand of a caring member of the Abanonke and pulled himself to his feet. In turn, the entire detail took to Somandla. His flared cheeks, an indication of rage had not gone unnoticed. Not even the combined efforts of the strongest of the Abanonke could save their champion from the wrath of the Sosheni. Umkhulu watched in crazed delight, mesmerized by the flash of fangs and the glint of sharpened claws. Minutes became hours, the brutality raged on. In the vicious frenzy no one saw the circling Bateleur Eagle. The massive raptor, quick to seize on a moments dropped guard descended at first in wide circles. Using high cloud for cover on descent and then towering dunes as low level screens, he homed in on the flurry of hatred that raged on the desert floor below. At low level and with the setting sun on its shoulder the eagle struck with decisive force. Mnugane never stood a chance. "Baleka, Baleka!" the universal Meerkat danger call rang through the burrow as the roar of the raptor’s wing beats drowned the cries of a once proud Sergeant. The eagle had unwittingly saved Somandla's life and, in the disarray following the attack provided the diversion that the breakaways had been looking for.

A New Beginning

A moonless night slowed their passage. Expecting darkness to conceal their escape, windless conditions and a lack of the usual nocturnal desert activity accentuated their every move. Extra care was needed with each foot placement, the group of six forced to step in each others footsteps to conceal their count. "Leave me here and push on" Somandla wheezed at Stuhla, resting heavily on his shoulders. "Without your leadership we are all lost Somandla, we have no choice but to put up with your whining" Stuhla joked as he shifted Somandlas weight. “You look a sight" he chuckled, the prospect of freedom lifting Stuhla’s spirits. "I feel the spring of freedom in your step you old fool, perhaps there is still hope for you yet" the scarred leader quipped, his lip cracking open in a beaming smile.

Eerie canyons casting unsettling shadows lay before the escapees. On the move since dusk, an anxious silence had consumed the band since Nsizwe's demise. Detecting even the lightest of foot falls, the creature had plotted Nsizwe's cautious advance down what was a natural drain to the rivers edge. An alley of entrapment, the dry tributary of fine white sand had been the nemesis of many an unwary visitor. Sugar like in texture, the sand was the corner stone of the beasts trap. Captivated by the translucent, sandy surface of the river bed, the silhouette of those mesmerised always stood starkly against the sun bleached sand. “How strange" Nsizwe had whispered to himself as he dragged his feet delicately through the unusual soil, forgetting why he was at the river, his thirst lost in the fantasy of the moment. Normally fleet of foot, Nsizwe was no match for the predators' cunning plan. Seeing the movement he instinctively leapt for the safety of the deep foliage lining the bank. On most surfaces he would have cleared the distance in one bound but the clutching sands offered no purchase, his powerful hind quarters sinking deeper beneath the surface with each powerful thrust. Even in the unusual silence of the night, no one heard or saw anything to reveal what had unfolded at the river. Nsizwe simply never returned to the group. On the softest of breezes, Somandla had heard the rasping of scales, large scales grating on fine, soft sand. Using his eyes to draw Stuhla away from the group, the two decided not to share with Istupa the fact that Nsizwe had been snatched by Nyoka a very large rock python that had roamed the river for years.

"We should not go through that Mhosheni" Imbali shuddered, pointing in the direction of the canyon. "It doesn't feel right" her eyes flicking strangely from side to side. "Oh please, not this witchery nonsense again, she always goes into Mtagati talk when she wants to get her own way" Ntombi sighed angrily. "We've come this far, we can't stop now. The Sosheni are after us, we'll be back in that hell hole before we know it. What do you mean it doesn't feel right?" Ntombi ranted on, unsettling the others. "Settle down Ntombi, arguing amongst ourselves won’t help." Somandla calmed the group, fatigue burning his eyes, preventing him from thinking clearly. "We rest on the other side of the canyon Imbali, dawn will be upon us by the time we reach there, are you sure?" Somandla knew that to doubt her magic could be disastrous for the group, he also knew that to stop in the open country that sprawled before them was out of the question. They had to find shelter, anything that offered a place to hide out and rest the day through. "The amadala........" She could not finish the sentence before Mfishani tore into her. "Oh forget the ancestors you idiotic fool, I'm with Ntombi." Stuhla stepped forward angrily "Now hang on, don’t you go calling people...." Paying no attention to Stuhla, Mbali and Ntombi marched from the shadows of the cover toward the canyon entrance. "Get back in here now!” Somandla hissed at the two, aware of the dangers to everyone should they be seen in the open. "Oh excuse me, since when were you the boss of us?" Ntombi shot back, winking at Mfishani for support, happy to finally have her moment in charge. "Ntombi, I know you are tired, we all are but we should not doubt Mbali's word. Please, stay with us for together we are strong." Somandla's pleading seemed only to fortify her stubbornness. "We'll call you over when we get to the other side" Mfishani smirked at the leader.

“You won’t be calling anyone if you’re that interested in venturing through that Mhosheni my friend.” The chattery little voice from overhead startled everyone and had Stuhla diving for cover behind a clump of nearby boulders. “Who are you?” demanded Somandla trying as hard as he could to sound domineering and fierce. “Show yourself now” hissed Stuhla, irritated at having possibly lost face in the eyes of the others after his dive for cover.


TO BE CONTINUED

Country Mums doing the right stuff

I read with absolute delight a story in the Tasmanian Country (Friday, Nov 20, 2009)detailing how "two bored mums", Lisa Holdem and Tina Carver have started a Mum's Market. It's this type of effort that allows primary producers the opportunity to develop and expand their market channels from within the communities they live. Additionally, as the article points out, it draws communities together and sensitises those that visit the market to just how important it is to buy local.

Get on board folks, go & visit the market as fast as you can in the beautiful seaside village of Dover, Tasmania and buy some local produce!!

Selling out the Farmer......................again!!!

In just three months I have either seen or heard of three incidents involving the actual or potential sell out of Tasmanian Farmers. First, Tasmania's Dairy Farmers taking crippling price reductions, Second, a prominent wine grower offered ridiculous whole of vintage prices and now, Smithton potato farmers left high and dry by a national potato processor closing its Smithton operations.

Again, I implore all Australians, especially those of you living in the beautiful state of Tasmania to buy local be it milk, vegetables or wine. The way for primary producers to secure their own destinies is to secure their marketing options. That is to take more control of how, where and to whom their produce is sold. Your purchase of vegetables at the local farmers market or wine at the cellar door or local grower co-operative is what's needed. Tasmanian Co-operative Wine Sales, a newly launched Tasmanian wine promoting concept is contributing to widening the marketing channels for a handful of select member vineyards in Southern Tasmania. Make a visit to http://tascws.blogspot.com/ the first thing you do after leaving this site and join Tasmanian Co-operative Wine Sales as a site "follower" leaving your contact details for a personal chat with one of our Co-Op members and check out the concept of buying locally, local Tasmanian wines.

Saint Lucia - A Short Story

Counselled against leaving the city before dawn by a troupe of beer swilling locals, Karen Goss laughed off the storm warnings as nothing more than everyday African chauvinism. Chauvinism, an African trait discussed at length between her and the girls over copious latte’s before leaving Sydney. As rainsqualls battered her dilapidated Volkswagen, the young medical graduate nervously drove east on a pot holed, South African highway.

Karen had arrived in Johannesburg a week ago, cut what she thought to be an ace deal on ‘Helga’ the Volkswagen Beetle and had then left the city, driving hard for the coastal village of Saint Lucia. Accepting a locum position, she sought to put distance between herself and a messy break up in Sydney and also to take in the African wildlife during the nine month contract. Crossing the northern bank of the Tugela River a rolling peal of thunder welcomed her to Zululand. Helga, not to be outdone reciprocated with a thunderous backfire of her own, heaved a massive sigh from within the bowels of her bonnet, farted and trundled to a graceful halt beneath a huge Marula tree. “Elegant, just beautiful girl” moaned Karen as a fresh wave of rain lashed the windscreen of the spent bug.
Reviling the virtues of fine German engineering, Karen curled herself up as comfortably as the back seat of the Beetle would allow, almost softened her views on African chauvinism and settled in to wait out the storm.
Groggy and cramped from restless slumber, Karen cleared a misted window with the back of her hand. Her eyes snapped into focus on a tribesman’s hand cupped face pressed hard against the steamy panel, his nose flattened and distorted by the glass. Shrieking loudly, she startled the big Zulu as much as he had her. Hurriedly locking the doors, she couldn’t help but giggle as the colossal man heaved his muddied frame to its feet and flashed the friendliest smile she’d seen since arriving in Africa. The gesticulating and hand waving that followed convinced Karen of her need to understand at least the basics of the local language. Helga, hauled unceremoniously up the mountainside by a team of Zulu oxen, restored some self-dignity with a first time start after having her spark restored. The installation of her new carburettor reminiscent of open-heart surgery and despite teeming rains, performed flawlessly for the rest of the journey.

Heavily steeled doors slammed shut imprisoning the offender within the barred confines of the massive trap. Dirk Steyn, Chief Ranger of the greater Saint Lucia Wetland Reserve and the Hippopotamus were old friends. Huberta, as Dirk affectionately named the old cow was a loner, a lumbering gargantuan who in her day was the matriarch of the largest herd in the Saint Lucia estuary. Gregarious by nature, she took poorly to her now solitary lifestyle after a particularly unceremonious dethroning. Ever the extrovert, Huberta kept Dirk busy in favouring the company of the local Zondi tribe, an Umfolozi clan of the Zulu people. Huberta of course took to the village gardens and once again Dirk found himself, much to the delight of the Zondi children and chagrin of the elders, waist deep in mud saving her hide. The old juggernaut was living a charmed life; it was only Dirks longstanding relationship with the Zulu’s, his fluency in their language and intimate understanding of local culture and folklore that saved her from the spear. “Back upstream for you old Salukwazi” Dirk grunted, referring to the hippo’s old age in Zulu, raising respectful chatter from the onlookers as he fastened the shackles of the winch, wondering where he would release her this time.
Leaving the highway at the hamlet of Mtubatuba, Karen gingerly crept along the dirt track to the banks of the Umfolozi River. Incessant rains had swollen the waterway; wild eddies swirled powerfully beneath an archaic, single lane Bailey bridge that linked Saint Lucia to the outside world. Silencing the engine, the creaks of the straining bridge carried clearly over the drumming rain that seemed to engulf her. “Almost there girl” Karen sighed with relief as she worked through the gears. Clenching the steering wheel in a death grip, Karen stabbed at the brakes as she felt herself sliding sideways, losing control of the car. Helga answered with a fetching rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. In a recital that would have had the great composer rolling in his grave, the two slid helter skelter over the bridge facing in the opposite direction as they went. The performance ended in an inelegant grand finale of backfires and a plunge into the shallows of the estuary.

Rounding a bend in the river, Dirk slowed his boat and using the current, edged the vessel closer to the muddy, reed lined bank. Replacing the rifle in its holder he saw her knee deep in mud attempting to push the car from the river. “Are you mad woman?” enquired Dirk in a thick South African accent. Before Karen could answer she watched as a great mastiff leapt from the boat, cocked its leg and urinated on Karen’s right leg. “I’m sorry…….he always does that” blurted the burly Game Ranger as he sheepishly scolded the massive hound.”You really should get out of the river, the place is thick with croc’s” Dirk masked his laughter only by changing the subject.
Reeds moving against the current caught Dirks ever watchful eye. Shouldering the rifle he fired two shots into the bank. “What the bloody hell are you doing mate!” Karen screamed as she pulled herself from the mud. “Hippo, the most dangerous animal to man in Africa.” Dirk replied unable to contain the fits of hysteria welling up within him. Huberta emerged gracefully from behind the curtain of reeds. “You silly old cow” moaned Dirk as he fired two more shots above her head, sending Karen diving for the cover of a muddy knoll. “Enough, put that bloody rifle down and get me out of this river now!” demanded Karen, her quivering voice a frenzied cocktail of fear and rage. ”Look lady this is not New Zealand, this river is full of Croc’s and sharks just waiting to snack on ignorant Kiwi’s like you” responded Dirk, misplacing her accent. “You arrogant….” stammered Karen as she pulled herself from the sticky mud, unable to complete the sentence as she slipped backward landing on her behind, “It’s Australian, not Kiwi!” she yelled in disbelief as the boat powered away from the scene.
Months followed weeks in a blur of work and social activity for Karen. She saw Dirk occasionally but only from a distance, in the streets of the village, the local pub but the two never really crossed paths again after their heated riverside introduction. Once, in the market place on a Saturday morning, Dirks giant mastiff ran up to her, tail wagging and full of the joys of life, greeting her as if she were a long lost friend. Karen’s heart raced in the hope that he might find her whilst looking for the dog, that they might conveniently run into one another and be given a second chance. A whistle from somewhere within the crowd drew the dogs’ attention and it scampered away eagerly seeking out its owner. Craning her neck above the crowd to find him, a fleeting glance of his broad shoulders was all she got.

Inching the vessel closer to the trap, Dirk could see that the door was still open and the trigger armed. Suspecting that the mechanism might be faulty, Dirk jumped from the boat into muddied, waste deep water and waded toward the trap for a closer inspection. Making a few minor adjustments and happy that the cage was still functional he began the slow wade back to the boat. A deep throated growl from the dog balanced precariously on the gunwales of the boat stood the hair on the nape of his neck on end. It was a spine chilling growl he had heard only last month during the hunt for a marauding lion. He knew instantly from its riveted glare that his dog had seen something, something that he hadn’t. Reaching out with powerful strokes, Dirk rapidly closed the gap between himself and the boat, the dogs barking intensified.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw it coming from the bank of the river. Reeds bucked toward him at blinding speed as he realised he was purposely being cut off from the boat. She burst from the rushes a seething mass of pent up fury. Closing fast, Huberta lifted Dirk in her mouth with consummate ease, thrashing him back onto the water before driving him beneath the surface with her massive hoof. A gaping wound open above his left eye, Dirk knew that it would not take the resident crocodiles long to scent out the blood infused waters. The muted barking of the mastiff was the last he heard before slipping into unconsciousness.

Piercing shafts of light pricked his eyes as he tried to focus on the blurred face before him. “Where am I” he stammered, pushing himself onto his elbows. “You’re a lucky man Dirk.” He recognised her voice. “Is that you Kiwi, I can’t see, my eyes are blurred what happened?” “Hippo, the most dangerous animal to man in Africa.” Karen replied, smiling at his arrogance, ecstatic at having accepted a full time position at the clinic.

Zulus in Tasmania - Passage to an Island

“Do you have any idea of just how good the fly-fishing is in Tasmania?” I gurgled through my cornflakes as the dream job leapt at me like a startled Springbok from the pages of our local Sunday rag. “I don’t want to live in Tanzania and we’ve just bought this house for God’s sake, just forget it!” was Jackie’s geographically challenged riposte.

It was all over one month later. The company advised that they no longer intended filling the position so it was back to bolted doors, burglar guards and biltong for the two of us, or so we thought. No sooner had we accepted our fate, the company advised of new opportunities in the offing and what was to follow proved a roller coaster year of hope, dread, tears, anguish and finally bon voyage. We were off to a little island, a blob sitting just below Australia, a place neither of us would ever have dreamed of visiting, let alone one day call home.

“Tasmania, the weather’s atrocious my boy, always raining and the sun never shines, it’s nothing like Zululand you know.” Glaring in Jackie’s direction for support, the wizened farmer was in full flight, conjuring up every trick in the book to keep his son on African soil. Dlamini, the farm Sangoma (Witch Doctor) expressed grave misgivings of our impending departure, clucking on about the bones not falling right and that now was not the time to be deserting the farm. I couldn’t help but notice a bottle of my fathers finest single malt whiskey snugly ensconced in the old man’s grog cabinet as we left his kraal. We were set, not even the strongest team of Zulu oxen were going to stop our passage to Tasmania.

Temporary residence visas in hand and a hastily arranged Saturday garage sale saw us standing on the driveway at dusk with three boxes. Two were filled to the brim with fly fishing paraphernalia, the third only half full of arbitrary family heirlooms that ‘management’ insisted we couldn’t sell, and two suitcases. Jackie’s supressed tears proved that the sight of our worldly belongings trussed into no more than five receptacles was just too much for some. A penchant for travelling light, my lust for adventure refuelled, the whole episode left me hugely satisfied that we had managed to dispose of a whole heap of crap so expeditiously. I kept asking, much to Jackie’s disgust, why we hadn’t done it all before.

Duchess, our Staffordshire Terrier carried a repertoire of barks which over time I had learnt to decipher. They ranged across the spectrum from a relaxed, ‘watch your step and don’t come any closer dude’ to ‘Mate, one step closer and I’ll have your nuts for hors d’oeuvres’. A version of the latter had me sprinting around the side of the house, grazing the full length of my left shin on a picket fence in the process, fully expecting to see the last of our boxed belongings carted off on the shoulders of some needy local. An angry Mfezi, the deadly Black Necked Spitting Cobra was the last thing I expected to encounter.

Otto, our “fearless” Dachshund on hearing the Staffordshire’s alarm, promptly joined in the fray leaving me pulling the Staffordshire from the snake, fending the Sausage Dog off with a bloodied left leg and shielding my own eyes from the blinding venom of the Cobra with spare hand. Dlamini’s repetitive cries of “I foresaw all of this in the bones” did nought to calm the chaos. All of this one day before our departure, we could barely wait to get out of Africa.

Teary farewells, Dlamini conceding to the bones finally falling correctly and we were on our way. Arriving in Hobart on the 3rd of January 2001, a champagne day of wall to wall sunshine, 30° temperatures and not a breath of wind, we scoffed at the weather sceptics, only to bow deeply to their superior knowledge on the 3rd of July, the genuine onset of Tasmania’s winter that year.

Our first impressions of Hobart, the last day of the Taste of Tasmania 2001 will be with us for ever. On that first evening as we weaved our way home on foot through Battery Point we marvelled at how people, many lone women were able to walk the city in safety. It’s a feature of Hobart that we should cherish and do everything to maintain. We haven’t missed a ‘Taste’ since, in fact so strong is our commitment to this Hobart icon that yours truly, in 2003 was frog marched from the venue by two burly constables following a fanatical display of support for Tasmanian Pinot Noir and an adamant refusal on my part to leave the venue at the request of the local constabulary.


As for the fishing, many a fly, blue Zulu included has been dislodged from the nape of my neck and even one from the lobe of my right ear. In eight years of plying the lakes of the central highlands, I’ve yet to remove one from the kype of a monster brown. Guidance from the bones of Zululand has it that we are still paying homage to our new waters, patience will eventually yield the desired result and success should not be expected in the near future.

We do miss Zululand, the wildlife, the people and while the guttural squawk of the Yellow Wattlebird has replaced the haunting call of the Burchell’s Coucal, we wouldn’t swap the flute-like carolling of the Magpie or the cacophony of the laughing Kookaburra for anything.

Writing is a lot like sex

"Writing is a lot like sex. At first you do it because you like it. Then you find yourself doing it for a few close friends and people you like. But if you're any good at all...you end up doing it for money." - Unknown

At Loose Ends - A Short Story

Picking herself up from the floor of the dusty lunging ring, Sasha Drew stroked the ochre clay from her jodhpurs and cursed softly beneath her breath. The low flying crop duster antagonisingly rocked its wings at her and disappeared over low hills to the west of the station homestead. Retrieving her riding crop, she stormed off in the direction of the landing strip.

This was not the first time she had endured the menace of his low-level antics. A week ago he had surprised her sun baking on what she thought was a private stretch of the river. His boyish grin was clearly visible above the rim of the cockpit as she fumbled with her bikini top, diving for the cover of a nearby thicket in the process.

Miles Taylor was back in Queensland and at loose ends. He had spent two years in India on a United Nations contract and followed that up with a season of crop dusting in the highlands of Papua New Guinea. As always, his time in one place was short and his six month contract with the Bundaberg Sugar Cane Growers Association was fast drawing to an end. Lining up the unwieldy biplane on short final approach for landing on the sandy strip his thoughts drifted to his next tour of duty, the wheat fields of South Africa, Table Mountain and the white sands of Llandudno Beach.
Squinting into a lowering sun through billowing clouds of dust, he saw the woman standing on the runway just as the main wheels touched down. Thrusting the throttle to full power he banked hard right, lifting the wheels over her head, the right wing only inches from the surface of the runway.
“You irresponsible bloody idiot!” Sasha screamed as she strode forward to the greasy, dust laden crop sprayer, her jodhpurs covered in dust yet again. “That’s twice today you’ve nearly killed me!” she raged as the propeller windmilled to a clattering halt, the sudden silence broken only by the pinking of a cooling radial engine and the flute like carolling of distant Magpies. “Not half as idiotic as standi….” The slap stung his cheek before he could finish the sentence. “Don’t you dare….” he stammered as her second effort whipped across his other cheek. His skin felt much softer than what she expected it to feel.

Slumped in the cockpit, Miles was more stunned by her hand speed and the accuracy of her lashing than by the sting of her petite palm across his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I never saw you standing on the runway, the sun…. I” He was stopped again in mid sentence, this time by her eyes; he had never seen them so blue. Her teeth, contrasting pearl white against her dusty face flashed briefly behind a sculptured top lip as she spun on her heels, rubbed the sting from her hand and marched from the scene. He watched her leave from the safety of his charge, fascinated by the bounce of her hair; a shock of blonde that bobbed in time to puffs of dust kicked up from what he guessed were nothing more than size three riding boots. Scrutinizing her gait for a few seconds longer he chuckled disbelievingly, rubbed the angry welts on his cheeks and stepped from the aircraft to a cacophony of hoots, cackles and wails of the two resident laughing Kookaburras.

Their paths crossed repeatedly in the following weeks. They met awkwardly at the Farmers Union Ball, bumped into each other on Saturdays at the local market and again at the annual Bundaberg High School reunion. On each occasion they yearned to speak with each other. Sasha could feel his eyes follow her around the ballroom and giggled watching him fumble and fidget nervously with food at the market. An icebreaker was needed and Sasha had just the answer.

Miles noticed the black Holden Commodore parked in the shade of the hangars as he circled for landing. Taxiing the plane into the first hangar, he switched off the avionics and began his shutdown procedures. “Miles Taylor?” enquired a tall, suited figure as the engine shuddered to a halt. “That would be me” Miles beamed engagingly, still high on the rush of low level flight. “Graham Norton, C.A.S.A.” replied the gangly stranger tersely, pausing for effect. Ignoring Miles’ outstretched hand the bureaucrat slouched against the plane swathing his suit in a concoction of fuselage dust and grease. Miles had never had trouble with the Civil Aviation Safety Authority but the cocky slump and arrogance of the gawky figure suggested that his run of luck had run dry. “May I see some identification?” asked Miles in the Queens best English. “We’ve had confirmed reports of this aircraft engaging in low level flight and I’m here to impound said aircraft and revoke your licence” quipped the string bean, riding roughshod over the pilot’s perfectly reasonable question. “In case you haven’t noticed sir, this is an agricultural aircraft designed for, and actively employed in low level agricultural flight” Miles returned sarcastically, hot potato now firmly ensconced under tongue. Giving no warning, the bureaucrat reached into the cockpit, removed the ignition keys and dropped them smartly into the top pocket of his now agriculturally initiated blazer. “I’ll have these; you’re in enough strife as it is to be making smart-ass comments mate.”
Miles sat dumbfounded for a brief moment. In the coming weeks, the old bird would be stripped down and containerised in preparation for the African season. The presence of this man jeopardised that season and threatened lucrative contracts in Cape Town. Miles jumped from his seat grazing the length of his shin on the rim of the cockpit in the process. Fuelled by the pain now coursing through his leg, he swore and lunged forward gripping the man’s wrist in a vice like hold.
Miles saw the movement from the corner of his eye. The door of the Holden flew open and out of it rolled Sasha Drew. Seeing her fall to the ground, he rushed to her side. Dropping to his knees beside her he noticed tears streaming down her cheeks. Mystified, he watched her rolling and slapping her hands in the dust in hysterical delight. “You little…………...witch” Miles roared with laughter, realising how easily he’d been duped into their trap as he watched the “bureaucrat”, a local drama student and friend of Sasha’s giggling uncontrollably. “I thought…..” Miles spluttered and rubbed his now visibly swollen shin. Sasha shook her head, waving her hands in front of her face to stop him from talking and herself from suffering the embarrassment of laughter induced incontinence. “Please” she cried, rivulets of dusty tears coursing down her cheeks, “stop, my stomach.” She burst into another uncontrolled fit of laughter, contagiously setting Miles and the “bureaucrat” off yet again.
The two were inseparable in the fortnight before Miles’ departure for Africa. Miles becoming quite the horseman and Sasha far more receptive to the greeting roar of his winged ship over her cottage early each morning. In the twilight she would listen for his return, her heart racing in time to the approaching drone of the big radial engine.
“One more sortie and it’s off to Africa old girl.” Miles patted the cowls of his plane and searched for the Kookaburras as he went about his daily pre flight inspection. The birds had become a regular feature of his early morning departures, cackling softly from the hangar beams as he went about his preparations. Thrilled by Sasha’s decision to join him in Cape Town, he paid scant regard to a needle-thin line of oil running the length of the engine block. The missing Kookaburras were a significant change to the morning and it bothered him. Completing his takeoff checks, he taxied the aircraft to the threshold of the runway.
Sasha buried her head into his pillow and breathed as she distantly heard the engine cough to life. The scent of apple from his freshly washed hair lingered as she hugged the pillow tightly.
The wire was unmarked. Strung only weeks after Miles had inspected the field, he was oblivious to its presence. The nose of the plane bucked skyward as the tip of the tail struck the single strand sending the wings into an instant stall. Flying at just twenty feet above the field Miles stood no chance of recovering control. Hurtling nose high onto a nearby road the aircraft cartwheeled out of control and slammed into a low embankment.

Through the settling dust, the two Kookaburras landed softly on the mangled remains of the fuselage.

Sucking in the Farmers

Chewing the fat recently with a prominent Tasmanian wine maker over a glass of his finest Pinot Noir I was swept back in time to a former life in South Africa. Of farming stock, I am well aware of the many hardships faced by Tasmania's primary producers. If it's not prolonged drought, it's heavy, untimely frosts. This years God sent rains, as sweet as they are, have come with a few small challenges of their own. None of these challenges however, as daunting as they can be at times, are insurmountable. Sadly, the modern day farmers' most complex challenge stems not from the vagaries of Mother Nature but from a source far more sinister. The cut and thrust world of the large corporate entities. Tasmanian dairy farmers are of course the most recent victims of corporate margin protection along the supply chain.

Many years ago I had the pleasure of managing the marketing interests of a number of South African timber growers. In South Africa, private farmers have co-operatised their timber marketing effort to good effect. Through their co-operative effort, they now enjoy vertical integration into South Africa's timber industry and value add their forest produce to the n'th degree. Most importantly, they’re not price takers and nor are they dictated to by the large South African timber corporates.

Well into my third glass of that fine Tassie Pinot, I vaguely recognised the dulcet tones of a disgruntled South African timber farmer in the voice of my Australian wine maker. The big corporates are at it again!! The vineyard has been approached and the deal involves securing the entire forthcoming crop. Fantastic! I hear. The farmer can focus on viticulture and managing the vineyard secure in the knowledge that his grapes are sold even before their harvest. This year that is. So, what of next year or the year after when the farmer, “secure in the knowledge that his grapes are sold even before their harvest” has long since abandoned his former marketing links? Yes, like his dairy farming mates, he’s totally dependant on Mr Big Corporate. He becomes enslaved to the corporate contract and is forevermore a price taker instead of the price setter he should be.

The solution is not that difficult. It’s about buying local. Supporting your farmer introduces competition and flexibility into his markets and don’t as a consumer for one second believe that the supposed lower prices you believe you will pay at the corporate bottle shop are in your favour. Think widely and buy local.

Stop the rot by checking out http://tascws.blogspot.com/ Support your farmers by buying local.