Wednesday 11th February 2009
My wife says they aren’t refugees because they speak English; and they’re Australian.
But a few miles away from where we live in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs there are about 4,000 of them. People who have lost everything and managed to escape from the war zones left behind after the fires exploded through the little towns and hamlets nestled in the hills. All that’s missing from the photos are the horse and carts loaded with random pieces of furniture.
These refuges are all dinky-di Aussies just like me.
Now they’re living in tents, or town halls, or the homes of neighbours. They look haggard when interviewed on television, hair not coiffured, wearing clothes that don’t quite fit. They speak real Australian. They praise the fire fighters and their neighbours, and tell poignant stories of friends and family lost. Most of them have lost someone, not knowing whether they are still alive. They all look stoic but slightly lost, which isn’t surprising because their future is a mystery. They know only that they aren’t alone. They’re on the receiving end of a generous outpouring of solidarity and all kinds of support, and don’t know how to react. I wouldn’t either.
Hearing refugees speaking my language in my accent is bizarre. It’s confronting yet strangely comforting.
I live in a land where no-one expects familiar nearby towns to be flattened, with or without warning. I drifted over some of them last week in a balloon flight snapping pictures of the dry brown land below. Now newspapers and TV show confronting images. A black and grey landscape with twisted roofing iron and burnt out vehicles and endless hills, bare except for the black matchsticks that used to be tall proud familiar white gum trees. Dishevelled rough looking people of all ages and stations in life, many holding onto a loved one who is all they have left in life. All express acceptance of events and a gladness just to be alive. All express sorrow for lost ones and sympathy for those who lost everything, but somehow seem not to feel sorry for themselves.
It’s comforting to think that’s how I would be too. It is how stuff works in this great dry brown land. It’s what we expect of ourselves and each other because getting by in a harsh place like this breeds self reliance and that breeds self confidence. It’s a natural consequence of being here. As soon as we dust ourselves off, the next task at hand is helping those around us. First the little kids, then the old people, then ourselves. It has been ever thus. There’s comfort in belonging to this tribe.
Our land is populated by good hearted people who instinctively discern where help is needed and reactively provide it. We are a nation of good neighbours.
That’s evident everywhere since Sunday.
Warmer weather and strong wins are forecast. There are 23 fires burning all across Victoria, many still out of control.
Neighbouring states and almost states (I refer to our Kiwi friends, who almost joined the federation and we left room in our constitution should they ever want to change their mind) offer generous support too. Fire-fighters arrive from as far away as California.
The ever-selfless Salvos and the Vinnies and the Brotherhood of St Lawrence are out in generous force. God bless them for it.
They’ll be kept busy as the number of Australian-speaking refugees grows.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Black Saturday - Bushfire Reflections
9th Feb 09
Last Friday our news media warned that conditions for Saturday presented an extreme fire danger – the worst Victoria had ever faced. The temperature was expected to reach about 45°C (113°F) with strong winds. The drought has left Victoria tinder dry. The forecast suggests we face the perfect firestorm.
There is yet another “total fire ban” across the state. Open fires are prohibited, the use of metal grinding or welding equipment is banned, and anyone with a “fire plan” for their rural properties should ensure all things are in place to execute it.
It hasn’t rained in over a month. Not a single drop. There’s been little rain for the last 10 years across the state. A sizeable lake in Bendigo dried up last year. Creeks are dry. Rivers run low. Houses and driveways crack as the earth dries and tree roots reach out in a fruitless search for moisture. Once proud green lawns are now the brown boast of owners conserving water. We are all on serious water restrictions – aimed to reduce usage to 155 litres (41 gallons) per person per day.
Until you walk in it, it is hard to understand what drought means. Of all the effects, perhaps the least regarded is the amount of dry fuel nature leaves lying about. Stressed trees drop leaves and branches that having no moisture don’t rot; they simple dry out. Most of the trees are gums, so when dry, their timber becomes concentrated eucalypt oil that is easily ignited, explodes and burns at tremendous heat. In populated areas this fuel is cleaned up, but in the vast majority of our great brown land there are no people – just “the bush”. In the suburbs, exotic bushes and shrubs abound, many in public parks. The heat of these past few weeks has stressed them and lots of dry brown leaves and twigs lie around.
Last week’s heatwave just adds to the mix and compound the risks.
We are mightily tired of the hot weather. Our trusty evaporative air conditioning is our only source of relief. And we drink plenty of water. The heat is oppressive, inducing lethargy of body and mind. I haven’t worn long pants nor closed shoes since Christmas. There’s a kind of dry heat induced despondency everywhere.
Ants and other insects invade our inside space looking for moisture or cool or both. Dehydrated Possums fall dead from trees, I almost stepped on a tiny possum corpse last week. Others overcome their fear of humans to drink from backyard swimming pools even while kids frolic. Snakebites increase – though they are still rare enough to be a newsworthy item. Wild ducks share swimming pools. I think the bees are resting too – I haven’t seen any for a while.
For several weeks the wisteria leaves that shade our gazebo have been folded upwards in futile supplication to the skies for rain. On Friday about half those leaves, having turned brown, were shed. My little grandson and I cleaned them up on Saturday morning. He pointed out dozens of little black balls all over our deck – hard embryonic fruit that had fallen off our prolific mandarin tree. They weren’t there the previous day.
As forecast, gale force winds arrived on Saturday morning and metropolitan Melbourne reached 46.5°C (115.7°F) – the hottest ever recorded. It was 49°C (120°F) at our place. The wind is the sort of heat you get when you open an oven door in your kitchen, except it blows hard enough to take breath away.
Saturday evening a cool change came through just before we went to Mass. For the second week in a row, Father Sheehy kindly decided to forgo the sermon so we could get to our air conditioned homes a few minutes earlier.
We watched the pre-season footy from Perth on Saturday night. Even though the Eagles got thumped, just watching the footy revives pleasant memories of winter’s cold wind-blown rain. Dropping off to sleep I hear, for a few minutes, the lovely sound of big rain drops on the roof.
Sunday morning we awoke to a comfortable 23°. Relief! I check the rain gauge – nothing’s registered.
TV returns, after a long summer break, to normal scheduling of the political talk shows that I enjoy. As I tune in, the moderator says he was putting politics aside to talk about the tragedy unfolding across Victoria. The perfect storm arrived hit overnight. Kinglake and Marysville, pretty little country towns less than a pleasant hour’s drive away are no more. We see helicopter shots of ash heaps that were homes and burnt hulks of family cars alongside. We think of Michael and Marlyse who live at Kinglake. A call to his mobile reaches his message bank. 26 people are confirmed dead. I can’t help but think many more have died, and we hope Michael and Annise are okay.
We are at Pam and David’s for lunch, a cheery group of eight. There’s delicious food, excellent wines, no heat, and engaging talk of politicians and the financial crisis. We’re all revelling in the coolness and the glow of good company. The TV is on mute so we can occasionally glance at the Australia v New Zealand one-day cricket score from Sydney. During a break coverage crosses to a shirt-sleeved Prime Minister, consoling victims of the fires. Then the state premier comes on screen. We turn up the sound and our attention is engaged as, in sombre tones he warns of even more deaths and no relief from the fires which now spread over an 80 kilometre front and have burned 330,000 hectares. There follows pictures of devastation – just a short distance from where we are – and TV reporters unanimously talking of war-zones. It’s awful, and a quiet falls over our sated little group. A diminished cheer gradually returns and soon we bid goodbye to head off home in the cool late afternoon.
Back at home there’s a message from Michael on our answering machine; they and their house escaped it all. We watch the cricket. Some good news – Australia wins. And it’s still cool.
Monday morning news confirms the death toll is over 100 and growing. Now Beechworth is under threat. The normally jocular breakfast hosts are graciously sober. Talkback radio is awash with calls of anxiety and generosity and tragedy and gratitude and hope. I hear humanity on air.
And still the fires burn.
Last Friday our news media warned that conditions for Saturday presented an extreme fire danger – the worst Victoria had ever faced. The temperature was expected to reach about 45°C (113°F) with strong winds. The drought has left Victoria tinder dry. The forecast suggests we face the perfect firestorm.
There is yet another “total fire ban” across the state. Open fires are prohibited, the use of metal grinding or welding equipment is banned, and anyone with a “fire plan” for their rural properties should ensure all things are in place to execute it.
It hasn’t rained in over a month. Not a single drop. There’s been little rain for the last 10 years across the state. A sizeable lake in Bendigo dried up last year. Creeks are dry. Rivers run low. Houses and driveways crack as the earth dries and tree roots reach out in a fruitless search for moisture. Once proud green lawns are now the brown boast of owners conserving water. We are all on serious water restrictions – aimed to reduce usage to 155 litres (41 gallons) per person per day.
Until you walk in it, it is hard to understand what drought means. Of all the effects, perhaps the least regarded is the amount of dry fuel nature leaves lying about. Stressed trees drop leaves and branches that having no moisture don’t rot; they simple dry out. Most of the trees are gums, so when dry, their timber becomes concentrated eucalypt oil that is easily ignited, explodes and burns at tremendous heat. In populated areas this fuel is cleaned up, but in the vast majority of our great brown land there are no people – just “the bush”. In the suburbs, exotic bushes and shrubs abound, many in public parks. The heat of these past few weeks has stressed them and lots of dry brown leaves and twigs lie around.
Last week’s heatwave just adds to the mix and compound the risks.
We are mightily tired of the hot weather. Our trusty evaporative air conditioning is our only source of relief. And we drink plenty of water. The heat is oppressive, inducing lethargy of body and mind. I haven’t worn long pants nor closed shoes since Christmas. There’s a kind of dry heat induced despondency everywhere.
Ants and other insects invade our inside space looking for moisture or cool or both. Dehydrated Possums fall dead from trees, I almost stepped on a tiny possum corpse last week. Others overcome their fear of humans to drink from backyard swimming pools even while kids frolic. Snakebites increase – though they are still rare enough to be a newsworthy item. Wild ducks share swimming pools. I think the bees are resting too – I haven’t seen any for a while.
For several weeks the wisteria leaves that shade our gazebo have been folded upwards in futile supplication to the skies for rain. On Friday about half those leaves, having turned brown, were shed. My little grandson and I cleaned them up on Saturday morning. He pointed out dozens of little black balls all over our deck – hard embryonic fruit that had fallen off our prolific mandarin tree. They weren’t there the previous day.
As forecast, gale force winds arrived on Saturday morning and metropolitan Melbourne reached 46.5°C (115.7°F) – the hottest ever recorded. It was 49°C (120°F) at our place. The wind is the sort of heat you get when you open an oven door in your kitchen, except it blows hard enough to take breath away.
Saturday evening a cool change came through just before we went to Mass. For the second week in a row, Father Sheehy kindly decided to forgo the sermon so we could get to our air conditioned homes a few minutes earlier.
We watched the pre-season footy from Perth on Saturday night. Even though the Eagles got thumped, just watching the footy revives pleasant memories of winter’s cold wind-blown rain. Dropping off to sleep I hear, for a few minutes, the lovely sound of big rain drops on the roof.
Sunday morning we awoke to a comfortable 23°. Relief! I check the rain gauge – nothing’s registered.
TV returns, after a long summer break, to normal scheduling of the political talk shows that I enjoy. As I tune in, the moderator says he was putting politics aside to talk about the tragedy unfolding across Victoria. The perfect storm arrived hit overnight. Kinglake and Marysville, pretty little country towns less than a pleasant hour’s drive away are no more. We see helicopter shots of ash heaps that were homes and burnt hulks of family cars alongside. We think of Michael and Marlyse who live at Kinglake. A call to his mobile reaches his message bank. 26 people are confirmed dead. I can’t help but think many more have died, and we hope Michael and Annise are okay.
We are at Pam and David’s for lunch, a cheery group of eight. There’s delicious food, excellent wines, no heat, and engaging talk of politicians and the financial crisis. We’re all revelling in the coolness and the glow of good company. The TV is on mute so we can occasionally glance at the Australia v New Zealand one-day cricket score from Sydney. During a break coverage crosses to a shirt-sleeved Prime Minister, consoling victims of the fires. Then the state premier comes on screen. We turn up the sound and our attention is engaged as, in sombre tones he warns of even more deaths and no relief from the fires which now spread over an 80 kilometre front and have burned 330,000 hectares. There follows pictures of devastation – just a short distance from where we are – and TV reporters unanimously talking of war-zones. It’s awful, and a quiet falls over our sated little group. A diminished cheer gradually returns and soon we bid goodbye to head off home in the cool late afternoon.
Back at home there’s a message from Michael on our answering machine; they and their house escaped it all. We watch the cricket. Some good news – Australia wins. And it’s still cool.
Monday morning news confirms the death toll is over 100 and growing. Now Beechworth is under threat. The normally jocular breakfast hosts are graciously sober. Talkback radio is awash with calls of anxiety and generosity and tragedy and gratitude and hope. I hear humanity on air.
And still the fires burn.
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