Another Country

Here we are at Mungoobada, a Garawa (Aboriginal) community on the Robinson River 150 km southwest of Borroloola. We are staying with Robyn’s cousin Lyn and husband John. Lyn is nursing in the community health clinic. John is teaching and selecting school students to study at Carey Grammar in Melbourne. It’s a fantastic opportunity for us to see the inside of an aboriginal community. Noah and Georgie are students for the day at the school. Lyn has just arrived home after a callout at 2am to attend to a woman in labour. The woman had not presented at any time at the clinic during her pregnancy and only requested help when in deep contractions. Lyn had arranged a medivac aeroplane that arrived at 8.30 this morning. There is such a shortage of doctors that the medivac aircraft had to wait until dawn before it took off from Nhulunbuy (Gove). The doctor arrived just in time, 20 minutes before the boy was born. Everybody is healthy and much relieved.

The more we travel across central and northern Australia, the more I appreciate that this is really another country. The secure, European lifestyle of Melbourne and tidy open spaces of Victoria are worlds away from the geographical and social topographies of the north.

In this part of the country, Indigenous Australia is front and centre. There are Aboriginal people sitting around the streets, waiting outside shops, sleeping or talking in parks. Passing time is a problem, grog and gambling are tragic time wasters. A couple of nights ago, we had a counter meal at the Borroloola pub, the pub without beer. The pub lost its licence from serving drunks. Apparently there were so many drunk people they were a hazard on the road outside that pub. The acting publican said that since losing it’s licence, the police had reported that domestic violence was down 90 percent and there were similar changes in health issues.

I’ve got to admit that the publican’s accusation that “you Southerners don’t know anything about Aboriginals” is not unfair. In Melbourne or country Victoria, we are unlikely to notice Indigenous people in our midst unless they are football or movie heroes.

The Robinson River community is peaceful and friendly. The houses are well maintained and new houses are being built. There are roughly 300 people; most of the adults are employed in jobs to service the community or business enterprises. The CDEP scheme is fundamental to most of this employment and the prospect of its demise is worrisome. The community is tightly run by an administrator. This paternalistic approach seems to be appropriate in this community, and possibly in many other, however, there is no one approach that suits all, contrary to the John Howard new policy.

We have also seen other examples of Aboriginal communities and enterprises that appear to be successful such as the Guluyambi Tour at Kakadu. However, as the publican was keen to point out, there are plenty of failures, examples of wasted tax payers money and opportunities.

As one of those ‘do gooder’ Southerners, I find the situation perplexing but not without hope. There are certainly no significant one-off solutions although the fact that the Federal Government is finally putting the issue up front is positive. Control of alcohol is fundamental. However, it looks like it’s another one-off election headline grabber rather than a well thought through plan for the long term.

Graeme

Paper Bark

Paper bark (obviously coming from the PAPER BARK TREE) comes in handy in three ways for Aboriginals.
On all occasions, the paper bark must be a rectangular strip. Fold two ends (if you were holding the rectangle horizontally, left and right) and tie them with the traditional Aboriginal string (now, these aren’t the best instructions so I’ll tell you: it should look a bit like a boat). The size may vary, depending on what you put in.
This is where you have a choice.

a) The Aboriginals often used them as shoes for when they walked across prickly grass.
b) Because of the danger of estuarine (saltwater) crocodiles, you couldn’t stay too long at the waters edge, scooping up water with your hands to drink. Instead, some Aboriginals used the paper bark ‘boat’ as a cup so that they could walk away from the water to drink.
c) This time, I’ll tell you a recipe. First you need a freshly caught fish, and I mean fresh as in caught five minutes ago. This is a recipe called Sweet and Sour Fish (barramundi recommended). Of course, the first step is to put the fish into the ‘boat’. On either side you can have: crushed green ants; and flowers from a hibiscus tree. Next, pack mud all around it and then dig up an underground oven to cook it in. Once it’s in, fill in the rest of the oven and cook for an hour or so. After that hour, re-dig it up and pry away the now dried mud. The ‘sweet’ (green ants) and ‘sour’ (hibiscus flowers) will have seeped into the fish. Bon Appetite!

It’s not only the actual bark that comes in handy with the PAPER BARK TREE.
When the flood level is coming down before the start of the Dry season, the tree drinks and drinks, soaking up as much water as it can.
So, we’re told, if you are lost in the bush, look for a PAPER BARK TREE. If there is one, and if it has a bulge, open up the bulge because then water will leak out! It may be a bit salty and disgusting, but as long as it is water, it’ll keep you hydrated.
Aboriginal Rule: “We Aboriginals have a rule. The rule is that if you drink from a PAPER BARK TREE, you plug it up. Because there might be somebody else who is lost, and if they find the tree and you’ve let all the water run out, they will perish. So after you drink, you plug up the hole.”

Georgie

Interesting book for travelling in the Kimberely

Review of new book Other Country for Allan and Unwin:

If you are travelling to the Kimberely you may find this book interesting....

Stephen Scourfield’s Other Country paints a story of two brothers surviving and growing up from a legacy of abuse. They escape their father’s daily violence but don’t escape the influence it continues to have them and their relationship.

The story is told with a strong Australian male voice that may initially grate on the reader. However, the raw sometimes punchy descriptions fit the gritty storyline that unfolds in the Australian outback. The author evocatively describes the cultural and environmental landscapes providing a rich level contemporary and historical information. The story’s credibility is founded on this realistic context. Readers familiar with outback Australia, especially the North West will recognize places and events.

As the story sweeps along, the reader grows increasingly familiar with the characters and expectant of a powerful conclusion that is comprehensively delivered.

This debut book from Stephen Scourfield is fresh, powerful and distinctive. My first reaction to the opening pages was this is too blokey for my interests but I was drawn into the storyline and images of the landscape. I’m currently traveling in North West Australia and was drawn to the familiarity of the area and lives of people here. I thoroughly recommend the book to readers who are looking for a distinctive Australian story.

Graeme

Crocodile Safety:

Stay away from the edge of the water
Be careful when retrieving boats
WARNING:

Saltwater crocodiles are known to inhabit this area

Freshwater Crocodiles

Freshwater crocodiles can be up to two metres long. Generally they don’t try harming you—unless you throw rocks or sticks or something at them; or just plain irritate them. As I’ve seen them, they love just floating in the water (but not upside-down—the upside-down ones, that you can only see the bellies of, are dead). They eat small fish, big fish—fish; with the occasional delicacy of us ... but really I don’t believe that is a delicacy.

Saltwater Crocodiles

Up to four times the freshies’ size, salties are more likely to find you tasty ... or delicious. Small fish aren’t an option. It’s a bit like overweight (shall we say) people going to McDonalds: they’ll always choose super size. To them, we’re probably entrees, just before the unlucky fish and wild hog stew and delicious pig dessert. No, really, they do eat all that, but only if you’ve come their way. If you were five hundred metres from them, they’ll just leave you alone and kill something invading its territory (say ... that cow drinking over there!! “Aah, a delicious cow. Hopefully not a bony one ...”). So take my advice when you are in the Northern Territory. Only swim if there’s no croc warning!!

Georgie

a friend in need

July 19ish 2007

The day after we had walked around the base of Uluru we set off for Kata Djuta (the Olgas) 50km away along a sealed road inside the National Park. We did the Valley of the Winds walk which was about 7 km through valleys of the red domes and across microcosms of the sheltered and exposed landscapes within. It was a beautiful walk - more diverse than the walk around Uluru and just as spectacular. It was a pretty warm day – certainly for us who were still relatively used to Melbourne winter temperatures and not yet acclimatised to our camping lifestyle of warm days and freezing nights. On the return trip home I asked Graeme to turn down the signposted unsealed road that veered off to the right just before the Kata Djuta car parks. This road takes locals and travellers due west to the WA border, Docker River community and the Canning Stock route. I wanted to get a sense of how far it was west to the next significant markers on our map.

We u-turned and out onto the main road back to Uluru. In front of us we noticed a worn blue Camry, pulled over on the side of the road, its occupants: a man, two women and about 6 devoted puppies setting up temporary camp in the bush beside the road. They waved to us as we went passed and we pulled in. For a minute I thought that perhaps they were just being friendly – Graeme and I laughed about how we had to remember to wave (one finger or whole hand depending on our mood) to other vehicles – I wound down the window and yelled back;

‘Are you ok?’

‘No we need help. Do you have any water?’

Graeme and I got out of the car and walked back. One of the women had sat down on a laid out sheet, with an air of resignation. She was ready for the long wait. The younger woman was still sorting belongings: airing clothes on the low bushes and settling animals that were milling around her feet. A hulk of a man with shoulder length dreadlocks stood beside the car. The back wheel was jacked up exposing a mangled rim and not a shred of rubber. There was no spare – perhaps what I was looking at was the spare.

Somewhere out on the Docker River Road, the tyre had blown. The car had been nursed back onto the sealed road where help could be flagged down. The man assured us that he had a spare tyre back at his house at Mutidjulu. Could we give him and his passengers a lift? We had room for one, I had imagined that perhaps one of the women would come with us, and alert concerned family and friends back home who would return with the tyre. After much discussion amongst the three it was determined that the man would travel with us. I hopped in the back with the kids who had gone uncharacteristically quiet. Apart from the older men and women who sat outside the Coober Pedy supermarket and half heartedly asked for money, the kids had had little in the way of encounters with Indigenous Australians of Central Australia.

Introductions were made between the men. For a big Pitjanjarajara man: 6 ft 4ins and 120 kg Alwyn was shy and quietly spoken. Graeme worked hard to make conversation. There had been a footy competition in Docker River and Alwyn played for his community team. They didn’t win. The women back at the car were his wife and a sister. Alwyn occasionally worked as a tour guide for a local company around the rock. Other conversations faltered on possibly inappropriate questions, poor English or mumbled responses. I remembered from my time in Arnhem Land that direct questions were not the most appropriate ways to sustain a polite conversation and was nervous that Graeme might ‘put his foot in it’ but then I reasoned that we were helping Alwyn out – perhaps there had been other travellers go past who hadn’t even stopped to help – I should just get over my cross-cultural sensitivities and let them get on with it. Alwyn had the window open the whole way, I was getting kind of windswept in the back... the kids were half asleep, Graeme drove on in a companionable silence, Alwyn made some conversation, I couldn’t understand and I’m not sure Graeme did either.

Water! When we first stopped to help they had asked about water. Oh no. We left the women there without water. With the drama of the mangled rim I had forgotten completely about the need for water and so too had everybody else. I took off my seatbelt and scrambled over the back to find what I could for Alwyn in the bags in the back. There wasn’t much left as our family are renowned healthy eaters!! There was a small Sprite bottle filled with water, a sandwich and an apple. I passed these to Alwyn with an apology that I had forgotten about the water. He took them without comment and had a swig.

We got back to Uluru and took the road around the rock Graeme told Alwyn he’d been the ‘pool boy and yard hand’ at the Inland Motel 26 years ago. Alwyn could point out where that was and seemed amused that this whitefella was once the hired help. At last a slim connection between their worlds.

We turned down one of the side roads that warned ‘No Entry without a permit’. We were on Samaritan business. The kids sat up in their seats, this was going to be something new and a bit off the tourist track. Once again I was nervous about the impressions to be gained. We drove along a side road, through the bush I could see the purpose built (and empty) police station that had appeared on the front page of ‘The Age’ only a couple of weeks before. The houses of the community were in varying states of (dis)repair. Some looked quite well maintained for desert living, others less so. Alwyn directed us to his house. It had seen better days. It looked completely barricaded with a high but ineffective wire fence all the way around. A very large refrigerated air conditioning unit was mounted on the roof but I wondered whether the power was connected. By this time the kids were wide eyed, sitting up in their seats, taking in everything, saying nothing.

Alwyn wheeled a tyre out of the shed and Graeme made space for it in the boot. There weren’t many people around, hardly any in fact. But about 200 metres away a young man was walking between houses and Alwyn whistled to him to get his attention. Alwyn had been in Docker River for a few days. The guy across the way wasn’t the only one who heard the whistle. About 10 fully grown dogs trotted eagerly out of the house at Alwyn’s call. These dogs probably hadn’t had anything much to eat since Alwyn’s departure and were very pleased to see him.

The dogs were an amazing blend of breeds. The predominant genes seemed to represent dogs reminiscent of Staffordshire bull terrier and corgi. Some of the dogs looked exactly the same in the face and body but had completely different sized legs. They were a cartoon collection of beasts, worthy of a photo, but that wasn’t going to happen. Alwyn hopped in the car, the dogs surrounded the car curious to see where their main man was and whether there was anything to eat. Of course the dogs jumped up on the car, the big dog went to the front and a range of dogs around the sides. Alwyn’s mate strolled over ignoring the motley crew and donated a cigarette for the return trip. While Alwyn had a conversation, the rest of us watched the gaggle of dogs clawing our car. Alwyn indicated it was time to go but departure was stalled by him spotting his ‘boss’ a young Anglo guy with dreadlocks longer than his. He asked Alwyn where he’d been (he didn’t know?) and whether or not the team had won. He also gave cigarettes for the return journey. The dogs still surrounded the car. We were laughing in the back but it was a hollow laugh more of nerves than amusement; what were these dogs doing to our duco? What if we hit one? Will we have to pay?

Alwyn was ready to go, whether he had a sense of our concern we’ll never know, but he got out of the car, picked up a few rocks and threw them hard at the dogs barring our way. He hopped back in the car and told Graeme to floor it.

‘Go. Go fast.’

Graeme was desperate to comply; his acceleration and direction was guided by the sharp intakes of breath Alwyn made when one of the corgi throwbacks was unsighted somewhere round the front. We scrambled across country towards the road. Distance would save us... but ‘Oh’ as we turned out onto the road, (still moving at a pretty quick rate) we looked ahead to see an old 4WD lumbering towards us. Graeme was confident we had space and drove on. Noah swears that the driver of the 4WD was shaking his fist at us for our dangerous driving. I was looking for dogs.....

Back on sealed road we all settled back into quiet travel. Only 50km more to drop him off and then 50 km back to Yulara and camp. I was windswept, tired and trying not to think about the duco. The women cheered when we arrived. Alwyn was out of the car and working on the car in an instant. Gratitude was women’s work and they both waved and called their thanks. The wife went to the car and offered Graeme a further gesture of gratitude. She showed Graeme a photo of Alwyn, her and other tour guides. Another connection.

We were all exhausted when we got back to camp, and we hadn’t driven our a tyre rim down the Docker River Rd. We have carried the scratches with us on our travels. We don’t look at them in the early morning light when they are at their worst. Actually we don’t even look at them at all.

We still talk of Alwyn. We will never forget him.

Robyn