Sitting in a café in Broome in the monsoonal heat of the Kimberley, I struck up a conversation with an American woman. She introduced me to an unconventional way of living.
‘How would I like to volunteer on a station out of Derby in an exciting new enterprise? It’s a unique project. It uses ecology-based theory to cultivate high protein, natural savannah grasses, and the grasses produce quality organic, lean beef. And there is a ready international market for healthy beef. A friend of mine, a Texas-oil millionaire funds this amazing experiment through the international Eco-Technics Institute. It will be a spectacular adventure into personal development’, she said taking a deep breath.
The invitation was clearly scripted, yet it ignited my curiosity. This venture demanded only the time, energy and creativity of my partner and myself for a commitment of one to two months.
‘Let’s go and give it a try’, I said to my partner, Bill.
Having packed up the four-wheel drive, we set off for Derby with our letter of introduction to the station manager.
Little did we realise that we were entering a ‘brave new world’. A world of confused values and behaviours. A cultish world with a dark under-belly in which theory and its practice were divorced. Totally at odds with each other. This world revealed itself in sabotage, subterfuge, selfishness, jealousy, and petty behaviours that defied rationality. A community closed off from mainstream, suffering a chronic disconnect with the world outside. A fascinating, if not frustrating experiment in group, and in particular gender dynamics.
The rules for participation included much that was described as compulsory, for example:
- no television was permitted as this was considered a distraction from the wholesome values of the venture
- teams of two people were rostered to prepare the evening meal, which had to include three courses, whether consumed or not. The pigs ate sumptuously from our largesse
- music could only be played in the privacy of one’s hut at night, at a level that respected other peoples’ right to peace and silent meditation
- a special meeting, once per week was set aside for resolving group conflict
- focus was on the development of skills, talents and sensitivities of the ‘whole person’. It was therefore compulsory to participate in the station’s annual theatre production for the dry season in Derby.
Sabotage of the station manager’s authority was a common occurrence instigated by the same irresponsible individual, who held the title of Agricultural Manager. This meant she was John Deere representative for the Kimberley, machinery trouble-shooter and problem-solver for all things agricultural. A station Red Adair! She knew as much about machinery as Sister Theresa but lacked the good nun’s humility. Ignoring the most fundamental of bush principles, she left gates open that should have been closed and closed gates that were intended to be left open. As a result the cattle regularly wandered into the watermelon patch and trampled the produce that was destined for the local supermarkets in town.
Everyone lamented those occasions when our Agricultural Manager was on kitchen duty, since it meant that the meat would be badly undercooked, and vegetables arrived raw on one’s plate. The meal presented well, but was a challenge to digest because she didn’t plan adequately for the required cooking time. Since this became a pattern, I could only infer that she was not in the least inspired to develop her culinary talents. Interestingly the cult members tolerated and ignored this behaviour, so it was never an agenda item for the conflict resolution meetings.
I suspect most people were afraid of her. She and the station manager were frequent antagonists. On occasion their quarrels escalated beyond a war of words to brawling in the paddocks, in the homestead, and even in the chook pen with disastrous effects on egg count for that day. Their discord permeated the station and had people downing tools to escape the conflict.
This woman was not the only source of discord. Our hut neighbour had many talents, especially of torture. He was a friendly young fellow by day who miraculously morphed into a heavy-metal fiend by night. He shared his passion for this music with the district, its humans and beasts. I still have images of him thrashing his guitar, feet astride, face contorted, head canted to one side, turned to the full moon as he delivered his artful cacophony to the universe. Any plans for quiet meditation that night we put on hold.
The most bizarre of all events was the performance of the play, The Maids by Jean Genet, a proponent of the Theatre of the Absurd which dealt with abstract values, illogical speeches and meaningless plots. It was a play about a lesbian relationship between the mistress and the maid. These roles were performed by, yes, you guessed it, our Station Manager and our Agricultural Manager. A peculiar choice of literature for a wild cowboy town like Derby. By eight we had a full house of local families eager for a night of entertainment. By nine patrons were fleeing the stalls, row after row in a frenzied getaway. Our audience had disappeared well before interval. It was surprising that no-one had delayed long enough to demand their money back.
We stayed in the project for the agreed period and escaped once our contract expired, thankful for release back into prosaic mainstream society. A wonderful learning experience that contributed to my developing skills in discernment.
Burnside Writers Group 