Rupert: Part I

Last Friday I posted about a love affair. A love affair that resulted in Al entering the picture.

The next consequence of the affair was the entry of my little brother Ian. Thanks to Dad’s dislike of photos this is the only one of Ian as a Baby.

Today I want to talk about my Dad. When I think of him I remember him as something like this.
Still quite young and wearing the beard he has now had for most of his life.
The piccie says so much about Dad. In the photo he is in the bush studying a sand goanna he has caught. Goannas are monitor lizards, in Oz we have 30 species ranging from about 20 cm (8 in) to 2.5 metres (8 ft 2 in). Sand goannas are a middling sized species that grow to about 1.4 metres (4ft 6 in).

Like many people Rupert is an odd mix of contradictions.

He was born into an upper crust family in India. Yet here too there were contradictions. My Grandfather Arthur Russell was a senior police officer, a product of the British Raj (as I have said in previous posts the Russell family's involvement with India began in the 1700s).

Arthur Russell my Grandfather Central Provinces (later Madhya Pradesh) Police

In one momentous way Arthur defied the conventions of the time because he fell in love with Beryl Essai an Indian girl who became my grandmother.

Beryl Essai Russell in her Garden, Madhya Pradesh 1960s

In spite of marrying an Indian woman Arthur was well and truly wedded to the past: to a notion of a powerful Britain with India as a Jewel of Empire.

Perhaps as a reaction to this Dad rebelled, as soon as he could he left India (luckily for me he picked Oz). Once here he went further, becoming a socialist and then a communist in his early 20s. His communism did not last long, ending with Khrushchev's denunciation of Stalin. But his rebellious nature continued as he shifted into the life of a hippy.

The one thing that he did retain that was his father's was a passion for the bush. Although this too changed. The Indian jungle experiences of his youth were those of the Raj, a love of the wild that incorporated hunting, trophies and the like. When he came to Australia this aspect of his character was still intact.

A story my mother tells illustrates this. At one point in Far North Queensland (FNQ) they were broke. Dad's solution was to hunt a crocodile for the valuable skin (today crocodiles are protected in Oz but in the 1960s they were still fair game.) As my mother relates the story Dad stalked as close has he could to a large croc sunning itself on the bank of a river.

Estuarine Crocodile (Salt-water Crocodile)

He aimed his army surplus .303 rifle at the animal and fired. To his frustration the croc disappeared into the murky water.

Then to Mum's alarm Dad dropped the gun and dived in after it. She has always said that was one of her worst moments. She was just pregnant with me, they were right out in the bush and Dad was following a huge crocodile into the water!

She stood on the river bank for what seemed like an eternity and just watched the surface of the cloudy water. After what seemed an age Dad's head broke the surface and he came up dragging the body of the croc by its back leg. Between them they managed to get the animal out of the water and then Mum exploded: “What were you thinking?” she demanded. Dad's response, “I was pretty sure it was dead, I thought it was worth the risk”.
Needless to say Mum put down her foot and that was the last time they hunted crocodile.

Around this period Rupert's attitude to wildlife shifted. He stopped seeing animals as something to be exploited. He always believed in conservation, initially so there would always be wild spaces for people to use and animals to hunt, but now he came to see conservation differently. He came to believe that wildlife and wild places had their own value and should be preserved for their own sake.

Rupert's new views opened new doors, he became an expert in reptiles and later did extensive research on possums in the wet forests and rainforests of FNQ. (American readers should not confuse our possums with your opossums. Ours like yours are marsupials, but there the resemblance mostly ends, we have a large number of species,

Brushtail Possum

from large-cat sized brushtails, to cute mouse sized pygmy-possums there are gliding possums from miniscule feather-tailed gliders to greater gliders which are again about cat sized.)

Perhaps still rebelling, he became a leading conservation activist in the 1970s. Maybe he also drew on his Indian heritage in this as he coordinated a number of Gandhi inspired non-violent protests against developments in places like the Daintree Rainforest (later a World Heritage listed site).

As well as protesting Rupert came up with practical solutions to conservation problems. Perhaps the best example was the concept of linking isolated patches of forest by rope bridges to allow arboreal creatures to cross.

This piccie is of Rupert’s original bridge in FNQ. This original bridge has a tube like hollow box form because Rupert assumed smaller animals would go through the inside to gain protection from hawks and owls (many Oz animals are nocturnal). The concept has been proven through research, although it has been found most animals used the top so recent bridges have been simplified to a single deck. Scattered all up and down the country bridges like this are helping possums and other creatures cross freeways and other man made obstacles.

A quick note about the piccies. Unusually none of these are mine, the older piccies are from family sources, while the wildlife ones are from Wikipedia.

In which Al enters the Picture.

A little while ago I did a post based on my early teen years in Mum’s patch of the country.

I promised I would carry on with more of the story. Well I am starting that story again only… and it is a fairly big only… I am jumping about thirteen or fifteen years further into the past.

The early 1960s a man and a woman meet and fall in love.

He was from India. As an Anglo-Indian in a racist world, living in what was Redneck Australia he was (I think) tormented. She was desperately unhappy in a marriage to a man who would not let her return home to visit her ailing father in England.

They are both married to other people and have children. Yet despite that and despite the standards of the time they leave together. He never looks back, she regrets always leaving her son and daughter with the man she no longer loves.

About two years later I was born…

Meet my father, Rupert Russell. This is what he was like in my earliest memories (and amazingly I do remember these times). He was young and fit and a lover of wild places. But it is almost impossible to find a picture of him in this period. He was a thinker (some might argue a philosopher) and he had some funny thoughts. Like me he was and is a writer (find a small sample here). One of the thoughts he had in this period was that people should not have their photo taken. Hence no photos of him.

And... no photos of me as a baby. Which brings me to this piccie. Mum holds a gate somewhere in western NSW so Dad can drive through. Next to her a two year old Al.This is the oldest picture of me in existence. Don’t I look a serious little fellow?

As I said Dad was a lover of the wilds. He grew up in an India that was still even then largely jungle and learnt a passion for the wild from his father. So one of the things we did when they weren’t moving around looking for work was go out into the bush and camp.

Here is one of the few piccies of my Dad from then. Mum got up and snapped him as he slept. The tousled little head next to his is mine.

A detail I had never noticed before on the car are some packets of dri-tot nappies (diapers). I have always known that the mosquito net in the car window was there to protect my little brother Ian from the flies. He was a tiny newborn at the time of this trip. So he slept in a bassinet in the car.

This little photo of Mum was taken a few days later on the same camping trip.And now a discovery. I have always treasured this photo as one from my early days. I scanned it a few years ago so I could have a copy. But tonight I blew it up so I could look at it for this post and I saw something I had never noticed in the little 2” by 2” print.
Al enters the picture.

Out the Back

Well the votes were cast and the result is in. It surprises me that it was quite as firm as it is. Based on the count so far 100% of you want me to post about my Mum’s place. Although a few of you did have a “bet each way”.

I had a look through my piccies of my trip to Mum’s and they took me in a different direction to that I had originally intended when I thought about this post.

A couple of days into my visit Stan (Mum’s husband) and I set off “out the back”. I posted this piccie of Stan’s old Land Rover the other day because it was the vehicle we went out in. In case you wondered it’s a 1963 “series II” model (which means it’s around my vintage).

Mum and Stan’s holdings are divided in two: the front block where their house is; and about four miles away (and about 1000 feet higher) is the “back block”.

I took a piccie from inside the Land Rover.It’s not a great photo because I was bouncing around as the vehicle climbed the steep track. The scrub in this piccie is all regrowth from the past twenty years or so. Unlike most of Oz this north east corner of NSW is very wet and the forest begins reclaiming undisturbed country very quickly.

Out the back, we climbed into low clouds, so what is normally a beautiful view of mountain country all around was concealed.

Our destination was this little mill cottage (mill as in timber mill) that Stan relocated out the back in the 1970s. Deb, my three girls and I lived here for a few years when the kids were little. But in more ways than that this trip really was a trip into my memories.

Just beyond the wall of mist in this piccie lies a huge chunk of my childhood. As I mentioned once before Mum and Stan met because we were neighbours.

I say in my profile I am the child of Hippy parents, I’m not exaggerating. In the 1970s Mum, her then partner Johnny, my brother Ian and me moved onto the property next door to Stan’s.

Here I am at the age of about 14. These old photos were mostly taken by Ian and me on a very cheap Kodak 110 camera we had.

This is one of mine, from about 1976 or so. As you can see I am still taking photos with similar subject matter decades later, some things never change ;-)I like the above piccie of a huge tree fern because it hints at the view beyond. You might be able to see a track that comes out of the forest in the bottom left, in fact that is the track Stan and I followed to get out here on my recent trip.

It was a strange childhood I lived. At times incredibly poverty stricken, and lacking many of the comforts most of us take for granted.

Yet at the same time incredibly rich in experience. Here Johnny loads timber cut off our land.
Timber that was cut so we could build this shack. The old lady in the piccie is my Grandma, Mum’s Mum.

Here she is sitting on my lap in this family portrait. Grandma had come out from England to stay with us for a year or so. She came from a tidy neat little village in England.

I think she probably thought we were all mad, but she loved us and took it all in her stride. Like my mum, she was an amazing person.

In our shack we had no power, so no TV. Lighting was a 19th century mix of candles and lamps. Entertainment was playing cards or reading. I read anything and everything I could get my hands on. I guess my already strong love of books was set in concrete in that period.

It’s late now and I have to hit the sack for an early start. But tell me shall I go on with my little slice of a personal history when I next post?