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The Fairies in the Hills
Destination story...
No one could tell me how many people lived in Nimbin - not the government bureaucrats, not the town's founders, not the editor of Nimbin News. Then I found out why: many come to Nimbin to disappear from official society, and, besides, not everyone in Nimbin had an address, certainly not those who lived in vans and caravans and shacks hidden in rainforest creeks. Residents were known to move in and out of Nimbin unceremoniously. A proclamation on the Rainbow Caf‚'s facade said, ESCAPED REFUGEES WELLCOME HERE.
A thousand dollars could get you a shack in a hippie commune, but no one knew how many hippie communes there were either. Many were out of town, enveloped by the massive eucalyptus forests; out of sight, left to their own devices, in a voluntary institution. Nimbin's public face could be seen in the town centre - a short street dedicated to cannabis and hippie culture - and beyond, concealed by the thick forested mountains of the Great Dividing Range, the netherworld of communes and private dwellings spread thin and wide. Nimbinities call this area, the northeast corner of Australia's New South Wales, the Rainbow Region.
"We are told that twelve people move to Nimbin every week," said Brian Lee, 57. "Those who come here with pure ideals end up leaving, and those who stay are often the ones who originally intend to hang out for a few weeks. I know someone, for example, who came to visit a friend a long time ago. The host was out, so the incoming friend made himself at home. But the host never came back, and the newcomer never left."
One of the original community founders, Brian was a teenager when he attended the Aquarius Festival in 1973, a hippie festival held hereabouts that attracted 20,000 revellers. By the end of the event, 500 had decided to stay. Remembrance lit Brian's eyes, which were now lurid blue against the pale pallor of his creased face, its frail countenance indicating a life of little menial work (he's on single parent support). He said: "Imagine the sense of energy as hundreds of teenagers, many of whom hadn't ever done much in their life, suddenly rolled up their sleeves to start building their houses, and building, more importantly, a whole community. It was great. At the time a few old people lived in Nimbin, and they were shocked to see us transforming the town, painting our house facades and virtually the whole town centre in psychedelic designs, cannabis imagery, and Aboriginal paintings."
I had met Brian at the Nimbin Caf‚, a relaxed, homely caf‚ in the town centre. It was early afternoon, and there were a few people chatting amicably and smoking pot. At the time Brian was working on a music CD, called Green Fever. The best song, My Dad is Busted, is an unforgettable spoof on the war on drugs carried on a jingalong tune - background bass, highly-strung flute, breathless tambourine. A joint was doing the rounds.
"For the people in Canberra we are a problem," Brian was saying. "We've always been a problem, but they don't know what to do with us."
The great act of defiance is the cultivation of pot, which Nimbinities hawk to backpackers. The police, in their drive to suppress pot, have tried anything from sniffer-dog raids to methodical indictments of cannabis growers and dealers. But prosecutions often came to nothing as a non-cooperative community made the police's evidence-gathering a dragged out, frustrated and unsuccessful exercise. Of late they had changed tactics to something like a war of attrition: they located plantations from a spotter helicopter and then moved in with ground forces to tear out the plants. Nimbinities, however, had learned to factor in their losses; at under $100 for an ounce of bud, cannabis was cheap by Australian standards. In town the police largely ignored open consumption, only taking action against those they found dealing blatantly.
Nimbin is now an established stop on the backpacker circuit. I found most travelers at The Roc, a homely hostel built on a hill, with views of rocky pinnacles and misty mountains, kangaroos grazing in the grounds, and hundreds of squawking rainbow parakeets roosting in the eucalyptus trees. Travelers spend their time seeing the sights in town - the cannabis-culture paraphernalia at the Hemp Embassy, the eccentric paintings in the art gallery, and the wonderful Nimbin Museum, whose weird and sardonic installations and collages of newspaper articles entail repeated visits - and hanging out in the cafes in town or in the hostel's grounds, sometimes strolling in the forests.
For me, the value of Nimbin was its surprise. I had expected a town of ageing hippies stuck in their youth, a community that would expire when they passed away. I was wrong. Nimbin had evolved, and its relevance as an alternative and humane social project remained as exemplary as ever. The community centre was staffed with volunteers who ran theatre groups, computer courses, a radio station, a magazine. Forums were held. Local currency was printed - a risk-free alternative for local trading, unaffected by inflation and devaluation and interest. About the evolution of Nimbin, Brian had said: "In my time we have gone from the Stone Age to the Space Age. What's been especially good is watching the second generation come of age. Their act of rebellion is to stay off drugs and move to the city. But after some years many of them come back, and become enthusiastic Nimbinities."
© Victor Paul Borg
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