Chapter Three
Taste of Freedom
I woke up in a stiflingly small room with a strange woman calling my name softly. It took forever to focus on her glowing white dress and the words she spoke made no sense at all. My head was throbbing to the beat of some grotesque bass drum and I started to feel sick, I just wanted to sleep. It seemed like an eternity before I could focus on reality and discovered I was lying in the 'sick room' of my school. I could remember leaving my pushbike at school in the morning, but nothing else about the rest of the day and especially, no memory of how I got to the school infirmary. I just wanted to close my eyes and sleep.
My parents had briefly moved back to the city and I found myself next morning in my small, light coloured bedroom. A massive, dark wood wardrobe loomed out of the wall and I slowly focused on familiar surroundings. My parents were soon in my room and explained I had an accident at school and had concussion. I had no recollection of any 'accident' and could only remember leaving my push-bike at school, then waking up in the school bed. My head felt like cotton wool, I had strange hallucinations that left giant grains of wheat floating around my room and after two days rest at home, the local doctor gave me the all clear to return to school.
I had to find out what happened. As soon as I arrived back at school, I asked my friend David for his recollection of the accident. He told me our class was playing soccer during a morning Physical Education lesson and someone kicked a soccer ball out of the oval and I raced off to retrieve it. Apparently, I tripped running down an embankment and knocked myself unconscious on a concrete drainpipe. Poor David was first on the scene, saw a trickle of blood from my head and thought I was dead. The Physical Education teacher had left us boys to play by ourselves and David picked me up and carried me to the 'sick room.'
A few weeks later, we discovered the tanned, athletic Scandinavian teacher supervising us, had left our group of boys playing by themselves and headed off to shag the young, attractive school nurse. The Scandinavian athletics teacher was relieved of duties at the school soon after the licentious incident and the attractive school nurse was hurriedly replaced with a stout, middle-aged Valkyrie.
At first, nothing seemed different, I enjoyed seeing my mates after school and heading off with them on our regular adventures, but I had enormous difficulty concentrating in class, had debilitating headaches and I could no longer recall information the way I used to. My grades plummeted and I was placed in the lowest performing class of my age group. My academic performance at school continued to decline and I was powerless to halt it. I left school at fifteen and returned to my parent's farm.
Despite temporary learning difficulties, I still managed to discover more life skills in one week out of the school environment than I had learnt during the many years spent in a schoolroom. I set up a bank account, studied farm management, basic accounting and how to shear sheep around our district to earn money. I joined a rock band and learned to play guitar and keyboards. There were wild parties, girls, drugs and booze. I saved enough money to buy the latest and greatest motorbike and finally tasted freedom. In those days, there were no speed cameras and the area was too remote for traffic police. I could twist the throttle on the bike as far as it would go and fly down the road with my mates for hours at a time. We had some amazing adventures on our polished metal steeds as we thundered through the countryside and were able to take the local maidens for the ride of their life.
The rural lifestyle offered an amazing level of personal freedom compared to life in the cities. There were no traffic lights, no traffic jams, no houses packed on top of each other and no constabulary watching every move people made. The seasons dominated our work cycle more than man-made rules and the importance of sowing crops at the correct time was dictated by seasonal conditions as opposed to a bureaucratic decree or exact dates and times. I had the freedom to work as little or as long as I wished, knowing that the effort I expended would be proportional to the success of my activity. There was nobody standing alongside saying, “Do this,” or “Do that.” and I quickly learned that my own feelings of doing the job right and an inbuilt sense of propriety were more effective than someone standing over me giving orders.
There was time in the quiet rural evenings to read, study and write and my family had an extensive library stacked with books that ranged from comic fantasy to sets of leather bound encyclopaedia, Latin classics, Homer’s Odyssey, metaphysical works and Simone de Beauvoir. Books were the journey to different cultures, ideas and filled with pages of raw emotions, adventure, passion and knowledge. With no television, computers or reliable radio reception, reading and research became a passion my friends and I revelled in. Ultimately, our remote neighbourhood had an effective lending library that saw books on all subjects circulated eagerly around the district. We shared everything from books on maintenance of high-speed diesel engines to philosophical works, religious dogma and romance novels. There were often vigorous debates after we had read some of the more controversial literature.
I had the freedom to carry firearms without licensing and I bought my first centre-fire rifle aged fourteen. The rifle I bought was an ancient single shot, lever action .303 calibre, manufactured in the late eighteen hundreds and may have been used in the Boer War or shortly after. The huge number of bullets fired over the years had worn the rifle barrel to the point that hitting a target was an absolute miracle. Ammunition was readily available; thanks to cheap army, surplus stock and my friends and I would take the old rifle out on shooting expeditions on our farm. When I squeezed the trigger, the rifle roared into life and recoiled viciously against my shoulder. To avoid bruising from the recoil of firing a round, the rifle had to be held as tight as possible and one of my friends noticed my whole body was moved backwards as a bullet left the muzzle. He was too gutless to fire the decrepit weapon himself and decided to stand close behind and study what happened as I pulled the trigger of the ancient rifle. I had no idea he was standing so close when I fired the rifle again and my head moved backwards rapidly, nearly breaking his nose. He jumped around with blood pouring from his nose and later decided he was a complete idiot and should have fired the battered old rifle for himself. It would have been a lot less painful.
There was freedom to explore the country around our farm and there were some truly beautiful areas in very remote locations. The undeveloped waterways in our area were vast networks of shallow water that eventually joined into massive swamps that slowly inched their way into the distant sea. One of the areas in our locality was a magnificent group of limestone islands, supporting awe-inspiring swamp gum trees of mammoth proportions, in a marsh area accessible only on horseback. The islands were hemmed between two narrow limestone ranges, with small jagged escarpments, fringed with delicate Maiden Hair ferns that dropped abruptly into the clear, still water.
The islands shared the watercourse with expansive clumps of thick papyrus style reeds that provided shelter for nesting bird life. The birds quickly realised they had safety from predators in the thick reeds and had the bonus of a moat around the reeds to keep most terrestrial foes at bay. The scene was truly stunning, as ducks flew in for landings through the elegant tree branches, their feathers screaming like jet engines as they used their wings to slow their airspeed for landing. They used their feet as skis when they hit the placid lake and slipped over the surface leaving water splaying high into the air, before finally coming to rest and joining their companions in a flurry of flapping and noisy greetings.
As I followed the southern edge of the beautiful lake, there was the sound of gurgling water in the distance. No stream ran in or out of the lake and it was intriguing to find out what was making the noise. It didn't take long to discover thousands and thousands of litres of cold, clear water pouring into subterranean fissures on the edge of a limestone bank. The water level had risen to a point that allowed enormous quantities of water to pour into underground aquifers just below ground level. The lake was a major source of renewable underground water for many of the local farmers water bores. The huge underground reservoirs protected the precious liquid from the evaporative tongue of the hellish summer sun and farmers tapped into the resource to water their stock and use the precious liquid for pasture irrigation. It was amazing to see so much water gushing back into the ground and it only happened when the swamps and lakes were completely full during particularly wet winters.
The rural lifestyle provided autonomy and independence and was the far removed from my city experiences, but elements of country living were physically demanding, isolating and brutally harsh. Despite the difficulties, I rarely felt deprived.
The sheep shearing work around the district was physically challenging, but the financial rewards were enormous. I could earn more in a day of shearing than many adults could earn in a month. The extreme physical work of removing wool from sheep started at 7:30 in the morning and ended at 5:30 in the afternoon. The shearing season was during summer in corrugated iron sheds with internal temperatures around 50° Celsius (122° F) and no cooling. Shearing sheep was ‘piece work' which meant shearers were paid for the number of sheep they sheared, not the number of hours worked in a day. This fostered a keen sense of competition, as there were a finite number of sheep to shear on each farm, divided by the number of shearers working in the wool shed. There could be up to eight or twelve shearers working in the larger sheds and the fastest shearer was known as a ‘gun' shearer. The gun shearer was akin to a gunslinger from the old western movies, always having to defend his position in the team against new competition.
My reputation as a hard worker spread and I had more work than I could handle. I discovered I had amazing strength and stamina and could work longer and harder than many of the people I worked with. I developed new techniques for handling sheep that allowed me break records in the shearing shed. I learned to concentrate with laser precision and the magic of flowing with a rhythm that put me into a relaxed mental state for the strenuous day ahead.
Working in the shearing sheds of Australia was a great way to discover some of the characters from the bush, including many individuals evading law officers or debt collectors. On one occasion, we were working with a wool classer whose sense of humour was a fraction North-West of normal. He was a renowned practical joker and the day finally arrived when he was able to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was the undisputed king of practical jokers.
Very few people from cities visit shearing sheds, the work is strenuous beyond imagination, foul smelling and the conditions would make most health and safety regulators faint. The level of activity is extreme, with people scurrying in all directions and nobody is idle for more than a millisecond. Like a mousetrap sales person during a mouse plague, everyone is very busy. It was during one of these very hectic periods that a group of schoolboys from a private city college decided to call at the wool shed and witness a slice of rural Australia. "G'day," drawled the wool classer in an exaggerated nasal accent to the group of wide-eyed boys, "How can we help you?" The boys explained they were part of a larger excursion group, hiking through the area and would like to watch how shearers removed the fleece from the hapless sheep. "No worries." said the classer, "Just stand behind the catching pens, keep out of the way of the shearers and you can see exactly what happens."
The boys cautiously opened the spring loaded catching pen doors and took three steps to position themselves for a perfect view to watch how the sweating team of shearers skilfully removed the sheeps’ fleeces. The boys studied the massive, whirring overhead gear that drove the shearer's hand pieces and we noticed the boys were overwhelmed by the incredibly loud noise levels of the shed environment. A large, two-cylinder diesel engine thudded relentlessly from a compact engine room nearby and a wide leather belt clacked rhythmically around the flywheel of the engine as it drove the spinning shaft that supplied power to the shearer's hand-pieces through thin, jointed down tubes.
The boys marvelled at the shed hands that whisked away the large fleeces of wool as the shearer released his finished sheep and then the roustabouts threw the fleece on the slatted sorting table like a perfectly thrown blanket. They would race back to sweep the floor before the shearer dragged a new sheep from his catching pen, then run back to the wool table to help the wool classer remove poor quality wool from the edges of the fleece and scurry back to repeat the whole process. The wool classer would grade the snowy white fleeces according to the thickness and structure of the wool and place the rolled fleece in large separated compartments ready for the wool presser to collect the wool, compress it into tightly packed bales and brand them ready for transport.
Work continued until the next group of wide-eyed college students arrived at the scene. This was what the wool classer had been waiting for, the opportunity to show the rest of the shearing team his skill as a practical joke legend. "G'day." He repeated, "How can we help you?" The boys had seen their friends standing dutifully behind the shearers catching pens and asked where they had to go to join them. This was the cue for the wool classer to hatch his plan.
Without hesitating, the wool classer said in an authoritative tone, "No worries boys, all you have to do is go back where you came in, walk around the southern side of the wool shed, climb over those outside yards and go to the adjoining cattle yards. When you get there open the third gate on your right and run 800 meters up the hill. Then, just climb through those three barbed wire fences up there and head back towards the wool shed. When you get back to the rear of the shed walk carefully through all the penned sheep, make very sure you don't damage their wool if you touch them and catch up with your mates." We couldn't believe what we were hearing, all the boys had to do was take 10 small steps forward, open one small gate and to be with their friends. As the boys turned around to head back out the shed, we marvelled at the wool classer's friendly grin. The boys faced with a pointless trek that would take 40 minutes instead of 10 seconds. Not one of the boys questioned why they couldn't get to their friends the easy way and as a result we saw them again 40 minutes later. During a break later in the day, the wool classer was basking in the glow of his latest triumph and couldn't believe how gullible the boys had been. He concluded that they were destined to enjoy long and fruitful years in the bureaucracy and we all agreed he was probably 100% correct. We also knew that if bull-grit was a currency, the wool classer was a wealthy man.
Through shearing, I became stronger than I could ever imagine and I was so fit, it felt like I was 'walking on air,' my reflexes were faster than greased lightning and my mind processed data like a supercharged computer. I could bend steel with my bare hands and easily lift huge objects with little effort. I felt like superman and my diminutive size was a perfect disguise for the incredible strength that surged through my body. Neanderthals in bars, who tried to inflate their shallow egos by picking a fight with me, found themselves embarrassingly dispatched with little effort. During this period, I was fortunate to meet some of the most beautiful, intelligent and free thinking young women in the country and the times we shared are wonderful, precious memories.
My brother was still on my parent's farm and I was finally able to confront him as an adult. I can still see the look of amazement on his face, as I grabbed him by his shirt and lifted him clear of the ground during one of his confrontational remarks. I didn't have to utter a word – his vile hold over me was broken and he left the farm soon after.
In between shearing, I was working on a large farm nearby. I had studied farm management and already had a wealth of practical experience behind me. By age 17, I was managing the property autonomously. I watched my bank balance increase and my level of freedom as well. There were still crazy parties where I could never remember how I got home and would sometimes wake up, having no idea where I was and feeling as if I had pressed the 'down' button on the elevator ride to hell. I woke up under hedges, in people's vegetable patches and in stranger's houses or vehicles. There were a few too many times when I had no sleep at all after particularly outrageous parties and had to stagger off and fight a bushfire or attend some other farm or district emergency. I'm not sure if I was much use to anyone on these occasions, but I guess I gave moral support.
During some of these wild parties, I met numerous young professionals from the distant capital city who would use a nearby rural property for their weekend drug retreat. Particularly on holiday weekends, there would be an armada of vehicles travelling along our quiet country road. The vehicles ranged from stately, top of the range roadsters to wheezing, smoking jalopies that jiggled and jangled over the rough limestone tracks. These were young doctors, lawyers, accountants and engineers, whose psychedelic adventures in the country, led to a marijuana production facility hidden deep in the bushland of the area.
The incredibly heavy bushland was the perfect place for their clandestine operation. The marijuana grew in heavily camouflaged plots, hidden in nearly impenetrable native forest. The area around the crop was protected from rabbits and native fauna by camouflaged, fine gauge netting fencing buried deep in the soil. There was no need for complicated irrigation systems, as the hardy marijuana plants thrived in the Mediterranean climate and with just a little help from the abundant manure of the local farms; the plants grew to huge proportions. Sowing the plants in late autumn, ensured Mother Nature saw to the success of the venture. Only two people knew the exact location of the plantation and there was no way anyone could have ever stumbled onto the operation, even with sophisticated satellite surveillance, the shielding forest concealed the plants effectively. The young lawyers of the group were well versed in legal issues relating to drugs and distribution and the other members of the party were equally skilled in distribution methods. A sizeable slice of the action could be mine, if I provided the land for production and kept my mouth shut.
Once again, I was confronted with people who weren't what they appeared to be. These were doctors and lawyers who were so off their faces on LSD, Mandrax, Cocaine, Heroin and good old Mary Jane. We would find them wandering through the countryside with their partners in a drug induced haze like wide eyed zombies, preaching love and peace, but heavily involved in profitable drug distribution in the city. I was witnessing the same duplicity I had seen in my family and the teaching profession and again it was difficult to reconcile their behaviour.
Who were these people that could pretend to be something good and wholesome, yet were nothing more than devious shitweazles? Even more stunning was the fact that nobody was able to detect the shallowness of these individuals and completely fall for the outward illusion of their social status.
Mind you, the drugs were fun.