SUPERFICIE ARBOLADA POR MEDIO DE REPOBLACIONES

In St. Leonards

Lionel S, long-term resident of St. Leonards and ‘keeper’ of the wetlands. My initial meeting with Lionel was not part of a primary research process. On the contrary, our first encounter was merely a happy accident that brought us into each other’s company. In effect, we all but collided on a beach track in St. Leonards, and as often happens, struck up a conversation in the ordinary manner of people who are simply out for a stroll. Lionel was an easy walking companion who offered up many of his own insights and observations about the well-trod track we traversed. And just as we fell into step with each other during our long walk, so the conversation flowed easily between us.

The decision to include Lionel as a contributor played out over an extensive period of time, and while the unfolding story of that process forms part of the following account, he did not want his voice to be included in the digital artefact. He was happy to have me record our conversation, but for reasons of his own wanted to have his contribution documented in print. The inclusion of his contribution in the DVD is supported by my own voiced commentary, which constitutes an accurate account of what passed between us on our first and subsequent meetings. The accompanying photographs are a combination of Lionel’s nominated images and those that I took as we walked and talked. Given these constraints, and in order to convey the depth and detail of our conversation, this entry is necessarily more extensive than those of other participants. First Meeting constitutes a short excerpt of our initial meeting that was introduced in the Prelude. In introducing the conversation that took place on May 30, 2010 I have summarised that excerpt in order set the scene and the tenor of the exchanges that followed. Getting to the Point captures the unfolding events that followed our initial meeting and Later on concludes the exchange.

First Meeting

On a balmy morning in May, 2010 I had got up early in the hope of catching some of the sounds that greet the day. My purpose was straightforward enough – I needed to develop competencies in sound recording and photography. The light on the Bay and the character of wetlands would provide the practice I was looking for, and so I got organized and set off. I chose the walk to Edward’s Point because it is usually a long and solitary undertaking. It’s rare to encounter anyone along the track and the prospect of an uninterrupted first run was something I looked forward to.

A couple of kilometres from my home signage announces the Edward’s Point track. I’d not met anyone thus far and had taken a couple of short sound- bytes to test the recorder; the same with the camera. Everything was going well enough to put the gear away and just amble along and enjoy the walk for a while. This was familiar country to me; the trek out to the Point was a path I walked regularly as an escape from the usual environments that I navigated – cities and larger regional centres that drew me away for work.

As I ambled in the general direction of the Point I passed a haggard old tea- tree. The species was introduced into Australia shortly after European settlement and now constitutes something of a cultural hallmark, especially in Victoria. A variety of myrtle, they twist and turn, contorting as they grow. Given the right conditions most will live for 60 or 70 years, after which time they are replaced by ‘pioneering species’ such as wattle. This was certainly the cycle at Edward’s Point and the ‘old girl’ was clearly nearing the end of her time. Knotted as if by magic I wondered how long she’d last. I’d met her so many times before, yet was always astounded at the extreme range of her contortions. The loop she made at the mid-trunk was not something I’d encountered in a tea-tree anywhere else, so I was always a bit captivated by the feat.

Needless to say I was absorbed in my own reverie when Lionel burst forth from the surrounding scrub. Well concealed and quiet he emerged before I heard him. Catching me in the process of contemplating the old tree his quick rejoinder caught me well and truly off guard. Not only did few people

venture here, but to be met by someone who was so immediate in his engagement amplified my surprise.

Our meeting was underscored by Lionel’s pronouncement that the old girl would last for another year or two. I wasn’t so sure, but the exchange between us was as natural as the environment in which we found ourselves. Yes, we’d seen each other occasionally, a friendly nod to each other from a distance. More usually I had my dog, Stella, for company but Lionel always travelled solo. Introductions done, Lionel wanted to know where my dog was. The exchange then escalated. Extending his hand, he introduced himself; we traded names and moved on together.

In the hour or so that followed Lionel had drunk most of the water that I had with me and eaten a couple of apples. He’d been up early and hadn’t expected to be walking as far as the Point. The only concern I had was the smell infusing the air between us – Lionel stunk of fish. Needless to say I kept my thoughts about his ‘pong’ to myself as the conversation turned to his investigation of the technologies that I had with me.

The following account of our journey is an accurate rendering of the conversation that got underway shortly after the consumption of water and apples - it started with Lionel’s questioning…

Getting to the Point

“So, you taking some snaps?” he gestures to my backpack which contains the camera and hand-held voice recorder.

“Yeah...got some good ones...the old girl (tea-tree) up the track, some of the birds...”

Lionel probed for more information. “So, you a nature lover too?”

Before answering I thought about the real purpose of my walk that morning. I had gone out, technologically equipped, to take some stills and record some noises as a prelude to the project that was about to unfold. Would a stranger on a beach track want to know, or should I just go with the flow and the moment? Before I could decide Lionel intuited what was going on.

“I mean, I’m not being nosey or anything... Ha! Maybe I am, maybe I am, but the camera and that recorder thingy – whatchya up to?”

There seemed little point in avoidance, so as succinctly as I could I gave Lionel ‘the drum’. I was practising, trying to skill up with the camera and the recorder. I was working on some research about the ways that people live in community; on how people see community; on what they value; the natural and built environments were part of it, and so was sustainability (whatever that meant). I wanted to talk to people who were working towards a more sustainable future and get them to show me what they valued about their communities – like the natural environment, animals, plants, people - anything. I wanted to photograph their images and I wanted to record their voices as they talked about what they valued and what their intentions were when they started out on the path to sustainability...

I paused and looked at Lionel. His gaze was intense, his head turned toward me. Suddenly he stopped walking.

“So, why? What made ya wanna do that?” I was frank.

“Well, the thing is, I want to understand it. I want to know what drives people to try and get it together...you know, in communities, to try and improve how we meet each other, and the rest of it – the natural environment. How do we get some kind of balance, harmony, so that we don’t keep

stuffing it up. You look around this place, it’s beautiful, but I tell you, last walk I counted ten dead mutton birds, a couple of cormorants, and pelicans on the shoreline... and that’s just for starters.”

Lionel got it. With exuberance he challenged me.

“Come with us, up to the very end of the Point. Meet Ron!”

And he beamed a great smile at me for good measure. I’d surely want to meet Ron, wouldn’t I?

(Who the hell was Ron, and what had I gotten myself into?) “Ron? Who’s Ron? He one of your mates?”

Lionel was cryptic and evasive, but no less encouraging.

“Ahhhhh… Wellll…. You’ll just have to wait til we get there, won’t ya?” I debated the wisdom of my next move but made it anyway. I would mosey on along to meet ‘Ron’ – what the hec!

Before we moved off Lionel pointed to my backpack.

“You might want to get that tape recorder out, and yer camera...you’re gonna need ‘em when ya meet Ron...?” And he laughed.

We moved off in synch and walked a few paces before Lionel came to a dead halt. He turned and faced me.

“Say, why don’t ya get out yer tape recorder and ya can practice on me! How’d that be? Ask me anything...no photos though! Alright?”

And so I did...

“So, Lionel, what brings you into the great outdoors?” At which Lionel glared at me.

“Ya have to be serious. If you want me to talk to ya, you have to take it serious. Alright?”

Duly chastened I regroup.

“Lionel, you’ve lived in these parts for a while now I take it? What brought you here?”

Lionel exhales.

“Whell, I reckon it was the best option at the time, not that I’m sorry. Love it here now. Bit hard at first. Not too much of the ‘ready’. But that’s OK. Grew me own veg and put in a couple of fruit trees. That was twenty odd years

ago...yeah, anyway, I’ve always loved the salt. Came out of the merchant service – had bit of bad luck; crate fell on us...took a while to get better...anyway, I needed the salt and places were cheap down here... back then. Bought the little hut up on the Bluff, did it up a treat. Anyway, it’s home, you know. Still in good nick...mind you, could do with a bit of a paint job now. Anyway, that’s the story.”

We pause but Lionel has hit his stride. “Go on, ask me something else. Go on...”

Undaunted I pursue the now foetid-smelling Lionel.

“So Lionel, you said you’d been out here since five this morning - why so early?”

Lionel eases into the moment, relishing his own storytelling. “Yeah, well, the thing is, I was after a few flatty scraps (flathead).” He pauses and feigns an exaggerated sniffing motion.

“Peee-ew, they pong a bit, don’t they?”

I nod as he rummages in the oversized pockets of his khakis and produces two flathead skeletons. Gesturing at the very dead flatties he continues.

“They’re for Ron, ya see. Poor old buggar’s had a rough time of it and anyway, he won’t come up if I’m empty handed.”

I can’t resist.

“So, come on, who’s Ron?” Lionel is sharp, quick.

“Naaaaa, yer not getting me that easy. You’ll just have to wait. Anyway, we’re nearly there.”

We turn the last bend and head to the Point.

A little further on and scores of water birds huddle onto the sand as the tide rolls in. Pelicans abound here, along with scores of cormorants.

Lionel stops, smiles broadly. “Paradise! Whaddaya reckon?”

I share the sentiment and we stroll on together, gaining ground on the birds before us. Lionel starts to frown. Looking this way and that he’s searching out someone, or something. I can’t resist. “What’s up? You expecting someone?”

Lionel stops dead in his tracks, perplexed. After a few seconds he exhales sharply and curses: “Old buggar, he’ll never learn…”

He turns to me and the tale tells itself.

Ron, a male Pelican, recently recovered from a life-changing ordeal, has ‘wandered off back to the slip’ (yet again). The ill-fated bird earned his name (Ron) when local fishermen noticed that he didn’t bolt the scraps that they regularly threw to the birds on their return from a day’s fishing. Ron always hoarded and held the scraps for hours, eventually swallowing the contents of his huge beak. Amused by the bird’s antics he earned the appellation ‘Ron’ – so ascribed because of his propensity to save the fish for ‘later on’ – abbreviated in the Australian vernacular as ‘ron’.

According to the story, Lionel had observed these antics for many days and couldn’t make it out. Eventually, his mounting curiosity led to a more studied approach of the bird’s behaviour. Pelicans were renowned for bolting any spare fish thrown their way; Ron’s behaviour ‘just wasn’t natural’.

One fateful afternoon Lionel watched as Ron languished, eventually dropping the contents of his beak (several fish carcasses). Now convinced that there was something very wrong with Ron, Lionel captured the pelican by throwing an old blanket over him. By all accounts the bird didn’t put up much of a fight and Lionel dispatched him to a nearby Wildlife Rescue Service with great haste, convinced that he ‘needed to be seen’. After some detailed questioning and negotiating on Lionel’s part, they eventually agreed to take a look at Ron. “Ahhh, poor old thing. Turned out he had a tangled mess of fishing line stuck in his gullet. Gawd, no wonder he was havin’ trouble with his tucker.”

Lionel cast his gaze back to the sandy promontory. He looked worried so I pursued the story.

“So, Ron’s supposed to be here? Is this where you brought him after his trip to the Rescue Service?”

“Yeah. Thought it might be a good idea to bring him out to his pals – keep him away from the boat ramp and all that tackle. Don’t want a repeat of all

that. Old buggar always gets himself back there though…gonna have ta go and find him, make sure he’s OK…that’s what the flatty scraps were for.” The poignant tale drifted away as we turned together and made our way back to the boat ramp in search of Ron. Along the way we fell into easy conversation about the dredging of the Bay (Port Phillip Bay) and its impacts on the shoreline and the wildlife. I wanted to know how he felt about the erosion and the dead birds. I was curious about the fact that he cared so much for the wildlife and yet contained any emotion about the extent of mounting degradation to the environment.

“So, how do you feel about it – you live here and you can’t miss it - it’s changing fast. Half the shoreline’s gone; and then there’s the dead mutton- birds, and the cormorants and pelicans. They reckon they’re starving to death, either that or they’re poisoned by the heavy metals that come up after they dredge the channel; gets into the food chain.”

Lionel’s tone is contemplative, philosophical.

“Yeah, well, true enough. But I got me own way with it…” “How do you mean?”

He gestures at the landscape: “All this – far as the eye can see – it’s mine, see. All mine. Me own private little estate. Ha!”

Lionel is losing me so I chase after the detail. “Lionel, I like your style, but how is it yours, exactly?”

“It’s mine because I can see it. Belongs to me...”

I’m at a loss, but only momentarily: “So, if you can see it, it’s yours. That it?” “Yeah, that’s about the strength of it. See, if I can see it and it can see me then I own it and it owns me. Ya get it? Two-way thing…”

I was getting the message. Lionel expands as we walk.

If he owns things, then it means taking care of them - no matter what. It’s all his, and mine too. It’s everyone’s. By his telling of it, he used to be a bit ‘headstrong’, but not so much these days. He takes it slow and easy and doesn’t let too much ‘ruffle the old feathers these days; people’ll do what they’ll do…’

For Lionel, the reality of change was inescapable, but his approach was to ‘choose yer battles’. In short, there was no ‘winning a battle with the

‘moneygrabbers’. The ‘fight’ for environmental justice was best served by doing as much as one could in the immediate vicinity of home. As he put it: “People catch on; takes its time, but they catch on…”

We pick up the pace and I remain caught by the prospect of what we ‘own’ and Lionel’s take on it. As we chat about it the conversation steps us back to the tea-tree covered track, traversed an hour or so earlier. As we retrace our steps and draw alongside the ‘old girl’ I stall, pressed by the impulse to look about.

Lionel waits and looks about trying to follow my gaze. “What’s up?” “Don’t know…I just want to have a look about. Can you hang on a tick?” Lionel obliges, watching me as I back up a few steps to look into the scrub. “You see something?”

“Not yet.”

Looking to the left of us I peer into the tea-tree canopy, something indiscernible had caught my peripheral vision.

If ‘seeing is believing’ then my struggle was with acceptance. What I saw confounded both sense and reason - but see it I did.

Lionel caught my surprise. Eager for an explanation he followed my gaze.