Expatriates: A Novel of the Coming Global Collapse

27 WYNDHAMITES

Peter and Joseph snugged up the mooring lines at the pier while Tatang shut down the engine. They began unloading the suitcases from Tiburon, carrying them up a ribbed aluminum gangway ramp, which had rollers at the end to adjust for the tide. A woman from the crowd stepped up to Rhiannon and said, “My name is Vivian and you’re all welcome to stay at our house in Wyndham East while you get things sorted out.”

“God bless you, ma’am,” Rhiannon replied.

They were told that the pier was primarily used for exports of live cattle, cattle hides, lead, and zinc. The barge nearby was laden with zinc ingots nominally bound for South Korea, but the shipment was delayed by the international financial turmoil. The pier operator offered them three nights of free anchorage at the pier or indefinite free anchorage amid the larger group of yachts farther out, where a skiff would be required to reach them. Tatang opted for the latter.

After they had unloaded the baggage and their two GPS receivers, they borrowed a skiff from the harbormaster and anchored Tiburon using a permanent buoy at the fore end and a concrete anchor at the aft.

With the engine still hot, Tatang gingerly removed the Mitsubishi engine’s fuel pump and wrapped it in rags and then a pair of bread bags. The pump went into his duffel bag. He told Jeffords, “Nobody is starting her motor without this.”

Vivian soon had them and their bags loaded in her Toyota Estima minivan. Rhiannon was impressed with how quickly and with such wordless economy of motion the woman attached the baggage to the car’s roof rack with bungee cords. She looked like she had a lot of experience doing it. Her full name, she said, was Vivian Edwards. Her husband, Alvis Edwards, was a broker in both salt and exotic hardwoods.

In just a few minutes, they were at Vivian’s home in Wyndham East. It was a large house and one of the few in town that had a swimming pool. The great room was lined with taxidermied trophy heads from three continents—mostly from Africa. A childless couple, the Edwards’ passion was big game hunting. Vivian told them that they had taken many hunting trips to Africa, Canada, the United States, and even Argentina. The floor was mostly covered with tanned hides of everything from bears to zebras. The backs of the couches were draped with gazelle hides. Joseph spent a long time examining the trophy mounts. Neither he nor the Jeffords had ever seen a private trophy mount collection of such magnitude before and they were fascinated. Tatang observed that it was like walking into a museum. To Rhiannon, it was reminiscent of the living room of the house near Bella Coola where she had grown up, though her old house had a much smaller number of deer, elk, and caribou mounts.

Vivian phoned her husband to summon him home early from work. Alvis arrived a half hour later, eagerly looking forward to meeting his new house guests and hearing about their voyage.

For dinner, Alvis barbequed some large kudu steaks. The steaks had been in their freezer since before the Crunch from their most recent safari in Botswana, sent by air freight to Australia packed in dry ice at considerable expense. After several years of big game hunting abroad, Alvis learned a way—through a friendly local veterinarian—to get around Australia’s labyrinthine quarantine laws. Hides and horns were not particularly difficult, but importing frozen meat required including some key phrases in the paperwork and one additional form.

Over the steaks, Alvis commented, “I get a laugh when I hear tourists say they ‘went on safari’ but all they took were pictures. A camera safari is not a real safari.”

They were all served water with dinner. Sarah asked for milk, but since the Edwards didn’t keep any in their refrigerator, she received a small glass of cream. “We do drink a little wine from time to time, but we are careful,” Vivian explained. “You know what the Good Book says. ‘Wine is a mocker.’ It often takes us three or even four dinners for the two of us to use up one bottle.”

Both Alvis and Vivian had their speech peppered with foreign words and turns of phrase that they’d picked up on their many overseas hunting trips. For example, they used the Afrikaans word braai instead of “barbeque,” the Shona word chirairo for “dinner,” and the Swahili words karibu for “welcome” and samahani to say “excuse me.”

Most of the afternoon and evening was spent with Peter Jeffords providing a detailed account of their journey. The Edwards listened with rapt attention. Their many questions kept Peter so occupied that he was last to finish eating his meal.

After dinner, Sarah was invited to open up the old steamer trunk that served as a toy box. The Edwards kept the box on hand to entertain their nieces and nephews when they came to visit. The toys kept Sarah busy and quiet while Peter and Rhiannon carried on with their tales of adventure. They moved to the living room, where Vivian served coffee and lamingtons—a chocolate-covered cube of sponge cake rolled in dried coconut.

When Peter got to the part of their tale where they had their first shooting encounter with the Indonesians, Alvis couldn’t help but interject.

“What were you shooting with?” he asked.

“Tatang’s rifle, an M1 Garand. It’s an American service rifle that shoots the big .30-06 cartridge,” Peter replied.

“Oh, you don’t have to explain what an M1 is to me. I used to own one of them, made by International Harvester, it was. But I had to turn it in back in 1996, along with all of my other semiautomatics and pumps after the Port Arthur shootings. That was one of the most heartbreaking days of my life. I turned in five guns for the smelter. That ban is still a very sore point with me. I’ve switched to all bolt actions, double guns, and few single shots.”

Alvis cleared his throat and continued, “I was already cheesed off by the ban, and now that I hear that the Indos may be coming to invade us, I’m even angrier. All of our citizenry’s really effective guns have been melted down and turned into jaff irons. Those do-gooder socialist Labor dimwits in Canberra have set us up to take a shellacking.”

After a pause, Alvis looked at Tatang. “Do you still have that rifle with you, or did you drop it into the drink before you came into port?”

Tatang laughed and pointed to their pile of luggage in the front hall. “No, sir. That rifle, she is disassembled there in my duffel bag. Am I gonna get arrested for that?” he asked with a wry smile.

Alvis shook his head. “Those were banned for many years, but that ban was just repealed. However, I don’t know precisely what the legalities are for someone who isn’t a citizen. You’d best keep very quiet about it.” Then he leaned forward and in an exaggerated conspiratorial whisper said, “Our lips are sealed.”

“What about getting entry visas?” Rhiannon asked. “Tatang and Joseph don’t have passports. Can you make any recommendations?”

“No worries at all,” Alvis answered. “My brother-in-law is with the post office—they handle passports around here and he knows all the Border Protection Service people. Rest assured that I’ll have him dummy up your Department of Foreign Affairs or BPS paperwork and also put in a good word for you with the Department of Immigration and Citizenship. After what you’ve been through, you certainly don’t deserve any bureaucratic aggro. You’ve got a strong case for claiming religious persecution.”

“Yes, I suppose that those thousands of summary decapitations might qualify as a form of persecution,” Rhiannon said drily.

When Peter mentioned that Tatang had been teaching them Pekiti-Tirsia Kali, Alvis interrupted Peter. “Can you show me a bit of that, here and now?”

“Well, we barely have our land legs, but I’m willing. How about you, Paul Timbancaya?”

Tatang half shouted, “Sure!”

They quickly moved a coffee table out from between the couches, and the two men demonstrated strikes and parries. Then, using two rolled-up SAFARI magazines, they demonstrated knife fighting and disarming techniques. The last one ended with Tatang twisting Peter’s arm and driving him down to the floor with an elbow strike. Peter lay on a sable hide gasping, while Tatang simulated slitting his throat with three slashes of the coiled magazine. Everyone cheered and clapped.

Alvis stood up and exclaimed, “That was a corker! Could we pay you to teach us lessons as well?”

Tatang frowned and then gave a hesitant nod. “I suppose so.”

Their conversation went on until ten P.M. An hour earlier, Sarah had already curled up on the couch with a stuffed wallaby from the toy trunk—a real taxidermied wallaby—and fallen asleep.