Hidden from view in bushland, one rehab centre is saving lives

Kane Wandin's withdrawn demeanour shifts when asked if he has a favourite tattoo.

The 26-year-old pulls back the sleeve of his hoodie, straightens his posture and holds his arm stiffly in front of his chest, as if providing a shield for his own body.

Etched across his forearm, in permanent black ink, is the word Wurundjeri.

"I spent basically my whole life on drugs and on the streets," he says.

"Connecting to culture was what [gave] the most strength in helping me sort myself out and get off drugs."

Hidden from view, amid the rustling gums and gentle breeze from a distant coastline, the lives of young First Nations people like Mr Wandin are quietly being changed forever.

Set in an undisclosed nook of Victoria's Mornington Peninsula, Bunjilwarra is an Aboriginal community-controlled residential rehabilitation centre and healing site for people recovering from addiction.  

It is perhaps the least clinical setting imaginable.  

At the heart of the grounds, a fire crackles gently throughout the day, stoked by residents on log stools.  

A nearby basketball court abuts a veggie garden. The art room windows look out to a set of footy goals. 

"To feel the energy here being solely run by mob, for mob … you've got Uncle over there, you've got Auntie calling out, 'Lunch is ready, come and eat,'" says Carla Lauch, a Gunditjmara Kirrae Whurrong—Bundjalung Yaegl woman and youth mentor at Bunjilwarra.

"Honestly, it feels like home."

As Australia's drug consumption reaches record levels, experts say the culturally centred model offers valuable lessons for a broader community problem.

"This place gave me stability," Mr Wandin says.

"It saved my life."

Ice 'twice the problem' of cocaine

If there is hope to be found inside the walls of Bunjilwarra, there is ringing alarm to be heard outside of them.

For those working at the intersection of drugs, crime and homelessness, the unabated rise of methamphetamine in particular — or ice — in the broader community is of profound concern.

Australia has among the world's highest per capita use of ice (also referred to by authorities as methylamphetamine), with recent national drug detection data finding record levels turning up in our wastewater.  

"The methylamphetamine market is the highest risk drug market in Australia. It poses the highest threat. It also causes the most harm of the illicit drugs," says Shane Neilsen, principal drug specialist at the Australian Criminal Intelligence Commission (ACIC).

"Cocaine seems to get a lot of the coverage. The point I would make is that twice as much methamphetamine is consumed in Australia as cocaine. 

"It's at least twice the problem."

Mr Wandin was just 13 and living on the streets of Frankston in Melbourne's south-east when he started using ice.  

"As bad as it all sounds in the news, it's worse," he says.

"Ice is everywhere at the moment."

The ACIC estimates the street value of the drug at $11 billion over the most recent 12-month reporting period.

There are growing accounts of ice turning up in the furthest corners of the country, including remote Aboriginal communities.

"If anything, per capita it's more prevalent in regional and remote areas of Australia than it is in capital cities," Mr Neilsen says.  

"Serious and organised crime groups have established networks that can supply local communities.

"There's a whole series of cases in which … crime groups are cynical enough to provide methylamphetamine to users and say that they can consume a portion themselves and sell the rest to pay for it.  

"That way they're outsourcing the most risky part of the supply chain — the local level distribution — to people who are also using."

Carla Lauch says Bunjilwarra, which is run by the Victorian Aboriginal Health Service, is seeing a "huge increase" in young people who have used methamphetamine.

"Meth is very scary," she says.

"Alcohol was bad enough for our mob and then you've got something as potent as methamphetamine … to see how it changes them and the effects that it has on their lives and their family and the community is devastating."

New analysis from the Penington Institute found Indigenous Australians were more than four times more likely to die from an unintentional drug overdose, with methamphetamine a significant contributing factor.

On the Central Coast of New South Wales at the Aboriginal community-controlled rehabilitation treatment centre The Glen, demand for services far outstrips capacity.  

"You literally couldn't even apply for a bed at The Glen a lot of the time. I'm not saying that with pride," The Glen's executive director, Joe Coyte, says.  

"We don't shut applications because beds are full. We shut because beds are full and we've already got 100 people who've been assessed and another 60 or 70 in the system being assessed.  

"So there's no point us taking more applications."

'We are keeping kids out of jail'

In his time as deputy director of the National Drug and Alcohol Research Centre, Anthony Shakeshaft investigated the benefits of Indigenous-led programs in aiding rehabilitation and combating drug harm.  

He believes more centres are "absolutely" needed around the country.

"If you just think about it economically, there's no reason you wouldn't do it," says Professor Shakeshaft, now head of psychology at the University of Sunshine Coast.

"A really key feature of these programs is that they improve clients' health broadly, not just in terms of substance abuse.  

"Clients that go to rehab and do a period in an Indigenous drug and alcohol service are [also] much less likely to end up back in jail."

It is an argument echoed by Mel Bedford from Bunjilwarra, where six young residents at the centre are currently on bail.

"We are keeping kids out of jail here," she says.

"It's a lot cheaper for us to have a resident staying here than what it is to keep a resident in custody, and we're definitely helping their healing journey rather than being in custody."

From little things

There are only a dozen or so residents at a time at Bunjilwarra — a mere fraction of those in the wider community grappling with addiction.

That limited intake nonetheless creates fertile ground for more meaningful connection and change to occur, particularly for those experiencing intergenerational trauma.

On some days, that may take the form of a carpentry workshop or practical support around employment and nutrition.

It could also mean a walk with an elder through nearby bushland, or a conversation about culture and identity in the yarning circle around the fire.

"Some of them are so sick culturally," Ms Lauch says.  

"We talk about mental health, but if they're also culturally and spiritually disconnected, that's something that needs working on as well."

The centre only became a fully Aboriginal community-controlled service in the past year, but the site is now being visited by similar organisations looking to replicate aspects of the service interstate.

"I've seen workers in this industry who have all the qualifications in the world, but they cannot sit down and hold a conversation with a young person because they can feel the clinical energy," Ms Lauch says.

"I feel like mob just understand what mob needs, and there's that immediate trust with our young people to speak to someone who's been through it."

The words "From little things, big things grow", a reference to Kev Carmody and Paul Kelly's unofficial Australian anthem, are painted on one of the yarning circle logs.  

For Ms Lauch, whose mother and grandmother were part of the Stolen Generations, change is going to come, even if it is starting small.

"These young people that we have come through Bunjilwarra are our future elders," she says.

"We want them to be empowered to share culture, to right the wrongs of what our grandparents went through."