Terra Tasmania: Trail of the Tin Dragon

As we motor along this north-east quadrant we realise we are following in the footsteps of hundreds of young Chinese tin miners along this irresistibly-named: Trail of the Tin Dragon.

Little villages dot the hills in these parts. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, they would have been vibrant with the noise and bustle of tin mining. Places like Ringarooma, Branxholm, Derby, Morrina and Weldborough tell a sad tale of the rise and decline of the tin industry.

Today, these villages are dying. Some are already dead. 'For Sale' signs litter the streets, shops and post offices. Pubs are closed, never to reopen. The younger population has left, gone to the cities and other states, where they might find work. Only a few stoic oldsters remain.

Government officials have attempted to encourage tourists to the area. In some places their efforts are working. A farmer, for example, in Branxholm, bought his property, barely knowing, until his efforts were nearly complete, that his land lay at the very core of the Chinese tin mining community.

Off his own bat, and so the Chinese story would not be forgotten, he set up a walk through the old mining water races that still existed on his property which follows what were once individually-owned small mine sites. He built a rustic cabin near there and filled it with beautifully-prepared information on bulletin boards that tell how young poverty-stricken Chinese boys were tempted away from home to follow mining.

Enticed by the tale that there was a 'gold mountain' in this great south land, they hopped aboard boats and indentured themselves to owners of tin mines for a minimum of two years, so they would soon earn the means to access that mountain of gold.

Thousands of young Chinese workers came, owing even their fare to friends and family. In debt before they started. They laboured in the mines for half the daily rate given to Europeans, and when everyone else dropped tools to follow the gold finds, the young poor Chinese labourers were left with nothing, except to attempt to buy the tin rights to these abandoned mines.

Some did and were even lucky enough to report making £100 over the next three or four years: enough to send money home to their needy families. Others were not so lucky.

At Derby, a town on its last legs, where barely a building is functioning and most historic places, including large halls are empty, standing forlorn, the powers that be have funded the vast expense of a supermodern structure to house what is there touted to tourists as 'The Tin Centre', offering detail on the history of tin in the area.

Millions has been spent on this structure, but it looks so wrong that I could not even enter it. In a village that is dying, when any one, or all, of the buildings in town might have been there to use for the same purpose, why would officials even think to build a new one? Why would they not have utilised the very 'real' buildings at the heart of the tin mining story. Given them a lick of paint. Opened their doors. Displayed them as they once were. I walked dispiritedly away from the modern Tin Centre without going in. I would have preferred to have seen the village buildings repaired, and in re-enactment mode. Most tourists would. Such a missed opportunity.

There is not much left in Moorina. Hardly any of the amazing private or public buildings that once stood have survived. But a sharp turn right, up a steep hill with a walking path to the top, sits a small cemetery. Traces of Chinese tin miners still survive here.

At one end of the cemetery near a pile of rocks lies a Chinese burning oven. Here, the Chinese tin miners who were left to eke out a living from the crumbling rocks of these hills burned coloured bits of paper as spirit offerings to those who died in these parts, who were not able to make it home.

And clansmen likely held their Chinese wakes in the historic Weldborough pub where we spent a wonderful evening. The pub has been standing since the 1880s when some seven hundred or more Chinese miners worked in this area. The hotel slept them three shifts to every bed every day of the year. Its creaky aged floors and mis-matched tables likely witnessed their fair share of may-jong, fan tan and roulette. Gambling was interwoven with the culture. But loneliness, for some, became so unbearable with their wife and family left behind in China, that many, tragically, became addicted to opium.

All the Weldborough pub needs are photos on the walls telling the tale of the miners who lived here back then, like Lulu and Maa Mon Chinn from Guangdong. Lulu was all of sixteen and Maa Mon, forty, when they were betrothed. The couple went on to bring up seven sons and four daughters in this community and likely drank at this very pub and joined in all the festivities.

Chinese New Years were famous in the area. There was always roast pig, fireworks, and elaborate feasting. The pigs for the roast came from the nearby farm of Pyengana. The Chinese in charge would entice them along the five mile stretch from there to Weldborough by dropping wheat grains on the track, the pigs snouting them up as they followed. Now, apart from such little snippets of history, almost nothing remains.