That lifestyle was without many other things too. No traffic, no telemarketers, no door knockers, no pollution and no hassle. Or at least a considerable reduction of those things, there was after all, once a whole convoy of cars traveling Ducks Ridge Road, three of them, and some would count that as traffic.
It was in this environment that I first became exposed to views that seemed ludicrous to my ever so sophisticated 21 year old mind. However, I digress, back I go to the gist of the story.
We called our home, Hippy Heaven, although it's official name was Lot blah blah, and our fellow bush living neighbors had failed to figure out how to run a commune prior to our arrival, and were still debating the issue. Not exactly peace, love and mung beans, people.
Rewind. I'm twenty one, pregnant with my first child, and an old friend, whom we'll call the Smuggler, bumps into me on the street of a strange town, far from where we both belong. Over coffee, the Smuggler suggests we move into the cow shed on his neighbors property, which probably doesn't sound as charming as it actually was, in it's home spun, renovated way. Three rooms, concrete building. The greenest hills you have ever seen, and a rainforest in the backyard, there was no way I could resist.
The Smuggler had just purchased a Baptist church, one of those fantastic a-frame buildings that sprung up everywhere in the 1970's, and the plan was to pull it apart and rebuild it on the top of his mountain. He'd paid for his mountain, and his church, with money he'd made smuggling a variety of things for a number of years. At one point in his career, if you care to call it that, he was smuggling diamonds through Vietnam where he became acquainted with the notorious Charles Sobraj, but to spend time with him gave lie to the idea of this man as a dangerous menace to society. The Smuggler was an intelligent man, well versed in many fields, willing to learn and happy to work with his hands. A wonderful dinner guest.
Assisting him in his endeavor to pull apart and rebuild the church were the Prussian, appearing more like an officer of the law than the devoted dissident he was, and the Engineer, who looked like a colonial figure, complete with wild bushranger beard, he drove like rally driver and had the sharpest mind I have ever been fortunate enough to encounter. There was one other man, insignificant, and one I'd rather not spend much time recalling. We'll call him, if we must refer to him at all, as the Dickhead. And me, pregnant, in pink King Gee overalls.
The Smuggler had assigned me the task of de-nailing, and over the next two months I removed every single nail from each and every piece of wood associated with that church. I also bought more overalls. Orange, white, and black floral. I was the very essence of pregnant, demolition site chic.
The Engineer, with his Scottish ancestry, showed signs of being gripped in the fury of a berserker as he worked. He was tireless, and happy to converse as he worked. He explained to me, while sending nine pound roof tiles down a track on the A-frame roof that reached speeds of forty kilometers an hour, how to make land mines, how engines work, how to do so many things, and how so many things operate. We discussed history and literature, society and culture on a building site. We formed a firm friendship.
The Prussian was always coming and going, to and from his many secret meetings. He loved a good secret society. Eccentricities abounded, we'd go to visit people with phones, and he'd pull the connection out of the wall to prevent that Powers That Be from listening in on his conversations. His police radio scanner was constantly monitored, as he was convinced it was the only way to really know what was going on. He regularly conversed with people in positions of authority and influence, or so he said. I doubted it then, but since, some of those names have become prominent. Go figure.
It was these three men, whom I won't dub as wise in any conventional sense, whom I turned to, when it became apparent that I needed to get to the hospital, seventy kilometers away, to give birth, and the Dickhead had not only not put petrol in the car, but spent the petrol money on beer. Being born in a stable may have been good enough for Jesus, but I wasn't having a bar of it. We left my cowshed, stable or what have you, and headed next door.
The Smuggler, the Prussian and the Engineer discussed the dilemma, and then proceeded to siphon petrol out of the available cars there, and made me porridge, on the basis of needing a good meal to supply the energy requirements of the coming ordeal. I finished my breakfast, went to the hospital and had a baby.
With a baby in tow, I became less mobile, so the crackpots came to me, literally. There was a regular parade of dissidents and freaks, left wing, right wing, on a wing and a prayer, the poor and the rich alike, all espousing their own political, social and or religious heresies. I made coffee and cooked meals, and got on with the business of being a mother, but I listened, and there was one central theme to the craziness.
The Powers That Be are not at all cuddly or benevolent. And I got on with that child raising business, while my friends plotted and schemed as the kettle boiled.
Years pass. The Smuggler has passed away, the Prussian is in hiding, he says he knows where Juanita Neilsen is buried, and the Engineer went completely and utterly batshit crazy in the bush.
Strange how the things they discussed around a wood fuel stove, in a humble abode, smack bang in the middle of nowhere, came to pass. I won't bother you with the details, but it's enough to provide me with a nagging sense of distrust in governments, the media, and really big corporations.
Today, there's countless sites, with countless people offering wacky theories for everything. It's a good thing, as whether these crackpot theories right or wrong, those people are thinking, and not just being told what to think. That's why crackpots are dangerous. They think, and that alone vastly increases the chances that one day, one of them will have the correct thought. And maybe even repeat it.
My first born was named in honor of the now deceased Smuggler, and I would like to think that if the Smuggler could see him today, he'd smile........
To be continued..............
Sent from my iPad, which, by the way is fantastic.
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