Mua

Kubin jetty at sunset

The three reefs lay like the islands that they once were, long, and side by side. The intensity of the greens and blues flowed with the topography and the tide. They were so close to the surface of the water that I could not help but imagine people walking around on them. I pressed my face up to the window and guessed where villages might have been and saw people fishing along the coast, where the coral shelf now falls off into the darkest blue. I picked out a beach where they could rest under an ocean breeze. A Sunday afternoon from a long time ago, so close to the surface. Only one long ridge left now, reaching out of the past, above the waterline.

Mr Joe tells us, if you take a tinny to Thursday Island from here it’s best to leave when the tide is up so you can cross directly over the top of these reefs. If it’s down, you have to boat around them. It turns a forty minute trip into a two hour trek. I asked him whether he gets scared of taking that long ride to TI. He loves it when it’s rough, he says, it’s like driving a car across a corrugated road.

‘Here’ is Italgau and Ikilgau country. We are the newest residents of Mua Island in the Torres Strait. Our address is 73 Ikilgau Yabu, Kubin Village, Queensland, 4875. Officially changing my address has been a bit tedious because no banks or traffic authorities recognise it. Google didn’t recognise this address until Adam manually put it in there. There is a number 73 on the front of the building but in some official documents it says 72. There is no postal service. So we are not here.

Despite this fact, we live in a little cabin out the back of the art centre, which Adam has been managing for five months now. I only arrived a few weeks ago, after working jobs for all that time across the top end. The silence and change of pace has taken my breath away.

I can almost touch Moa Arts from our verandah. Occasionally, the sound of the wind is broken by the ladies chatting out the back. I usually have no idea what they’re talking about because they speak mostly Torres Strait Creole or their traditional language; Kala Lagaw Ya. We have started work on our vocabulary, which is a growing collection of yellow stick-it notes on the fridge, with common greetings and handy words, like:

good afternoon: kapu kut (ku-poo koot) - ‘oo’ as in ‘good’

fish: waapi (wu-pee)

The streets are bitumen, but only just. The grass has moved in along the edges and they are used more for family afternoon walks and ball games than cars. I’ve only seen a couple of cars. The mango, coconut and gum trees are building a bridge over the jetty road. Adam and I walk down that road in the afternoons and say ‘Kapu kut!’ to anyone we meet, and everyone says ‘Good afternoon!’ The dogs come begging for a pat and show us their tummies, and then go back to their friends.

When we first arrived, the jetty was a busy fishing spot. Families gathered down there to sink their bare hooks into the soup of sardines around the pylons and jig for their bait, the bait shop. It looked so easy. We were grateful that our lack of expertise was matched by the generosity of the kids with excess.

There was a lot of excitement when someone caught a ‘white fish’. This fish is white, and looks a lot like/is a Queenfish. I wanted one badly, we both did. The price of lamb at the shop is mind blowing. But we just kept pulling up sharks, metre and a half long sharks! I hoped they were going to be good sharing food, but I was told they were ‘lazy sharks’ and not good eating, so the sharks ate our hooks and scared off all the white fish.

We did eventually get the hang of jigging, with a lot of practice and advice from the local fishers, and eventually, Adam caught his first white fish. Kapu waapi!

In the meantime, we have been well and truly fed by the village, either through dinner gatherings or donations. At times we have not been able to fit all the ocean generosity into the freezer. When the offerings are beyond my kitchen repertoire, I pop into the Ibis shop to ask Jeanon how she cooks it. Coconut milk, she says.

As is our way, we are also nurturing a garden with all manner of Asian greens, rocket, tomatoes chilli and herbs. Water is scarce here right now so Adam has constructed a makeshift hose shower in the middle of all the plants so we don’t need to water. The cassava cuttings are now teenagers, promising to cover the black shade cloth that surrounds our block, and lemongrass, coconut trees and banana suckers are well established in their holes of seaweed and horse shit, waiting for the rain so they can flourish.

The Wet is coming, we have noticed things have started to change. The crisp blue days have become overcast and humid. The dogs are keeping pretty still and the sardines have disappeared. Adam and I are usually the only ones on the jetty in the afternoon. I asked Mr Joe what happened to the fish. He said they have things to do right now, but they’ll be back. This is the time for hunting and gathering.

We are taking Mr Joe’s advice. Adam has been collecting plastic, rubber and wood from the beaches and the dumps. Quarry-bags of the stuff are starting to fill the space under the verandah, stuff enough for him to continue creating meticulously crafted sculptures and pieces of furniture, well into the Wet. And I am collecting the photographs and words I wrote over the years, reminders of events and people that happened in my life, my Sundays from a long time ago. I also have enough of these memories to last me well into the Wet. Enough to finish a neglected memoir.

Soon there will be a deluge and the road that goes across the island will lie under a sea. We will be confined to this village. It will get very hot on this rocky hill, Flora says, so she will go with her family into the bush or down to the beach during the day, to escape the heat. We might follow her, on some days. But I imagine we will also have many still days.

I am happy for that. I have things to do. I have been waiting patiently, and now I get to spend some quiet time below the surface.