Chapter 5: Hopes and Dreams - Part 1
What sort of life would it be without hopes and dreams? Can we survive without them? And where do they come from?
I decided to take a walk through a part of the farm I seldom visit—a bamboo forest so dense towards the center it becomes dark and magical. The towering green columns lace together, forming a cathedral-like ceiling. They bend towards each other from parallel rows, making the shape of a grand archway. I can only imagine what it would feel like to be a small child wandering through this forest.
As I approach its deepest regions, I see a pile of logs, cut bamboo poles, sheets of corrugated iron, piles of rocks from the nearby stream, and shallow trenches filled with leaf litter that seem to mark out some sort of floor plan. It looks like an abandoned shelter from some wandering homeless person.
A couple of years ago, I remember hearing the faint sounds of a child shouting as I slowly passed along the edge of this bamboo maze. I reached for the handbrake, raised my hand to block the sun from my eyes, and focused my gaze to try and make out the small figures deep in this forest’s center. It was more the sounds than the sights that gave clues to who and what it was that caught my attention. I turned the tractor around and motored up between the two rows of bamboo that led me to this rabble.
The kids and their cousins had decided to build a fort. It was clear they had spent quite a lot of effort in planning and preparation. They had hauled an enormous amount of building materials from all around the farm, deep into their jungle. There was an argument about who was doing the most work. Their tribe had split into two camps. They argued amongst themselves, trying to agree on the design and each person’s work requirements.
Standing here now, it’s clear they never finished their jungle fort. I’m not sure if it all fell apart shortly after their squabbling, or when the level of effort required to build what they had imagined finally sunk in. I looked at the pieces of their project, scattered and disorganized; the leaves had mounded up over much of their gathered materials; black-speckled mold and fungus had begun to rot the neatly stacked bamboo. These symbols of time, marked by the hand of nature, only added to the nostalgic memories this unfinished project evoked.
My feelings and emotions didn’t suggest it was all just childish play—I sensed much more than that. These are not the only remains that tell a story. There are many traces left by those who have been here before. Deep within the thick forest, where the ridges roll steeply towards the valleys, giant stumps remain where tall cedars once towered; there are notches in their bases where planks were placed by young men to stand on as they did the impossible with only muscle and metal. The ridges above them have been cleared by those who returned from war with dreams of building a farm and raising a family. Scattered farm implements, barely visible beneath green foliage, lie rusting after no longer serving their purpose. Shattered glass protruding through the loose soil at the base of a tree is all that remains of the farmhouse that witnessed more than one set of children become adults.
My soul is always stirred upon each discovery; it seems to look for answers each time. It questions: Who was here? What were they like? Where did they come from? What did they believe in? What drove them mad? What dreams and fantasies were they running on?
As I sit down on a sheet of corrugated iron and rest my back against some bamboo, I can’t help but wonder what was different between this childish idea to build a fort and my adult idea to come here and build a life with my family. Was it not my dreams, fantasies, and imagination that led me to this life? And what of the young men who logged these valleys, those who returned from the horrors of war, those who toiled from dawn till dusk clearing the ridges to make way for the pasture that would soon feed their cows? Was it not their hopes and dreams that led them here? Was it not the same childlike fantasy of a new world that gripped their imagination?
The work my family and I have put in whilst chasing our dream would pale in comparison to those who came before us. We may have worked the same hours, but our comforts are equal to those of a king and queen of their era. Life for them was brutally difficult and often miserable, marked by isolation, harsh landscapes, and constant struggle. Clearing dense bushland by hand, building crude shelters, and relying on scarce supplies meant survival was uncertain. The vast distances left families cut off from communities, medical help, and even basic comforts, while loneliness and homesickness weighed heavily on them. On top of this, strained relations with Indigenous peoples—whose lands were being stolen—added fear and tension. For most, life was a relentless grind of backbreaking labor, hunger, and uncertainty, with only fleeting moments of relief or progress.
The early pioneers must have felt like they had traveled to Hell. I am sure for those who lost hope, Hell was the only way they could describe it. What was it that drove these men and women? One can only believe it must have been their hopes and dreams—a dream of a better life for themselves and their families.
What sort of life would it be without hopes and dreams? Can we survive without them? And where do they come from?
Over the past six years on this farm, I have been slowly and painfully detaching the tentacles of cultural identity. I have gone so far down this path that I have had moments where nothing holds me up anymore. At times, I feel I have more in common with a mad homeless person than with the average Joe on the street. I have felt true freedom like never before—until the unfiltered sight of it caused so much terror I closed the door. When nothing means anything anymore, your dreams become silent. And if our dreams are what provide us hope, then I fear I may become hopeless.
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