Changed
Changed
If you’re a Bangkok first-timer, this is your invitation to explore a city teeming with life, flavour and history.
Whether you’re a believer in the supernatural or not, you cannot deny some historical places and buildings in the world radiate a certain ‘energy’. What this energy is we don’t know, but stories of unexpected reactions to this invisible force field are experienced daily the world over.
As I run my fingers slowly across the hand-made clay brick remains of once imposing structures built on the blood, sweat and tears of convicts at the notorious Port Arthur Historic Site, I feel this energy, a deep melancholy and unexplained sadness. The unease contradicts the view I’m drinking in. The day is warm and peaceful with the leaves of broad ancient oaks and gum trees chattering in the breeze. Bumble bees hover over colourful flowerbeds and cherry and apple trees are bursting with fruit.
Port Arthur is serenely beautiful and I cannot explain the goosebumps rising on my neck. Involuntarily I whisper, “I feel you”, acknowledging someone, something, nothing? I don’t know.
It’s been more than 140 years since the Port Arthur penal colony shut after 44 years of brutal slavery and punishment of the ‘worst of the worst’ sent from the motherland, some as young as 10 years old. Most were hardened criminals, others insane or just unlucky. Some made it out. Hundreds did not.
Feeling the spirits
Perhaps my melancholy can, in part, be attributed to my knowledge of the history of Port Arthur, both recent and past. This was not a happy place for many and as an adult I’m empathetic to events and situations I’ve not personally experienced. However, what I did not account for was the intense reaction my seven-year-old son had during our visit.
Not yet of the age at which I thought it necessary to provide a detailed history of Port Arthur, as far as he was aware we were just looking at a bunch of old buildings. At first he was inquisitive, happy to skip beside us as we explored the old Church, Government Cottage and gardens, but his mood changed dramatically when he refused to cross the threshold of The Parsonage, reputably one of the most haunted buildings in Australia.
Over the next 30 minutes my son’s emotions intensified as he became teary and extremely difficult, clenching his fists by his side as he moved unwillingly from site to site, refusing to enter any structures. He was unable to articulate what his problem was other than saying, “I’m just angry” over and over again. Thinking this was a rare and, by his usual standards, a particularly odd tantrum, we persisted with our visit.
We could not, however, ignore him when he began pacing in a circle near the chilling Separate Prison, intermittently growling under his breath. The prison had been built for the physical, mental and sensory isolation of unruly convicts, truly hell on earth for those unlucky enough to wind up there.
By this time my son was attracting the attention of others with his distressed growling and pacing. I bundled him in my arms imploring him to tell me what was wrong but his response was forced and stilted. “I. Am... Trying. To. Keep...The. MAD. In.”
That was enough for us to finish our visit and head for the exit at the Port Arthur Visitor Centre, our little boy seemingly wracked with grief, holding back tears and growling all the way.
Rather exasperated our day had been cut short by what I thought must have been a tired, hungry or bored child, I certainly was not expecting and cannot explain what happened next. The moment we stepped through the doors into the recently built centre I immediately felt my son’s vice-like grip release in my hand as he halted, closed his eyes and let out a huge sigh that made him slump forward. Bent over with hands on his knees, he took a few more deep breaths then looked up and said, “I feel better now. All the mad has gone away”. And that was it. In a blink my gentle, happy and amicable child was back.
If his sudden recovery had occurred anywhere else I may not have made any connection to a possible emotional haunting, but my fears were confirmed when a Port Arthur staff member mentioned accounts of similar reactions from visitors, along with visual, physical and sensory encounters.
It rocked us to the core when we also discovered the area our son was anxiously pacing around was the very spot of a brutal solitary confinement cell once used to house the worst of the worst tortured souls in convict days. Spirits of broken men whose legacies remain in the physical ruins and the unsettling energy cloaking the otherwise exquisite setting that is Port Arthur ... We feel you.
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