0476906075 vacation@iwandertassie.com
Hey, I’m Jarrod, a descendant of 17 convicts, a Royal Marine, and a mixed bag of free settlers who either got shipped off or jumped ship straight into Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania).
Yeah, my family tree isn’t your standard “came over on a sailing yacht with champagne” story. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Back in 2017, my wife and I kicked off a tour company. I was the guide, walking people through Tasmania’s landscapes, talking trees and waterfalls. But here’s the thing: the stories, the wild, gritty, personal history of this place, that’s what really lit me up. And that’s what had people leaning in, hanging on every word.
So, I ditched the polite “here’s a scenic lookout” script and leaned hard into history tours. Because Tasmania? It’s overflowing with stories that punch you in the gut. Convicts, bushrangers, Indigenous resistance, soldiers, settlers, all tangled up in this brutal colonial experiment.
But the stories that hit hardest?
The ones tied to my own bloodline.
Let me show you what I mean.
A Boy of the Oyster Bay People
Kikatapula was born around 1800 into the Paytirami clan of the Oyster Bay people, on the east coast of what we now call Tasmania.
He grew up knowing his land the way you know your own body — the rivers, the rocks, the way the wind changes when the seasons turn.
Then one day, everything shifted.
A giant sailing ship appeared off Maria Island.
His people ran in fear, because how do you even begin to understand something so alien, so unnatural?
Soon after came the British sealers.
And if the ship had been frightening, the men were worse.
Violent. Brutal. Kidnapping Palawa women and girls, using them as sex slaves.
Kikatapula’s own kin were among those taken.
His people fought back, destroying the sealers’ furs and huts, but it was a losing battle.
The violence kept growing. Convict bushrangers, settlers, new diseases, old enemies — all crashing into his world like a flood.
As a young boy, Kikatapula bore a deep scar on his forehead, a literal mark of the brutality he survived.
Torn from Home
At some point during this chaos, Kikatapula was swept into the colonial world.
Whether he was taken or went willingly is lost to history. But by 1819, he was living in Hobart, under the roof of Thomas and Sarah Birch — a wealthy British couple.
They dressed him in their clothes.
Taught him to read and write English.
Baptised him Christian and renamed him Black Tom Birch, a name that wiped away his real one.
He took care of their children. He said his prayers.
But let’s not sugarcoat it: no matter how well he spoke their language or folded himself into their world, he would never truly be one of them.
He was a curiosity. A pet project.
A living trophy of “civilisation.”
Not family.
Lost and Left Behind
In 1821, Thomas Birch died.
And with him went the fragile protection Kikatapula had.
Almost immediately, he was treated like just another expendable worker.
Suddenly, the polished English and Christian manners didn’t mean much.
He was still Palawa. Still Other. Still disposable.
And deep down, he must have known it.
The Spark of Resistance
In late 1822, a man named Musquito arrived.
An Aboriginal warrior from New South Wales, exiled to Tasmania for fighting British settlers on the mainland.
Musquito led a group called the “tame mob”, Aboriginal survivors who were done playing nice.
He found Kikatapula at Duck Hole Farm.
Talked to him. Reached into that buried, battered core of belonging.
And reminded him: you are not one of them. You never will be.
Kikatapula left the colonial life behind.
He returned to his people, and to war.
The Choice
Culture doesn’t just vanish because someone teaches you another language.
It doesn’t die because you get baptised or wear a different coat.
It lives in your blood, your bones, your memory.
Kikatapula had lived between two worlds.
Now, he had chosen a side.
And it would cost him everything.
Stick around for part 2.
