The thing about planning a build in the middle of nowhere is that you tend to focus on the tangible variables. You worry about the soil density, the chance of a sudden Queensland downpour turning the track into a skating rink, or whether the local wildlife has developed a taste for electrical insulation. You do not, as a rule, include a line item in the project schedule for a spontaneous cultural exchange and a spiritual blockade.
I had the delivery of the gear for The Batch timed with the kind of precision usually reserved for a high voltage switchover. The truck was loaded. The timber and the H5 treated piles were sitting on the back of a flatbed, vibrating their way toward Stonehenge Gully. I was standing on the block, mentally preparing to fight some heavy duty timber into the dirt, feeling quite productive for a Friday.
Then the universe decided to throw a bit of a curveball.
Ten minutes before the truck was due to arrive, a convoy appeared. It was not the delivery driver. Instead, a fleet of cars and motorbikes materialised at the entrance of the block like a glitch in the simulation. Out stepped a group of Vietnamese people who looked far more organised than I have ever been on a construction site. Without a word to me, they began to set up for a ground breaking ceremony, exactly the way they do it back in Vietnam.
Now, I have spent enough time in the world to realise that when people start setting up tables and lighting incense on your land, you have two choices. You can be the bloke who makes a scene, or you can be the bloke who stands there and wonders if the spirits are going to help with the plumbing. I chose the latter. It was, in their view, time to bless the ground. In my view, it was ten minutes until I had five tonnes of building material arriving at a gate that was now completely blocked by a dozen motorbikes and a couple of Camrys.
The ceremony was not a small affair. There was burning paper. There was the heavy, sweet scent of incense that began to compete with the smell of the dry scrub. There was a rhythm to it that was actually quite impressive, if you ignored the fact that the entrance to Stonehenge Gully was now effectively a parking lot for a spiritual retreat.
Right on cue, the rumble of a diesel engine echoed through the trees. The delivery truck appeared at the end of the track. The driver, a bloke who looked like he had not smiled since the late seventies, pulled up to the gate and stopped. He did not get out. He just sat there in the cab, looking through the windscreen at the motorbikes, the incense, and the group of people mid ceremony.
I walked over to the truck, trying to look like a man who had everything under control, which is a difficult look to pull off when your driveway is occupied by a religious event you did not organise. The driver rolled down the window and let out a sigh that sounded like a hydraulic leak.
I have got five minutes, he said, his voice as flat as a spirit level. If those bikes are not moved in five minutes, I am out of here. I have got more drops and I am not driving these roads in the dark.
I looked at the ceremony. They were deep in it. You cannot exactly tap a man on the shoulder while he is communicating with the ancestors and ask him to move his Honda. It is not ideal. I looked back at the driver. He was staring at his watch with a level of commitment that I usually only see in people waiting for the pub to open.
The five minutes passed with a brutal, clinical efficiency. The ceremony continued. The spirits were being consulted. The driver, a man of his word and clearly someone who values his Friday afternoon over divine intervention, did not say another word. He engaged the gears, gave the entire scene a very traditional, very Aussie one finger salute, and began the complicated process of performing a u turn on a road that was never designed for a vehicle of that magnitude.
I watched the truck, and my entire weekend of productivity, disappear in a cloud of dust.
Ten minutes after the truck had vanished, the ceremony came to a sudden and efficient halt. The incense was extinguished. The motorbikes roared to life. The cars were packed, and the entire group vanished as quickly as they had arrived. They left behind nothing but the faint smell of sandalwood and a pile of ash from the burnt paper.
I stood there in the silence of Stonehenge Gully, looking at my perfectly blessed, perfectly empty block of land. On the plus side, the ground is broken and the spirits are presumably quite happy with the upcoming construction of The Batch. On the downside, the actual materials for that construction are currently on a scenic tiki tour of the region, heading back to a depot where they will sit for another week.
It is a bit of a shambles, really. But I suppose if you are going to have a construction delay, having it caused by a spiritual intervention is a better story than just having a flat tyre. I will just have to sit here and enjoy the silence until the truck makes its return journey next week. At least I know the land is on my side, even if the logistics department is not.
