Episode 3 is out. And this one took me right back to where a part of my own story began.
After several days of driving the long road back towards my hometown in Queensland, it was recommended I go and visit Coffs Harbour on the mid north coast of New South Wales. I drove through little towns, past one man's castle in Tingha, down misty mountain roads, and finally hit the east coast.
I actually meant to stop at Grafton first — there used to be a big homeless camp near a roundabout coming into town. I couldn't find it. The only obvious tent city was in South Grafton. But I did meet Frank the busker, who once gave away most of his savings to homeless people, and he told me Coffs is where everyone seems to be gravitating now. So baby van and I rattled on down the road.
Here's the thing. About 40 years ago, when I was a young woman, I moved to Coffs Harbour to join a Christian group — a group that, looking back, had the makings of a modern-day cult to my way of thinking. I never really went back after I left all those decades ago. But I've always held strong memories of the place: the lush countryside, the crystal-clear creeks, the amazing beaches, that easy-going small country vibe.
Well. As I approached town this time, I was dead set shocked. So many cars, so many traffic lights, so many houses, so much industry. Nothing sleepy about this coastal town anymore. This place was on steroids.
In my opinion the town centre has a seedy feel to it now — desperate people loitering in the shadows, one side of the main street full of empty shops scattered with litter and graffiti, a big mall with all the predictable shops on the other. The natural beauty I remembered felt swallowed up. There are even homeless people in tents down at the jetty now. It saddened my heart. If only I could turn back the clock and show you the Coffs of the 1980s next to the Coffs of 2026. Is this what progress looks like?
Because it so often rains in Coffs, I found an undercover spot to squat under for the night, and sure enough it rained. The next day I went to hang at Sawtell, and thank goodness — progress hasn't caught up with Sawtell. Still the quaintest place you'll find.
The next morning I dropped into Pete's Place, a drop-in service behind Coles that gets some funding through Mission Australia. They offer showers, laundry, a feed and support for people experiencing or at risk of homelessness. The boss lady there spoke with real compassion — she's clearly in the right job. Out in the yard I met a volunteer gardener, nearly 80 years old, who's been there years. You could feel the passion just pouring out of him. The regulars all knew him, and I watched how he chatted to them with no judgement, meeting them right at their level. People want to be seen, heard and validated, and he did exactly that. That's a valuable part of these services that never gets advertised.
I met Jenny, a woman there with her son and a support worker, and she gladly told her story for you to hear. I met another woman who's now housed but whose situation had turned perilous — her anxiety was palpable. And then a young woman named Rachel ushered me out the very back, where no one out the front had mentioned a thing — and there in the jungle and mud was a ramshackle tent city. That's when I joined the dots about the dump truck I'd seen earlier: a council clean-up was in action. Even the subcontractors had sympathy for the people they were moving on. Maybe everyone working that close to homelessness comes to realise none of us are immune — a few unexpected bills, a few weeks behind on the rent, and as my own son put it, "would you rather pay rent or feed yourself these days?"
As I took photos out the back I spotted syringes and other drug paraphernalia on the ground, and my mind went straight back to Kyle from a previous episode, singing "The Needle and the Damage Done." Here I was looking at the fleshy wounds of a haemorrhaging society. What came first, I ask you — the chicken or the egg, the drugs or the homelessness?
Around midday I walked into the Lifeline shop and met Dee, who runs it — efficient and so personable. She introduced me to Phil, a man well into his retirement years who runs the soup kitchen and works tirelessly to put on lunch most days. Outside I spoke with a man in a wheelchair waiting to go in. He'd been robbed by people he called junkies. I didn't get the full story, but I could tell he was angry.
On my last day I visited Loaves and Fishes, a charity that gives away free groceries, run by the Generocity Church. I turned up early and unannounced on the Friday — and an old familiar face from 40 years back walked straight in: Bruce. He knew exactly who I was, sat down, and we reminisced and laughed. Bruce introduced me to Wayne, who heads the place — a seven-day-a-week job. They give food away at no cost, even running a truck down to Sydney to buy grocery lines. A big shop might cost $1,700 plus fuel, and on average they spend $1,000 to feed the less fortunate in their community.
Then I met three old men, all well past retirement age, all volunteering their time. And finally I spoke to Peter — three weeks out of cardiac surgery and already back at work. He wasn't lying on the lounge feeling sorry for himself; there was work to do. Peter is quietly spoken, so when he talked, I really listened. He said homelessness doesn't win votes, so the funding doesn't come. Then he dropped a pearler: all this money syphoned off into the system misses two basic human needs — housing and food. There's funding for social support, he said, but social support doesn't feed someone. Loaves and Fishes don't even want government funding, because it would come with strings attached. Further into our chat, this softly spoken man said he just tries to see people the way Jesus might see them. After talking with selfless people like these, I reckoned they were like a modern-day version of the three wise men.
Before I left town I drove back to the Lifeline shop and bought myself a big framed "Sacred Heart of Jesus" print — the one with the saddest, most worn-out look in his eyes, watching over everyone in the shop. It was that look that got me. I wrote on the back so I'd always remember my few short days back in Coffs.
As baby van and I drove back to the Gold Coast, that picture of Jesus sat up in the front seat beside me, and I had a lot to reflect on. I kept turning over a verse from my youthful church days — Matthew 11:28, "Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens and I will give you rest." And I asked myself: who, just who, is going to save us? Save our society, our country, our economy, our values, our homeless, all the underdogs and the disadvantaged — and bring us fresh hope, new direction and purpose?
I'd like to dedicate this episode to all the workers and volunteers in Coffs Harbour, with a song borrowed from 1969 — The Hollies, "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother."
Bless Coffs Harbour, and bless you x
🎧 Listen on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/episode/359lIA8BnAnr5HI6ZNn3d3
If you or someone you know needs support: Lifeline: 13 11 14 Link2Home: 1800 152 152