Rory and I are in shock. In fact, we still can’t quite believe it. They are actually going to build this rock wall across the river between the cliffs of Clayton and those of Hindmarsh Island. Against all the accumulated knowledge of our wonderful local people, against the emerging results of science, against the wisdom of the Ngarrindjeri who have cared for these waters over thousands of years, they are going to build it. Against the wishes of the Lakes people and the water creatures who have no voice, they are going to build it. In complete contempt for the future survival of Lake Alexandrina, they are going to build it. No argument, they are going to build it, full stop.
Rory is withdrawn, moping in the garden. I am looking up the phone number of my therapist. I mean, how does a gal cope with this!
Here I was, totally sure that the charismatic allure of my curves captivated all hearts. That the sight of those rude sharp rocks jammed into the graceful cleavage of my bottom transformed all minds. And now that I’ve become a Complete Woman With Depth, I had absolute faith that no mind, once touched by the power of poetry, the logic of science, the poignant beauty of Rory’s art, could remain unmoved.
And then, there was all that effort. All those thorough, rock-solid-researched presentations in our submissions. How could the Powers That Be ignore those?
But they have. They have ignored submissions, science, poetry, local knowledge, art. And worst of all, they have ignored my curves.
How does a woman for whom Meaning In Life Has always been “I have curves therefore I am”, now cope?
Even Love doesn’t help right now.
Rory says we are suffering from “solastalgia”. We learnt about solastalgia at Rory’s first official Book Reading and Signing Night. The occasion was a dinner meeting of the Spirituality in Strathalbyn group (an offshoot of Spirituality in the Pub). There were three speakers: Karyn Bradford, Liz Yelland, and finally Rory, doing a reading of his book.
Karyn spoke about solastalgia. This can best be translated as “homesickness when you haven’t left home”. Home, the environment you grew up with and love, has instead, left you. The term was coined to describe the distress of people living in the Hunter Valley in NSW, where open cut and longwall coal mining are drastically altering the landscape. Familiar hills and valleys are being gobbled up before their very eyes, and they are powerless to stop it. They feel disenfranchised, stripped of their future, numb with grief.
Karyn said that we around the Lakes are feeling like this too. We all take our surroundings for granted, they are just there, interwoven with our lives. But when they begin to disappear, it’s as if they take part of us with them.
Liz continued this theme, describing her first encounter with Point Sturt back in 1972. It was a spectacular south-wind day, bursts of rain and sun, glittering grass and rainbows. In the years since then, Point Sturt has become absorbed into her being at cellular level. She now feels that its windswept spaces, its waters, its wide skies underpin that inner pillar which, for her, gives strength, joy and resilience. If some uncontrollable outside force messes with that inner pillar, the effects can be quite profound.
“This is the closest a whitefella can come” Rory says “to how the Ngarrindjeri feel about their land. The land is part of them, they are part of the land. If Country gets sick, they get sick too”.
On June the 28th, we had the Opening of our Freshwater Embassy on top of the cliffs at Clayton. It is based on the idea of the Aboriginal Tent Embassy outside Parliament House in Canberra in 1972. Because there’s “no camping allowed”, we have instead of a tent, three flags: that of the Ngarrindjeri, the Australian flag, and the flag of the Lower Murray, and also an Eternal Flame in a half 44 gallon drum, lit initially from the Ngarrindjeri Cleansing Smoke Ceremony.
Our site overlooks the channel, where in a few days time they will be dumping the rocks. Our friends in the RLCAG intend to keep the flame burning and the flags flying in a vigil throughout the construction. Looking down from the clifftop, I felt for my Sister River’s soft bottom.
It was a freezing cold day with one of those hard desert winds from the north-west. My curves were so wrapped up I looked like a pudding. It was too chilly even for my fishnet stockings!
Despite the weather it was a warm-hearted and beautiful day. About 250 other puddings like me packed around in a circle, while Ngarrindjeri elder Major Sumner, attired only in a red loin-cloth and his ceremonial paint, performed a Welcome to Country. He then followed this with a Call to the Ancestors to look after us. Not only the Ngarrindjeri Ancestors, he emphasised, but the ancestors of all of us, wherever we came from.
We were all together in this: the many Ngarrindjeri who had come especially from the Coorong and the other side of Lake Albert, and the whitefellas, both the locals and environmental activists from near and far. A number of people made speeches. In a way the day was a funeral, a wake for a beautiful place about to be despoiled. But it was also a celebration of how we have joined together to build our Embassy.
Our Embassy won’t stop the building of the wall, but it is a public presence speaking for all the creatures who have no voice, and for the Lakes people too. It seems they have no voice either. There are only 2000 of them. They can be sacrificed by a Government eager, it appears, to please the far greater numbers of voices in Goolwa and upstream.
It’s the “Utilitarian Principle”, Rory says, “The greatest happiness for the greatest number” (of votes).
But I mustn’t be cynical. Our Special Ambassador is Ngori, the Pelican. And just as dear Uncle Tom Trevorrow was speaking, Ngori flew past, skimming along the channel inches above the water, a long thread of his brothers and sisters following behind.
Warm scones and cups of tea organised by the glorious Gloria Jones, our Scone Queen, awaited down at the Clayton picnic shed. We milled about, everybody talking and greeting each other as you do at a funeral. Or at a party.
Before we went home, Rory and I stood on the clifftop for a last look at the channel flowing freely east to west. In the distance, a large flock of black swans was feeding on a grass-covered sand bank. Below, a mixed group of pelicans and cormorants was swimming in a large circle, fishing. Rory said they often do this. “It’s synergy”, he said, “the cormorants dive and catch all the small fish. The pelicans then scoop up the remainder that are too big”.
We said a silent goodbye and turned away.
I don’t think I can say Cheers this time, M’Dears, I’m feeling too sad.
It’s more like Tears, M’Dears.
Po’.
P. S. Rory says I must keep up hope. We still have to be Brothers and Sisters with Attitude. We still need to continue our Commitment To The Cause in order to save the rest. I take a deep breath and mix myself a G and T.
