Under a hotter Sun; Tucabia;

How do you pronounce “Tucabia”?The dirt road passing our property is called the Tucabia road. Further on is the tiny, sleepy township of Tucabia.

We had heard from neighbours that somewhere out there were Swiss people living.

We went to the Tucabia post office to inquire where these people might live. Like mentioned before we were not really sure if they were Swiss or Swedish. When we arrived at the post office we could not believe our eyes.We had never seen a post office like that.

The weatherboard house was dilapidated to the stage of collapse. To get into the post office we had to walk over an array of household items laying around, old rusty iron sheets, washing which probably had fallen from the line aeon's ago, old bikes without wheels, rusty bits that by the look of it must have been ones a car or two.
The floor in the post office was badly sagging and by the look of it someone had the misfortune to have fallen with a foot through a rotten piece of flooring, as still the heel of a black shoe was sticking out of the hole.

After we reassembled our shocked faces we called out for the lady of the house, as nobody was around. After a while a friendly, comfortable looking lady presented herself as the postmistress. We asked her about the Swiss people we were told lived somewhere in this area.

She looked us up and down and said there was a new family living along the Tucabia road. They are really weird people. It is said they have only one entrance door in their house because they are afraid of snakes. And then she let out a roar of laughter she had not heard of something so hilarious for a while and with a little sniff practically as an excuse, foreigners.

After we got the hint what and about whom she was talking, we said that we were actually the people she was telling us about. She swallowed once, but caught her equilibrium very quickly. Accentuating her answer with a vague hand gesture said there are some Swedish people living out there somewhere. She did not know exactly where so we left it at that. We will never know if we missed something, we never met the Swedish-Swiss people.

Tucabia is a sleepy village isolated like everything around it. It is very flat and sandy, has already a tiny whiff of the sea. The houses are far and wide nestling on acreage. Only a few tall, stately gumtrees dot the landscape.
Some of the tall Eucalyptus have big, black ants nests attached which are cleverly used by Kookaburras as nesting places. Around Tucabia is bush…bush ..bush…it is a village in the bush. (bush is the word used to describe woodland.
The road a straight, narrow ribbon leads the way up and down along bushland towards the coast and the small holiday village of Wooli.
On our way we encountered a forest completely ring barked. The skeletal trees a cemetery of ghostly, ancient giants, limbs broken, numb and powerless under a deep blue, innocent sky. Yet the trees even in their battlefield status have not lost all their purpose. Lots of birds and small animals still find shelter and nesting places in the hollows of the trees.

Coarse ferns, scrub and tough blady grass still provide shelter and hiding places for lizards and other animals. Small saplings raise intimidatingly their vulnerability towards the light. The bush looks rough and unkempt, primeval and still there is serenity to it that a groomed and landscaped ground can never achieve.

A wooden chapel stands lonesome on the side of the road oblivious to its neglect.
Cherishes now the only occupants, the spirit of its long dead worshippers.

The landscape is bare where in earlier times the trees have been ring barked to make room for more farmland.

Now only rusty, holed iron sheets bear witness to a lively homestead that occupied the site and oddly, completely intact stone steps lead up to nowhere.

A small tumbledown shed ,its roof caved in, are the sad looking leftovers.

Tough, hardwood fences, silvery from sun, wind and rain hang on for a while longer and still display the craftsmanship and hard work of people long gone. They give suddenly way to a tangle of never mended wire fences.
Ground hugging Banksias with their golden candles held up high grow in dense profusion along the road. The road is a narrow ribbon of bitumen with on both sides half a car space of dirt road. You have to drive half on the bitumen and half on the dirt track; if you don’t follow this rule you’re pushed out completely into the dirt and further down into a ditch, as the oncoming cars pass with astonishing speed in the middle of the road which they abandon quickly to hug the other half of the dirt road leaving only a cloud of dust.

The road wends its way up and down, along grazing land, the odd homestead, bush and more bush then suddenly you arrive on top and from there you have a breathtaking view of the Pacific Ocean, like a glorious gift presented to you. The horizon merges sky and sea tantalized by transparent sunlight. Born of the sun and lives by the light fits perfectly here, so Alphonse Daudet said this about the Provence. Golden, sandy beaches hug green blue water, sparkling, inviting and besieging, we have arrived in paradise.

Photo TS

Under a hotter Sun; Purple Thistles;

The paddock

We walked down to the river flats. All five of us shouldered hoes and bush knives.  We had the task to eradicate thistles, rushes and more weeds that had the tendency to choke the grass. Thistles grew in abundance. They were never in jeopardy by wild swinging hoes and bush knives by a bunch of determined Swiss declaring war to innocent weeds. Reg said, where thistles grow the soil is very fertile. What I thought was that Reg just wanted to console us, when he saw the task we had ahead of us.
While we hacked and slashed at the big whoppers,
my eyes strayed to the riverbank. The water dark and serene. Tiny flower petals fell gracefully and settled on the water highlighted by the odd sun ray penetrating the thick vegetation.

The heat, the buzz of insects, the monotonous task soon led me into a dazed dreaming.
The sunlight sharp like molten silver pierced my eyelids; there suddenly, I glimpsed graceful people whom had lived in this area a long time before us. The tall, proud men ahead, strode with long measured paces. Women and children with delicate limbs, followed, happily chatting and laughing .

They stopped in their track when they saw me. Their hands with long slim fingers flew up and waved. A very old woman gazed at me; fathomless, black eyes met mine.

The earth stood still, when she reached out and handed me a small woven dilly bag. I hesitated to take it. I had nothing to give her in return. She quietly pressed the gift into my hands a tiny smile on her lips.
My fingers curled around the small bag, felt the exquisite work of the woven fibres.
The chatter and laughter resumed, faded, far away the last tinkle of a child’s laughter died.
My hands hung empty, the fingers still curled around nothing. I felt bereft. The hoe left laying on top of wilting, silvery purple flowers.
The world returned to its endless chores. The buzz and hum of insects, the twitter of a bird, the flap of a wing, and the silent pursuit of underground creatures.
The heat continued its onslaught; sun rays radiated glittering stars into the sky.
Sweat trickled from my hot brow, pale rivulets on my dusty face.
I dried my moist face with my sunhat, blinked into the shimmering heat. I adjusted my sunglasses that had carelessly fallen to the ground and looked around to my family; they were busy at their task.
I gazed up to this immensely blue sky; swatted lethargically at flies and my spirits vanished when I looked at this sea of purple. The hoes went whack, whack and the purple heads fell to their grave. Their dry, prickly heads hold also trillions of seeds for next years crop. I shuddered when I thought of it.
The girls had enough and vanished, drawn to the cool, dark river that beckoned and promised relief from the heat and monotonous work. I listened to their noisy splashes.
Peter and I plod on, whack, whack slash one more purple thistle gone.
Our reward for this hard work came when letters from the abattoir said that our cattle were completely free of any residue of poison. Unfortunately we did not receive more money for our organically grown cattle. People were not yet talking about organically grown food.

(We were always a nose length ahead with newfangled ideas; which came much later worldwide into fruition with "slow food and organic food.)

Under a hotter Sun; The pigs;

To augment our income, until the steers were ready to sell, we decided to buy three sows and one boar. We went to a pig breeder in the area. We selected three nice looking sows and one boar. When we selected the boar P. counted the boar's teats. The pig breeder and his wife thought that was very funny and asked Peter why he counted the boars teats. Peter explained that this was very important because his female offspring would have then too as many teats as possible to suckle many piglets. They said they had never heard of that.

Soon it was known in the area that P. was a good manager and the Swedes were well known for their pig breeding. The people did not take much notice of the difference between Swiss and Swede. To them it was all the same somewhere in the north of Europe. To us it did not matter if we came from Switzerland or Sweden.
Some times at gatherings people asked me to say something in Swedish. There was
no point in making clear that I can not speak Swedish, I tried to tell I speak Swiss German. I just said a sentence or whatever I was asked in Swiss German dialect because I could not speak Swedish.
The three sows and the boar were delivered. Peter had their luxury accommodation ready. They were Babette number one and two and three. One Babette was later named “cripple toe” because she had an accident with her foot and damaged a toe. The boar was called Willie. The boar and the three Babetten were happy pigs.

They had also a big paddock to them selves where they frolicked, buried their snouts deep into the earth to get to roots and probably grubs and earthworms. After a rain they loved to eat the sprouting mushrooms. They had a mud bath to get rid of insects and also to keep the skin protected from sunburn, as they had such a fair skin.
When their time came to give birth they gathered grass and leaves and soft twigs to make nests for the piglets. When they gave birth at night we went down to their paddock to watch them. In the morning the newborn piglets were usually happily suckling.

Peter found one newborn piglet completely flat, with no sign of life lying near its mother. She had probably lain on it, as the sows are sometimes very clumsy when it comes to look after their offspring. He took the piglet away to bury it later, it was cold and looked dead.

The sun must have warmed its little body because when Peter returned later on to bury it, the piglet had disappeared .He found it near its mother. It still looked a bit flat but was vigorously suckling with the others. We always knew it as it grew up with a little bent to its body.

The little pigs could roam the whole property; for the time being they lived a charmed and happy piggies life. When it was feeding time Peter called them with a gong and they came running from all directions. They came up to the garden and loved it when we scratched their fat little tummies. These were the good times for the pigs.

Not all is beautiful when the little pigs grow up to be porkers. I never got used to this and always fled cowardly the scene when the steers or the pigs were shifted to the abattoirs. I know Peter hated it too.