My relationship with Thiaki started with an ambush. It wasn’t your usual ambush, but it was an ambush, nevertheless. We’d crept along a narrow track that ran atop a volcanic ridge, the sound of crunching gravel under the car’s wheels muffled by a narrow strip of trees edging the track. We came to the back of a brick house, which had a neat lawn adorned with a cement girl holding a concrete birdbath. Sheds were stacked with rainforest timber, and cattle yards were perched further ahead at the end of the ridge.
Ridges with level ground were in short supply on the random boneless volcanic landscape of the Atherton Tablelands. A scruffy dingo-dog cross and a couple of cats lounged near the roller-door entrance, lazily observing the proceedings as their owners shook our hands in formal welcome and ushered us into a large living space: concrete floor, Laminex-surfaced table and metal chairs, no fuss.
