Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal.

Jottings in an Oarsman’s Journal #4

Gunta and Harold.

The Roman historian, Tacitus, in his recordings of the different Germania tribes and their mores, made note to the effect that the further one went out into the wilds and unknowns away from the centres of civilisation the more barbaric did the tribal living conditions and social behaviour become..In my travelling further and further down stream on The Marne River, getting further and further from the town of Cambrai, humble as it is, with its focus points of civilisation of church community, school, civic hall and council, plus that melting pot of what keeps so many men sane whilst battling the endless combat of mother nature upon their cropping and livestock..the pub..these small but vital elements form the basic requirements of a civilised community…take them away and it is not long before any person left in an isolated state will move closer to a survival nature for warmth…will “go native”, to use the expression..It was in my travels down the river that I came to witness the toll isolation takes on the person and personality of such isolated folk and their companions and family.

I confess that I, also became somewhat susceptible to the condition I describe above..having for the best part of a week being confined to boat and riverbank, I do concede I have taken to a habit of solo thought and action so that the regularity of need in rowing, camp and food to eat has made me fall into a habit of repeat deeds.

It was a dawning awareness of this simplicity of thought and also the small compact mirror that showed a reflection after a week of “living wild” of a man in need of some attention to person and personality.

I was debating the possibility of setting up and staying in a suitable camp for a day or two to gather myself together, wash some clothes, attend to my personal care with a shave and a good solid bathe in the waters of the river..when coming around a bend in my skiff, I spotted just up a rise off the bank a low, thatched-roofed cottage of pug and pine construction…and I could see from the gathered folk there it was inhabited..

As I pulled over to the bank so as to introduce myself to these folk, I could see their main occupation in farming there seemed to be with the herding of goats…there were goats everywhere, not penned of enclosed, but just wandering about as pets would…I could on closer inspection even see a regular passing in an out of the front door of the cottage…and I wondered on the condition of the inside of the living quarters if the goats were left to forage without restraint.

Upon my greeting to them on the bank, I was welcomed like a long lost brother of The Jacobsons..for that was the family name…and I suppose the location and the proliferation of animals didn’t lend itself to regular visitations of any other local..if there be such within a dozen miles of the place..for casual socialising.

The father of the lot..that being six children of variating age, sex and height, was a man in his mid-fifties, solid build as was his wife also..as, if I can say it without correction were his children..a situation I suppose came with the wrestling of herding goats..a stubborn and determined animal it has been well documented..and an obscure relative called “Maggs”, a woman of undetermined old age, but with the regulation stoop of one who had worked at manual labour most of their life.. but the thing that I found most intriguing was the dozens and dozens of goats and the uses their hair and skins had been put to..for every man, woman and child had cloth or hat..even in some cases scuff-shoes of woven, knitted, stitched and thrown over cloak of goat origin…I stayed for a short time as a polite greeting, but I have to confess to avoiding the invitation to a meal, I should imagine of goat meat..as the stench of the beasts, while I accept the familiarity of such to those folk living everyday with it had become inured to the odour, to me it was quite overpowering..so with a bid farewell pleading necessity of travelling before dark, and a flurry of hands holding back several goats from wanting to board my craft…perhaps in the mistaken desperation of trying to escape their inevitable fate of becoming a sartorial item in the Jacobson Family wardrobe..I quickly poled the skiff away from the bank and rowed to the safety of the deeper water of the river..Yes..I decided there and then..I must make camp for more than just a night and tidy myself up a tad before resuming my journey…

The river travelling at this juncture between steep banks precluded me pulling up on a gentle slope and making camp, so I kept on travelling downstream for another couple of hours after the goat farm seeking the perfect place to camp..though I have to make note that while there were many large and grand river red and blue gums along the river, the bush above the shallow valley quickly reverted to that low, multi sapling malllee…I have to assume the gums were reliant on a regular flow of water down the beds over many, many hundreds if not thousands of years..a truly remarkable geography worthy some day of further research…But for now, it was with concentration to find a safe and secure place to land the skiff..

And it was with satisfaction that I soon found just the spot for a good camp..

Having decided to stay a couple of days in this location, I set a tarpaulin over a long branch as a kind of tent and unloaded much of the supplies in my craft so as to do an inventory of just what I had and what I would need to get when I reached the small depot of Black Hill a day or so further down river after I depart. I have to admit, this stop-over was soon having a restful effect upon myself as there was no need to be continually aware of snags or shallows and I could haul the skiff up on the gently sloping bank and let it dry somewhat after so many days of traversing the river…a day of spring rains confirmed the decision to stay and set up camp..though it was a soft rain, it was consistent and I sat comfortable under the ample tarpaulin and cooked the remainder of my bulk meat supply and boiled potatoes, making a note to purchase more such supplies next stop..I started to miss the snacks of Cesarino’s delicious salami and the delicate cheeses I had also brought along and greedily ate in those early days on my journey.

It was on the afternoon of my second day at this stop that I first became aware of visitors approaching the camp along a narrow walking track next to the river..a rough track that could have been made by stock or larger wild animals following the water..

There were two voices talking..or perhaps better to say ; squabbling with each other…a man and a woman..and as they came closer, I could see what looked like gnomes pulling a small two wheeled cart with a “T” frame draw-bar handle..and squabbling as they did so..the woman complaining to the man..

“Are you sure you’re pulling?”

“Of course I am..do you think you could do it on your own..?” the man retorted in a croak..

“Wouldn’t surprise me..” the woman..a bent-backed crone whined “I do most other things on my own”..

“…and deserve to..” the man, also as bent backed as the woman replied..

They were a sight as they approached, their hobbled forms of similar size sometimes swinging in step and sway with each other as they walked..sometimes in unison of sway like blades of thin grass in a wind..sometimes almost bumping into each other in opposing sway..they pulled up short about thirty feet away when they saw me.

“Morgen”…the man greeted..the woman dropped the handle of the cart and stepped forward ..

“Gunta” she offered me her hand along with I presume was her name..she then motioned to the man..”t’other”..she introduced with jerk of thumb at what I presumed was her husband..

“Harold” the man offered his hand…now, to me they had the tone and speak of a German couple, but the name “Harold” threw me a bit..then I recalled hearing that many old pioneer German families from those regions most populated by the settlers had started to give their newborn babies English first names so as to soften the hatred of many people against German groups, but this “Harold” was quite aged…I queried Harold about his obviously English name..Gunta intervened..

“It’s really Harald…HARALD..not HarOLD…but he thinks he will be loved more if he uses the English sounding name.” she scorned, turned away then immediately swung back..to spit at him..”But they don’t and they WONT!”…Harold just scowled silently.

Both were thin bodied and with backs similar bent like they had been subjected to pressure in a mould of equal force and shape..each talked to me from a head twisted and uplifted to one side..hers to the left, his to the right as if an agreement had at some point been made to accommodate either to be best heard. They gazed around my makeshift camp.

“Looks like you are settling in nicely” the man spoke..The woman hobbled about the camp touching this and that item..she felt the thickness of the tarpaulin and made pouting faces as to what she felt was sufficient quality of the product or item attended..as if she had knowledge of judgement of style and quality..while their own appearance looked like one of absolute poverty..I was becoming curious as to what this strange couple wanted, as they appeared to be in no hurry to move on to other places, other things.

“Is there something I can help you with?” I mistakenly asked..

“As a matter of fact there is..” the man spoke..The woman immediately edged him aside and looked directly to my face…

“Take us across the river to the other side..” she almost demanded.

“If you please” interjected the man humbly..the woman looked scornfully at him..

“Of course”..she looked back at me..”If you please”…

I wasn’t keen to take up the trade of ferryman just as I was getting used to a quiet life on terra firma, so I asked why they wished to go there. The man explained that they owned a chicken run back down the river a ways and they also had a large run over the other side of the river, but as it was in flood now, their forde of access on foot was gone and the punt they usually use had been washed away several days ago…
“Because YOU forgot to tie it up!” the crone barked at the man.

“I did tie it up…I did!” he shouted back…” the branch I tied it to just broke..that’s why.” The woman snorted in replied disgust..I could see these two were matched in temper and sharp tongue.

They requested I row them across the river taking a bag of feed they had brought in the small cart so as to top up the feed bins and to collect eggs there..in exchange, they would pay me in kind for my service of a bird cleaned and ready to cook, plus a dozen eggs for my effort..This seemed like just the thing I needed to restock a part of my larder..I bargained for a loaf of bread I saw there in supplies in the cart as well and then we shook hands on the deal.

It didn’t take long in the boat before I was wondering if I would regret the arrangement as the two gnomish like creatures started to squabble again as soon as I pushed off from the bank…and continued all the way across…and then started on me when we got close to the bank..

“Can’t you get closer?”..the woman barked..”you expect me..in my condition to leap to the shore…I’ll drown here if I step off the boat!”..and other like complaints..of course, considering the couple’s personalities, I took it in good humour, accepting that this mode of communication was their usual good-fellowship way of talking.

I stayed with the craft as they went about their business..which took the good part of an hour or so..The man quickly lit a fire in a place set up for just such a thing and placed a shallow pot of water on to boil..the woman went about to several sheds and huts checking and collecting…and despite their debilitated body shapes, did their tasks with swiftness and efficiency..when they were finished attending to their chores and deeds, the man just with a swift nod to the woman gathered up a plump looking chook, held the squarking think firmly in one hand and just as swiftly took up a small axe and lopped its head off and hooked its legs on a twist of wire while it flapped its last nerve action..when this ended and the blood stopped from the neck, he dexterously took the bird down and dropped it into the heated water to soften the feathers and before I could say Jack Robinson, the bird was cleaned, gutted and placed in a calico bag to present to me along with a dozen fresh eggs…I have to admit to being rather amazed at the efficiency they had as a team that I suppose gave reason for their continued companionship…sometimes the most congenial company is founded on opposites..

I rowed the couple back to the other bank, their complaints toward each other continued, but at a lesser intensity, I have to add…and with thanks all ’round, I bade goodbye to Gunta and Harold..and gave them in guilt of taking their loaf of bread, a half pound of extra sugar from my supply, which they mightily appreciated and in my heart I made note that I hope I never see them again!…I could just make out as they disappeared down the track her same complaint to him as when they approached…

“Are you sure you’re pulling?”… After the third day of resting on the banks of The Marne River, I packed up my makeshift camp and made to continue my journey downstream…it dawned upon me that morning that it may not be much longer before the two crooked people., Gunta and Harold..would want me to again ferry them across the river…this would tax my patience with dealing with the “common folk” of the district just that little bit too much…and considering I had sectioned and grilled the chicken up nicely that same night they gave it to me, I was now stocked up enough with supply to last me to the hamlet of Black Hill..So I set off without delay…which was just as well, for not more than a couple of miles or so down the river, I could see a hut on the shore with any number of chickens scurrying about it…then a man..presumably Harold came shifting toward the bank with his arms waving..fortunately I was out in midstream and could pretend I could not hear him and instead, waved my arm in return as a friendly greeting and continued on my way without looking back..you may think of me as selfish, but past experience with people who are needy or wanting, has shown me that it is never enough to do adequate for them..there is always a demand for more..beware the drowning man who cannot swim, for he will drag you down with him if you are too obliging.