Koonya is a small hamlet, nestled on the banks of Norfolk Bay on the Tasman Peninsula. Not far from Port Arthur, it was established back in convict days as a probation station. At its peak, over 300 prisoners served out their sentence there: felling trees for milling, building infrastructure and clearing land for agriculture.
Today it’s a cluster of colonial houses with a population well shy of treble figures. Home to writers, artists, farmers, retirees… and a community hall. It’s the venue for both the biggest local gathering of the year – the annual Garlic Festival – and the monthly Open Mic night.
Opposite the hall is a weatherboard house, ‘Polruan’, named after an ancient fishing village in Cornwall. It’s a large weatherboard colonial structure with a central hallway connecting a labyrinth of rooms. Outside a labyrinth of outbuildings stand – or lean – in various stages of decay. Overhanging the house, an old stately oak and a smattering of fruit trees.
It’s a share house. Folk hailing from a variety of destinations – Canada, New Zealand and afar. Different backgrounds, different experiences, different aspirations. Their commonality – love of life, love of nature and a love of music. There’s no radio or television here, just a turntable, amp, speakers and a library of vinyl records, most dating back to the ‘60s and ‘70s. In the hallway stands the beating heart. A beautiful old piano.
While everyone can, and does play the piano, it has but one maestro and he goes by the name of Reegan, however, he’s better known as ‘Dusty Rusty’. Filmmaker, Matty Hannon and I were sharing Dusty Rusty’s share house for the weekend, to record one of his songs for our Surfrider documentary on seismic blasting and its environmental consequences.
Dusty hails from northern New South Wales. He’s 25, with sparkling baby blue eyes, shoulder length blond hair, and a moustache with ambitious intent. You could be forgiven for thinking he was still in school, however, he’s not only worldly and wise, but perhaps one of the most talented people I know. He’s also a surfer, and he rips. He’s crammed a whole lot of living into a quarter of a century. Hanging out with Aboriginal elders in the Territory, pulling into Indonesian barrels, working the land. Even working the audience at the Koonya Memorial Hall.
Clouds blanketed Mt Koonya and a fine drizzle greeted us as we left the share house. Music from within the hall, drawing us across the open paddock like a Greek siren. As we entered the hall, rotating mirror balls reflected coloured beams across the rafters. The stage backdrop, a video clip of microbes wrestling under a microscope. The place was packed with kids, mums and dads, grandmothers and grandfathers, all drawn together for a night of shared entertainment. A small, vibrant community in action.
We sat down, just as the MC introduced the next act – a middle-aged lady, wearing the mandatory hand-knitted woollen jumper and beanie, clutching a clarinet. Her fellow musician was a middle-aged man, sporting a grey goatee beard, clutching a guitar. I don’t know what I expected them to play, but it certainly wasn’t Echoes by Pink Floyd. Brilliant covers of Fairport Convention and John and Beverly Martyn had the crowd going off. Then it was time for Dusty. And he didn’t let them down.
The guy is a musical genius. He writes his own material and is blessed with the ability to play the audience as expertly as he plays a banjo, violin or piano – or anything else that makes a sound. Over the course of the weekend, he cast his spell over the patrons of both the Koonya Community Hall and the Nubeena RSL. Inspiring grandparents into doing a jig with their grandkids. A war amputee into jiving in his wheelchair. I got the feeling that Dusty is an international talent waiting to be discovered. But his genius isn’t confined to music. It’s the code by which he and his housemates live that impressed me most.
As Baby Boomers we have a lot to answer for. The Silent Generation gifted us a world of hope and opportunity. As a teenager, I often heard parents talk of leaving the world a better place for their kids. And, when it came my turn to be a parent, it’s an ideal that stuck with me. After all we’re custodians. It’s what we do, isn’t it?
It’s been but a handful of generations since the children of the Industrial Revolution arrived in Tasmania and in that time, the level of environmental devastation has been massive. We’ve witnessed genocide of wildlife. Vast swathes of forest felled. Wild rivers diverted. Cities built for the masses and vast fortunes produced for the elite. Put mildly, the planet’s been plundered by our greed. Rather than being custodians of the planet, we’ve been consuming it.
I’m embarrassed by the reality that the Great Australian Dream is beyond the youth of today. I feel guilty that the only way they can get a roof over their heads is to share the rent. Where my generation had a job for life, their jobs are casual, minimal hours or short-term contract. If I were in their shoes, I’d be pissed off with the gluttonous way in which their future’s been eaten too.
The irony is, I have more in common with them, than my fellow Baby Boomers. Perhaps that’s because I never wanted to grow up, I just wanted to be another Peter Pan. Preferring the positive energy of youth, to the cynicism of the aged. I share their understanding that place needs to be treated with care and respect, not subjected to rape and pillage. Appreciate that there’s a big difference between needs and wants.
Despite being old enough to be their grandfather, the Koonya share house accepted me into their world as one of them. I was humbled by their generous hospitality. Impressed by the scope and quality of their conversations. By their determination to be custodians of the environment. Uplifted by their spontaneous musical renditions. Their complete love of life.
The future’s in good hands, but only once my mob moves on.
It was a bittersweet moment once it came time to leave. Wanting to stay. Needing to go. As I drove out onto the road and headed for home, I looked into the rear-view mirror and reflected upon my stay. When the Apocalypse heads my way, I’ll be heading for Koonya.