The big dry

The big dry is here. One hundred percent of New South Wales is in drought and the future for the affected areas – the farms that sustain themselves and us – is pretty bleak.

How did we get here? Climate change or natural weather cycles…  irrigation systems that disrupt the delicate balance of our waterways… whatever the cause, the discussion is now firmly in the ‘how do we get out of this?’ camp.

The Prime Minister visited a farm west of Dubbo in early August and announced further government emergency relief. He described the drought as ‘shocking’.

The State Government has provided assistance to farmers in the form of $1billion in grants and relief measures. Farmers are modifying their practices and fundraising efforts are in full swing. Trucks of hay are currently heading across the expanse of the Nullarbor plain from friends in Western Australia.

But it’s not enough. And the reality of the situation is evident in the tears of the farmers interviewed on the evening news. The climate is bigger than all of us, an unbeatable opponent.

When the spotlight is rightly shone, the focus is on farming and dying livestock. But the problem extends beyond the painful sheep sell-offs and the anguish of multigenerational family businesses succumbing to the dust.

With my young family, I recently travelled west. Leaving the relative lushness of the dividing range, towards drought-stricken farmland of the central tablelands, the outback loomed large.

It was beautiful but barren. Cotton fibres littered the road. Curious emus ran alongside the fence and then darted away before we could aim the camera.

The sky was big and heavy. The creek beds were, without exception, dry.

And along the road past Cobar and Broken Hill, the smaller towns and communities looked withered.

Those dotted along the remnants of the Darling River were barely clinging to life. Reminiscent of third world townships with one general store or petrol station, all other businesses extinguished. Ghost towns.

Even the proud and solid municipal buildings of past heydays lay empty.

And by the river’s bank in Wilcannia, nothing. No gatherings, no fishing, no families. Just dust. Signs and petitions pinned to cork boards spoke of community desperation. Once these towns dry up, they die.

But what will happen to the communities? The indigenous families that have always been there, or put there. Immigrant families that made their homes in unforgiving territory because they saw opportunity. Where do you go if your town disappears from beneath your feet?

Life in the far west shouldn’t be romanticised. There are problems. Employment opportunities are not robust. Fresh groceries might be two hours away. The online forums expose a worrying discussion thread – tourists are afraid to get out of their cars.

Drought relief, resilience and a hefty dose of good luck may just keep some of the farms in business. But without rain, without tourism, without their communities, the tiny towns of NSW will vanish from our lives and then from our memories.

The Prime Minister talked of drought proofing susceptible communities. Whether this is realistic will be one for the historians. But for now, Mr. Turnbull (or his successors) should take a drive. He should marvel at the expansive, harsh and incredible land of New South Wales. He should note the dry creek beds and the dust in his nostrils. This is Australia. And it needs help.