From Farmville to the Mountains

After shearing the sheep, the farmer led us out to a back field and made another sharp whistle. His hairy black and white companion took off, pink tongue lolling and disappeared over the crest of a hill. Again, we heard the loud stampede of sheep hooves and saw matching fluffy white bodies bounding haphazardly down the hillside followed by the snapping jaws of the sheep dog. We bent down, our hands filled with food pellets and giggled as the sheep's teeth and lips tickled our hands, their warm breath leaving our fingers hot and slimy.

We heard the crunch of gravel and turned to see the farmer's wife walking toward us. Beaming, she welcomed us into the house for tea. After washing the sheep slime from our hands we sat down at tables on the veranda to munch on scones topped with cream and jam. I looked over the vase of daffodils and beyond the veranda at the vibrant green rolling hills dotted with shrubs of a darker green. A backdrop of misty blue-green mountains reaching up into the blue sky decorated with white cotton candy clouds completed the scene.

Our little coach trundled up the hill and into the outer edges of the woods surrounding Lake Ohau. After dropping my bags on my bed, I skipped down the side of the hill and onto the small pebbled beach. The water lapped lazily at the stones. As the water drew back into itself it led to the mountains across the sky like cream on pudding studded with sugar crystals.

New Zealand: Farmville

I heard myself gasp as if from light years away, the exhaustion from two red-eye flights in as many days disappearing like a cloud parting to reveal a clear day. The rattling of the tour bus was hardly noticeable in comparison to the view opening before me. Glaciated, majestic mountains rose up out of rolling hills speckled with little curly-haired sheep. The foot of the mountains were clothed in deep green forest and strung with necklaces of silver-gray stone. A blanket of white was draped across the mountain-tops and glacial arms reached down and around the peaks like giants, hugging their children in the cold.

Our bus bumped and rocked along the endless road flanked by grassland, sheep and mountains for a couple hours before turning down a long dirt driveway. AS we pulled to a stop in front of the quaint brown farm house, a trellised veranda winding around its front, we were met by Michael. The small lamb clip-clopped up to the bus staring expectantly. He was clothed, ironically, in a white, woolen jacket and he seemed almost to be smiling at the prospect of visitors. He was joined by an older man and woman, smiling and waving. The woman bent down to pick up Michael, patted his head gently and handed him to one of the visitors. The air filled with gasps and squeals, 'Aws' and 'Ooos' as the fluffy, white creature was passed about, an instant celebrity who showed his love for his fans my nuzzling into their necks, munching on their hair and, when left to stand on his own feet, pulling at and teething on people's shoelaces.

Our hosts led us to the barn where they distributed little red shepherd's whistles.

'Different sounds indicate different messages to the dog,' the farmer said waving his hand at the black and white sheepdog as she bounded onto the worktable piled high with freshly sheared wool. Upon seeing my friend's face go red as she blew on the whistle, he continued, 'It's a tricky technique.' Try as she might, she only produced spitting noises. The ageing farmer made a sharp cry burst from this whistle with ease and the dog leapt off the table to disappear from view. We looked at him expectantly, waiting for something to happen. Soon the silence turned into a soft rumble which grew louder and louder until it sounded like a wild buffalo stampede. We looked around the small wooden building in search of the source of the small din as around the corner appeared 7 or 8 puffy looking sheep, their little snouts accentuating their wide girths. They stumbled about as the dog nipped at their ankles and herded them into a pen in the centre of the barn.

'These are the shears people used in the old days,' the farmer announced as he presented the rusty, scissor-like tool. 'It would leave behind several centimetres of the the best wool. Today, we prefer this electric one,' he said as he held out a many pronged instrument attached to a long power chord hanging from the ceiling. I immediately though of the Frankenstein-esque fingers of Edward Scissorhands and decided to be glad that electric shears are not popular in hair-dressing studios. The farmer opened the gate of the pen and grabbed a seemingly unlucky sheep by the legs. It kicked and squirmed and the farmer's shiny bald pate was revealed as he lost his wide-brimmed hat in the struggle. He straddled the fluffy, white beast and grabbed it by the scruff of its neck as he switched on the little hand machine. In a matter of minutes he had the struggling animal out of its woollen overcoat and back into the pen where it greeted its companions with a short bleat and a shake of the head.

Did You Know....?

Aboriginal Australian Art has many uses. It often has ceremonial purposes, stories, teaching purposes, and artistic value. Many times, art represents the community's situations or encounter. For instance, if the painting includes men with guns, it shows interactions with Europeans (and could be used to help date the piece). Similarly, the designs reflect times of plenty and times of scarcity. Art that depicts the inside of an animal, like an x-ray may show hard times because such paintings would be used to teach young hunters exactly how to kill a particular creature to ensure a clean and reliable kill. This type of art may also teach what are good parts of the animal to eat or otherwise use. Some simpler paintings teach lessons through associated stores.

One story tells of two sisters who loved to play tricks on people. One day, one sister snuck away and transformed into a crocodile to scare her sister. The second sister was terrified, believing that she would be eaten by the monter. The 1st sister played this trick several times before the second sister caught on and returned the favour with the exact same trick. Once both sisters knew that they had been tricking each other, they decided to play the same trick on their fellow villagers. An old wise man warned them that they should not play such pranks but they would not listen. Knowing that they had to be taught a lesson, the old man cast a spell on them so that they would be unable to reverse their transformation. The next day the two sisters went to the water to begin their prank, but they found that after they were finished, they could not become girls again. To this day, the humps behind the crocodile's eyes represent the two sisters watching you as you approach the water's edge.

Did You Know...?

Crocodiles have rules. As I cruised the Mary River Wetlands with my tour group, I witnissed a young, immature croc swimming along idly. Looking to his rear, we realised that they young reptilian creature was being stalked by an older, larger, more powerful crocodile. Each passenger gasped at the chance that we might witness the death of a young, seemingly headstrong crocodile. According to our guide, older crocs have the right to stalk younger crocs at will. They also have the right to attack if the younger croc does not surrender. However, they will typically disist the attack if the younger animal raises its head from the water in surrender. The astonishing aspect of the situation we witnessed is that, although the younger croc stupidly refused to surrender, the older croc let him go. I suppose all rules are broken sometimes. What I always wonder is...why?