When the Singing Stops

by Di Morrissey

  ‘You going to write a book too?’ asked Sharee.

  ‘No, but I think it’s nice to keep a journal. You forget things, so it’s good to write impressions as they strike.’

  The travellers, joined by Matthew and Kevin, slept in sleeping bags and on furniture and hammocks at the da Silvas’ house, and at 4.30 they were roused for hot coffee and sweet rolls ready for the 5 am takeoff.

  Matthew hugged Madi in the dawn light. ‘Now don’t do anything stupid, heed Gwen’s advice, and have a good time.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘I hope it’s all you want it to be, sis.’

  ‘I’m doing it, Matt, that’s the main thing.’ Her golden hair plaited into its thick braid sat shining on her shoulder beneath Matthew’s favourite canvas fishing hat. She wore cotton jeans, a T-shirt under one of Matthew’s cotton shirts, and thin cotton socks inside her tennis shoes.

  Matthew turned to Connor and shook his hand. ‘Keep an eye on the kid, mate.’

  ‘No worries there, Matt. If I can keep up with her. When we get to the falls she’ll be sprinting to be first to the top, I bet.’

  ‘No one sprints up that climb,’ said Ann. ‘Besides, there’s a lot to see on the way up, wonderful plants and ferns.’

  More farewells, Kevin and Matthew giving Sharee and Viti quick hugs and then the six of them walked to the two packed vehicles, Ann, Madi and Connor getting into one, John, Sharee and Viti in the other. The engines gurgled with a throaty roar as Kevin and Matthew held open the gates, and the Land Rovers passed through.

  Matthew looked up at the first streaks of dawn in the sky.

  ‘Don’t worry about her, sport. She’s a strong hombre that sister of yours,’ said Kevin, seeing the wistful expression on Matthew’s face.

  ‘I’m not so worried about her safety. I just hope she finds what she’s looking for. She’s been a bit lost in life and she seems so sure she’s going to find whatever it is that will make her happy up those falls.’

  ‘Good a place as any to start a fire,’ said Kevin in his laconic Aussie way.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dunno how to explain it. It was something my dad who was a scoutmaster used to say. You have to start a fire in your belly and your soul before you get anywhere in the world and find your passion in life.’

  ‘I’ve always thought the best times were sitting round a fire,’ added Matthew thoughtfully.

  ‘Well, let’s hope the falls light Madi’s fire. I’m going back to bed.’

  As the gold red ball of the sun rolled over the horizon, the travellers sped down the new highway past the turn off to the Guyminco mine. When they hit the dirt road, a cloud of red dust billowed behind the first vehicle. Madi leaned across from the side bench where she was sitting to shout at Connor on the other side. ‘Makes me think of the outback!’

  ‘I was just thinking the same thing. You been around Australia much?’

  Madi shook her head. ‘Most of the capital cities. But I haven’t been to the top end yet.’

  ‘Shame on you.’

  ‘I know. I’ll rectify that one day. What about you?’

  ‘All the top spots, Mt Isa, Weipa, the Pilbara, even Rum Jungle.’

  ‘Work or pleasure?’

  ‘Both. Interesting places. The IFO has money in various corporate developments out there.’

  Madi wanted to talk more but the rattling trailer bouncing over corrugated ruts made conversation impossible.

  The thin curtain of greenery on either side of the road thickened slightly and Madi felt at last she was leaving civilisation. The heat began to rise and she took out her notepad and fanned herself. Hearing the engine slow and stop she jumped out to stretch her legs.

  The two vehicles had skittered down to the landing where they waited for a car ferry which was ploughing its flat wooden snout through the water towards their side of the river.

  The Land Rovers were squeezed in between two massive timber trucks. As the ferry punted back across the river, Sharee handed out bacon and egg rolls.

  ‘Never thought I’d enjoy a cold fried egg so much,’ commented Connor.

  The road on the other side led straight up a rutted incline. Ann passed the wheel to Connor and joined Madi in the back, stretching her legs. Red dust had turned her tanned skin and shorts a streaky orange.

  ‘We drive straight through to a place called Kangaruma now. Let’s hope we get there by dusk. We’ll camp at a guesthouse there,’ she said.

  Madi nodded, thinking it would be a welcome relief. The bouncing in the back of the Land Rover was shaking every bone in her body.

  Then without warning they sputtered to a stop. ‘What the hell . . .’ Ann swung over the side and went to Connor. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Don’t know. She’s stopped.’

  ‘I can see that,’ retorted Ann in her racing driver’s manner as she lifted the bonnet.

  She started tinkering while Connor and Madi sat on the side of the road. ‘I’m not very mechanically proficient so I won’t offer to help,’ said Connor.

  ‘Good,’ said Ann from under the bonnet.

  Birds smashed through the trees with almost sightless abandon, insects hummed and large black flies homed in on them. ‘They’re Kubowra flies, they sting, watch them,’ advised Ann.

  In seconds Connor and Madi were slapping at their arms, legs and necks as the Kubowra attack continued.

  Ann announced that the ignition was shorting out. Each time the dash panel was screwed back on, it shorted again.

  Ann swore under her breath. ‘We need some sort of insulator,’ she said.

  Connor thought for a second then scrambled in the back and opened a box of rum. A bottle was pulled from its carton. Flattening the carton he handed it to Ann. ‘Here, try this to steady the panel.’

  It worked and they set off again. Before they’d gone a quarter of a mile they ran into the other Rover, which John had turned around when he realised they were not behind them.

  Both vehicles were now driven as fast as their loads would allow to make up time. They lurched and bounced across the rough troughs in the road, the trailers shimmying and sashaying. Madi and Connor hit their heads on the roof one minute then crashed their bottoms on the metal seat the next. Madi untied a pillow from someone’s belongings and sat on it, which helped a little.

  ‘This is worse than my first riding lesson,’ shouted Connor.

  The road was narrow and overhanging sapling branches poked through the open sides of the Rover.

  Then without warning, the second Rover stopped again. Cold dead.

  This time it was serious. John drove back to them and conferred with Ann. Viti and Sharee joined Connor and Madi by the roadside.

  In the late afternoon light, Madi looked along the road admiring the clumpy low plants lining the edge. As dusk fell, they lifted their heavy velvet green leaves towards the sun, displaying brilliant burnished red gold undersides.

  Darkness fell. It seemed to Madi that it happened in less than a minute. Now the jungle loomed high either side of the road and it seemed to creep towards the group huddled by the two vehicles. The stars gave no light, the moon had yet to rise above the fortress of trees.

  By torchlight John and Ann began to rewire the panel. With surgeon-like precision they worked in silence, occasionally requesting more light or ‘pass the red wire through here’.

  Madi stood to stretch her legs as the others sat on the road, leaning against the second vehicle. As she moved around the vehicle with her back to the jungle, she felt a spine-chilling, hackle-raising sensation that someone or something was behind her. She spun around and gasped as she came face to face with an Amerindian who was watching the proceedings with great interest. He was short, dusky-skinned and wore only loose khaki shorts. His hair was cut in a black fringe and he held a handful of tall spears. He was barefoot and gave her a friendly smile. ‘Broke down, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Madi, still a little stunned, not expecting her first encounter with an Amerindian in the fore
st to be quite like this.

  John pulled his head out from under the dash where he was half lying on his back.

  ‘Big re-wiring job, know anything about engines?’

  The Amerindian shook his head and grinned. ‘Just outboard motor. Good luck. I go hunting now.’

  ‘We are on the right road to Kangaruma?’ asked Ann suddenly.

  ‘Yes, many hours yet.’ The hunter disappeared into the forest as soundlessly as he’d arrived.

  For two hours they worked, stripping down bits of wire from here and there to rewire and bypass the ignition, wiring direct from the coil. Finally John straightened up and looked at Ann. ‘Well, we have no lights, she won’t idle, but she’ll go.’

  ‘Right, let’s move,’ said Ann and they all piled back into the vehicles. The engine turned over and kept revving and they took off into the darkness.

  The night was inky and eerie. The track fell away into massive holes and hollows, or was barred by fallen trees and deep piles of sand, the lights from John’s Rover in front barely helping.

  ‘This is bloody impossible,’ yelled Ann as they crashed over another log. ‘Can’t see a thing. Get a torch.’

  Connor shone the torch from the passenger window. But it was little help.

  Madi shouted to Connor to hand it back to her. ‘I’m light, I could go on top and shine it down onto the middle of the road.’

  ‘Well, hang on,’ said Connor, handing her the torch. Ann slowed as Connor helped Madi climb the small ladder onto the roof where she lay flat, one arm linked to the roof railing, the other shining the torch onto the track ahead. It was only a pinlight of brightness but Ann yelled out it was doing the job.

  They edged up the mountain, then began the descent, the slopes of the ravine dropping away on either side. Then away in the moonlight, glowing white against the jungle, Madi saw the small arch of a suspension bridge over a stream. The water moved slowly, glassy black, the near full moon lit the sandy bank like a luminous pearl.

  ‘Not long now,’ called Ann. She could now drive by moonlight, and Madi climbed down into the Rover. Connor rubbed her aching back.

  ‘Having fun yet?’ he asked in her ear. Madi was too tired to answer.

  They followed the red tail-lights of John’s vehicle as he gave a blast on the horn and turned left. Peering out of the side Madi saw a polished wooden signpost that pointed to Guesthouse.

  They’d arrived at their first official stop. Connor glanced at his watch. It was just on midnight.

  Shining in the moonlight, the Land Rovers passed a small thatched hut and came to a log fence which marked the yard of the guesthouse. A squat simple building loomed in the silvery light. All was dark.

  ‘Well, we were expected at sunset and it’s now past midnight,’ said Ann. ‘No wonder the caretaker is in bed.’

  ‘Door’s locked,’ said Sharee in a tired voice.

  ‘Find a window,’ directed Ann.

  Sharee pulled the old flyscreen off an open window and climbed inside to open the door. Lanterns revealed basic accommodation: three rooms with bunks, a kitchen, a screened verandah with a long wooden table and chairs.

  ‘The fridge is broken and there’s no oil for the stove,’ reported John.

  ‘And the water tank is leaking and empty,’ finished Connor, who’d longed to wash the dust from his face and hands.

  ‘This place is way below anyone’s minimum standards,’ declared Viti.

  More lanterns were lit and a cooler was carried in with fresh fruit and beer chilling in the melted ice. Dust was thick, roaches scurried and the mustiness was choking. They flung open windows, even though some weren’t screened. Madi peered down the hill from the verandah. ‘What’s down there?’

  ‘The river, but I wouldn’t swim, there are quite a few piranha. Better fill up some buckets for washing,’ said John.

  Sharee, Madi and Connor volunteered to bring back the water.

  At the river’s edge they tied a rope to the bucket handle, threw it out and hauled the water in. Madi took one look and, in the darkness, pulled off her shirt and tipped the bucket over herself. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ she laughed. Connor didn’t bother taking off his shirt and simply dumped the water over his head. Sharee modestly splashed herself and they each carried water back to the house where Ann and Viti had assembled a hasty supper of fruit salad, cheese and breadrolls. John downed a beer, did a U-turn and fell onto the nearest bunk.

  The bunks were unmade, just old horsehair mattresses, but after the jolting of the past twenty hours, Madi welcomed anything that was motion free. She lay in the darkness, hearing the light breathing of Viti in the bunk above her, grateful for the cotton sari Sharee had loaned her as a sheet.

  Wrapped in her colourful cocoon Madi tried to sleep but she was overtired, and the scrabblings and scratchings of what sounded like small feet bothered her. Turning on the torch she spotted a mouse but couldn’t locate the crunchy noises. She closed her eyes. Hearing a thump and muttered curse from the next room and then noises on the verandah, Madi crept out to find Connor throwing a pillow onto the dining table.

  ‘I’m sleeping here. That mattress is harbouring life.’ He lay on his back and put his hands under his head on the pillow, crossed his ankles and shut his eyes.

  Madi crept back to her room, eyeing her bed. She turned on the torch and flung back her old mattress. She couldn’t help the small shriek that made Viti sit up in alarm.

  The underside was a crawling, crunching, seething sea of cockroaches, inches thick as they oozed over each other’s metallic bodies in a heaving black wave. Madi ran for the verandah and, after checking the cushions, curled up in an old armchair. Viti also fled and found refuge on a sagging lounge at the other end of the verandah. Connor snored peacefully on the dining table, oblivious to the arrival of his extra roommates.

  In the morning some order was restored and the caretaker appeared. He was a vague old man who found oil for the stove, but scratched his head over the water situation.

  ‘We need to conserve our drinking water, so just use it for cooking and drinking, river water for washing,’ said Ann.

  As the group had decided to stay until the following morning, Madi, Sharee and Connor unpacked the hammocks, wishing they’d taken the time to do it the night before. John, Ann and Viti drove the few kilometres into a nearby town to visit the young district commissioner who issued permits to travel into Amerindian protected country. They came back with the required documents and a bag of grapefruit from the commissioner’s tree.

  John checked the trailers and with Connor moved them down to the river for gear to be loaded into the boat the following morning.

  That night the boat captain, who was to take them up the Potaro River, arrived with a crate of cold beer from the rum shop he owned ‘down the track’. Throwing off wet sacks covering the bottles he quickly named the local beer price. Connor raised his eyebrows at the near double cost of beer here compared to Georgetown. ‘Freight and availability,’ explained John.

  ‘So how’s it looking for tomorrow?’ asked Connor of the slightly bowed, white-haired older man who had introduced himself as Captain Winston Blaise.

  The captain rubbed his snowy white hair. ‘She’s low but we’ll pass. We’ll have to leave early, mind.’

  After a dawn breakfast of porridge, Connor made two trips down to the river with the gear then walked back down the incline with Madi and the last load. ‘Your brother’s boss would approve of our boat,’ he said.

  ‘You mean it’s not the El Presidente Good Time?’

  ‘It’s certainly not pretentious,’ he grinned.

  Madi’s jaw dropped, then she burst out laughing at the ancient wooden longboat. Open and unlined, revealing its skeleton hull, it had a series of simple wooden planks serving as seats. The captain directed the stowing of the gear and then the passengers clambered in, sitting where he directed them to evenly distribute their weight.

  ‘Dis boy assist me.’ He pointed to the childish thirt
een-year-old Amerindian who gave a shy smile then skipped to the bow and perched in its nose. Another man stepped forward, a tall strong African wearing a battered Panama hat with its sides rolled up cowboy style, a clean shirt and trousers cut off at mid-calf. The captain introduced him as Royston.

  ‘We give him a lift upriver a little bit.’

  They had no sooner set out with the outboard motor sputtering than water began to ooze steadily into the bottom of the boat.

  ‘Water’s coming in!’ cried Sharee.

  At the stern, tiller against his thigh, Captain Blaise glanced down. ‘She do leak a bit,’ he remarked laconically. ‘Been outta de water. Soon seal up.’ He pointed to the empty powdered milk tins. They got the message and started bailing.

  Within an hour the seams appeared to have expanded and the steady trickle of water slowed to an imperceptible seepage.

  Royston moved from where he’d been squatting and bailing and sat next to Madi, lifting his hat in greeting. ‘What are you doing upriver, Royston?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a pork-knocker.’ He pulled a slip of paper from his top pocket and handed it to her.

  She read his full name, birthplace in Guyana and age, forty-four. This slip of paper, it stated, gave him the right to mine for minerals for one year from the above date.

  ‘When I’m not up the river I run a nightspot round D’Urban Street in Georgetown. But there’s good money to be made if yo is lucky’ He pointed to the sides of the river banks where the earth, softened from rain, had partially collapsed. ‘Some fellows dug twelve thousand dollars worth of gold outta there three weeks back. I’ve nearly saved enough for my own dredge so dis gold an’ diamarns be jes waitin’ fer me.’

  ‘Do you work alone?’

  ‘I got two partners and a fellow to cook.’

  Madi smiled and nodded. The stories of pork-knockers in Gwen’s book and what Lester had recounted came flooding back. They were a strange breed of men, locked in a battle with themselves and a desire to find the wealth they believed would set them free. Small, even large strikes were often squandered, waiting for ‘de big one’.