A friend in Brisbane emailed me this week, painting a vivid picture of the city post-flood. It’s the best piece of writing I’ve seen on the volunteer army, and the aftermath.
By Kim Broadfoot*
I don't know the name for the colour that is between gray and brown, but that is the colour of the sludge caked on the roads, the footpath, every blade of grass and shrub, walls, doors, abandoned cars, and especially on the small mountains of ruins forming on the foothpaths — things that were useful and valuable when they sat in their homes on Wednesday. It is not until you look up, to the green canopy of poincianas and blue sky, that you remember where you are. Brisbane.
On one side of William Parade, Fairfield, is a park. It's the best of playgrounds: quiet, the kind with climbable trees, a fort, and long swathes of soft grass. Now it's knee deep in debris, and sludge that is baking and emulsifying on every surface. Dozens of gum-booted volunteers attack it with shovels. “It's got to be done right,” one says with determination, “kids play here”. Thank you, mine often do.
On the other side of the road are houses. A mix of Queenslanders, post-war bungalows, and modest brick and tile homes that were probably built after '74. One smart new villa. All of them inundated on the high tide in the early hours of Thursday morning. Now, there is an industrious, determined chaos. The highly competent, in their work boots and high-vis shirts, command cooperation with their utes, bobcats, gurneys, compressors. Teams of big guys take charge. Newbie volunteers with their straw hats, brooms, buckets and rubber gloves quietly work out what to do, and just start. There's no power, the water pressure is lousy and the street is clogged with a traffic jam of good intentions, but somehow, it is all working.
I'm inside at number 54. I've just met Jill and her husband, John — friends of a friend. The clean up crew from yesterday has made great progress; the walls and floors have emerged, and the house will be habitable. Great care is being taken to salvage anything that can be cleaned. Outside, everyone complains of the smell of mud, but in Jill's kitchen cupboards, I am engulfed by lavender pine-o-clean. Incredibly, Jill is cheery, "ohhh, it smells good in here," she says, but I worry about how long that will last, with the mud trapped where we can't reach under cupboards, and a long wait likely before there's a new kitchen. People beaver away good-naturedly in every room of the house. “Look, Jill,” says one coming in from the bathroom, holding one of the four-minute shower timers issued to all Brisbane residents a few years back, when we were all in the grip of a crushing drought, “glad you saved all the water up in Wivenhoe so it could come down and flood you!” There's laughter and instant camaraderie, but you can see the exhaustion, worry about the days ahead, and the strain that comes from having to manage a houseful of near-strangers with their hands on everything you own.
At lunch time, thousands of sausages sizzle around the suburb on gas barbecues, and the conversation up and down the street is all insurance. No-one seems to have any. “They quoted us $10 grand a year”; “We just didn't think you could get it, so we never tried”; “We should have been with Suncorp” [who have offered automatic flood coverage since 2008]. In the weeks ahead, this will be a source of much bitterness and regret. Compared to some, Jill and John are lucky — the damage can be repaired, even if it takes time, and they rescued many important possessions in the hours before the waters rose. A friend comes in from a house down the road, shaking his head. The ceiling has collapsed, and the gyprock walls have had to be pulled away in sodden clumps. Soon, the house is gutted — just like its owners.
As we leave, car packed with muddy things to take home and wash, we crawl through streets brimming with goodwill. People later complain that there were too many idle rubberneckers, but I actually think that every single one of the thousands of people in Fairfield has been there to do something. Cheery teenagers in short-shorts and cute pink gumboots hand out iced water, canopies shelter makeshift cafes. Utes are parked with chalkboard signs offering to give away everything from ice and face masks, to garbage bags. Bands of helpers in matching shirts represent corporates, church groups, clubs, or sporting teams. Officials door-knock, handing out forms about emergency assistance. The army is there, patiently directly the impossible traffic, while the heavy equipment waits at the side-lines to swing in tomorrow.
And it is hard not to feel good about this community. To feel proud of the humanity of the helpers and the good grace of the helped. But it is important not to dwell too long in self-congratulation. The frantic, friendly activity in Fairfield will slow. We will return to our suburbs over the hill, where lawns need to be mown, back-to-school gear assembled, and newspapers need to be scanned for the amazing photos of the day it has been. While in William Parade, and in thousands of other streets across Queensland, the ruined homes, the grief and the hardship will remain.
What is needed most then, I suppose, is money. Helping hands and donated goods are great, but cash is what will pay for a new kitchen, re-wiring, carpet, and painting. This is what to do, when you are watching the coverage, whether from far away or high and dry in the next street, and wishing there was a way to make a difference. Please give to the Queensland Premier's Disaster Relief Appeal.
* Kim Broadfoot, my oldest friend, has shared her words here before. Read her wonderful eulogy for her grandmother here. (You'll find it past my rantings about blogging...!)
