Fragment 2 - Bring Out Your Dead

When you live in a very small mining community on a tiny island close to nowhere, then you eventually lose touch with life as it is lived in the big city.

Almost every resident is young and there is no place for grandparents or extended family - only productive people can live there. In a few special cases - primarily for members of the management team - a house is allocated so they may be accompanied by partners and children, but the vast majority of employees are single men who live in barracks-like quarters; men who work hard, drink hard and endure the constant absence of sex and love.

There are distractions aplenty, however. Our particular island was one of just two inhabited islands in an archipelago of some eight hundred - some of them little more than rocks, but many of them unspoiled and tranquil places of great beauty with Pandanus palms, white sand and sparkling blue water on all sides. Not too far away is mainland Australia itself, with hundreds of indents in its north-westen coastline. At many points along the coast there is little except salty mangroves or mudflats and abundant crocodiles; in other places, especially during the wet season, small and occasionally navigable freshwater creeks run into the sea; and then there are the places of awesome majesty and beauty, spots where the rivers spill into the sea from rugged cliff-tops, creating spectacular waterfalls with freshwater ponds at the base.

Aside from consuming alcohol in legendary quantities, the chief recreational activity in my small community was to head out to sea in boats to fish, swim, water-ski and camp out on other islands. Whilst happy to eat any freshly-caught fish, I despise angling as a pastime, even in waters where fish teem and practically leap into one's boat. My preferences were to ski, climb the rocks inside a waterfall, laze in freshwater pools and, occasionally, pitch a tent for a few nights on islands where the only company would be an adventurous friend and the hermit crabs that scraped the barbecue plate clean during the night.

Around this time, Australian and overseas tourists were just beginning to discover the joys of our remote paradise. Charter vessels occasionally picked their way through the myriad islands and coral reefs in search of majestic waterfalls where their passengers could swim and frolic to their hearts' content. Maybe they were ignorant - perhaps it was sheer carelessness or a desire to flirt with danger - but these visitors had scant regard for the perils we locals heeded daily. My friends and I always kept a sharp look-out for crocodiles, sharks and sting-rays - we took the occasional informed risk, but this new wave of tourists seemed gloriously unaware of the dangers that lurk in Eden.

It was a shock to many when one such tourist was taken by a crocodile whilst frolicking in the waters at the foot of a mighty waterfall, but it came as no great shock to those who actually lived in the region. The emergency radio call was responded to by a party from the township I was managing. A few skilled shooters and our local policeman immediately set out to do what they could for the charter boat's occupants, all heavily in shock and at anchor some distance to our north-east.

Eventually the missing girl's body was located. She was a young American woman and her body was missing both its arms when retrieved. The crocodile itself was nowhere to be seen, so no pointless retribution took place. The search party placed the young girl's remains into a body bag and began the long journey back to our small township. Tides and darkness obliged them to shelter in a small inlet overnight and it was there that another crocodile launched itself at their small boat and succeeded in ripping open the body bag that rested on the prow. The stench of death had been bad enough before, but now, as body fluids poured out of the bag, the smell was unbearable. The body was hastily re-bagged and moved to a point less vulnerable to crocodile attack. At first light, the boat and its gruesome cargo headed home.

Once the boat arrived, the body was placed into a refrigerated container on the wharf to await transfer southwards for an autopsy and a coronial inquest. Unfortunately, there was a power outage that day and the body had to be relocated to one of the township supermarket's empty freezers which still ran on emergency back-up power. It was at this stage that I was informed that another one of my already considerable duties was to be "responsible for dead bodies". In my early twenties this seemed a heavy responsibility indeed, and even an unreasonable one. I attempted to persuade the company doctor that surely he was a more appropriate custodian, but there was no arguing with his logic - his job was to care for the living; my job was to tidy up the dead! In any case he was, as usual, somewhat inebriated at the time.

Within a day or so, a small aircraft landed on our tiny airstrip and took the body to the mainland where it could be transported to our State capital some 2,000 kilometres to the south. For a brief period - apart from having to field hundreds of media enquiries - I was relieved of my duty of care towards the dead.

Shortly thereafter, however, I was greeted with some sad early-morning news about one of the older workers. A tradesman - who I will call Ernie Schwartz - had been found dead on the veranda of the single men's quarters. This time the doctor was a bit more helpful and confirmed that death was caused by a stroke or a heat-attack. Ernie had been on the island for many years. He was in his mid-50's, a bit of a loner and a very hard drinker. When I asked his few friends if he had seemed at all unwell that morning, I was assured that he had seemed perfectly okay and was having his usual 5am can of beer and a cigarette when disaster struck! It speaks volumes that beer and cigarettes should constitute a normal breakfast for a mining worker in that part of the world. I remember thinking that I too would drop dead if I ever attempted such a thing, but I was little more than a kid at the time and yet to appreciate the fine art of being a rough, tough miner.

Around a year later, I received a bizarre telephone call from the State Coroner's Office. A cheerful man's voice advised me that he'd just popped Ernie Schwartz on a plane headed in my direction.

"But Ernie's dead" I protested. "He died ages ago."

"Yep, I know that" was the reply, "but the body has lain unclaimed for twelve months and now we're releasing it to you for burial."

It transpired that Ernie's only living relative was an elderly mother living in poverty somewhere in eastern Europe. There had never been any likelihood that she would claim the body and pay for its burial.

I did attempt to protest further. I hate to admit this - it sounds so callous - but I really didn't want Ernie back.

"We can't bury people here" I explained. "It's an island of rock and we have no cemetery."

"Cremation, then" he countered, as if I could just throw poor Ernie on a barbecue and reduce him to a pile of ashes.

"We don't have a crematorium" I said. "Nor do we have a mortician."

"Not my problem" was the reply, and so I was once again responsible for a dead body.

I hastily arranged for a funeral director in Derby - the closest small town on the mainland - to claim the body on its arrival and organise a funeral at the company's expense. I attended the funeral with a handful of Ernie's drinking mates and we also clubbed in to pay for a nice headstone.

And there Ernie rests to this day - a rough, tough, hard-drinking mining worker, eternally surrounded by mudflats and mangrove swamp and the endless heat of the north-west. If I were a drinking man I'd raise my glass in a toast to him, but perhaps this account of his untimely and untidy end is sufficient tribute to a man who was always essentially a loner.

There was one more sad occasion to come before I left my island home - one more demand that I assume responsibility for the dead - but that occasion warrants an entirely separate account as it continues to haunt me to this very day.

Comments

Most of us have no idea the logistics problems raised by the necessity to manage the dead. Particularly in the context of a natural disaster. Your story, though with a humorous pitch, illustrates this reality. I'm entirely sympathetic.
 
As the saying goes, what doesn't kill you will make you strong (or words to that effect). Your challenges in Eden certainly expanded your ability for quick thinking, and this agility has served you well.

Poor Ernie's life may not have been a bed of roses, and he may have racked up more air miles dead than alive, but Ernie the Loner had a thoughtful and caring man to make his final arrangements.
 
Poor girl eaten by a croc... and poor Ernie.

One of the saddest things I can think of, it to not have family claim their dead. Poverty and isolation... yet, someone remembers Ernie and somewhere he's greatful to you!
 

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