Day after day, my job for JC was to go from meeting to meeting, face to face, person to person across Hobart, up and down the channel, and up and down Bruny. I was sewing together a tapestry of community concerns that might somehow help everyone to coalesce. But these people had already participated in community meetings. Many of them had signed petitions, written letters to the paper, sent emails, organised crowdfunding, sat in the public gallery of parliament, sat on the lawns of Parliament House. All the things anyone against the bridge could do without getting arrested.
In some ways, any attempt on my behalf to meet with them as a group was just inflaming the situation. And the year was drawing to a close. People had Christmas and school holidays on their minds. I went gently. I had lots of one-on-one meetings. I identified key voices within the protest groups. I listened to their stories and assessed opportunities for collaboration and alignment. I ate scones and asked questions. I drank cups of tea and I listened some more. I reflected. I applied my training. And I observed my own inner dialogue. That is often the real barometer of the underlying machinery in conflict. We are all a cocktail of emotions. Even Supreme Court judges voting against a woman’s right to an abortion or for a refugee’s right to a visa are driven by emotion. Understanding exactly what that is, that’s the way to bring about change. But it can be delicate and unpredictable.
The more I listened, the stranger it all got. Here was a huge bit of infrastructure that would join two islands together. But, somehow, despite the enormous investment by the federal and state governments, the jobs it had created and the vision it aspired to—to make Bruny a global destination—Tasmanians weren’t buying it. Forty-three per cent of people in southern Tasmania didn’t support it. The people who disagreed came from across the political spectrum. And for them, because Max and JC were aligned in supporting the bridge, the one person they felt they could rely on, even though it went against the grain, was the bridge’s one political opponent: Amy O’Dwyer, the leader of the Greens.
Amy O’Dwyer was a wide-eyed, dark-haired, articulate beauty. She was warm and vivacious and the latest polls had thirty-five per cent of voters wanting her as the next premier. JC’s support had dropped to thirty-six. Unlike us Colemans, Amy did not come from political stock. Her parents were Americans who had sea-changed to Tasmania in search of a quieter, safer world. Both were employed at the university. Her father was a plankton scientist, her mother taught history. Amy had been Steiner-schooled. She told me all this over dandelion coffee at the only good cafe in the southern town of Cygnet.
Cygnet is the Byron Bay of Tasmania, before Byron Bay got money. There’s no surf, but there’s the hippie culture, an annual folk festival and a Sunday farmers’ market with excellent organics. In the sixties, Cygnet was a farming community of small-to-medium landholdings raising cattle and sheep. Neat white weatherboard homes with large barns and plants in white-painted rubber tyres. When farming became more precarious, a new kind of land lover moved in. White weatherboard had become sunset orange and daffodil yellow, with Tibetan prayer flags fluttering in the breeze across the front verandahs, gardens run to seed and motor vehicles with bumper stickers saying JC: DON’T BELIEVE IN HIM AND NO BRIDGE TO BRUNY. The JC one amused me.
Amy had run for the lower house of the Tasmanian parliament at age eighteen and was the youngest person ever to have been elected in Australia. The national media loved her and had elevated her to pop star status. Everyone said she was bound for the Australian Senate but, so far, she had made no moves in that direction, saying she was a first-generation Tasmanian and this was where she was focused.
‘It’s inconceivable that we’re not all more concerned,’ Amy was saying, severing a vegan caramel slice. ‘I battle with solistalgia all the time. You?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘It sounds uncomfortable.’
‘It is,’ she said. ‘It’s a deep melancholia for the assault the world is experiencing. Our home is fast becoming a place we’re not safe in. And it’s much worse if you’re on some low-lying island in the Pacific. Or a refugee in some camp for the last ten years.’
‘Scientists like my father are the most depressed people on the planet right now. Do you have children?’
‘I do.’
‘What do they do?’ she asked.
‘They’re both in New York. My daughter’s in international law and my son’s in virtual reality.’
‘Virtual reality,’ said Amy. ‘Our grandchildren, maybe even my children, will walk in virtual rainforests and swim over virtual coral reefs. And you know what? There’re a lot of people who don’t think that’s a problem.’
‘So how do you feel about the bridge, Amy?’ I asked.
‘We Greens have been the best strategists for Tasmania in the past forty years,’ she said. ‘We are the reason Tasmania is experiencing this tourism boom. Because we imagined a clean, green island and it turns out we were right. Clean, green and remote was what people wanted. So it’s a double-edged sword for us. I mean, we’ve been so successful at selling Tasmania as a destination that now we’re being overrun. Our special places are being overrun. Neither of the major parties are doing anything about it. It’s crazy. I’d hoped all these tourists might shame the government into doing more to protect our wild places. But it hasn’t. And the communities down the channel—the bridge is going to mean lots of them close down without the through traffic. No matter what anyone says, people aren’t going to take the ferry when they could drive straight across. It’s like Mount Wellington and the cable car. They promised that the road would stay open, but within eighteen months the developers had convinced the government to close the road. Now we have to pay to get up our own mountain, as if we were the tourists.’
I hadn’t taken the cable car up the mountain yet, but it was visible from just about everywhere in Hobart. And the shuttle buses taking tourists to its base added to the traffic congestion.
‘There are more than two hundred family businesses in the Huon beyond sheep and cattle. Cheese makers, fruit growers, wineries and cafes, the Heritage Centre, art galleries, the Apple Museum, distilleries and breweries. All of them will suffer when the bridge opens. Those people have laboured for years to grow the reputation of their region, to build their brands, and now all that passing trade is going to dry up.’
Amy had the manner of someone who got a lot of airtime. Single child. Media darling.
She continued. ‘There’s a hundred-page feasibility study on the bridge. Have you read it?’
‘I have,’ I said.
‘Then you’ll know it doesn’t assess in any depth the impact on the wider community. How was that allowed to happen?’ she asked.
‘So why is the bridge going ahead?’ I asked. ‘You must have a theory.’
‘Some people think they’re going to give Bruny duty-free status. Make it like the Jersey islands—a tax haven. But I have a feeling they’re going to sell the whole thing to the Chinese. Still, good luck getting anything out of your brother on that, even if you are the one asking.’
‘Sell Bruny?’ I frowned. I had not seen that coming.
‘Well, the three major grazing properties there are now owned by the Chinese. And there’s a Chinese Buddhist centre that’s got planning approval on the hill above the Neck on South Bruny. There are planning applications for five hotels owned by Chinese consortiums at Adventure Bay, Cloudy Bay and at the lighthouse. One of the beaches north of Adventure Bay has been leased to the same company that’s building the huge golf resort up the east coast.’
The one Farris had mentioned. ‘Will those applications be approved?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Almost certainly. You have to understand, there are two types of Chinese. The ones who came here to escape the Chinese Communist Party, and the ones working for the Chinese Communist Party—working to roll out the Chinese Communist Party vision around the world. The China Dream. And it feels like the first type is being outnumbered by the second in Australia right now.’
‘Tell me more,’ I said. I could feel a conspiracy theory brewing in the fresh dandelion coffee that had just been delivered to the table.
‘The Chinese are smart,’ said Amy. ‘Do you know they have this long-term vision of China as China One, Africa as China Two and Australia as China Three? They have a population problem and that means they have a food shortage coming at them, unless they start farming elsewhere. Australia has welcomed them. Well, their money at least. We’ve sold them huge tracts of farming land. And Tasmania has especially welcomed them. More of our farming land has been sold to Chinese interests than any other state of Australia.’
‘And the bridge is somehow part of that plan?’
Amy laughed. ‘Your brother signed up to the Belt and Road Initiative. We’ve become part of their plan. The bridge is being built with Chinese steel bought from a Chinese company, and it’s going to be completed by Chinese labour. The loan structure? Nobody’s telling us anything. Commercial-in-confidence. Look at the Chinese Buddhists. They’ve been here for years. They’re part of our culture now. But they film everything.’
I thought back to Jenny Singh and her concerns. ‘Why do you think they do that?’ I asked.
‘They’re tracking us,’ she said. ‘What happens to all that footage? I know we think Chinese and camera are like bread and jam, but they pan across every dignitary, every face in the crowd. You watch. I can guarantee that when the Chinese workers come, the Buddhists will put on a huge celebration. It will be like Chinese New Year. There will be dumplings and fireworks and a Chinese dragon dance. And there will be camera operators documenting every person in the crowd.
‘And you know what makes me mad?’ she added. ‘“Jobs and growth.” The answer to every problem is jobs and growth. Even if the jobs are all cleaning rooms and serving beers. I mean, is that the best we can offer our children? The Silicon Valley types and the financial whizzes, you can bet they want something more for their kids. But the rest of us? Casual labour at a measly hourly rate. No benefits. No security. That’s why the Greens are so committed to a universal basic income trial here in Tasmania. We are the poorest state. It could make such a difference here.’
Amy O’Dwyer reminded me of my daughter: passionate, smart and a product of the twenty-first century. All knowledge was available if you were willing to seek it out. If I had to guess Amy’s primary value set, it would be community, knowledge, family … after that I didn’t know.
She leaned closer. ‘You know, I once put up a dinner with myself at a fundraiser. Master Chin, the head of the Chinese Buddhists, bid for it and he won. So I go and have a very nice dinner with Master Chin and some of his community. When I got home, I found an envelope in my coat pocket that had twenty thousand dollars in it. I rang your brother and told him. Ask him. He’ll tell you. I rang him at eleven pm. And of course I gave it back. But you can imagine how seductive it was. There I am, a few glasses of wine down, in the privacy of my own home, and I discover I’m twenty thousand dollars richer.’
I gazed at her.
‘Amy,’ I said, ‘if there is some kind of organised plan to have a greater Chinese presence in Tasmania, how would the government do that? How would that get past Scrutiny and Estimates?’
‘It already has,’ she said. ‘The Chinese Buddhist retreat on South Bruny, for one. I always say, if you want to spy on people, you do it in full view. If you want to hide, you do it in a city. And if you want to have access, you do it under the guise of religion. The retreat—it’s got an electronic cage around it. Your phone drops out if you stand by the fence. Apparently they’ve put in six satellite dishes. It’s wired to the world.’
I frowned.
‘Let me tell you another story,’ she said. ‘There’re only about a dozen Tibetans in Hobart, but when we knew the Chinese president was coming to Hobart a few years back, we got together. We knew the president had an early meeting at Government House, so we set up on the corner. When he emerged, the first thing he’d see would be the Tibetan flag and photos of the Dalai Lama. We didn’t know how long he was going to be—but ten am comes and goes. Then, at ten thirty, four buses arrived full of young Chinese people. Turns out, two aeroplanes had been chartered from Melbourne for all these young, male Chinese university students, organised by the Chinese embassy. They started unfurling these huge Chinese flags—four or five metres long and two or three metres deep—on these massive wooden poles. Basically surrounded us. We were starting to feel a bit threatened. So I went over and introduced myself to the police, who were keeping an eye on all this. This is before the protest laws, of course, when we were free to do this sort of thing. I told the most senior officer, an inspector, that we were getting jostled. He said, “Well, give me a wave if it gets worse.” Within the next ten minutes, the students were trying to lever us back and we wouldn’t move. The Tibetans were getting pretty angry. I mean, you can imagine why. So I waved to the inspector, and he came over. I told him they were physically trying to move us and telling us we had no right to be here. So he goes up to the ringleader of the Chinese students and says, “Back off.” And the young man says, “No, we’re entitled to be here.” The inspector says, “These people were here first.” And the Chinese leader says, “But they’re being disrespectful. They’re waving the Tibetan flag.” The inspector hitched up his trousers, puffed out his chest and said, “Mate, in Australia you can wave any damn flag you like, wherever you like—now back off.”’
Amy grinned at me.
‘And there’s a photo,’ she said. ‘You can see us totally surrounded by a sea of Chinese. The president went past in his motorcade, and he looked me right in the eye. Me, standing there with my huge portrait of the Dalai Lama. And he knew who I was.’
She paused. ‘That inspector, by the way, is now the chief of police.’
‘But it’s too late,’ she continued. ‘Short of a coup, we’re about to get Chinese workers on the bridge day and night. We’ve already sold or leased our dairy farms and wind farms and beaches. Stanley, and now that huge development at Freycinet. Cruise ships in Wineglass Bay. Our historic landmarks, too. Heritage homes. If they’re not already gone, anything worth having is in the process of going. They’ve done it in plain sight, with government support and, in many cases, with the assistance of the very healthy bank account of the Chinese Communist Party. It’s a juggernaut. Gilbert Farris calls it chequebook colonialism and I think—’
At that moment, a very good-looking Asian man in a dark suit and striped shirt approached the table. Amy looked up and beamed. He leaned down and kissed her on the cheek. She blushed. Then she turned to me. ‘Charles Lee, meet Astrid Coleman.’
‘How do you do, Astrid,’ said Charles Lee. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ He had an American accent. West coast.
‘It’s good to meet you, Charles,’ I said, standing to shake his hand and collecting my bag to leave.
‘Oh, I thought you might have questions for Charles. He’s the communications director for Tourism Tasmania. Started four months ago. And don’t worry, he’s not working for the CCP. I had him vetted.’ She laughed, and he smiled.
‘She really did,’ he said.
‘You’re Chinese, Charles?’ I asked.
‘Born in San Francisco. Taiwanese parents.’
‘He’s a McKinsey boy,’ said Amy.
‘Ex-McKinsey,’ said Charles, grinning. ‘Always a sign of sanity.’
‘Between you and me,’ said Amy quietly, ‘Charles is not very happy about the Chinese Communist Party getting so much traction in Tasmania.’
‘I’m just here to sell Tasmania to the world,’ said Charles, holding his palms up.
‘And sometimes being bilingual helps?’ I asked.
He gave me a grin. ‘It does.’
The thick plottened indeed.
‘How do you feel about the current tourism numbers, Charles?’ I asked.
‘My role, as I see it, is to ensure Tasmania remains unique but the industry is also able to thrive. It’s a delicate balance. Acquisition and dispersal.’
‘You need them to come, and you need them to travel around the state?’
‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘So, although Amy doesn’t want to acknowledge it, the bridge is a key part of that strategy. The ferry is romantic. Nostalgic even. But it’s not fulfilling the needs of the passengers. The queues are too long. We need more efficient dispersal. And reasons for people to travel.’
‘We need higher-value tourism and lower numbers, in my world,’ said Amy. ‘Which makes people in government, and the industry, a little nervous.’
Charles smiled at her the way people who are newly in love do. Or maybe most people looked at Amy that way. She was ridiculously beautiful.
‘So how did you two meet?’ I asked.
‘We sat next to each other from LA to Sydney. It was serendipity! Charles was on his way to start this job,’ said Amy. ‘I’d been to see my grandparents. We are a Qantas romance.’
I wondered how JC felt about this relationship.
Amy appeared to hear my thoughts. ‘I think it’s making your brother’s government a little nervous. Afraid I’ll turn him into a greenie.’
‘And is she?’ I asked.
Charles laughed a little uncomfortably. ‘Of course not. But I love it here already.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘It’s home.’
It startled me, that. Was Tasmania still my home? It felt like the place had swallowed me whole. I was in a movie I’d never imagined. Roger Deakins was in charge of lighting—the epic skies, the marbled seas. Scorsese was in charge of direction—the family intrigue, the cast of character actors. But who had the plot? And, if it was a movie, someone was sure to die before that bridge was finished.
It was Friday again. I sent a text to Stephanie saying I’d be on Bruny. I caught the last ferry. Max was right. I love a mystery. Amy was right. If you want to spy on people, sometimes it’s simplest to do it in full view.