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.
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.
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.
