Bubup
Siena Visentini
Year 12, Star of the Sea College
As the premature dusk settled, I watched as the congruous cluster of birch trees swayed in the frosty winter breeze. Mt Donna Buang sighed as the sun slowly receded amongst the valleys. Reluctantly, I swallowed the bitter end of my nightly green tea and opened up The Age for some mediocre news, hoping for a comforting sense of inertia. A familiar toothy grin accompanied the bold typeface on the front page, inducing a slight reflux of the tea at the back of my throat. The developer, that pudgy bastard in the blinding yellow hard hat, smugly shaking the hand of a new deal in a suit. A sharp pang of nostalgia bubbled inside and an urgency to return home, to see what had become of Uncle’s precious sweeping rugged land.
You are my Mother, my Mother the Land
You provide me for thousands of years
But now your soul, like a rock waterhole
Is drenched, not from water, but tears
I loathed the thought of driving back there but I had no choice. Mornington Peninsula, Arthur’s Seat to be exact, a place that reads on real estate boards as a unique escape from the city with a lustful proximity to the beach and bush. A suburb carved into a mountain, thick tar poured onto the fertile earth, trees lacerated to accommodate telegraph poles all for a manufactured view of Port Phillip Bay. This seemed to be the attraction for most of the middle class families who had invested in Seahaze Court. My house was a tired weatherboard bungalow, layered with dust, framing lanky windows covered in emu bush and she – oak. Like a dried up kangaroo paw flower on a branch of velvety green and red buds - an outlier; an embarrassment.
******
Across the road from where I grew up were the elderly Italians, a loud and passionate bunch. Their garden was impeccable, plump zucchinis, vibrant parsley and endless trees of citrus and fruits. Every summer Isotta would bring a basket of blush red pomodori and every winter a steaming pot of brodo. She understood our household, which was equally as overrun with small barefoot children, hearty laughter and endless relatives, a stark contrast to the clean and neat Anglo families on the street. I still vividly picture my mother and her sisters as they sat, their copper skin glowing in the afternoon sun as the squealing children darted through the yard. They would spend hours delicately dotting rich colours of ochre onto swirling dreamtime landscapes telling stories of creation. Our front lawn was constantly checkered with Ford and Holden station wagons and cousins rolling in half a dozen at a time. However, at the age of 10, this part of my life came to a halt with the arrival of Stepdad. An average Anglo plumber and a dedicated alcoholic, the stench of VB and cigarette smoke hung on him incessantly like a grimy coat. After luckless nights betting on ‘Lord Fury’, he would often charge into the lounge room with bloodshot eyes and veins protruding in rage, smashing Mum’s paintings and eisel to the floor. He hated the music, the stories, the family, the food and the spiritual belief in the land. Dark purple bruises speckled her brown skin across her collarbone and jaw. She became empty.
At the top of the street were the Broadbents; the greasy developer, his wife and their awful son, Henry. Two males who snickered with pleasure in making my life a living hell. Henry was first though, a vile scrawny pale boy with a ridiculous amount of freckles. He started the spitting routine on the walk home from school, aiming for the back of my head, hurling spit and chanting ‘Piss off you dirty Abo!’ He always encouraged the local boys to add to the waves of saliva and wads of drool that clung to my hair. Puberty had spotted their faces prematurely with pimples and stubble and they were recognisable by their muddy boots and violent body odour. I envied how they ventured to the national park at the end of Seahaze Court, an expanse of eucalyptus, gum and sweet bursaria, yet the omnipresent temptation failed to override the fear of Stepdad’s consequences.
One spring afternoon, about 30m from my house Henry came out of nowhere and slammed his foot down on my thong. The pavement met my face in a blistering fit of pain. I brushed myself down, threw the other thong off and sprinted barefoot – past my house and Stepdad’s slanderous yells and into the dark embrace of the unknown. The mild air hugged my lungs and the rogue sticks scratched at my ankles – an eerie reception. I continued to run, indenting the soft earth with my brown feet. Suddenly, an umber face appeared out of nowhere, his salt and pepper beard long and his gaze softer than fresh sap from a bottle tree. For several minutes we stared at each other, until he extended his earthy palm out that was clasping crisp emerald leaves. The redolent native mint he offered me trailed the roof of my mouth tickling my tongue and tastebuds in an incandescent sensation. Near a cluster of eucalypt, he then showed me how to distinguish the edible native bread fungus from the poisonous yellow- staining mushroom. I absorbed all of his knowledge, as he was an elder, an Uncle.
From then on, I avoided the shorter bitumen walk from school past the slimy developer’s house and explored the winding, tangling bush that led to Uncle’s hut in the heart of the trees. My own organic trail changed everyday, silently creeping through indigofera sheltered in the shadow of the large angophora. Silvery bearded Uncle was alone, a remaining elder of the Boonwurrung people from the Wonga region. Wonga, he told me, meant pigeon, but Arthur must have decided thousands of years later that his ‘Seat’ would take priority. He welcomed me to this land Womin Jeka mirambeek beek with Ngargee, a smoking ceremony to purify me of bad spirits using the potent, charred leaves of the Ngargee tree. His wurrung effortlessly left his lips and in the language of this land, I was a Bubup, young, innocent and eager to learn.
During the drought of the next summer, the water level of the river slowly subsided. Despite the fact that everyone’s lawns and roses were leeched of any signs of life, Uncle was still able to find yam daisy and pick native rosemary and bush peas. The red flowering gums continued to blossom and had fruitful boughs. The smell of the eucalyptus and tea tree delicately perfumed the dry summer heat.
The following autumn, Uncle was awoken by the monotonous drilling sound of bulldozers, bobcats and trucks clearing space for more houses on the mountain with a view of Nairm, or the Port Bay discovered by Phillip. The beaming golden wattles and red bottle brush were showered with dark chemical residue from the thick black cloud of exhaust. The delicately pollinating waratah and dwarf lilly pillys were crushed under the weight of the machines before they tore into the aged flesh of the lemon scented gum. Uncle winced as the tree was repeatedly pounded by the jagged metallic claws as if feeling the pain of the land. He saw my dismayed look and reassured me that the spirit of the creator, Bunjil who travels as an eagle, protects this land and Waarn, who travels as a crow, protects the waterways.
Mid winter the mundane humming of machines on my walk home was rudely interrupted by a tradie’s echoing outburst. Intrigued, I sprinted towards the noise. Uncle’s cold, numb body rested quietly on a bed of white baeckea. His eyes failed to flicker open at the sound of my voice, his death hung heavy, like the thin branches of grevillea during spring. I screamed helplessly, my body ached in pain, crying so aggressively that I struggled to stand. A construction worker pulled me away, I kicked him hard and ran back to Uncle’s desolate body. A man so wise and empathetic that he could not bear the suffering of the land.
A clammy hand clamped my shoulder and as I looked up I was met with Mr Broadbent’s slithery eyes and fluorescent yellow ensemble. Before I knew it, he greeted me with a swing from his sweaty porous hand, a body-numbing smack. I cowered but he continued, with disregard for my quivering torso. As I looked behind to Uncle, the workers began to recklessly bulldoze his hut behind him, obliterating the handcut wooden planks into discarded debris.
*****
The slimy developer’s face was plastered in my mind as I drove up the winding mountain in my Japanese manual. Chapman’s Point was new, a stop for tourists to photograph the panorama of sea and suburbia 247 m above sea level. The familiar roadside acmenas and billardia had been replaced by gravel and signposts dedicated to some blokes named Franklin and Murray. Despite suburbia encroaching on the wilderness, small patches of lively gums remained lodged between properties, providing sustenance and shelter for koalas and ring tailed possums. The cockatoos still bickered on the matted clump of telephone wires and the wild grass continued to creep through the pavement. Ahead, the shrunken national park survived between the perimeters of cemented driveways. As I approached the end of Seahaze Court, a sudden static wind began lapping at the trees, gaining momentum and pace as it tore the roof off a nearby shed with ease. Dark steely clouds herded the mountain as thunder crackled through the leaves, mimicking the sound of Uncle’s footsteps. Lightning followed with assertive volume and visuals; electric and invigorating. Glassy raindrops then pelted down, piercing into the raw dark earth. I could feel it then, the living and deceased fragments of the land agelessly present, embedded and powerful.
my nightly green tea and opened up The Age for some mediocre news, hoping for a comforting sense of inertia. A familiar toothy grin accompanied the bold typeface on the front page, inducing a slight reflux of the tea at the back of my throat. The developer, that pudgy bastard in the blinding yellow hard hat, smugly shaking the hand of a new deal in a suit. A sharp pang of nostalgia bubbled inside and an urgency to return home, to see what had become of Uncle’s precious sweeping rugged land.
You are my Mother, my Mother the Land
You provide me for thousands of years
But now your soul, like a rock waterhole
Is drenched, not from water, but tears
I loathed the thought of driving back there but I had no choice. Mornington Peninsula, Arthur’s Seat to be exact, a place that reads on real estate boards as a unique escape from the city with a lustful proximity to the beach and bush. A suburb carved into a mountain, thick tar poured onto the fertile earth, trees lacerated to accommodate telegraph poles all for a manufactured view of Port Phillip Bay. This seemed to be the attraction for most of the middle class families who had invested in Seahaze Court. My house was a tired weatherboard bungalow, layered with dust, framing lanky windows covered in emu bush and she – oak. Like a dried up kangaroo paw flower on a branch of velvety green and red buds - an outlier; an embarrassment.
******
Across the road from where I grew up were the elderly Italians, a loud and passionate bunch. Their garden was impeccable, plump zucchinis, vibrant parsley and endless trees of citrus and fruits. Every summer Isotta would bring a basket of blush red pomodori and every winter a steaming pot of brodo. She understood our household, which was equally as overrun with small barefoot children, hearty laughter and endless relatives, a stark contrast to the clean and neat Anglo families on the street. I still vividly picture my mother and her sisters as they sat, their copper skin glowing in the afternoon sun as the squealing children darted through the yard. They would spend hours delicately dotting rich colours of ochre onto swirling dreamtime landscapes telling stories of creation. Our front lawn was constantly checkered with Ford and Holden station wagons and cousins rolling in half a dozen at a time. However, at the age of 10, this part of my life came to a halt with the arrival of Stepdad. An average Anglo plumber and a dedicated alcoholic, the stench of VB and cigarette smoke hung on him incessantly like a grimy coat. After luckless nights betting on ‘Lord Fury’, he would often charge into the lounge room with bloodshot eyes and veins protruding in rage, smashing Mum’s paintings and eisel to the floor. He hated the music, the stories, the family, the food and the spiritual belief in the land. Dark purple bruises speckled her brown skin across her collarbone and jaw. She became empty.
At the top of the street were the Broadbents; the greasy developer, his wife and their awful son, Henry. Two males who snickered with pleasure in making my life a living hell. Henry was first though, a vile scrawny pale boy with a ridiculous amount of freckles. He started the spitting routine on the walk home from school, aiming for the back of my head, hurling spit and chanting ‘Piss off you dirty Abo!’ He always encouraged the local boys to add to the waves of saliva and wads of drool that clung to my hair. Puberty had spotted their faces prematurely with pimples and stubble and they were recognisable by their muddy boots and violent body odour. I envied how they ventured to the national park at the end of Seahaze Court, an expanse of eucalyptus, gum and sweet bursaria, yet the omnipresent temptation failed to override the fear of Stepdad’s consequences.
One spring afternoon, about 30m from my house Henry came out of nowhere and slammed his foot down on my thong. The pavement met my face in a blistering fit of pain. I brushed myself down, threw the other thong off and sprinted barefoot – past my house and Stepdad’s slanderous yells and into the dark embrace of the unknown. The mild air hugged my lungs and the rogue sticks scratched at my ankles – an eerie reception. I continued to run, indenting the soft earth with my brown feet. Suddenly, an umber face appeared out of nowhere, his salt and pepper beard long and his gaze softer than fresh sap from a bottle tree. For several minutes we stared at each other, until he extended his earthy palm out that was clasping crisp emerald leaves. The redolent native mint he offered me trailed the roof of my mouth tickling my tongue and tastebuds in an incandescent sensation. Near a cluster of eucalypt, he then showed me how to distinguish the edible native bread fungus from the poisonous yellow- staining mushroom. I absorbed all of his knowledge, as he was an elder, an Uncle.
From then on, I avoided the shorter bitumen walk from school past the slimy developer’s house and explored the winding, tangling bush that led to Uncle’s hut in the heart of the trees. My own organic trail changed everyday, silently creeping through indigofera sheltered in the shadow of the large angophora. Silvery bearded Uncle was alone, a remaining elder of the Boonwurrung people from the Wonga region. Wonga, he told me, meant pigeon, but Arthur must have decided thousands of years later that his ‘Seat’ would take priority. He welcomed me to this land Womin Jeka mirambeek beek with Ngargee, a smoking ceremony to purify me of bad spirits using the potent, charred leaves of the Ngargee tree. His wurrung effortlessly left his lips and in the language of this land, I was a Bubup, young, innocent and eager to learn.
During the drought of the next summer, the water level of the river slowly subsided. Despite the fact that everyone’s lawns and roses were leeched of any signs of life, Uncle was still able to find yam daisy and pick native rosemary and bush peas. The red flowering gums continued to blossom and had fruitful boughs. The smell of the eucalyptus and tea tree delicately perfumed the dry summer heat.
The following autumn, Uncle was awoken by the monotonous drilling sound of bulldozers, bobcats and trucks clearing space for more houses on the mountain with a view of Nairm, or the Port Bay discovered by Phillip. The beaming golden wattles and red bottle brush were showered with dark chemical residue from the thick black cloud of exhaust. The delicately pollinating waratah and dwarf lilly pillys were crushed under the weight of the machines before they tore into the aged flesh of the lemon scented gum. Uncle winced as the tree was repeatedly pounded by the jagged metallic claws as if feeling the pain of the land. He saw my dismayed look and reassured me that the spirit of the creator, Bunjil who travels as an eagle, protects this land and Waarn, who travels as a crow, protects the waterways.
Mid winter the mundane humming of machines on my walk home was rudely interrupted by a tradie’s echoing outburst. Intrigued, I sprinted towards the noise. Uncle’s cold, numb body rested quietly on a bed of white baeckea. His eyes failed to flicker open at the sound of my voice, his death hung heavy, like the thin branches of grevillea during spring. I screamed helplessly, my body ached in pain, crying so aggressively that I struggled to stand. A construction worker pulled me away, I kicked him hard and ran back to Uncle’s desolate body. A man so wise and empathetic that he could not bear the suffering of the land.
A clammy hand clamped my shoulder and as I looked up I was met with Mr Broadbent’s slithery eyes and fluorescent yellow ensemble. Before I knew it, he greeted me with a swing from his sweaty porous hand, a body-numbing smack. I cowered but he continued, with disregard for my quivering torso. As I looked behind to Uncle, the workers began to recklessly bulldoze his hut behind him, obliterating the handcut wooden planks into discarded debris.
*****
The slimy developer’s face was plastered in my mind as I drove up the winding mountain in my Japanese manual. Chapman’s Point was new, a stop for tourists to photograph the panorama of sea and suburbia 247 m above sea level. The familiar roadside acmenas and billardia had been replaced by gravel and signposts dedicated to some blokes named Franklin and Murray. Despite suburbia encroaching on the wilderness, small patches of lively gums remained lodged between properties, providing sustenance and shelter for koalas and ring tailed possums. The cockatoos still bickered on the matted clump of telephone wires and the wild grass continued to creep through the pavement. Ahead, the shrunken national park survived between the perimeters of cemented driveways. As I approached the end of Seahaze Court, a sudden static wind began lapping at the trees, gaining momentum and pace as it tore the roof off a nearby shed with ease. Dark steely clouds herded the mountain as thunder crackled through the leaves, mimicking the sound of Uncle’s footsteps. Lightning followed with assertive volume and visuals; electric and invigorating. Glassy raindrops then pelted down, piercing into the raw dark earth. I could feel it then, the living and deceased fragments of the land agelessly present, embedded and powerful.
Siena Visentini
Year 12, Star of the Sea College
As the premature dusk settled, I watched as the congruous cluster of birch trees swayed in the frosty winter breeze. Mt Donna Buang sighed as the sun slowly receded amongst the valleys. Reluctantly, I swallowed the bitter end of my nightly green tea and opened up The Age for some mediocre news, hoping for a comforting sense of inertia. A familiar toothy grin accompanied the bold typeface on the front page, inducing a slight reflux of the tea at the back of my throat. The developer, that pudgy bastard in the blinding yellow hard hat, smugly shaking the hand of a new deal in a suit. A sharp pang of nostalgia bubbled inside and an urgency to return home, to see what had become of Uncle’s precious sweeping rugged land.
You are my Mother, my Mother the Land
You provide me for thousands of years
But now your soul, like a rock waterhole
Is drenched, not from water, but tears
I loathed the thought of driving back there but I had no choice. Mornington Peninsula, Arthur’s Seat to be exact, a place that reads on real estate boards as a unique escape from the city with a lustful proximity to the beach and bush. A suburb carved into a mountain, thick tar poured onto the fertile earth, trees lacerated to accommodate telegraph poles all for a manufactured view of Port Phillip Bay. This seemed to be the attraction for most of the middle class families who had invested in Seahaze Court. My house was a tired weatherboard bungalow, layered with dust, framing lanky windows covered in emu bush and she – oak. Like a dried up kangaroo paw flower on a branch of velvety green and red buds - an outlier; an embarrassment.
******
Across the road from where I grew up were the elderly Italians, a loud and passionate bunch. Their garden was impeccable, plump zucchinis, vibrant parsley and endless trees of citrus and fruits. Every summer Isotta would bring a basket of blush red pomodori and every winter a steaming pot of brodo. She understood our household, which was equally as overrun with small barefoot children, hearty laughter and endless relatives, a stark contrast to the clean and neat Anglo families on the street. I still vividly picture my mother and her sisters as they sat, their copper skin glowing in the afternoon sun as the squealing children darted through the yard. They would spend hours delicately dotting rich colours of ochre onto swirling dreamtime landscapes telling stories of creation. Our front lawn was constantly checkered with Ford and Holden station wagons and cousins rolling in half a dozen at a time. However, at the age of 10, this part of my life came to a halt with the arrival of Stepdad. An average Anglo plumber and a dedicated alcoholic, the stench of VB and cigarette smoke hung on him incessantly like a grimy coat. After luckless nights betting on ‘Lord Fury’, he would often charge into the lounge room with bloodshot eyes and veins protruding in rage, smashing Mum’s paintings and eisel to the floor. He hated the music, the stories, the family, the food and the spiritual belief in the land. Dark purple bruises speckled her brown skin across her collarbone and jaw. She became empty.
At the top of the street were the Broadbents; the greasy developer, his wife and their awful son, Henry. Two males who snickered with pleasure in making my life a living hell. Henry was first though, a vile scrawny pale boy with a ridiculous amount of freckles. He started the spitting routine on the walk home from school, aiming for the back of my head, hurling spit and chanting ‘Piss off you dirty Abo!’ He always encouraged the local boys to add to the waves of saliva and wads of drool that clung to my hair. Puberty had spotted their faces prematurely with pimples and stubble and they were recognisable by their muddy boots and violent body odour. I envied how they ventured to the national park at the end of Seahaze Court, an expanse of eucalyptus, gum and sweet bursaria, yet the omnipresent temptation failed to override the fear of Stepdad’s consequences.
One spring afternoon, about 30m from my house Henry came out of nowhere and slammed his foot down on my thong. The pavement met my face in a blistering fit of pain. I brushed myself down, threw the other thong off and sprinted barefoot – past my house and Stepdad’s slanderous yells and into the dark embrace of the unknown. The mild air hugged my lungs and the rogue sticks scratched at my ankles – an eerie reception. I continued to run, indenting the soft earth with my brown feet. Suddenly, an umber face appeared out of nowhere, his salt and pepper beard long and his gaze softer than fresh sap from a bottle tree. For several minutes we stared at each other, until he extended his earthy palm out that was clasping crisp emerald leaves. The redolent native mint he offered me trailed the roof of my mouth tickling my tongue and tastebuds in an incandescent sensation. Near a cluster of eucalypt, he then showed me how to distinguish the edible native bread fungus from the poisonous yellow- staining mushroom. I absorbed all of his knowledge, as he was an elder, an Uncle.
From then on, I avoided the shorter bitumen walk from school past the slimy developer’s house and explored the winding, tangling bush that led to Uncle’s hut in the heart of the trees. My own organic trail changed everyday, silently creeping through indigofera sheltered in the shadow of the large angophora. Silvery bearded Uncle was alone, a remaining elder of the Boonwurrung people from the Wonga region. Wonga, he told me, meant pigeon, but Arthur must have decided thousands of years later that his ‘Seat’ would take priority. He welcomed me to this land Womin Jeka mirambeek beek with Ngargee, a smoking ceremony to purify me of bad spirits using the potent, charred leaves of the Ngargee tree. His wurrung effortlessly left his lips and in the language of this land, I was a Bubup, young, innocent and eager to learn.
During the drought of the next summer, the water level of the river slowly subsided. Despite the fact that everyone’s lawns and roses were leeched of any signs of life, Uncle was still able to find yam daisy and pick native rosemary and bush peas. The red flowering gums continued to blossom and had fruitful boughs. The smell of the eucalyptus and tea tree delicately perfumed the dry summer heat.
The following autumn, Uncle was awoken by the monotonous drilling sound of bulldozers, bobcats and trucks clearing space for more houses on the mountain with a view of Nairm, or the Port Bay discovered by Phillip. The beaming golden wattles and red bottle brush were showered with dark chemical residue from the thick black cloud of exhaust. The delicately pollinating waratah and dwarf lilly pillys were crushed under the weight of the machines before they tore into the aged flesh of the lemon scented gum. Uncle winced as the tree was repeatedly pounded by the jagged metallic claws as if feeling the pain of the land. He saw my dismayed look and reassured me that the spirit of the creator, Bunjil who travels as an eagle, protects this land and Waarn, who travels as a crow, protects the waterways.
Mid winter the mundane humming of machines on my walk home was rudely interrupted by a tradie’s echoing outburst. Intrigued, I sprinted towards the noise. Uncle’s cold, numb body rested quietly on a bed of white baeckea. His eyes failed to flicker open at the sound of my voice, his death hung heavy, like the thin branches of grevillea during spring. I screamed helplessly, my body ached in pain, crying so aggressively that I struggled to stand. A construction worker pulled me away, I kicked him hard and ran back to Uncle’s desolate body. A man so wise and empathetic that he could not bear the suffering of the land.
A clammy hand clamped my shoulder and as I looked up I was met with Mr Broadbent’s slithery eyes and fluorescent yellow ensemble. Before I knew it, he greeted me with a swing from his sweaty porous hand, a body-numbing smack. I cowered but he continued, with disregard for my quivering torso. As I looked behind to Uncle, the workers began to recklessly bulldoze his hut behind him, obliterating the handcut wooden planks into discarded debris.
*****
The slimy developer’s face was plastered in my mind as I drove up the winding mountain in my Japanese manual. Chapman’s Point was new, a stop for tourists to photograph the panorama of sea and suburbia 247 m above sea level. The familiar roadside acmenas and billardia had been replaced by gravel and signposts dedicated to some blokes named Franklin and Murray. Despite suburbia encroaching on the wilderness, small patches of lively gums remained lodged between properties, providing sustenance and shelter for koalas and ring tailed possums. The cockatoos still bickered on the matted clump of telephone wires and the wild grass continued to creep through the pavement. Ahead, the shrunken national park survived between the perimeters of cemented driveways. As I approached the end of Seahaze Court, a sudden static wind began lapping at the trees, gaining momentum and pace as it tore the roof off a nearby shed with ease. Dark steely clouds herded the mountain as thunder crackled through the leaves, mimicking the sound of Uncle’s footsteps. Lightning followed with assertive volume and visuals; electric and invigorating. Glassy raindrops then pelted down, piercing into the raw dark earth. I could feel it then, the living and deceased fragments of the land agelessly present, embedded and powerful.
my nightly green tea and opened up The Age for some mediocre news, hoping for a comforting sense of inertia. A familiar toothy grin accompanied the bold typeface on the front page, inducing a slight reflux of the tea at the back of my throat. The developer, that pudgy bastard in the blinding yellow hard hat, smugly shaking the hand of a new deal in a suit. A sharp pang of nostalgia bubbled inside and an urgency to return home, to see what had become of Uncle’s precious sweeping rugged land.
You are my Mother, my Mother the Land
You provide me for thousands of years
But now your soul, like a rock waterhole
Is drenched, not from water, but tears
I loathed the thought of driving back there but I had no choice. Mornington Peninsula, Arthur’s Seat to be exact, a place that reads on real estate boards as a unique escape from the city with a lustful proximity to the beach and bush. A suburb carved into a mountain, thick tar poured onto the fertile earth, trees lacerated to accommodate telegraph poles all for a manufactured view of Port Phillip Bay. This seemed to be the attraction for most of the middle class families who had invested in Seahaze Court. My house was a tired weatherboard bungalow, layered with dust, framing lanky windows covered in emu bush and she – oak. Like a dried up kangaroo paw flower on a branch of velvety green and red buds - an outlier; an embarrassment.
******
Across the road from where I grew up were the elderly Italians, a loud and passionate bunch. Their garden was impeccable, plump zucchinis, vibrant parsley and endless trees of citrus and fruits. Every summer Isotta would bring a basket of blush red pomodori and every winter a steaming pot of brodo. She understood our household, which was equally as overrun with small barefoot children, hearty laughter and endless relatives, a stark contrast to the clean and neat Anglo families on the street. I still vividly picture my mother and her sisters as they sat, their copper skin glowing in the afternoon sun as the squealing children darted through the yard. They would spend hours delicately dotting rich colours of ochre onto swirling dreamtime landscapes telling stories of creation. Our front lawn was constantly checkered with Ford and Holden station wagons and cousins rolling in half a dozen at a time. However, at the age of 10, this part of my life came to a halt with the arrival of Stepdad. An average Anglo plumber and a dedicated alcoholic, the stench of VB and cigarette smoke hung on him incessantly like a grimy coat. After luckless nights betting on ‘Lord Fury’, he would often charge into the lounge room with bloodshot eyes and veins protruding in rage, smashing Mum’s paintings and eisel to the floor. He hated the music, the stories, the family, the food and the spiritual belief in the land. Dark purple bruises speckled her brown skin across her collarbone and jaw. She became empty.
At the top of the street were the Broadbents; the greasy developer, his wife and their awful son, Henry. Two males who snickered with pleasure in making my life a living hell. Henry was first though, a vile scrawny pale boy with a ridiculous amount of freckles. He started the spitting routine on the walk home from school, aiming for the back of my head, hurling spit and chanting ‘Piss off you dirty Abo!’ He always encouraged the local boys to add to the waves of saliva and wads of drool that clung to my hair. Puberty had spotted their faces prematurely with pimples and stubble and they were recognisable by their muddy boots and violent body odour. I envied how they ventured to the national park at the end of Seahaze Court, an expanse of eucalyptus, gum and sweet bursaria, yet the omnipresent temptation failed to override the fear of Stepdad’s consequences.
One spring afternoon, about 30m from my house Henry came out of nowhere and slammed his foot down on my thong. The pavement met my face in a blistering fit of pain. I brushed myself down, threw the other thong off and sprinted barefoot – past my house and Stepdad’s slanderous yells and into the dark embrace of the unknown. The mild air hugged my lungs and the rogue sticks scratched at my ankles – an eerie reception. I continued to run, indenting the soft earth with my brown feet. Suddenly, an umber face appeared out of nowhere, his salt and pepper beard long and his gaze softer than fresh sap from a bottle tree. For several minutes we stared at each other, until he extended his earthy palm out that was clasping crisp emerald leaves. The redolent native mint he offered me trailed the roof of my mouth tickling my tongue and tastebuds in an incandescent sensation. Near a cluster of eucalypt, he then showed me how to distinguish the edible native bread fungus from the poisonous yellow- staining mushroom. I absorbed all of his knowledge, as he was an elder, an Uncle.
From then on, I avoided the shorter bitumen walk from school past the slimy developer’s house and explored the winding, tangling bush that led to Uncle’s hut in the heart of the trees. My own organic trail changed everyday, silently creeping through indigofera sheltered in the shadow of the large angophora. Silvery bearded Uncle was alone, a remaining elder of the Boonwurrung people from the Wonga region. Wonga, he told me, meant pigeon, but Arthur must have decided thousands of years later that his ‘Seat’ would take priority. He welcomed me to this land Womin Jeka mirambeek beek with Ngargee, a smoking ceremony to purify me of bad spirits using the potent, charred leaves of the Ngargee tree. His wurrung effortlessly left his lips and in the language of this land, I was a Bubup, young, innocent and eager to learn.
During the drought of the next summer, the water level of the river slowly subsided. Despite the fact that everyone’s lawns and roses were leeched of any signs of life, Uncle was still able to find yam daisy and pick native rosemary and bush peas. The red flowering gums continued to blossom and had fruitful boughs. The smell of the eucalyptus and tea tree delicately perfumed the dry summer heat.
The following autumn, Uncle was awoken by the monotonous drilling sound of bulldozers, bobcats and trucks clearing space for more houses on the mountain with a view of Nairm, or the Port Bay discovered by Phillip. The beaming golden wattles and red bottle brush were showered with dark chemical residue from the thick black cloud of exhaust. The delicately pollinating waratah and dwarf lilly pillys were crushed under the weight of the machines before they tore into the aged flesh of the lemon scented gum. Uncle winced as the tree was repeatedly pounded by the jagged metallic claws as if feeling the pain of the land. He saw my dismayed look and reassured me that the spirit of the creator, Bunjil who travels as an eagle, protects this land and Waarn, who travels as a crow, protects the waterways.
Mid winter the mundane humming of machines on my walk home was rudely interrupted by a tradie’s echoing outburst. Intrigued, I sprinted towards the noise. Uncle’s cold, numb body rested quietly on a bed of white baeckea. His eyes failed to flicker open at the sound of my voice, his death hung heavy, like the thin branches of grevillea during spring. I screamed helplessly, my body ached in pain, crying so aggressively that I struggled to stand. A construction worker pulled me away, I kicked him hard and ran back to Uncle’s desolate body. A man so wise and empathetic that he could not bear the suffering of the land.
A clammy hand clamped my shoulder and as I looked up I was met with Mr Broadbent’s slithery eyes and fluorescent yellow ensemble. Before I knew it, he greeted me with a swing from his sweaty porous hand, a body-numbing smack. I cowered but he continued, with disregard for my quivering torso. As I looked behind to Uncle, the workers began to recklessly bulldoze his hut behind him, obliterating the handcut wooden planks into discarded debris.
*****
The slimy developer’s face was plastered in my mind as I drove up the winding mountain in my Japanese manual. Chapman’s Point was new, a stop for tourists to photograph the panorama of sea and suburbia 247 m above sea level. The familiar roadside acmenas and billardia had been replaced by gravel and signposts dedicated to some blokes named Franklin and Murray. Despite suburbia encroaching on the wilderness, small patches of lively gums remained lodged between properties, providing sustenance and shelter for koalas and ring tailed possums. The cockatoos still bickered on the matted clump of telephone wires and the wild grass continued to creep through the pavement. Ahead, the shrunken national park survived between the perimeters of cemented driveways. As I approached the end of Seahaze Court, a sudden static wind began lapping at the trees, gaining momentum and pace as it tore the roof off a nearby shed with ease. Dark steely clouds herded the mountain as thunder crackled through the leaves, mimicking the sound of Uncle’s footsteps. Lightning followed with assertive volume and visuals; electric and invigorating. Glassy raindrops then pelted down, piercing into the raw dark earth. I could feel it then, the living and deceased fragments of the land agelessly present, embedded and powerful.