A travelogue; from the Cataract river to the Port of Ashdod

Swimming in the Cataract river was fun. I was racing to catch my friends ahead of me. Friends behind me were trying to catch up. We all were on our journey to the Napean river. Some of us splash in the air when crashing on to rocks or logs. We giggled and danced when we landed on the water. The sound was melodious. 

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A young lyrebird was singing on the bank. I spied a pair of dusky wood swallows, pair that were busy nesting on a red ironbark branch bent towards the river. I was told, this was Gundungurra Country. A long long time ago the river had become red. It had happened from time to time.

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The swishing the splashing through the rocks and logs, came to a stop.  And I found myself in a dam. The Cataract Dam. The dam seemed an open prison.  There were whispers of danger.  A feeling of dread enveloping all of us.  What was this place all about.  Why are we here.  I struggled to regroup with my family and friends.

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Suddenly I was caught by a force never before felt. The pushing and churning was perhaps an ultimate test of endurance.  So this was what pumping means.  I was pumped into the Sydney Water Plant. I didn’t know what happened to any who were around me.  What fate befell them.  And the terrible chemical smell and its strange feel.  I thought of death.

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Then I had a long travel in darkness, through a pipe to end up in a steel tank.  The fear rides with me.  It’s become my only companion. I ended up in a steel tank that’s part of a water bottling plant. There was no rest. The noises return and I am pushed with enormous pressure.  I think of the Napean River.  The sun and the moon light I longed to feel in there.  Where am I?  I can hardly move.  I see the light through the clear plastic.  And I hear, “500ml bottles go in the morning shipment”.

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It’s colder than the winter of the July month.  “Will I freeze?”.  The thought does not leave me.  A new friend of mine told me what a refrigerator would do to you.  From cold, to the dark of a bag in the cabin of an American marine.  On board of a warship - Gerald R. Ford carrier. I hear the sea.  But I am not with the sea.  In the dark on a long journey.

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How I mourn my separation in the dark. The Port of Ashdod.  The Port of Ashdod.  We are not too far, I hear. The marine takes the bottle in his hand and twists it open.  My heart rises up. He has taken a mouthful, puts the lid back on and back into the darkness of the bag, I go. Beyond the clacking boots and the never ceasing engine sounds, I hear still more sounds. The rumble of plane engines, of incessant explosions.