The Trouble With Stranger Danger

by Nicole Richie (Canada)

Making a local connection Canada

As we pulled through the stone archway, we could hear Sarah and Ellen calling out for us. Bursting with excitement, they regaled us with stories of Norman’s fantastic home, his family and the homemade mulled wine that had surely been replenished in their glasses more than once. “You must be Justin and Nicole,” said a tall man with softly weathered features. “Come in”. He showed us into his home and for just a slight moment I worried about who exactly it was we were staying with. I thought I’d keep an open mind, especially because he’d been so generous already. “Why don’t you kids grab some wine and then I’ll show you where you’ll be staying the night?” We followed Norman out into the yard. As I walked the lustrous property, I noticed the enormous mulberry tree that hung over the front of the dark stone house. The garden was flooded with lavender. Norman explained how, when he bought this property “some 30 years back” there was nothing here. He built everything, including his home, with his own two hands. Admiring his craftsmanship, I was immediately put at ease. You could tell he loved his life, his family. Pride oozed through his skin like the juice of a mulberry staining your fingertips. The grass was tall as we turned the corner and approached the riverside cabin. Immediately a childlike fear of strangers re-lodged in my throat like a hiccup. The cabin seemed provocative somehow; just a short drive from the main house, but far enough that if you called for help no one would hear you. As the sun slipped towards the horizon, I felt my gut seizing in warning. This person was being so kind, and yet, I was on high alert. Could my body’s reaction just be an ancestral fear rearing its ugly head? Why was I taught never to talk to strangers? We all sat down by the river that meandered through the property. Norman poured us more mulberry wine and rolled us a joint of fresh Tasmanian grass. We smoked by the river and he told us about his grandkids and his passion for hunting wallaby. In the last brief moments of daylight Norman hopped on his ATV and headed back toward the main house. It was then that my suspicions started to get the better of me. Why didn’t I trust this person? He had been nothing but gracious and yet I couldn’t shake the feeling something wasn’t right. After Norman left camp, we explored the ominous cabin. I flicked the switch. Justin noticed it first. We both stared in horror. The light fixture that hung above us was a metal contraption fitted with shackles. To make it even more unforgiving, the room was full of children’s toys. Justin shyly muttered that they must be his grandkids toys. I stopped to wonder whether or not he really had grandchildren. Justin finally admitted that he, too, was becoming weary of our situation. Both of us hazy from the doobie and several glasses of wine, thoughts started to spin out of control and I realized that we were both feeling uncertain. That night, in the middle of nowhere Southwest Tasmania, I slept with a kitchen knife under my pillow. I’ve been through countless big cities, rough cities, where I knew I couldn’t let my guard down, so why was it here that I felt most unsafe? Light began to peek through our makeshift curtains. With it came pure shame and embarrassment that nearly blinded me as I popped open the hatch. Looking out into the morning all I could do was laugh. After cleaning up camp, Norman drove down and brought us back to the main house. We spent the day touring the grounds and reaping the fruits of his bounty. With his kids in Hobart, he was adamant we take zucchini, Swiss chard, blueberries, raspberries and as many mulberries as we could pick from the garden. Norman’s sustainable life had gifted the ability of true selflessness. My city built mind had plagued his good nature and made me the fool. With my hands stained and my perspective altered, we headed back out on the road.