"We should drink enough water so that our urine is not yellow and smelly. This will save us great amounts of money and we will not have to flush the toilet so much." - Elbert Eugene Spriggs, founder of The Twelve Tribes, Brazil 10/19/92
In fact the group is The Twelve Tribes The Commonwealth Of Israel, a messianic cult.
On their website they proclaim that living in the Blue Mountains allows them to hear the voice of creation - which apparently sounds something like a hammerdrill, with these bananas out since sparrow's fart wielding one for the last week, punching bricks off the front of their 'shop'.
The hammerdrill is such a soothing sound. It promotes calmness and concentration. It is like meditating whilst having your temples sliced off with a rusty razor blade.
It could be karmic - hell, I've never been in the running for neighbour of the year - but it's not just my discomfiture that is causing me concern here.
Rather it is the very nature of the groupthink over the road.
They moved in about five years ago, buying up a dilapidated building in the middle of Katoomba. One of those pre-war brick edifices that takes advantage of the sloping terrain to create three stories where there should be two.
The group themselves is populated by about half a dozen or so bearded chaps who seem to spend their entire day beating swords into ploughshares. They have turned their back on society (well, that part of society that involves engaging with the community - they seem to be very happy with that part of society that uses power tools and spends money on their organic mush - more on that later), and appear to believe that God is some kind of DIY handyman - a sort of cross between Charlie Manson and Backyard Blitz - which isn't far from the truth, as the cult was founded by a former carnival spruiker and has some weird beliefs.
The bearded band of brothers is accompanied by about three or four permanently fecund womenfolk, who appear in handmade dowdiness reminiscent of the nineteenth century, along with about half a dozen overly energetic kids who appear to be insane with boredom. Which is not surprising given that The Twelve Tribes' "teachings instruct that children not play with toys, play imaginary or fantasy games, have candy, or watch television or movies".
When there is a stubborn child you should shorten the child's life. It limits the family.
- from "Training Up Our Children In The Way They Should Go" by the Twelve Tribes.
No one has called the Department of Community Services yet, as they tend to keep to themselves - except when doing some kind of passive-aggressive good deed, which always seems to be in their interest. But this is not the case elesewhere, where their activities have drawn the attention of the authorities.
One of the cultists delivers papers for the local newsagent, while another helps the arsehole with the furniture store on the corner.* They make their quids by trucking around to festivals far and wide where they dispense wholesome food for a fee and, according to their website, they live off the proceeds from two other communities, including one in Picton, where income is generated from plumbing, building and running the 'Common Ground Cafe' at festivals around the place. So, while they reject the licentiousness of popular culture, they are more than happy to make a quid out of it.
They shared the building with a Chilean upholsterer called Raoul and a Thai restaurant. They 'did up' Raoul's upholstery business preises (a garage) and then promptly evicted him. They're in the process of turfing out the popular Thai restaurant as well.
On top of all this they've been doing up the building, which in and of itself sounds like a good thing - until you have an angle grinder starting up at 7am on a Saturday morning.
They've been threatening to 'open' their organic cafe for about three years, but their always seems to be some bit of work that needs to be done that stymies their ability to 'open'. A lot like those people that build seagoing boats in the backyard - the whole project appears to never be meant for completion, with the constant building being reason enough for existence.
Which, of course, is symptomatic of cults - keep the kids busy and they never get their head around how they're the butt of some narcissists weird joke.
All of their activities, from evicting the infidels to the ever present home-handyman-for-Jesus routine, is accompanied by the passive-aggressive smug superior air associated with your usual cult-like activity.
They pepper this with a lot of pseudo-biblical tosh, claiming to be the first real Christians (where have we heard that before) since the Apostles - with what we understand to be Christianity actually run by Satan (which will be news to Aaron Badderley) - along with some homey palaver parried around as a 'revelation' and being (yawn) God's Chosen People, all underpinned by the usual 'get out of jail free card' gibber that passes as playing on your average human's fear of death. They all want to go to heaven, but they don't want to die.
But what really exposes these people for the cant that they are is the hypocrisy of their brotherly love - which, of course, doesn't extend to loving unbelieving brothers (ask Raoul) or even members of their own flock. Like every other manifestation of religion there are haves and have-nots, rulers and ruled, bosses and slaves - and the Golden Rule applies, those with the gold, rule - controlling the lives of the cult's footsoldiers, who end up doing all the dirty work. It's laizzes faire capitalism with a beard.
As my live-in Legal Counsel says, "it sounds like typical religious dribble", and he's right.
So, if you're out at a festival and you see the Common Ground Cafe, just remember they think their urine is nice and clean.
Enjoy the coffee.
* This bottom feeder unilaterally turned off my neighbours power supply a while back in some weird attempt to avoid a power bill, then refused the electrician access to turn it back on again, complained about the car parking arrangements and has generally managed to give everyone the shits in a five kilometre radius.
