STRADDIE 6 – DOWN ON THE FARM

THIS DOWN UNDER LAND OF OZ

I have a question for overseas readers, be honest now, what is the first thought that enters your mind when you hear the word Australia?  Did I hear you say ‘beach’?  Of course you did and to a certain extent I accept a share of the blame, after all I have gone overboard lauding Straddie’s attributes.

  But Oz has a lot more to offer than endless beaches, bikini birds and bronzed lifesavers, gorgeous as they all are.

Thane's Creek, Goomerah

 

Much as I love Straddie and island life there are times when I crave a mountain change, a drive up into the high country around Maleny or the Bunyas, a chance to breathe in the fresh mountain air, stroll through lush forest trails; or on the other hand, as has been the case for the past 66 years visit friends on their sheep and cattle property a few hours due west of Brisbane.

This is the story of a lifelong friendship between two women. One who spent her entire life in a farming community, and another who would always live in big cities...until the day she moved to an island.  Their friendship began in 1944, and now it is 2010 and we’re still best mates.

 

During the war when I was very small I lived with my parents in Sydney, Australia’s largest city.  Dad was invalided from the army and because of  my mothers health we made the move to the small Queensland country town of Warwick.  It was a huge move for all three of us but more so for me because suddenly I found myself without my beloved grandparents and the multitude of cousins that always seemed a major part of my young life.

Luckily though my parents rented a flat right next door to the town’s Ambulance Station and that’s how I met the Ambulance Superintendent’s youngest daughter Betty.  

We were only a month or two apart in age, we went to different schools, followed different religions, but way back then we forged a firm friendship that has lasted sixty six years.

We regularly marked the passing years with photographs but it wasn’t until recently when I began to search out the old snaps for this story that I saw the pattern we had slavishly followed all those years.

Have you noticed? In the nine photos making up the collage above,  Betty is always on the left, while I never fail to slot in on the right. It certainly didn’t happen that way by design, we just seemed to fold in together like two peas in a pod.

We were both barely six years old when we posed for our first photograph in a corner of the Le Francke’s front yard.

 

Now in our seventies this last snap was taken just a few months ago in Betty’s new Warwick home.  It has been a long journey for both of us.

 

Warwick would be our home for the few years around 1945.  I can remember the celebrations on the day and night the end of the war was announced, a huge street party that went on for days.  Betty’s family had a long association with Warwick going back to the early 1800’s.  It is a beautiful town, one I’m very fond of, wide streets, sandstone buildings, grand old houses in large garden studded allotments. And lots of memories.

Warwick’s main street at the turn of the century, long before either of us was born and Palmerin Street now.

 

The Ambulance Station in the early 1900’s, by the time  this story began only the vehicles had changed..

Betty would marry a farmer and move out of town to a sheep and cattle property where she and Keith raised three sons.  I would marry a city slicker, live in Brisbane raise a son and a daughter and eventually move to Straddie with my husband, the Reluctant Traveller.

But while our children were young the kids and I spent countless school holidays at the farm with Bets and her brood.  We had lots of wonderful times together.  My two learned to ride horses, help out with the chores, gather the eggs, bring in the fire wood.  Adjust to sharing the bath water many times over in times of drought, toast bread on the old wood stove that also heated the bath water, see for themselves just how tough country life could be.

Morning tea on the farm

MY TWO ON AN EARLY VISIT

 

Betty and Keith knew first hand about drought.  The hard work they put in to keep the property going as month upon month and year after year it failed to rain, when the creek dried up and money was short, only to be followed by unseasonal rain and flooding. 

These were the times of flash floods and the inevitable rush to shift home preserves onto higher shelves, manhandle refrigerators onto tables.

THANE CREEK IN FLOOD

IN THE SHEARING SEASON

 

We all had a go milking the house cows, me with varying success.  The boys loved squirting the milk,  usually in my eyes.  My daughter Jen proved a natural both at milking and squirting.

There always seemed to be an orphan needing to be fed, either the hungry little Joey pictured with me,  or a couple of new born lambs that Betty became so attached to they remained in the house paddock way past their set free day. 

 

We celebrated Christmas and weddings, anniversaries and family get-togethers.  Over the years I had become Betty’s third sister. Sometimes we  four girls with our husbands would share a weekend stay.  It was a case of first in first served with the bedrooms, and sometimes we found ourselves camping out in the ping pong room.

On the farm there were always plenty of chores needed doing, in the house and around the paddocks;   hanging out the washing or doing the dishes together seemed fun when we did it together.  An extra pair of hands was always welcome when it was time to bail the hay , make sausages after a beast had been slaughtered or just shift the irrigation pipes to another part of a paddock.

They might have been chores for Betty and Keith but they were novelties for us townies.

 In the early days Bets boiled the old copper.  It was a red letter day when they could afford a washing machine.  Do any of you reading this blog remember the old wooden props housewives used  to keep the wash lines from dragging on the ground?

 Summers at Goomerah were inevitably hot and the only way to escape the heat was to toss mattresses out in the shade and snooze the afternoons away.  Of course with Christmas celebrated in the southern hemisphere’s summer the ritual baked roast and plum pudding were prepared and eaten in 90 plus heat...the temps measured in Celsius now,  a sizzling 36 and over.

That's my mattress, the one with the unopened book.

 

Horses were another Goomerah attraction that continued even after my kids had grown up and moved out of home but still making the occasional visit back to recreate their childhood.

A tiny Steve, a patient pony, Jen, and Keith checking the saddle

 

The same girl some years later still having the stirrups adjusted. Daughter Jenny now lives in Cuenca with her husband Chris,  a long, long way from outback Queensland.

 

I immediately think of Swartzenegger and De Vito when I see this snap, the Reluctant Traveller and his much taller son.  Steve brought his bride to Goomerah on this occasion.

 

And while we’re on the subject of horses, the one in the next photo was always my favourite, his name was Cordy but I thought of him as the Gentlemanly Toff.

 

We did manage to pry Keith off the farm on one occasion to visit Straddie, but while he said it was nice and the surf looked good I knew he really couldn’t wait until he was back on the farm.

 

 

 

I was always wary when Keith offered to hold down the barbed wire fences, and so was Betty.  We had been caught out too many times with the low voltage power that had enough zing to give me a quick fright.  He had a devilish sense of humour.

 

The dog seen here with a bearded Keith as they motor cycle out to bring in the stock is Gypsy, the only one of their many successive sheep dogs  allowed inside the house.

 

Keith  and Betty’s life partnership sadly came to an end a couple of years ago.  The farm was sold and Betts is now back living as a townie in Warwick.  This was a rare photo of Keith all dressed up and a party to go to.  As I can still hear him saying, ‘Don’t scrub up too bad for an old bloke eh?’

No, I guess he didn’t. 

I miss the old days on the farm, the card nights, a fire roaring in the ‘Kosy’, late night trips to the outside loo always on the lookout for a wandering snake, usually yelling when a tiny green frog leapt out of the bowl:  Hours before the dawn with the cows mooing outside the window, the damned rooster setting up a racket in the chook pen;the geese in perfect formation not to mention pecking order wandering down to the creek. Drinks on the verandah in the late afternoon watching twilight creep over the paddocks.   I miss it all.

Vale Keith.

oOo

Robyn Mortimer ©2010

Next Pt 7 OF OZ – FROM ONE ISLAND TO ANOTHER -  BEAUTIFUL TASMANIA

 

CUENCA 7 – TRAVEL BEYOND THE CITY LIMITS

CUENCA THROUGH AN AUSSIE GRINGO’S EYES

The plan is to break down three months travel into a one day 24 hour time frame. It’s proving to be a tight squeeze.

Entry into and out of Cuenca, by road, involves high mountain travel.  There is no way to avoid it.  And who would want to;  to view even a tiny part of the great Andes is a mind blowing experience and one I wouldn’t have missed for all the tea in China.

Having said that it would be remiss of me not to mention that at times such unavoidable travel is not for the squeamish or faint hearted.  

Living in Cuenca reminded me just a little of Hobart in Tasmania and its particular relationship with the ever sentinel Mt Wellington.  Locals there speak constantly of the mountain looming above them. Looks like snow today, or, there’s rain coming in. 

Mind you Mt Wellington in comparison to the Cajas and the Andes in particular is like comparing failed attempts at  meringue  to a cordon bleu chef’s many layered confection of glorious  peaks.  One is minuscule, the other colossal.

In Cuenca the talk is all about the Cajas, pronounced Cahars, the nearby National Park of over 28,000 hectares, of 270 lakes and lagoons and 4450 metres above sea level;  the source of Cuenca’s rivers, the Tomebamba and four others that tumble and rush all the way to the legendary Amazon.  When it rains in the Cajas you can see the clouds shrouding the mountains, if you picnic up there in the national park you take gloves and extra warm clothes.

Son in law Chris is a keen outdoors man, an orienteer,  he loves nothing more than to tramp for hours in the rugged wilderness.

His idea of fun is to slog through boggy tundra like undergrowth, climb rocky outcrops, his reward the breath taking views  of  pristine terrain untouched by human hand.

Son-in-law Chris

Cajas photos  by Jesse Lewis, Biologist with an Ecuadoran conservation project.

 My particular interaction with the Cajas was less intense.  A necessary car journey up and over the mountains and down to the coast at Guayaquil.  On that trip after less than 30 minutes climbing ever higher we came across free ranging llamas grazing by the side of the road.  A far cry from the wandering kangaroos of home.  

The next photograph clearly shows why I say the drive from Cuenca to Guayaquil is not for the faint hearted.  It's steeply downhill most of the way. Fortunately we had the services of a skilled driver and new model vehicle, plus the added advantage of perfect weather. 

 

But not all our excursions were in the scary category.  Around Cuenca itself there is a network of roads that take you up and through the lesser foothills of the giant Andes.  These foothills are themselves in anyone’s language high mountains and in any direction, within a few hours travel time of Azuay’s capital, they reveal a plethora of colourful villages and towns.

 

Semi rural life amid steeply grassed slopes. The further we travelled the more remote the communities became. In Australia we’re used to wide open spaces, usually dry and dusty with farms and outback stations described in the thousands of acres.  Here we saw only the occasional livestock and small plots intensively farmed.

The national costume worn with aplomb by the Cañar women is the norm for them, even in the country, their everyday wear.  In Cuenca there are retail shops specialising in the pleated skirts the women wear, their shawls and of course their distinctive hats. The shops do a roaring trade.

 

 

Skirt styles and colours are many and varied, but always the skirt is pleated.  And while the shawls may sometimes be a fashion statement they are mainly used as a useful carrying tool. A swift arrangement of fabric, a tight knot.  Small children or a load of produce niftily tied on their back.

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And everywhere we went there was a church, always in the centre of the community, freshly painted, a masterpiece of beauty and especially on Sundays packed with worshippers.  They say in Cuenca alone there are 52 churches, one for every Sunday in the year.  I managed to see perhaps 15 or so.

This blue church in the thermal springs town of Banos on the outskirts of Cuenca is just one of the many extraordinary churches in Cuenca.  We visited on a Sunday morning when there was standing room only for the congregation.

I particularly liked the way stalls were grouped outside the church waiting for the service to end and worshippers to flood out.  Stalls selling everything from cakes and sweets to pigs on spits, fruit and vegetables and flowers and produce.  

It gave the act of attending Sunday Mass a deeper more integral meaning, instead of racing home the community mingled chatting, exchanging news.

This church in Chordeleg, a town some hours distant from Cuenca, dominates the small town square and park, its design, despite the colour, reminiscent of a Bavarian chocolate box.

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Buses are South America’s lifeline.  Cuenca has hundreds and for not much more than a dollar you can enjoy an afternoon driving through Cuenca’s rural suburbs and nearby towns.  Bus services are frequent, as you can see, one arriving in the outlying township of Banos, the other departing, with plenty more at various stages along the way.

 

Buses are well patronised by locals, in peak hours packed to the hilt.  On longer trips its not unusual to have a travelling salesmen walking up and down the aisle pitching a particular product with either a TV show playing on a small screen or salsa music emanating from loud speakers.  Thankfully though that doesn’t occur on every bus.

In another direction on the way to Chordeleg we pass through the market town of Gualaceo sharing the Santa Barbara River crossing with an assortment of livestock and pedestrians by way of the covered bridge .  Our visit coincides with the weekend animal market, farmers buying and selling livestock. 

On the same road to Chordeleg we came across this little touch of rural humour.

I imagine the bovine in this series of snaps is well used to the track from farm house to field and the dangers lurking on the busy road. She knows full well the nursery rhyme we all learn from an early age.

 A novel twist on the basic rule of looking to the left and then to the right,  though we reverse the order in Australia to make sure we never, never get run over.  If the cow could talk I’m sure she would agree.  Cautious lady though, she does her own double check just in case.

More distant treks revealed orchid farms and ancient ruins, thermal springs and small markets, Ekat weavers and ladies weaving the special straw for the preliminary stages of the Panama Hats.  

As an Australian gringo I could never tire of the ever changing scene.  For me the wonder of it all is  how completely unspoiled this particular part of Ecuador really is.

And just to show how very proud Cuenca is of it’s reputed 52 churches I couldn’t resist including just a few of the winning cards in this deck I found in a souvenir shop. 

 

 

In  my estimation the churches all came up trumps, especially with the accumulated result making perfect if kitschy gifts to take home.

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NEXT: CUENCA 8 - AFTER DARK - END OF MANY PERFECT DAYS


Robyn Mortimer

CUENCA 3. .. 7AM – THE WORK DAY BEGINS

CUENCA THROUGH AN AUSSIE GRINGO’S EYES

To recap, the reluctant traveller and I have arrived in Cuenca to visit family.  We plan to stay 3 months, but already I have fallen head over heels in lust with Cuenca.  I can’t get enough of it, join me as I kaleidoscope our visit into one single day.

The building our children, Jen and Chris, have purchased is in the process of extensive renovation and at 7 am every morning excepting Sunday the workers, Hector, Patricio, Edwin and others who changed as  weeks turn into months, arrive to start their day.  Without exception they turn up spick and span attired for a social event rather than a back breaking nine hours of hard yakka, hanging their town clothes carefully on nails in various corners of the work site before changing into the more practical bits and pieces they  will  wear while working on a multitude of messy jobs.

At days end a scrub under the tap, back in their good gear and you could never guess only moments before these handsome young men had been immersed in mud and debris.

   

It is still early morning and street cleaners are out meticulously sweeping their patch, a chore they will repeat again in the afternoon.  Cuenca is a clean city, the most debris you might see is the occasional fruit peal or the even rarer cigarette butt, and these would no doubt have been carelessly tossed away by a thoughtless tourist.   I don’t recall seeing a native Cuencan lighting up a cigarette.

 

At breakneck speed  buses from outlying areas bring workers into town.

 At this early hour district produce markets throughout the city are opening for business, fruit and vegetables arriving fresh from outlying districts; smells of freshly baked rolls and pastry filling the air.

In the same Mercado the meat and poultry vendors are stocking their counters, fish has arrived from Guayaquil on the coast while in the small Almuerzo cafes that dot the city, meals for as little as US$2 are being prepared, some to be eaten for breakfast.

 

The flower market squeezed into tiny El Carmen Square between Plaza San Francisco and the Cathedral across from Parque Calderon gradually turns into a riot of colour.

Cuenca is stirring and I’m anxious to get out and about.

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Next

 CUENCA 4 - TIME TO EXPLORE