LOSING THE PLOT
90
T
he array oftoolsis
laid out neatlyon
a tarp in theback
of the ute. They increase
in size from left toright:
secateurs, handsaw,sickle,
machete, axe, chainsaw,
hoe and mattock.
Alas, the bazooka
is in the workshop
being serviced.
I twiddle my fingers,
fiendishly (as bestI can,
wearing extra-thick
gardening gloves),as
I ponder my choice
of weapon. It’s
lantana time.
Here in the Northern
Rivers of NSW, lantana- AKA the CurseofIndia,
big sage, tickberry,anda good
reason to play golf– is aboutthe
only plant that growsmoreprolifically
than cannabis. Unfortunately,forentrepreneurialtypes,
it offers none of thelatter’spotentialfiscalbenefits,but
happens to be just as dangerous for the mental health
of anyone who comes into regular contact with it.
“Just say no” tends to be my policy.
But you can only say no for so long. With the
next-door neighbour’s paddocks no longer visible
along most of our fence line, I must bear arms again.
Having been scarred before, by a lantana patch that
left body and mind shredded following a tussle that
lasted a weekend (including search party rescue),
this time I will be smart.
We will play the game on my terms.
Snip go the secateurs, as I pick off the weak links
around the edges: the thin stems, sticking out of the
clump, all wavy and weird like antennae seeking
new spaces to invade. Snip. And into the pile goes
another stem.
Snip.I don’tknow why I was
soworriedabout this. Snip. I take
offmylong-sleeved shirt. No
needforit with this new
technique. Snip. All
youneed is patience.
Snip. Snip. Sni...
The stems are
getting thicker.
I head back to the
ute and fetch the
handsaw. And the
lantana starts to
fight back.
Thud! A sawn
stem rebounds
and whacks me in
thestomach. Thunk!
I tripon a root and
bangmy head on
a camphor trunk.
Aaaagghh! I pull a section
outof thecanopyand the spikes
whipandsliceacrossmy cheek.
Nowit’sonforyoungandold.I wipe my brow, limp
backtotheute,andgrabthemacheteand the mattock.
No more mister nice guy.
I’m in the belly of the beast and it’s not just lantana;
it’s privet and camphor and vines and creepers, and I’m
slashing and tearing, and digging and cursing, and there’s
blood, and I can’t see but I can hear. I can hear some
creature’s blood-curdling howl – and I realise it’s me, or
what used to be me, before I entered this hellhole from
which there’s no escape until one of us is vanquished
and fallen and only one remains, bloody, bruised and
battered and utterly transformed, triumphant, a lord
of his domain, not loved, but feared by all plants, all
creatures, all manner of life... The horror! The horror!
Anyway, so that was my weekend.
I still can’t see the neighbour’s paddocks, but that’s
because there’s a very large pile of debris in the way.
I shall enjoy watching it rot down.ATTACK of the lantana
Simon Webstergoesintofullbattlemode tohaltthelantanainvasiononhis property.
ILLUSTRATION BY TANYA COOPER/ILLUSTRATION ROOM