15 May 2011 - Koramba Cotton, NSW

 
Another clear but hellishly cold Sunday morning, seemingly more so because the power was off when we woke, so I couldn’t just flick the switch of our excellent little fan heater. We were however better off than the men in the quarters; we did have light and the water was still relatively warm for washing. Tebby, the Australian Hungarian who is a few years younger than me, but limps like a very old man, asked if we heard him scream (swear?) when he tried to have his morning shower. However four degrees celsius here with the skies clear and promising a superb day is more attractive than a wet dismal day of the same temperature further south, as was our experience when we were in the Bathurst area.

The module maker

Chris came in last night wrapped up in his rain jacket, and had been since night had fallen, in an attempt to cut the wind. It had been a bitterly cold day in the wind, and worse because work was slow and spasmodic. The engine blew on one of the harvesters, and someone was trying to source a new one from Toowomba. In the meantime progress was slower with one harvester servicing both teams. Chris had suggested he take the camera to work, and given that some days they have hardly enough time to take a bite of their sandwich, he could not have picked a better day to take some field photos.

Completed cotton modules

There have been frequent breakdowns of machinery, sometimes the press, sometimes the harvester. Shannon, the mechanic, does quick fixes because there is not the time to do the repair properly, and sometimes those repairs are short lived. Often, as last night, if one gets up to meet natures call, one can see the workshop ablaze with lights and knows that Shannon is yet again burning both ends of the candle to keep the show on the road. He is just young, and will in this environment soon be a mechanic of great basic experience, of the kind most sought in more remote or rural areas, if he is not already.

Cotton ready to harvest

Surprisingly, the farm has only one module collecting truck, which itself has spent several days backed into the workshop.I had  been curious as to why one of the young Italians would be drifting about the camp at all times of the day. (He is the one who has troubles with his digestion tract, emitting uninhibited gas explosions from either end. I like to think that this has nothing to do with his manners, but more to do with a health issue.) When I finally learned that this one truck works twenty four hours a day, traveling all over the farm, picking up the modules and transporting them to the gin, and that this young senor was a truck driver, I realised that he was on the night shift. Despite his unseemly eruptions, I felt sorry for him. Imagine driving to the far reaches of this farm in the pitch dark, but for headlights, and alone loading the cotton, then traveling back across to the gin. Certainly the gin too operates 24/7, so there would be some comfort in reaching that, but I would not fancy risking an accident in the middle of the night, all alone and so remote.

The youthful usurpers of our camp are still today hanging about idle and unexplained to me. Last night just after sunset they lit a fire near their tent. The flames danced high above their car, and I feared the worst. An out of control fire here would be just too hideous to contemplate. I kept watch through my kitchen blind, ready to rush out and defend the caravan from any such inferno; obviously no such event occurred. This morning they wandered toward the road and came back dragging fallen timber for their morning fire which is still smoldering. I have ascertained that the younger two are much younger than previously thought, in fact, I wonder why they are not at school. Perhaps they are hiding out from truant officers?

I went for an extra long walk this morning. I sat huddled in front of the heater after the power came on, until I finished my book just before ten. This will not do! I told myself, so I headed off briskly toward the river and the red billabong. This flood lagoon is now no longer red, just simply muddy, but still attracts the most wonderful birdlife. I love watching the small birds darting about for insects at water level, and never failing to get wet in the process. There are always ducks on and around the lagoon as I approach, however they take flight when the other birds warn them of my footfall.

Today I walked on beyond the lagoon, and found myself in more open bush, expecting to come upon grazing livestock. At one point I came back to the river to find it just a diminished puddle and thought for a moment that perhaps the McIntyre Rover was like the Castereigh, an upside-down river, but then I realised that this riverbed was a natural alternative for flood times. The birdlife on what is essentially an island between the flowing river and the overflow is even more lively than elsewhere. I followed the track on and on until I came to a fence that had long since become unusable, then turned back the way I had come. I had hoped that the track might turn away from the river and take me back to the farm road that runs parallel to the levees. Perhaps it does, but if I am to discover that, I will have to pack a survival kit and allow myself a greater portion of the day. My greatest regret is that I cannot share these discoveries with Chris, who like me, appreciates the Australian wildlife and the wonderful landscape. He does however get to enjoy the sunsets as I do, even if his view is from the fields and mine from the camp.

Tomorrow I am off to the big smoke; Gundy. I have a nine thirty appointment with Dorchester Computers. A new keyboard is waiting and they will be installing it for me, all going according to plan, while I do the necessary chores of the day and of course, the shopping! I will make sure I get away as Chris heads off to work at a quarter to eight, and hope that I have a clear run in. Latest rumours say only another nine days, so perhaps this will be my last solo flight? Time will tell.