Jack made another mental note to ask more about this later then decided to play the devil’s advocate. ‘But Mike, technically you’re all irrigators aren’t you? I mean, you also have a water licence, don’t you? What’s the difference?’
Mike stopped the ute under some shady trees and turned to face Jack, a wise smile spreading across his face as the noise of the rumbling diesel engine subsided.
‘I suppose you’re right in one way,’ he conceded. ‘The difference is that we let water spread across this country, like it used to, naturally. This is flood country Jack—always was and always should be. The bloody irrigators take it from point A to point B and then apply it intensively to crops. They focus the use of water on small areas while the rest dies. Unless they’re one of the more savvy irrigators, water is moved via open channels, stored in big open storage dams and then delivered to crops along shallow furrows or maybe overhead sprinklers. Huge amounts of water are lost through evaporation and seepage into the soil. What pisses us off is that they’re allowed to get away with using these inefficient methods. What’s the government doing? There simply isn’t enough water to go around so you either have to be more efficient with what you have or take back some of the licences—the system is massively over-allocated.’
They got out of the ute. The flies were fierce here and as they walked both Mike and Jack had to wave their arms constantly to keep them off their faces. There was also a strong odour of cow dung mixed with dust and eucalypt trees. Nice cocktail, Jack mused. Get used to it mate!
Mike led Jack to a shallow depression running through the barren paddock in which there was a trickle of water.
‘See that,’ he said, ‘that’s called our ‘stock and domestic supply’. It’s supposed to give us water for our cattle and home use. I’m still getting a little but the poor buggers down from here haven’t seen a drop for close on eight years.’
Jack’s surprise was obvious to Mike.
‘Yep, they’ve been carting water in for all that time. Most get a bath once a week, if they’re lucky,’ confirmed Mike.
‘So that’s from the drought?’ Jack queried.
Mike turned to look directly at Jack, casually brushing the flies away as he did. ‘Partly, but it’s mostly because of people closer to the source taking more water than they should—greedy bastards.’
‘But surely it’s monitored in some way.’
Mike laughed, loudly this time. ‘I wish. No, the tap turners in the Water Department work out how much they need to put down the channel to support everyone, allowing for what soaks in and how much evaporates, so that in theory it gets to the end of the line. Rarely happens, but no-one listens when you say, “come out to my place and I’ll show you how little I’m getting.” There are no meters out here Jack, although there is some talk it might happen. The system is supposed to work on trust. It’s a joke. Come on,’ he said, ‘Jump in. Let me give you the rest of the tour.’
Jack’s mind was racing with all sorts of questions. ‘What about other government departments? Do you get any help or support from them?’ he queried.
Mike let out a quiet snort of disgust this time. ‘You familiar with the expression, ‘as useless as tits on a bull’, Jack? Well that’s what they are. Some bright spark in government set up these things called catchment management authorities, CMAs, a few years back. We all thought, beauty; finally some local people with local knowledge and who have the job of looking after all the vested interests not just a few. Bugger me if the idiots then decided the CMA’s could look after everything bar the water. Brilliant. It’s like giving someone a deck of cards to play patience with the kings and queens missing.’
‘What about the environment department or the national parks service? If you once had all those waterbirds breeding here, surely they’d be keen to see that continue?’ asked Jack.
‘You’d think so, and while we hear lots of nice words, and they have little talkfests all the time to reassure us they’re trying their best, at the end of the day they’re mostly naïve kids, just out of university and full of wonderful ideas. They soon learn that you don’t mess with the water department. And, government after government give the environment minister job to inexperienced first timers so those pesky green issues don’t get in the way. Don’t get me wrong here Jack, I’m no closet greenie, although I do miss the floods and what they do to this country. Unless you’ve lived out here for a while and experienced a few floods you just don’t get it, I suppose. Most of the people out here just want balance and fairness but those silly bastards in Canberra and Sydney, well they’re not worth the oxygen.’
Silence fell over the vehicle for a few minutes as they both reflected on the situation. Then Mike continued, ‘The other thing that’s happening is that we’ve had the big international agribusiness enterprises move in. They buy up deceased estates simply for their water licence. Then they abandon the farms and transfer the water entitlement to their property. Around here close to 40 per cent of properties are unoccupied and another 20 per cent have absentee managers. Either ‘Pitt Street farmers’ or ones where the manager lives on another property and drops in every few days. It’s gutted our community way out here, Jack. We’re a dying breed, us cattle farmers.’
‘I had no idea it was this bad. I might be here for a while to get the full story,’ said Jack.
‘We’ll see, we’ll see,’ Mike replied, nodding. ‘How good are you on a quad bike, Jack?’
‘Never tried,’ he answered.
‘I’ll give you a lesson and we’ll go see my son Charlie and his family,’ said Mike.
Chapter 4
About a hundred kilometres down the road from Sunset Downs, at the Royal Hotel in Dawson, a round of beers was brought to a table in a quiet back corner of the bar. One of the televisions mounted on the wall was showing the greyhound races and the other a replay of some football final from more than a decade ago. The pub was relatively quiet, not like Friday nights when the heavy-drinking pig shooters and farm workers came to town in their utes festooned with spotlights, roo bars and racist or sexist bumper stickers.
Vinnie Sutcliffe looked intently at the two men sitting opposite. His big, shaved head matched the body below, well muscled and toned. His reflective sunglasses sat perched on his glistening brow.
‘I’m here to remind you both that we can’t let this thing get out of hand. There are people in Sydney who are nervous. They want assurances that Mike Thompson has nothing on you, Pete, is that the case or not?’
Peter Wellsmore, the regional head of the Department of Water Resources, shifted nervously on his seat, adjusting his glasses, ‘I don’t know what he could have, Vinnie. I’ve been very careful to quash anything that might escalate and not leave paper trails in the system.’
Steve Robertson, known to his mates as ‘Robbo’ and regional manager for GrowOz agribusiness chipped in, ‘I hear there’s some bloody journalist in town sniffing around for a story. He got some petrol at the Shell servo and asked directions to Mike’s place. Bazza got him chatting and found out he’s a writer or journo or something like that.’
‘Shit, that’s just what I need right now; some smart-arse journo stirring things up,’ Wellsmore replied.
Sutcliffe looked at Robertson, also concerned at the news of a journalist going to see Mike. ‘Robbo, you know that if Thompson does have something damaging it will mean the end for you and damage GrowOz’s reputation and probably their share price. The big boys will not be happy.’
‘I know Vinnie, I’m as worried as you guys,’ replied Robertson.
Vinnie sat back, reflecting momentarily. ‘Well, you guys had better hope this journo doesn’t get excited about this story; because if he does we may have to cover our tracks, if you know what I mean.’
He let this sink in for a moment then stood to leave, leaning in closer before he did and saying with subdued force. ‘Keep your ears to the ground on this. Any sniff of the story growing I need to know straight away. We may have some
mopping up to do. Understand?’
After Vinnie’s departure, Wellsmore and Robertson stayed for another round of beers.
‘What are the boys saying about this? Is it still business as usual or have they pulled back on the water diversions?’ asked Pete.
‘You know what they’re like. They think they can keep flying under the radar. I’ve told ’em to cool it for a while but some are saying bugger that, we need the water and if we don’t take it the cattle blokes or greenies will get it.’
An agitated Wellsmore said, ‘Jesus Christ, can’t you talk to them again and ask ’em to back off, at least until this journo fella pisses off?’
‘I’ll try, Pete, but I don’t like my chances. They’ve already flattened Thompson’s mailbox again after what he said to you in that meeting and wanted to do more to scare him off. I think I’ve convinced ’em to hold off on that, for now at least.’ Both men shook their heads and contemplated their half-full schooner glasses.
Chapter 5
Mike’s quad bike riding lesson was abbreviated to say the least. ‘Here, jump on this. That’s the throttle, that’s the brakes and this and that lever down there changes the gears. Got it? Just keep an eye out for bloody cows, pigs and roos. They make a real mess of one of these and you.’ Jack sensed that Mike was enjoying his discomfort.
Jack kangaroo-hopped the first few hundred metres until he got the feel of the quad bike—he’d learned to ride a trail bike when he was growing up and this was similar. They headed toward the setting sun along a narrow track, through a few dry creek crossings, and rumbled over several cattle grids before arriving at another classic old country homestead. Like Mike’s; it had the dogs, the windmill and the elevated water tank—although it was clear younger people lived here from the trampoline, bikes and sandpit toys strewn around, and an old car tyre swinging from a tree.
A younger, carbon-copy of Mike emerged from the house, and Mike introduced his son Charlie. He gripped Jack’s hand in the same powerful way.
‘Charlie, Jack reckons he might like to write a bit of a story about our little water problem, so he’s here to see things for himself. Thought we might take him out on patrol tonight,’ said Mike.
Jack’s ears pricked up at the use of the word ‘patrol’—sounded a bit military. Before he could seek clarification, Charlie replied, ‘Suppose so, we might see some action tonight after your little performance at that meeting last week Dad. I hear the natives are restless. I lost my mailbox again last night, the bastards.’
‘Yep, mine went on Tuesday. Starting to get monotonous,’ quipped Mike.
Before Jack could ask more about the ‘patrol’ he heard the screen door open and looked around to meet Charlie’s wife, he assumed.
‘G’day,’ she said, ‘I’m Sandie, Charlie’s missus.’ She had shoulder-length auburn hair with matching complexion, and was wearing jeans and an RM Williams shirt with a logo on the pocket: Western Stock and Station.
‘Excuse me not getting changed, just walked in from work,’ said Sandie.
‘Nice to meet you,’ said Jack, feeling a little awkward about intruding on their family life.
‘You guys ready for some tucker?’ Sandie asked, heading back inside. ‘Give me ten minutes to get the kids started and then come on in.’
Jack saw his chance and asked, ‘Mike, when you say ‘patrol’, what exactly do you mean?’
Mike glanced at Charlie who jumped in to answer, ‘A few of us that have been getting our water ripped off for years have had enough, so we have a roster system running. Every night of the week someone is out checking that those irrigator mongrels aren’t diverting our water or putting the stop logs in to cut off our flows. If we find they have we put it right.’
‘Stop logs?’ Jack queried.
‘You’ll see later. Basically they’re boards that are used to regulate flow down each supply channel. The number of boards you have in determines how much water gets through. It’s as close as we get to a meter out here.’
‘So, are you telling me that people will run around and interfere with someone else’s water supply after dark?’
‘You bet, and that’s just the start,’ answered Charlie. Jack thought—I’m starting to wish I had taken Mike’s advice and rung my insurance broker. This is sounding serious.
They went inside for dinner. There was a huge stone fireplace with a tanned brown and white cattle-skin rug on the floor in front. A timber mantel piece held some old photos and a few scattered drink coasters. Several big old leather lounges were spread around with a TV in one corner and computer work station in another. The smell was of roast lamb mixed with freshly washed children.
The kids—aged eight and eleven, Jack guessed—were at the table eating already. Jack was introduced to Kate and Ben and everyone heard about their day at school. The school was 40 kilometres away and had a total of twelve students—just enough to keep it going.
As the children told the adults about their day, Jack drifted off momentarily. Kate’s about the same age as my Jennifer, he thought, and remembered the happy times before Ange and he were divorced. He wondered what Jen was doing right now.
Tuning back into the conversation Jack asked Sandie where she worked.
‘With the drought, we had to sell off most of the stock; so I had to take a job in Dawson to help keep us going. Takes me a bit over two hours a day travel but there’s really no alternative until it rains, or we get a bit more of the water we’re entitled to.’ Jack felt the tension mount in the room as Mike and Charlie reflected on Sandie’s words.
After dinner they headed for the quad bikes. As the sun slowly departed the sky, with an amazing sea of red and orange hues in its wake, Mike and Charlie were checking their shotguns and loading them into specially made holsters on the bikes. ‘Tell me they’re for roos and rabbits,’ said Jack.
They both chuckled in unison. ‘Yeah. Sure. We might bowl over a rabbit or two if we see ’em,’ said Charlie, ‘but they’re also for security. Never know what you might find on one of these patrols.’
‘Oh,’ was all Jack could say.
They mounted up. Mike’s two younger dogs jumped up behind him and Charlie had a couple too. Old Max was left behind to be pampered by the children. Jack figured no dogs rode with him because he was still on his ‘L’ plates—they’re protecting their prized possessions, he thought.
After travelling for about 20 minutes they worked their way along a fence line and stopped near a large earthen bank. Charlie beckoned Jack over to where he was standing beside a structure built into the channel. It looked like a smaller version of the fences that horses jump in equestrian events.
‘Jack, it might make more sense to you now. This is my main regulator. This is where all my licensed water comes through; and depending on how much the Department decides we can get in a given year, it might be 100 per cent of our licence, or anything down to zero. I manage that flow using these boards to take what I’m allowed. The tap turners look at how much is in Carnaby dam up river, and then add up all the requests from those that have water licences and then bingo, let that amount out. As I’m sure dad has told you, it relies on honesty; and when times get tough, it’s open slather almost.’
‘I can’t believe this,’ said Jack, ‘What an antiquated system. It’s so open to rorting.’ Mike and Charlie nodded solemnly.
They rode on for a few more kilometres before Mike waved them to a sudden stop. He killed his lights and jumped off the quad, his nimbleness belying his years. ‘Turn the quads off,’ he said urgently, a worried look on his face. The dogs sensed it too and started to whimper. He quietened them with a glare.
As Jack’s eyes adjusted he saw lights ahead in the bush about a kilometre away; and as the wind shifted, there was the sound of heavy machinery at work. Mike and Charlie were conferring quietly. Mike whispered to Jack, ‘This is not our land, but we think we know what they’re doing. They’re reconnecting an old illegal irrigation channel that was decommissioned a few years ag
o. This will divert water meant for others downstream, including us.’
Jack asked naively, ‘How can they hope to get away with it—surely someone will notice?’
Charlie replied with barely subdued anger, ‘If we yell loud enough the Department will come out and investigate, but by then the water’s gone and is in someone’s storage dam or on their crop. They just get a rap over the knuckles, at worst. Usually nothing happens.’
Jack was incredulous—this is blatant theft, he thought. ‘Look, you guys, can we get close enough to get some photos? I’ll have this on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald tomorrow,’ he said. The father and son exchanged glances and then nodded.
‘It might be better if you stay here, Jack. Give Charlie your camera. I guess it’s one of those new fangled digital ones?’ Charlie took the camera as Jack showed him which button to push.
‘You stay here with the dogs, Jack, and if anything happens get on the quad and get the hell out of here. Reckon you can find your way back to Charlie and Sandies’ place?’ Not a hope in hell, Jack thought as the others started to inch forward on foot using the scattered trees for cover.
In the now rapidly fading daylight Jack could see Mike and Charlie cautiously edging toward the lights and noise. Then a gun shot rang out. Mike and Charlie hit the deck. Jack wasn’t sure if they were taking cover or one of them had been hit.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he said out loud, trying to suppress his panic. Without thinking, Jack charged toward Mike and Charlie to see if they needed his help. The dogs followed his lead. As he got closer, Mike and Charlie jumped to their feet and came running back past him. Great!
‘Jack, what the hell are you doing? Get out of here you crazy bastard.’ As he turned to follow his retreating ‘mates’ Jack heard the now unmistakable sound of quad bikes starting up. He glanced back to see headlights and the silhouettes of two burly looking blokes—toting shotguns—come crashing through the bush, heading for them.
Flood country Page 2