The Gypsy Ribbon
The Gypsy Storyteller and her Shadow
travel the
roads of Australia
by John Wright
The Gypsy Ribbon
John Wright
Copyright © 2006, 2011, 2012 by John Wright
Smashwords
Edition
John Wright asserts the moral right to be identified as
the author of this work in accordance with copyright legislation and
conventions.
All rights reserved. This publication shall not, in any manner, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s and publisher’s consent, in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
Chapter
1 In at the Deep End
Chapter
2 The Hands and the Egg
Chapter
3 Vardos in the City
Chapte
4 Delightful Dundullimal
Chapter
5 The Tropic of Capricorn
Chapter
6 Interlude
Chapter
7 Around the Campfire
Chapter
8 Children and Books
Chapter
9 Southward Bound
Chapter
10 Up on the Range
Chapter
11 Windscreen Alley
Chapter
12 Culture and Kites
Chapter
13 Highs and Lows
Chapter
14 A Windy Atchintan
Chapter
15 The Storyteller’s Stories
Chapter
16 Looking Back
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About
the Author
Gypsies are the ‘Bouquet Garni’
In the soup of our
society,
Adding piquancy and flavour
To our everyday affairs.
They are seldom much intrusive,
But they sprinkle some
variety,
Then precipitately vanish –
Leaving mystery in the
air.
Kate Wright
From ‘the Gypsy Cookbook’.
When most people think of Gypsies they usually envisage them as nomads, perpetually travelling with, and living in, Victorian style caravans, carts and tents. In general this is no longer true. When asked about Gypsies, the vast majority of people will say that there are ‘no Gypsies in Australia’. This belief is equally untrue.
These people are not recognised or acknowledged as belonging to our multicultural society. Kate, the Gypsy Storyteller, and her Shadow, John, returned to the road after years of living in towns and cities. They travelled in a motorised version of the old-style Victorian Gypsy caravan, towing a small version of the formerly popular Bowtop caravan. Kate earned our living by recounting traditional Romani stories while John arranged travel and subsistence.
This book describes almost five years of roaming more Australia, living as close as possible to the nomadic Gypsy lifestyle and bringing the rich cultural heritage of the landless Romani to a wide variety of non-Romani people. While doing so, Kate investigated non-Romani attitudes to Gypsies and their disposition either for or against prejudice and discrimination. She was interested in the reasons for adverse behaviour.
Here is a story of joy and heartache; of elation and despair; of new friends and new enemies; of discrimination and acceptance; from the bitter winter winds of South Australia to the tropical climate of North Queensland.
It is an eye-opening account of one woman and her shadow’s adventurous survival experiences as she took her culture and stories to the multicultural society of modern day Australia, not only to tell of her people and their history but to study their reactions and try to understand why others always portrayed the Gypsies so negatively.
I was swinging a sledgehammer in the back yard of the little house, breaking a concrete slab from which I had removed a garden shed.
Kate hurried down the garden path waving a letter.
‘Can I take over Basil’s wagons? He has to go back to England soon’
I paused from this labour, saw the excited gleam in her eye and said ‘Yes’.
‘Oh. Good!’ she responded, turned and hastened back towards the house. Our eldest son, Lindsay, had wandered in for a lunchtime cup of tea and a brief inspection of the progress in renovating his former home. He was brushed aside at the back door as Kate swept past him with a hasty ‘Hi!’
I laid down the sledgehammer as Lindsay continued along the path and we met halfway.
‘What’s all that about?’ Lindsay queried.
‘I think we’re just about to find out’, I answered, pulling off my work gloves. ‘Let’s have some lunch while she tells us’.
Gathered in the tiny lounge room, balancing plates, juggling cups of tea and coffee, munching sandwiches, we listened as Kate recounted Basil’s circumstances.
‘His wife, Janet, has just lost her daughter. She tripped and fell in the lounge room, struck her head and died. It was very quick and, of course, unexpected. Now Basil feels that Janet needs to be with the rest of her family in England. He thinks it may help them all to adjust to the shock and trauma’.
Lindsay blanched, ‘What a horrible thing to happen!’
Kate quietly said ‘Poor Janet! She must be heartbroken. I’ll write to her and tell her she has our sympathy’. Lindsay expressed all our thoughts. ‘Why Basil and Janet?’ Tragedy…always strikes so unexpectedly’.
‘Does his letter say how long they will be away?’ I asked.
‘He doesn’t know how long this is going to take, but he reckons ‘about two years’.
‘It’s too long a time to consider storing his wagons and puppets. The wagons would have to be found a good home and the puppets packed for the journey halfway around the world.’
‘When is he planning to go?’
‘Early next month’, Kate replied.
‘We’ll have to move fast then, to make arrangements here, assuming we’ll be going back on the drom (road) sooner than expected’.
‘Will you still finish off decorating the house before you go?’ Lindsay was always the most pragmatic of the family.
Kate was not to be distracted from her main objective. ‘Can I phone him and say we’ll have the wagons?’
‘Of course you can, Sweetheart’. I could sense an opportunity now for Kate to fulfil one of her ambitions - to go back on the drom in her own wagon again.
For the past many years I had been unable to provide the necessary resources for her to do so. This could be her big chance.
‘Will you ring him then, while I make more coffee?’
Kate has an abiding dislike of the telephone, due to a subconscious conviction that telephones were only invented for the specific purpose of conveying bad news. ‘OK.’ I swallowed the last mouthful of coffee.
‘Hurry up then, before he decides to offer the wagons to someone else. Here’s his number.’
She rapidly departed to the kitchen to rattle the cups and spoons - but not loudly enough to prevent her hearing the subsequent conversation.
Brrrp, Brrrp, Brrrp, Brrrp. ‘Hello. Basil speaking.’
‘Hello Basil. It’s John.’
‘I thought I might hear from you.’
‘We’ve just received your letter and wanted to say how sorry we are to hear about Janet’s daughter. I’m sure she’s very upset. How is she coping?’
‘She’s been distraught but is beginning to realise that we could not have prevented what happened. It was an accident.’
‘Well, we understand why you’re going to the UK. If we can help you, all you have to do is phone us.’ The telephone signals had indicated that this was a long distance connection and I was conscious of the cost of calling Basil on his mobile phone. ‘Where are you, Basil?’
‘I’m standing in the freezer aisle of Coles Supermarket in Albany, in the south of Western Australia’ he said, ‘trying to find a way to ask Janet if we can have something tasty for dinner tonight.’
Loves his tucker, does Basil, never mind the cost of this call. He was over 3000 kilometres away, on the other side of Australia from us in Sydney!
‘Kate would like to have your wagons and I’m sure they will be properly cared for. When will you be here? Or do we have to come and collect them?’
‘Oh. No, no, no. We’ll be heading east again in a few days but we have to stop in Renmark and Mildura on the way. I’ve promised to do some Punch and Judy shows there. So we should be back in Sydney in early April. I can let you know the exact date when we get our overseas flights confirmed,’
‘O.K. Understood’, I said. ‘We’ll write and exchange details - and phone each other when necessary.’
‘That’s great,’ said Basil. ‘Love to Kate. I think we’ll have roast pork tonight, with apple sauce. Yum!’
This conversation signalled to me that a dramatic change could be expected in Kate’s lifestyle and mine.
For several years Kate and I had been talking about going back on the drom. For the past three years we had been doing something about it. We had sold our waterfront apartment close to the centre of Sydney and bought a three-bedroom brick house on a larger block of land in the outer western suburbs at St. Mary’s.
Lindsay and Bernadette, with their three children and a dog, moved from their small weatherboard house in an industrial suburb to enjoy the extra space of the western house, and doghouse.
We had moved into their smaller house in order to renovate it or, at least, to make it an attractive proposition for a potential buyer.
When it was sold, Lindsay and his family would use the money from the sale to buy our house in the western suburbs. This would leave us with sufficient funds to outfit ourselves for living on the road.
Then, as Mr. Toad said, ‘Heigh-Ho! for the Open Road!’
Meanwhile, Kate was completing her university studies for her BA (Hons) in Communications. Her majors were Philosophy of Culture and Writing.
I was working south of Sydney, on a management project contract, with weekends, holiday periods and ‘spare’ time spent on refurbishing Lindsay’s property.
Into this entire activity Basil’s letter dropped like a bombshell.
His offer to chop (trade) his wagons accelerated the existing schedule and meant revising and re-revising all the plans we had made. Even so, it was something that we felt we must do.
Here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to do what many people, both Romani and gaje (non-Romani) alike, may long to do - cut loose from the gaje rat-race and travel the country.
We would be limited only by the coastline and our own abilities and enthusiasm.
Many retirees, of course, do join the superannuation circuit, making a lengthy trip around the country before finding themselves a comfortable cell in a retirement village.
But Kate aimed to do it somewhat differently!
In the weeks between Basil’s letter and his return to Sydney we worked and planned, discussing every aspect of what we wished to do and how we would do it. Having spent the early years of our marriage in a caravan, we were confident of our ability to handle whatever circumstance fate may throw at us. Mutual confinement in a small space wouldn’t worry us. In fact we looked forward to it, after the frequent forced separations we had been subjected to in the course of earning a living in the gaje world.
My international scientific and engineering work, and later, as an advisor and trouble shooter, had always involved extensive travel. I had become accustomed to sleeping wherever and whenever the opportunity was offered. Motels, hotels, ships, trains, buses, aircraft; any place, any time, as long as I could get eight hours rest each night. Now, the continuity of being able to sleep in my own bed each night would be welcomed.
Kate had some initial doubts about the strangers that we would meet on the drom.
‘It won’t be like the old days’, she said, ‘when there were less people travelling. Now everyone seems to have a car and people are more mobile. There’s more road rage than ever. And I feel that there are more larrikins and tearaways these days.’
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘but we have more knowledge and experience now - and we’re both tough enough to handle anything we may meet and we’ve both been able to develop what is known as ‘people skills’.
‘I reckon we should, at least, be able to survive in the majority of social situations.’
‘I don’t think meeting and conferring with strangers will be a problem,’ said Kate, ‘but we’ve still got to remember that not all the nuts are in the nuthouse.’
Most of our doubts were related to time. Kate started on the questions.
‘Will we have enough time to complete the renovation of Lindsay and Bernie’s house?’
‘Will Lindsay be able to find a buyer at the right price before we are ready to move into the Vardo?’
‘Can we afford to arrange storage for some of our favourite items - if so, for how long?
‘I’m sure we can organise that lot’, I said. ‘Anyway, the chance to go back on the drom is too good to miss.’
We decided to let events take their course, trying to reassure ourselves that we could handle whatever may happen...and happen it did!
One day in early April a colourful rig, consisting of a truck-mounted Vardo (Gypsy caravan) and trailer-type Bowtop (canvas-topped Gypsy caravan) arrived in the narrow Auburn street. It was generously decorated in bright, cheerful, red and yellow, Punch & Judy colours, much to the consternation of the neighbours, who had never seen anything like it before.
Questions were the order of the day. While we were quizzing Basil and Janet on the operation and maintenance of the rig, the neighbours were plying them with questions about its history and purpose. Basil interrupted. ‘What’s for lunch, Kate? I’m hungry after that long drive yesterday’.
‘Go and wash your hands and you’ll find out,’ said Kate, knowing full well that Basil had detected the aroma of roast beef wafting gently from the kitchen.
Mindful of his birthplace, Kate had prepared potatoes, peas and Yorkshire pudding to accompany the roast beef.
In the afternoon, while Kate and Janet cleared the dishes, Basil supervised as I drove the rig carefully through some nearby, quiet streets, gaining the ‘feel’ of the vehicle. Longer than the average station wagon, it required good judgement to negotiate corners; also I was unaccustomed to the overhang of the wooden structure.
Half an hour of practice over, I felt sufficiently confident to move on to the next stage.
There was no way we could keep the rig parked in the congested street. Late in the afternoon Basil drove the rig; following us to St. Mary’s where the large garden offered space, security and a guard dog.
Lindsay drove Basil and Janet to their temporary resting-place at Toongabbie where puppeteer Dennis and his wife, Janice, could be relied upon to welcome them.
There was a tear in Kate’s eye and a lump in my throat as we farewelled our dear friends a couple of days later.
‘Jal Develeska,’ called Kate.
‘Kushti Bok,’ Basil and Janet answered.
But sadness was rapidly replaced by grim determination to push on with the work of adapting the rig to its new particular purposes.
Since childhood Kate had been trained for the role of Storyteller in her tribe. Some twenty years earlier, she had started bringing Romani stories, lore and legends to the attention of the gaje as well as accentuating the presence and influence of Romani culture on modern-day, multicultural Australia. She was a member of ‘The Institute of Multicultural Affairs’ from its inception until its demise.
Now she intended to go back on the drom and present this rich culture in the traditional manner, travelling from town to town. She would live in the Vardo, stopping and visiting where invited, to tell the stories. She would demonstrate the lifestyle and be a noticeable example of a true Romani, earning sustenance in a traditional, if old-fashioned, way.
She had earned the right to tell the true stories, the oral history, the traditional lore and legends.
She is bound by the traditions and protocol of the Romani way but has her own Say - her own collection of stories - and her own methods of presentation. Therefore her rig had to reflect these factors in addition to being her home, her only means of transport and an interesting display.
At the same time it had also to be acceptable to road transport authorities, capable of long-distance travel in all weather conditions and versatile enough to fit into awkward parking spaces and to manoeuvre in limited access areas.
Approximately half of these requirements the rig could already fulfil. The rest needed additional attention.
Basil, a Master Craftsman in woodwork, carpentry and cabinet making, had built the Vardo and Bowtop to specifications required for his own purposes.
Being a Punch & Judy Professor and Master Puppeteer, he and Janet travelled the country giving puppet shows.
The Vardo was decorated in ‘showman’s’ colours - in this case mostly bright red and yellow.
It also carried signage announcing ‘SMITH’S PUPPETS’. The Bowtop was decorated with traditional Romani scroll designs in green, gold and red.
Although the workmanship was excellent and, like all Basil’s creations, meticulously maintained, the external decoration had to be changed. Now it needed to conform to the traditional appearance of an old style Gypsy Vardo. Here Kate drew on her memories of her Grandmother’s with its starched white lace curtains, overlaid with green velvet ones that were edged in sparkling silk trim. As I watched her happily making them – my wife who hates needlework – I thought of the washing and starching entailed and cautiously mentioned it. Fixed with a gimlet eye I retreated to a firm ‘SO?’
Basil had used the Bowtop as a home for his puppets, which needed special provision to travel safely and securely. They were either packed in boxes or in custom-made containers. His Punch & Judy booth and ‘fit-up’ also had to be stowed in a particular fashion with restraining straps inside the Bowtop. This would keep it from damage during the frequent long hauls from place to place.
Now it would be our spare bedroom and junk room, somewhere to stow and to carry the miscellaneous items that make domestic tasks easier.
A spare set of bed linen and pillows, washing line; clothes pegs, books, lanterns and tools would be packed in the available spaces.
Then came the questions.
‘Can we take an extra folding table?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there space for more folding chairs?’
‘No.’
‘What about our gumboots?’
‘We’ll make space somehow.’
Thus we spent the next few months effecting the changes.
First, there were mundane matters like the change of registration of the vehicles and a comprehensive insurance coverage.
Included here was an horrendous amount for public liability because we had to have cover for 24 hours per day, 365 days per year.
For legal and registration purposes, Kate became the owner of the rig. She suddenly realised what vehicle ownership entailed.
A new set of tyres for the truck cost her approximately $800. Kate was shocked until I pointed out that truckies not only had to pay more per tyre but also had many more tyres than the Cabstar did. For several weeks she counted the tyres of passing trucks and semi-trailers, calculating how much it would cost the truckie to replace them. At the end of each calculation she sighed with relief and said ‘Thank goodness ours hasn’t got 24 wheels!’
Next came the removal of sign-writing on the cab of the truck. Repeated trips to the shops for bottles of nail varnish remover.
This was used to soften the paint and gave us sore, dry hands with cracked and flaking skin.
I made trip from St. Marys to Riverwood with the lower half-door of the Bowtop so that Les, the sign writer, could paint an illustration of the Storyteller with appropriate wording.
During the return taxi trip, the driver looked at the door and asked ‘Are you a Gypsy?’
‘My wife is the Gypsy Storyteller’ I replied.
He then launched into an interesting monologue about Gypsies in Lebanon, his former homeland.
‘We have Gypsies in Lebanon’, he said. ‘They sell jewellery - and they tell your fortune. They use seashells. If you want your fortune told, they make you spill the shells onto a flat piece of cloth. Then they look at how the shells have fallen and tell you if you’re going to be rich or if your girlfriend is going to marry you.’
I was intrigued by this method of producing an instant combination of horoscope and prediction of personal future.
I thought it was a devious application of applied psychology.
The taxi driver was disappointed when I told him that Kate never practiced fortune telling, but he wished us luck on our forthcoming journeys.
There were minor items of external woodwork to be replaced which took me into making butterfly scallops. Then back to the sign writer again, this time with the Vardo, to put ‘The Gypsy Storyteller’ inscriptions on sides and cab. He also put Kate’s personal logo on the bonnet - the Romani wheel inset with the White Rose of York.
It was on this cross-city trip we met the first “Emma Chizzit?” At hilltop traffic lights on Elizabeth Drive, Kate was startled by a banging on the side of the cab.
A woman was leaning out from her 4WD, shouting. Kate’s Romani background quickly came to the fore.
‘What’s she angry about? We haven’t done anything wrong.’ Discrimination leaves deep scars.
‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Why not open your window and find out?’
When Kate rolled the window down, the woman yelled ‘Do you do children’s parties?’
‘I suppose we could,’ replied Kate.
‘Emma Chizzit?’ asked the woman. ‘We’ve got about twenty kids coming.’
‘Let me have your number and we’ll phone you.’
‘O.K. Here it is,’ the woman answered, handing over a grubby piece of paper with a grin, as the light changed to green and the traffic started to move again.
I spent many cold, windy days that winter painting and decorating both Vardo and Bowtop inside and out. Although the St. Marys garden had a high, solid, metal fence, the roof and mollicroft (clerestory roof with windows) of the Vardo could still be seen from the roadway outside.
This led to occasional interruptions, some by stickybeaks, but also a couple of different ones. A passing motorcyclist stopped to tell me about his Gypsy relatives in Scotland.
‘My mother-in-law is coming to visit,’ he told me. ‘She’s always going on about her Gypsy background. It drives me up the wall! Will you still be here next month?
‘Can I send her over to talk to you? She’ll be happy to find Gypsies here in Australia. She thinks Australia is a wilderness and we all live in wooden huts and go around dressed in loincloths.’
I told him that we would be pleased to talk to his mother-in-law and he rode away on his little two-stroke, now looking much more cheerful.
Margaret, from an Aboriginal community, also knocked on the gate to investigate. She identified with the Romani people on two counts - the nomadism of her own heritage and the cross-cultural lifestyle. Her call resulted, sometime later, in our visit to Warragamba.
Meanwhile, Kate agreed to ‘do a children’s party’
It was a birthday celebration for a ten-year-old boy and his friends. On hearing of Kate’s involvement the mother of one of the friends telephoned the birthday boy’s mother.
‘Is that the Gypsy who travels in a caravan towing a trailer with a big green barrel on the back?’ (This was a reference to our Bowtop!)
‘Yes.’
‘Then let me know what time she is arriving. I’ll come and collect my children when she comes.
‘I’m not going to leave them while she’s there. Gypsies steal children, you know. And that barrel that they tow is where they hide them!’
Sure enough, when we pulled up at the house people crowded around as we located the Vardo in the driveway and arranged the Bowtop alongside. The exception was a scowling woman who collected her children and stalked away along the road fiercely resisting their arguments. Despite this unpleasant start, the party was a success. As the saying goes ‘a jolly good time was had by all.’
Between her study classes Kate did the detailed painting of the side panels while I ploughed on from one butterfly scallop to the next because several coats were needed to give the required effect. We also made a new bed and blanket box for the Bowtop, did lots of internal varnish work and made some extra fittings for the Vardo. New curtains throughout and a refurbishment of the lights and fittings brought the rig into good condition. By August we were ready for a trial run. Kate had to meet with a university lecturer in Newcastle to discuss some aspects of her study course.
So we arranged to take the rig and stay in his garden overnight. Since he is of Romani descent this was readily organised.
We set off with a measure of trepidation, feeling our way, me driving with constant attention to the messages received from the seat of my pants. I was driving a vehicle of metal construction on which was mounted a Vardo made of wood strengthened by a steel framework. The Nissan Cabstar truck and the Vardo each had a differing flexibility under the various stresses they were subjected to.
The overhang of the Vardo - our bedspace over the cab - was difficult to see when driving. It was some time before I was accustomed to being constantly aware of it and able to make judgements of width when approaching narrow traffic ways.
As my ‘overhang awareness’ increased so did my appreciation of height.
On the Newcastle trip we first encountered a ‘Low Clearance Ahead’ sign. To which we responded by having a vigorous discussion on the total height of the rig. Basil, bless him! had already thought of this. In the glovebox we discovered a card giving the overall height and overall length of the rig - in both metric and imperial measurements.
The 3.2 metre height of the Vardo was a frequent cause of concern all the time we were on the drom.
Parking at Newcastle was another learning experience. Unhitching the Bowtop, we were about to manhandle it, in reverse, over the nature strip and down the slight slope into our host’s garden when our host (who should have known better) pulled vigorously and unexpectedly. Kate, guiding at the rear corner, was taken by surprise and slipped, falling between the curb and the rear end of the Bowtop.
Fortunately she was not hurt but we agreed that, from then on, we would never allow anyone to ‘assist’ in locating the Bowtop unless assistance was essential.
Apart from strong headwinds on the return journey to Sydney, which used up additional fuel, the trip was otherwise uneventful.
Chapter Two
The Hands and the Egg
A few months earlier, while we were immersed in painting, we learned that a good friend, Jimmie Storey, was intending to be at the Lismore Festival in October. Jimmie is a Rom, an artist and a man of many talents but, mainly, a musician. Although he does not like the term, between us Kate and I called him ‘The Gypsy Minstrel.’ The Lismore Festival would be his first excursion in his converted van - a trial run before he, too, went back on the drom.
Why don’t we go with him to Lismore?’ Kate pondered when we came back from Newcastle.
‘We could provide him with some back-up facilities, keep him fed and watered and give him lots of moral support.’
‘No reason why we shouldn’t,’ I said, ‘as long as you can make the time available from your study course.’ The end of her course was approaching and examination time was looming.
‘O.K. I’ll phone him tonight and discuss it.’
Agreements reached and details finalised, four weeks later we were once more on our way northwards. Up the Pacific Highway from Hornsby, with a fine south-east breeze helping us, the Cabstar trundled along at a steady 80km/hr. Kate roused herself from time to time to respond to the friendly hand-waving of motorists going south.
Although the motorway makes demands on the driver’s attention, its path skirts the Ku-ring-gai National Park. Then it drops down past Brooklyn, crosses the Hawkesbury River at Mooney Mooney, climbs steeply up the other side and undulates through magnificent bushland until it reaches the Hunter River, near Hexham.
The driver only sees glimpses of these surroundings but passengers enjoy an ever-changing vista of beautiful and dramatic parts of the coastal hinterland.
After a quick stop in Newcastle to collect some technical papers, we moved onwards, with brief views of Port Stephens at Karuah before entering the wooded country that occupies the slopes of the ranges for several hundred kilometres along this road. We stopped that night near Port Macquarie.
Not yet fully accustomed to driving the rig, by late afternoon I was ready for a break so we turned off the main road following a sign that indicated a quiet riverside caravan park. Unsure of the likely nature of our welcome, I parked close to the “Riverlodge” sign and walked across to the office.
‘Have you got a level, drive-through site for a couple of weary travellers?’ I asked.
‘Is that your van on the road?’ a smiling lady enquired.
‘Yes.’
Her face lit up. ‘Oh. It’s beautiful’, she exclaimed. ‘So bright and shining and such pretty colours.’
I was more interested in getting a cup of coffee. ‘Do you have a site for us?’
‘I’ll get my husband to put you in the best spot, right away. Here he comes, now’ Doug’s smiling face appeared at the doorway. ‘Come on, I’ll take you to your site right now. I expect you’re in need of a cup of tea.’ And with that we were looked after so well, by Linda and Doug that we returned to that caravan park every time we were in the vicinity. First impressions are the best - as we subsequently confirmed at other stopping places.
The next day, the road took us inland, through more forests, to Kempsey and, gradually, back to the coast at Nambucca. Then on to Coffs Harbour, centre for a major banana growing region and a popular beachside resort. After battling a headwind through more forests, we arrived late at Jimmie’s house in Grafton, a large country town serving a rural community on and around the wide Clarence River.
Late each year, the extensive number of Jacaranda trees in the town and surrounding area present a colourful display for which Grafton is well known.
The main bridge, connecting South Grafton with the rest of the town on the opposite side of the river, is one of the most difficult to negotiate. It has five bends in it! Also it is very narrow - two lanes, but only just - and an uneven surface. It was a good place not to be when two semi-trailers are crossing from opposite directions.
We stayed with Jimmie overnight while we talked about our forthcoming activities in Lismore.
The festival started for us on the following morning when we set off towards Lismore but only got as far as the main street of Grafton before being stopped by Northern Rivers TV (Channel 10) who was keen to interview Jimmie and Kate.
Lisa, the reporter, was declared to be ‘on her way’ but had not yet arrived. Attila, the cameraman, had set up his equipment. He waited a few minutes then began the interview himself, stopping as necessary to film suitable scenes. Parking was arranged outside the Library in a limited time area but under the supervision of the parking officer.
While the interview was taking place, I had the opportunity to observe the local people, either passing by, or coming to and going from, the Library.
Most were interested in the happenings but didn’t linger long. Some ignored the proceedings. One man was the exception. He wore an open-necked shirt with a cravat. He stopped, looked carefully - then, seeing that both Jimmie and I were wearing diklos (Romani neck scarves); he turned away, removed his cravat, hastily crammed it into his trouser pocket and rushed into the Library. Obviously he didn’t wish to be identified with the Gypsies on the footpath!
Lisa finally put in an appearance and concluded the interview.
Immediately afterwards Attila requested that Jimmie play his guitar and we all sing a Romani song.
So I joined the group and there, on a fine sunny morning, under Jacaranda trees almost ready to burst into bloom, we rendered our version of the traditional Gypsy folksong ‘Romani Rai,’to the length and breadth of Grafton’s main street.
Onwards we go, we thought, but it was not to be. As we prepared to depart Simon, a reporter from the ‘Daily Examiner’ newspaper, came for an interview. This was to the disgust of the parking officer. He was hoping to regain the use of the parking space. After the newspaper came Phil, from the local radio station 2GF. Then we packed our gear. Having spent almost three hours in a thirty-minute parking space, we moved out - to the great relief of the friendly parking officer, who, I am sure, had kindly stretched our time allowance well beyond the limit. Jimmie is well known in Grafton so our departure turned into a small parade. Jimmie’s van, painted with the Romani flag on sides and rear doors, led the way. The lower half of the flag is green - to represent the earth - the upper half is blue - to represent the sky - and superimposed in the centre is a brilliant scarlet wagon wheel - the Romani symbol which is also depicted on the flag of India where the Gypsies originated.
Our tiny, colourful convoy rolled along the main street, to appreciative hand waving and sporadic applause from late morning shoppers, as we set out for Lismore. Forging ahead through the undulating countryside towards Casino, Kate opened up a conversation on the morning’s events.
‘How do you think people reacted to us?’
‘Very well,’ I said, and told her about the man hiding his cravat. ‘But he was the exception.’
‘The cameraman was great but the interviewers were not very bright. Do you feel that I got our message over to them?’ Kate was concerned because they had asked lots of questions that obviously stemmed from their own notions of Gypsy stereotypes.
‘They don’t seem to accept that storytellers are not fortune-tellers. And they have absolutely no idea of what a matriarchal society is.’
‘Agreed, but you can’t expect to change everyone’s thinking in just one attempt. I’m more concerned about the assumption that I’m the controlling influence in our family, just because I’m a man.’
‘We’ll have to find some way to make this clear to people right at the start.’ Kate always goes to the heart of the matter. ‘We’re going to have to make it plain to people that I am the Storyteller and you are my Shadow.
Then they have a framework in which to put us.’ ‘Shadow’ is the term the Romani use for a bodyguard or chaperone.
‘No good Gypsy lady goes out alone,’ say the Rom. ‘There is always someone nearby to look after her and see to her needs. ‘In my case, I was chauffeur, go-fer, roadie, roustabout, and general factotum. One of Kate’s main objectives in going back on the drom was to discover how much the gaje knew about the Rom. She also wanted to find out whether they had any understanding of Romani culture.
We were soon to learn more about this aspect of Kate’s work.
Lismore is the rural, agricultural and commercial centre for the Richmond River valley, a gathering place for sports, entertainment and a convenient resting place for tourists who visit the rainforest parks and scenic attractions. Arriving in Lismore mid-afternoon, Jimmie led us through the town and over the hill to a gate labelled ‘Lismore Arts Festival.’
The Festival site was in a loop of the river, almost a circle with a narrow neck of land providing access to the main arena, usually used as a sports and recreation ground.
We approached until we came to the only permanent building, an amenities block close to a recently erected, circus-type ‘Big Top.’
Here, the previous day, during the delivery and erection of the marquee, a small child had died.
He had been standing at the side of a semi-trailer being unloaded. A large tent pole fell on him. The tragic incident had cast a gloom over the preparations for the festival. We anticipated some air of sadness among the people on site.
A buxom lady waved to us excitedly. Jimmie turned to me. ‘You can go and deal with that one. I don’t like the look of her.’
As I strolled towards her she waved us to a space, which was being enclosed with star pickets and hessian.
‘You’re to be over here, in the children’s enclosure. Go in, turn round and park facing the entrance.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘Why the children’s enclosure?’
‘Well, you’re storytellers aren’t you?’
We are, but storytellers are not just for children, you know.’
‘Anyway, that’s where we’ve put you.’
I saw the sand-pit and a long trestle table bearing a sign saying ‘Finger and Face Painting’. There was an area labelled ‘Mud Pond’ and another bench piled with boxes of paper and glue. We were concerned about the potential for damage to the delicate designs on our rig.
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘We need a space where we can live but everyone can approach if they want to.’
The response was immediate. ‘Go and bloody find someone else then. I’m too bloody busy with this bloody lot.’ She gestured to the chaos in the children’s enclosure and turned away. A few minutes later we found the woman who was in charge of allocating sites. She turned out to be helpful, although she wasn’t aware of it.
Her initial reaction, on learning that we had no intention of being confined within ‘Kiddies Korner’ was to let loose a string of expletives directed at our background, our parentage and our intransigence.
When she had exhausted her crude vocabulary she delivered her final pronouncement.
‘Go and find your own bloody site then! Choose whichever bloody one you want!’ The great Australian adjective was being overworked today!
Thus encouraged, we found a suitable spot at the edge of the approach path, about halfway along its hundred-metre length.
We were able to place the Vardo and Bowtop side by side with Jimmie’s van close by and located our tent behind, for storage, clothes-washing and bathing facilities.
A power distribution box was nearby but when I plugged in our extension lead and switched on there was no power.
A little later a Portaloo was delivered to the back of the site about ten metres from our site boundary.
Kate was the first to approach it but quickly returned, muttering discontentedly.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘That loo is useless,’ she said ‘the step is too high. I can’t climb into it.’
We instituted a hurried search for a box to act as doorstep.
The loo deliverymen also passed a message to Ray, the electrician, who warned us that we might be without power until next morning because a generator had not yet been delivered. So, settled in, we set the table, lit the oil lamps and sat down to eat, late but hungry. Two mouthfuls were all we managed before a fire engine raced up the path, stopping at our site. Out jumped a cheerful-looking individual who hurried across to Kate and announced
‘It’s absolutely marvellous to be able to meet television personalities. I’ve not had the chance to talk to famous people like you before!’
Barrie, the Chief of the Bush Fire Brigade, had seen the TV interview, done at Grafton that morning, on the Channel 10 local news and no one could have been more pleased about it. We invited him to join us for coffee so he sat and talked a while.
Having formerly been a truckie, he was interested in our rig - how it was constructed, how it handled, what was it like to live in?
Others, associated with the Festival organisation, also stopped to exchange greetings or to enquire about our forthcoming presentations.
But I noticed that quite a few took great care to walk past.
They kept to the other side of the pathway and averted their gaze (except for some surreptitious glances), trying hard to ignore our presence.
At least two small family groups stopped to stare and to remark,
‘Oh! Look at that! They eat at a table like we do!’
Did they perhaps think that we ate out of pieces of newspaper, like the lunchtime crowds in the main streets of Sydney?
The figurative ‘everyman and his dog’ carried cameras. We didn’t interrupt our meal for them but, in the background to our own conversation, we overheard remarks such as...
‘See their lovely white table cloth... and the serviettes!’
‘They’ve got proper china plates and knives and forks!’
‘I wonder how they do their washing-up?’
Dusk brought hundreds of fruit bats. Almost an hour passed before they finally stopped squawking and settled down for the night. After a busy day, so did we; Jimmie choosing to sleep in the Bowtop because he had packed too much gear into his van.
Early next morning Kate and Jimmie prepared their programmes for the presentations they intended to give, while I made sure the site was clean, tidy and secure. I checked out our equipment and the items that Kate would use.
There was a variety of props for illustration of her stories - her wooden bowl, the traditional Romani clothes, the cauldron, her walking stick and the pot of parsley. Later they rehearsed some items but we all found ourselves involved in answering the questions of the curious, the inquisitive and some admirers. In the evening we were joined by Peter, the Festival Organiser. He brought Robert, a harp maker, who played wonderful music after dinner when the fruit bats stopped being noisy.
The opening day of the Festival brought some surprises. It proved difficult to implement a full presentation of about one hour because most people only wished to stay for a short while.
Also, the audience were determined to ask questions during the presentation. The questions often led to lengthy discussions, which enthused the questioners but adversely influenced the rest of the audience. The result was more like Speakers Corner in Hyde Park than a reproduction of a small Gypsy camp. A lunchtime discussion brought about solutions to the difficulties and, with the help of a notice hastily prepared by Jimmie, all the passers-by had a timetable so that they could choose when they wanted to be in the audience.
During the day we were issued with wristbands denoting our right to be on site.
These were fairly stiff plastic and were clamped on so that they could only be removed by cutting - and very irritating they were, too. I felt as if I was wearing one bright green handcuff!
That evening was spent alternating between coping with a continuous stream of friendly visitors and fending off the approaches of a group of ferals who were camped in a teepee a short distance away. These people, who seem to be similar to the ‘flower children’ of the nineteen-fifties, became an intermittent source of irritation later in our travels. Some feral musicians came to ask if they could be photographed with the rig in the background.
They were not unpleasant but were very unhappy when we insisted that Kate and Jimmie be included in the photograph. They were unwilling to be photographed this way. Later we learned that it was their intention to use the photograph for the purpose of publicising their own band. In retrospect we were glad to have sent them away disappointed.
The second day of the Festival turned out to be most interesting.
Two Rom made themselves known to us.
One, a young chal (youth), of Russian Gypsy background, had hitchhiked from the Gold Coast after seeing us on the TV local news programme.
He was seeking news of his grandfather.
‘What can you tell us about him?’ queried Kate.
‘He’s a tall bloke, he still has a strong accent and he had casual jobs all over the country.’
‘When did you last meet him?’
‘About seven years ago, when he went to Sydney.’
‘And have you heard from him since? Do you know what he was doing in Sydney?’
‘No that’s the last I heard of him. But a friend told me he had been seen performing a Russian Gypsy dance on the counter of a bar in Sydney’s Kings Cross!’ We couldn’t help this puzzled youth.
The other visitor was a musician from the Northern Rivers area who played violin and guitar and who was knowledgeable about Romani music. She talked at length about this to Jimmie.
During the morning, while Jimmie was playing and singing, Kate and I noticed a small, elderly, overdressed woman watching him from short distance. Her face was so heavily coated in makeup that she gave the appearance of being a caricature.
But her actions were quite clear. She gazed adoringly at Jimmie until he finished his song. As Kate stepped forward to tell a story, she withdrew beneath trees on the riverbank. While Jimmie sat on the Vardo steps, preparing his next item, she took several photographs of him and then slowly walked away.
Several times during the day she came back for another similar session, each time drooling as Jimmie performed.
Finally, late in the afternoon she plucked up enough courage to come across to talk to Jimmie and Kate. Afterwards they both reported that they had been unable to figure out what she was talking about. But she seemed satisfied as she hitched up her tight Lurex skirt and tottered away down the rough access path on her impossibly high heels.
As the day progressed, more and more young people came to listen to Kate and to join in the songs with Jimmie. We gained the impression that they had little knowledge of Gypsies but readily understood aspects of Gypsy lifestyle when their probing questions were answered straightforwardly.
About six thirty Jimmie remarked
‘Hey! Look at this lot.’
Approaching along the entry path was an impromptu procession of figures in fancy dress. And very fancy it was, too! The parade was a mass of colour - black, white, silver, gold and all the colours of the rainbow.
Beads rattled, sequins shimmered, feathers waved, chains clinked gently and jewellery gleamed in the soft light of dusk. It seemed that the whole of the Lismore population had arrived for the Spring Arts Ball, most in fancy dress, some in almost undress, all happy and noisy, like a litter of puppies let off the leash.
Already dancing and prancing, they made their way past us, mostly in twos and threes but interspersed with larger groups.
Smiling and waving - arms, hands, scarves, hats and fancy dress props - they passed along beside our wagons beneath the evening circus of raucous fruit bats…
With music from the Arts ball as background, our evening meal was peaceful and undisturbed.
Disruption came later as we settled into sleep only to be woken by departing patrons by now well lubricated with alcohol and excitement.
On the final day Kate’s audiences were different, more intense, more keen to learn and more understanding of cross-cultural differences. At five thirty, as we relaxed with tea and coffee, a young girl aged about ten pushed forward.
‘Your sign says the Gypsies are on again at six o’clock. Can’t you do it earlier ‘cos Mum says we have to go to the fireworks at half past six?’
‘Well,’ said Jimmie, ‘we wouldn’t want you to miss either event. I’ll go and change the sign to read quarter-to-six. Will that be O.K.?’
‘Oh. Great!’ she replied then hurried back to advise Mum. But Mum was not at all pleased. A lengthy argument followed, by which time it was five forty-five and time for Kate and Jimmie to start. The girl returned to find that there was only a small audience assembled. She asked Kate to give her the microphone to tell the passing parade that the presentation was about to start. Kate did so. Rachael, for that was her name, strode out onto the entry path announcing...
‘Come and listen to the Gypsies. There’s plenty of time before the fireworks. Anyway the Gypsies are better than the fireworks. Come on everyone, it’s starting now!’
Jimmie began strumming on his guitar, a few people stopped to listen, then more. Our newly found spieler strode among the passing crowd, loudly proclaiming
‘Your last chance to see the Gypsies. Come and hear all the stories. There’s just time before the fireworks start.’
More people gathered around.
When she figured that the audience was big enough, Rachael handed the microphone back to Kate with a final instruction 'Let’s do it now!'
Many people stopped, the crowd swelled, some listeners from earlier in the day returned to join the throng. Rachael had gathered several young children who sat at Kate’s feet. The presentation went smoothly with the audience participating.
The finale became a general singsong under Jimmie’s guidance and the applause indicated how much the audience had enjoyed themselves. Time now for the fireworks. Strolling up to main arena in conversation with others, we were told that this would not just be fireworks but a ‘Fire Event’ - a popular feature of festivals in northern NSW and SE Queensland.
The paper and glue we had seen in the children’s enclosure on the first day had been put to good use. Children, adults and visitors had all been involved in making paper lanterns which were attached to bamboo poles. These were to be carried by the young people in a procession after dark. In the main arena, large sections of bamboo had been transformed into a tower about 10 metres high. This was clad with paper and supported a platform on which was a large pair of upright open hands fabricated from similar materials.
Dusk was turning to darkness; the fruit bats were noisily circling, as the crowd assembled facing a huge stage on which a full orchestra and massed choir awaited the commencement of proceedings.
A previously prepared programme had been cast aside in order to incorporate a Requiem for the small child who had died on the site that week; we were told by the master of ceremonies. At which point the sound and public address systems failed, leaving the assembled audience ‘in the dark’ both figuratively and literally.
The frenzied activity of the orchestra, the drill-like precision page-turning of the choir, accompanied by sequential mouth opening and the gesturing of the MC had no significance without the sound. Into the silent mass of the audience the procession came slowly.
At a funereal pace lanterns swung and bobbed along, interspersed with male and female figures, clad in underpants and a thick coating of greyish-white (mud?), who paused from time to time and ‘froze’ into ‘statues.’ Lanterns and statues peeled off to infiltrate the audience, finding permanent places to stand.
An overview from our standpoint gave the impression of soft lights sprinkled across a museum courtyard crowded with revolutionaries awaiting an execution. Several minutes later the musicians stopped playing and the choir stopped opening their mouths. Then a small figure, dressed in a Cossack-like costume and waving a machete, appeared on the stage declaiming and gesturing. How we wished we could hear what he was shouting!
Meanwhile, Barrie’s firemen - who had spent the unusually hot day pumping water from the river to hose down the trees and nearby vegetation - reappeared and started hosing again.
Simultaneously, several men began to hoist up the back of the tower a large bamboo-and-paper egg with a simulated zigzag crack along one side. Obviously, their intention was to place the egg in the open hands at the top.
The ‘Cossack’ jumped from the stage to stand in front of the tower. He cavorted, stamped his feet, waved his machete. The paper walls of the tower were backlit and a shadow puppet show started.
No doubt there was some relationship between what the ‘Cossack’ was declaiming and the shadow puppetry but we couldn’t hear anything except the muttered comments of the crowd.
We contented ourselves with watching the egg making slow progress up the back of the tower and the shadow puppet handpieces.
These, once used, were flung unceremoniously out of the base of the tower, many of them coming perilously close to hitting the firemen whose activities were increasing.