Of Australia, where each joy feels like a threat
‘I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror –
The wide brown land for me!’
- from ‘My Country’, by Dorothea Mackellar
In writing of Australia, my mind always turns to nature and cities, to scenery. I want to relish in the stretch and space and scale, the true expanse of the country, of the continent. Of the length of coastline, of the hectares of bushland, of the beauty of it all. I want to write of the wide-open skies, of the white-sand beaches, of the tall eucalyptus trees. I want to write of the familiar stretch of bridges over the harbour and rivers as the city passes into suburbia, of rabbit-warren inner-city back streets and alleys, of mountains behind cities.
In writing of my time in Australia, I want to write of catching up with friends, and of meeting new family members. I want to write of evening drinks in small inner-city bars, of joyful gatherings in cheery pubs, of meals eaten by the harbour as the sun sets; the late summer sun dipping behind the spread of the city, turning the depth of water golden in the evening light.
I want to write of beach swims, the water cool at first, catching on toes, on legs, raising goosebumps along arms. I want to write of dips in ocean pools, of gentle glides as waves break in amongst the heat. I want to write of leisurely afternoons lazing on beaches, books in hand, talking, napping, and luxuriating in the gentle good grace of the afternoon.
I want to write of the hazy, sun-soaked, swim lethargy between Christmas and New Year. Of pool-side devouring of crackers, and talking about dreams and fears. Of Boxing Day spent in the cool indoors, retreating from the humidity that causes a glistening of brows and sticks clothes to backs. Of talking about books and films and travel plans, stopping only for another mince pie, more rum balls, a lunch of Christmas Day leftovers caught in a wrap.
I want to write of all that I experienced and yet there’s a thick and heavy layer of guilt upon it all: upon the experiences, upon the words. Guilt for rolling in for three weeks of rest, relaxation, and reunions, as the land and people battle and rage. Guilt for being helpless as fire engulfs vast swathes of land. Guilt for leaving at the end of it all, back to what is now called home.
For although lazy days, and dream-like meals, beach snoozing, and walks caught in humidity were the reality, it was only part of the picture. I could continue to write of seemingly idyllic scenes and yet I would be deep in ignoring the climate-driven reality of the three week stay. To describe a sunset as golden is to ignore the cause of the blood-red sun. To talk of beach afternoons is to ignore the bushfire-smoke haze rendering it all in rich sepia tones. To talk of lunches and gallery outings would be remiss if not to mention the smoke thick in the air, pricking eyes, and catching at the backs of throats.
To describe the time in mere pleasantries – in the joy of reunion, in the magic of once-more being in the same time zone, on the same continent, in the same room – is to overlook the rage and the fury, the deep, unrelenting sadness at the devastation and destruction. To say I had a good time away feels almost callous and wrong, like a kick in the teeth to the land and the people of my mother tongue. To talk of enjoying nights out and brunches at friend’s homes seems disrespectful when so many have lost their homes, have spent nights cowering on ash-covered beaches.
To talk of the land means to acknowledge the pain of First Nations communities as traditional land practices have been steadily ignored for decades and centuries, as white man’s greed has turned sacred land to ash.
I would be ignoring the anger and frustration of the population, the overwhelming sense of hopelessness as politicians and businesses continue to fail to protect, to preserve, or to even honour the level of impact of the drought and of the fires. Their country’s houses are burning, paint is melting off cars. Yet still they do nothing, still they do not think to the future except with the dollar symbol clouding their vision as the smoke and the dust storms roll in.
To write of reconnecting to nature – of dipping toes into sand and sea, of dirt-covered feet after bushwalks amongst tall and mighty gumtrees resplendent in oranges and greens, of the breeze in hair as the ferry glides over the evening harbour – has to also acknowledge the unsettling, sinking feeling of deep, maddening grief for the land at the heart of it all. Of watching from afar as the much-visited South Coast goes up in flames, losing out in the bushfire lottery. Of hearing firefighter’s tales of animals screaming out in pain. To write of the enjoyment of nature seems in conflict to the pain of seeing nature seek vengeance for the greed of humans, and wondering, ever wondering, for how much longer greed and comfort can blind us into failing to act.
And yet, and yet.
The experience was also full of joy and pleasure, of the comfort of returning to a well-known place. The simple delight in re-walking once familiar streets. The physical magic of being able to hold friends close after a long time apart. The comforting feeling of returning to the security of a childhood bed.
To focus only on the fires and the fury neglects the rest and reflection that returning to a place can also bring. There were days when the smoke and fires did have a direct impact, and there were days when they did not, and joy and grief was held across all of it. It was a trip both cathartic and unruly, a whirlwind of three weeks that only now - only now with space, and time and distance – can I begin to make sense of. I know now that it was bigger than the sum of its parts.
Dorothea Mackellar wrote her vivid and iconic poem, ‘My Country’, when visiting England. Writing this now, I can see the essential role distance can play in making clear just how special Australia’s natural realm is. Underneath all the politics and pain, there stands a land of true beauty, rugged vastness, and spiritual connection.
Perhaps, after all, it is as important to write of the beauty of the trees and of the beaches, of the mountains, and harbour cities, of the scope, the scale, and the variety of Australia. Now, in a time of destruction and woe, it is perhaps all the more important to remember what we must fight for. As important as it is to write the truth, of the fury and rage, of the grief and anger, perhaps it is also of integral importance to appreciate the beauty of friends, family, and country while we still can.
‘An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land –
All you who have not loved her,
You will not understand –
Though earth holds many splendours,
Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country
My homing thoughts will fly.’
- from ‘My Country’, Dorothea Mackellar
'There are eight million stories in the naked city. This has been one of them.'
- The Naked City, 1948
All photos taken on 35mm film.
Donate to the NSW Rural Fire Service, the Country Fire Association Victoria, and WIRES.
'Each joy feels like a threat: / Although there's beauty everywhere, / its shadow is regret.'
- from 'The Point', by Kate Tempest