Text: My Driveway

from elke, 19.07.08

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My driveway is the main street and lifeline of our small community on an organic farm in tropical Far North Queensland. It’s long and windy, and the sole link to the nearest town 100 kilometres away, connecting a string of dwellings where a motley array of animals (mostly uninvited) and humans reside.

In truth, the driveway’s in a terrible state of disrepair, growing worse year by year. Full of gaping holes, inexpertly repaired by shovels of stones and sand - only to be washed away again.

At one end is the “River House”. A wooden frame snug in the forest by the river. With tin roof and no walls, heavy rain drumming on the roof, so loud it’s nigh impossible to talk. Home to a shifting population from around the globe - painters, writers and Willing Workers On Organic Farms, otherwise known as WWOOFers.* These international visitors, nervous of the thought of crocodiles lumbering up the slope sleep high on platforms suspended in the rafters.

At the other end hides a man in a shipping container in a paddock perched on bricks. We have no idea who he is and he’s not supposed to be there. We only recently discovered his existence due to odd metallic thuds every now and then.

And in between reside the longer term folk. There’s Old Shanti who hangs out in a tiny cottage with two cheeky horses and a demented cat. Wrinkled and brown, he spends his days blissfully meditating naked in the sun, while his horses roam free, nicking food from kitchen bench tops.

Next, there’s Fred - my best friend. He lives on top of the hill in a big barn. Fred’s a slob, with plates of rotting food stacked high by the sink, unwashed clothes in stinking heaps on the floor. Rats scampering everywhere, fat rat-feasting python permanently curled on the fridge.

Wreathed in cigar smoke, Fred spends days and nights typing his great book. A searing political expose no one’s ever seen. In fact, some suspect its very existence. But, Fred does have an extraordinary garden producing a bounty of tangible vegetables.

And somehow over the years - via a magical conjunction of forces while experimenting with exotic ingredients - he’s become an uniquely talented chef. Whipping up improvised vegetable curries from kaffir limes, sweet potato, brazilian cherries, sweet leaf ...

So scrumptious, increasing numbers of visitors brave the driveway, inviting themselves to lunch. Simultaneously cursing his shrinking solitude and beaming with pride, Fred threatens to open a cafe and make his fortune. Luckily, health regulations should prevail.

I’m parked near Fred in a bus. I write fiction while listening to Classic FM. Romance, crime and horror - whatever comes to mind. As you might imagine, on the subject of writing, Fred and I frequently clash. “Writing trash for cash,” growls Fred, “is prostitution of the very worst kind.” But, at least I finish what I start.

In my spare time, I brew wine from honey and fresh fruits from the farm. Stories and wine! Most happy sublime combination! Living to create and creating for a living the intoxicating essences of the very fruits of life. Who could ask for more ...

There’s many more of us - too many to describe here. We’re very different from one another, yet united by a love of nature and the somewhat cranky desire for solitude to pursue creative passions. It’s a peaceful life, tragic world events a dim clamour in the distance. There’s never enough money, but as our fruit trees prosper, growing ever upwards and outwards, there’s less we need to buy.

At times we squabble. About whose turn it is to fix the driveway, or drive out to do the monthly shopping. Risk the road into town where police cars lurk like spiders, trapping DUI drivers in unregistered rusting cars, sneaking out for more supplies.

Many weeks a year, the farm’s flooded in by the wet season and cyclones. Phones and electricity drop out too. As precious reserves dwindle, friendships strengthen, quirky differences set aside. We huddle together to share cigars and cigarettes, mellowing out over curries and home made wine.

*WWOOFers roam the world, working a few hours a day in exchange for board as they go.

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Tags

• Writing
• Rural & Regional
• my street

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