Fishing for Stars (71 page)

‘Bob Brown likens him to the Huon pine because they’re unique to the south-west wilderness. The analogy is perfect. The Huon pine looks unpretentious to say the least, gnarled and wind-battered, misshapen and usually covered in lichen, but its core wood is beautiful. It’s self-oiling, it never cracks and will last indefinitely. Logs found in the river, still in perfect condition, have been shown to be ten thousand years old. There’s one near the River Camp called the Lea Tree that’s over three thousand years old! Can you imagine, Nick? It was already a thousand years old when Cleopatra met Antony and they sailed down the Nile together.’

Decades later, a conservationist writer described Reg in these words:

Reg Morrison loved the river and couldn’t imagine its runnels and ferny creeks, the wide bends and sudden twists, the rapids with their rocky roar, the quiet sylvan stretches of calm water, the waterfowl and platypus and windblown beds of rustling reeds, the essence of the glorious Gordon, all gone forever. He couldn’t bear to see the beauty of the valley lost, turned into a giant and turgid pond, the so-called national park a playground for Sunday sailors, where the high cry of eagles would be replaced by the raucous roar of outboard motors and sudden snap of sails tacking to a breeze that swept across the drowned and desolate waterscape, all in the name of a few extra megawatts of electricity to run the mix-masters and those weapons of mass distraction, the television sets of the nation.

Bob Brown contends that without Reg Morrison the blockade would never have got off the ground. Reg was the first to stand up for the rivers and the south-west wilderness, and this simple self-effacing man became the whole difference; he demonstrated the power of one man’s persistence and sacrifice. Reg Morrison earned his colours by transporting the protesters up the river to the camp, as close to the dam construction site as the police – determined to keep them as far away as possible – would allow.

Marg and other workers found a second important friend in Strahan, all the more surprising as he was the town and district warden. Harry McDermott allowed the protesters the use of the council-run camping ground near the town centre, known as Peoples Park. Later they were forced to move to a larger site on the outskirts of town organised by Harry and donated by the son of a sympathetic councillor. It became known as ‘Greenie Acres’. Without these two men, the blockade would have been almost impossible.

In the same article on the blockade the writer concluded:

Without Reg Morrison and Harry McDermott, the blockade would have been well nigh impossible. Such quiet and largely unsung men and women who give our nation its essential character are seldom recognised as heroes and receive few of the glittering prizes, unlike the highly profitable companies who are still actively
destroying the wilderness and turning the old-growth forests into minced wood and money while spouting the same greedy, self-serving and duplicitous twaddle about jobs for workers. These are big corporation men who blithely face the TV camera and talk of building a pulp mill they assert will do no ecological harm when each day it empties 60 000 tonnes of polluted effluent, the detritus of destruction, into Bass Strait. Some of the nation’s superannuation funds happily buy shares in these logging companies and see no paradox when they boast that they are growing a safe and secure future for their clients.

But at the time, much of the local media was less than sympathetic. The Hobart
Mercury
gloomily predicted: ‘The movement increasingly resembles a mortally wounded beast that just won’t lie down and die.’ The paper almost gleefully swallowed anything fed to it by premier Robin Gray and turned it into headlines: ‘Protests by greenies could provoke bloodshed! Unions call for a State of Emergency to prevent greenie harassment! Violence of some kind seems inevitable at this indefensible blockade.’

It was obvious local media could not be relied on for unbiased and even-handed reporting. Even the venerable local ABC radio station seemed to forsake its usual fair-minded approach by allowing a lot of time for pro-dam comment of the ‘They’re taking our bread and butter!’ variety. Truth was an early casualty. Despite the peaceful behaviour of the protesters, carefully managed by the organisers, the warden of Queenstown broadcast a typical and widely held opinion: ‘The protesters’ half-truths and platitudes are like that of Hitler before the war. If there’s bloodshed, which is not unlikely, the responsibility will rest with the Wilderness Society.’

Communication was never going to be easy for the protesters. Marg was part of an initial team of four media coordinators, although later there would be others. With her were Pam Waud and Cathie Plowman, two extraordinarily dedicated and competent women, and Geoff Law, a young bloke mature beyond his years with a very black beard reminiscent of the nineteenth-century cricketer W.G. Grace that belied his tender age and made the cops instinctively suspicious of him. The team spent most of its time organising the media, for whom they were able to set up a media centre in the middle of town.

Accommodation for the protesters proved to be the real nightmare. Marg would often say how guilty she felt that the media team were housed in an old customs building and were able to stay warm and dry at night while the protesters arriving in the incessant rain were forced to camp. Conditions generally called for a fair bit of character and determination, but toilets were dug and kitchens constructed of canvas. And the Town Camp was described by the protesters as sheer luxury compared to the River Camp, which was closer to the dam site on the Gordon. Some of those returning from the River Camp would go down on their knees and kiss the ground at Greenie Acres.

Keeping the camps clean in such bad weather was difficult. Marg told me that Bob Brown had expressed real fears of an outbreak of dysentery or a flu epidemic. He’d set up a rigid routine for maintaining hygiene in the public areas of the camps and there were a great many veteran Tasmanian protesters who volunteered to do latrine duty and other unpleasant tasks. Without them disaster would almost certainly have befallen the campsites.

Marg was one of the people responsible for communication between the two camps. Norm Sanders, fellow member of parliament and first director of The Wilderness Society, had helped set up a radio shack at the River Camp so that the two protest sites could communicate with each other, although the frequency was often jammed by the police.

Bob Brown briefed the media team at length. He started by saying, ‘Marg, they’re not going to be targeting you and Norm. Robin Gray isn’t stupid. He knows that if they arrest Marg Hamilton and Norm Sanders, the subsequent publicity would be very good for us. Imagine, two MPs thrown into jail! Provided you keep your noses clean, you’ll both be left alone. This is very important. The whole blockade hinges on media participation, so getting reporters across the bay to the River Camp is paramount.’

He turned to Geoff Law, Cathie Plowman and Pam Waud. ‘You three are going to cop the most flak, so be careful, but don’t be surprised if they come after you. What’s more, the media are going to be in a pretty foul mood after the trip to the River Camp if we get the rain they’re forecasting. As you know, it’s horrific. They’re going to be violently seasick and thoroughly miserable by the time they go across the harbour and upriver, so they won’t be keen to make daily trips. Nobody likes to throw up for several hours a day. In fact we may only get one go with each media contingent we send over. Your job is to see they get something meaty to chew on when they arrive and something even bigger when they get to the River Camp.

‘We’re going to call these media events DMEs – Daily Media Events. I want at least one major DME each day if possible. Pam, Cathie and Geoff will be on the front line but they’ll coordinate everything with you, Marg, whenever possible, to get the maximum effect. Marg, you will make sure the media are always present at the scene and sent home with the right message. This is public relations at a very high level; you’re the indefatigable smile, the “nothing is impossible” person. You can be sure they’ll research your society background, and the “admiral’s widow turns greenie” is a nice angle. “Charming, smiling, never ruffled admiral’s wife turned greenie” is an even better one.’

He paused, then said, ‘Now, we can’t guarantee Pam, Cathie and Geoff won’t be arrested and so it may eventually come down to you, Marg. Every day we don’t get something on the national news that demonstrates the contrast between the peace-loving and caring protesters and the brutal, heavy-handed authorities is a step closer to failure. Remember the first rule in reportage – no picture, no story.

‘The essential thing for you all to remember is that the chief perpetrators are not the police, they’re Robin Gray, who sent in the police, and Russell Ashton, the Commissioner for the Hydro.’ Bob grinned. ‘Fortunately neither is ever short of an acrimonious comment and they can be guaranteed to keep their end up very nicely. The more they shout, rave and gesticulate, the better.’

The media group obviously did their job well and every day there was at least one good piece in the leading papers, or on the TV and radio stations in the capital cities. I’d get the Brisbane papers twice a week but, of course, my personal news came via telephone. Weary, wet and miserable at having to stay out of trouble by not actively joining the protesters, Marg would call me reverse charges long distance from a private phone in the home of a local sympathiser in Queenstown, where each night in the rain she would drive, following the police paddy wagons that transported arrested protesters to the late sitting of the magistrate’s court. She’d wait until the magistrate offered them bail on condition they didn’t return to the dam site, they would duly refuse to comply and then they’d be carted off to Risdon Prison, a long ride in the dark, to arrive near Hobart often in the early hours of the morning.

Even though my long-distance phone bill could have purchased one of the smaller Pacific Island nations, there were a few calls that are worth repeating. The first, of course, came a day or two before the start of the blockade when Marg was bubbling over with excitement. ‘Nick, Bob arrived with Professor Manning Clark in a plane chartered by Dick Smith!’

‘Electronic Dick,’ I laughed. ‘Perhaps not the subtlest slogan for a guy who sells electronic gear, but I’m told the geeks love it. He has it painted on all his vans.’

But Marg wasn’t listening, too anxious to tell me her news. ‘They’ve been told on the grapevine to expect good news at 11 o’clock tonight.’

‘What, Robin Gray is going to capitulate? I’d have thought he would wait until the stroke of midnight.’

‘Have you been drinking, Nick?’ Marg asked, suddenly stern.

‘No. Just the usual Scotch after dinner.’

‘Of course he’s
not
going to capitulate!’ Her voice grew excited again. ‘But maybe, perhaps, possibly, something almost as good. Guess what? The World Heritage Committee is going to give the south-west wilderness area, including the two rivers, World Heritage status.’

‘But I thought that wasn’t a big deal, in terms of, you know, changing anything?’

‘It wasn’t, but now it could be! Fraser has been told by the High Court that he can stop the dams, but he doesn’t think it’s an election issue, so he’s doing nothing.’

‘No, of course not. He doesn’t want to tread on dear little Robin’s toes.’ Marg’s hatred for Robin Gray was becoming infectious.

‘Manning Clark says if Hawke can oust Hayden as leader, then Labor are a very good chance to defeat the Fraser government. If that happens, Hawke, who Clark says is a great mate of Neville Wran’s, has agreed – No Dams!’

‘A fair number of “if”s there, darling,’ I cautioned.

‘Yes, I know, but don’t you see, we
have
to make the damming of the Franklin a national election issue!’

Marg, weary but excited, called again late on the 17th of December. ‘Nick, they’ve arrested Bob Brown!’ she shouted.

‘Where?’

‘The riverbank at the camp for the police and hydro workers.’

‘Did you get the press there?’

‘Yes, both TV and newspapers.’

‘I’ll put the short-wave radio on to Radio Australia tonight,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s going to be in all the headlines tomorrow.’

‘I’ve just come from the court in Queenstown. By sheer luck there just happened to be a TV crew there with cameras. He was arrested on the riverbank by a young policeman visibly shaking in his boots. Bob put his hand on his shoulder and said calmly, “Don’t worry, mate, it’ll be okay.”

‘What happened in the court, I mean with the magistrate?’

‘Oh, the usual, there were about forty of our people appearing with him, mostly women. The usual offer and refusal of bail, then a three-week sentence passed, the only difference was that the magistrate threatened to throw the TV people and the press out of the courtroom and, of course, it means Bob and the others will be spending Christmas in Risdon Prison. Much clapping from locals jamming the courtroom when the magistrate pointed this out, quite unnecessarily.’

‘Silly move! Having them spend Christmas in jail won’t do any harm to your publicity.’

‘Nick, I feel so guilty.’

‘Guilty? Why?’

‘I’m sleeping in a dry sleeping bag with a roof over my head, while others are getting arrested. I’m supposed to keep my nose clean, but right now, Bob and my friends are sitting jammed into the back of a dark paddy wagon for a five-hour trip over the mountains to Risdon Prison. I should be with them. It’s only three days in and I’m tired of smiling and being unflappable and charming. Most of the media are great but some can be real pigs, and then there’s the bloody rain!’ Marg started to cry quietly.