Recently, we spent 10-days more than planned at a certain community, on account of a busted radiator, and a plane (bringing us a new radiator) that wouldn’t take off due to bad weather.
We’d had a good week of IT Training there, before we realised we’d be sticking round. The good thing about the telecentre there was that two anangu are employed to run it, which always makes our job much more rewarding in terms of having people we can focus on, work with etc.
But the second week, we didn’t do a lot of training. We had a bit of a break, and the life of the telecentre went back to what we assumed it was like when we weren’t there. We deferred to the leadership and decisions of the telecentre workers. We explained to people that our boss had told us to have a week off but that the telecentre workers were really the boss anyway and people could talk to them about opening hours etc.
I thought this was a good approach, that the visiting whitefellas shouldn’t automatically become the authority. But over that week, with much time for thinking on my hands, and seeing how the telecentre was used and the position the telecentre workers were in, I began to be concerned and sceptical about the situation.
As is often the case out here, I was able to recognise problems and flaws quickly, while offering solutions and alternatives often fails me. I am reminded of the complexities out here. Complexities that perhaps get lost in the slogans and phrases used as short-hand for talking about the ongoing consequences of colonisation and dispossession. For example, calls for investment into Aboriginal employment- a call which I of course support, and is vital to the empowerment and economic independence of Aboriginal people.
But here’s a thing.
The government (I’m not sure if it’s federal or state) has decided to provide a local Aboriginal media corporation with a certain amount of money to set up telecentres in each community across this, with satellite internet access etc.
The potential for these places is great I reckon. In theory, anangu can access government services and online media, control their finances through internet banking, etc, all without putting pressure on the already over-worked community offices.
It’s also generating Aboriginal employment, of sorts. Each telecentre has one or two local Aboriginal workers who open the centre, supervise them etc. And they’re paid real wages, again from the government via the contracted media organisation, rather than the controversial soon to be phased out Community Development Employment Program.
In practise there are huge problems, as with most well-meaning programs out here. While we on the left call for real jobs for Aboriginal people in these places, in this instance the government can say it is providing real jobs. But I think aspects of this program are a huge step backward in terms of empowering Aboriginal people, treating them as adults, giving communities control etc.
For example, the telecentre workers are paid for 20 hours a week. There are certain things they’re meant to do in those 20 hours. Menial but necessary things, I guess. Open at 9. Close at 5. Keep the dogs out. Etc. But there is no supervision, support, or training. There is no employer-type person acting like they give two hoots whether these people work or not, or supporting them when something goes wrong, or training them for the basic skills that they’d need to feel they’re doing a good job (surely our annual one-week visit isn’t adequate?!).
They are left to their own devices. Telecentre workers tend to be young people who have better English and basic computer literacy. Of course "we", the whitefellas, the government, the trainers, prefer to work with people more savvy in "our" ways. Much easier than learning theirs, right? For "us", that is.
But these very same people, according to their culture, don’t have a lot of authority or rights to tell people what to do. In a way, they are set up to fail.
There are situations where everybody knows a job isn’t being done properly, the computers are being used inappropriately, the community isn’t happy with the arrangement. But there are no consequences. The government is happy with the arrangement, because it apparently is providing 20—odd Aboriginal people with real jobs, real wages.
Effectively, the government says “you’re Aboriginal people, we have low expectations. We don’t expect you to do what we’d expect non-Aboriginal people to do. We’re going to let you do what you want, but we reserve the right to occasionally tell you off, disconnect your internet or maybe even sack you for doing the wrong thing. But this won’t happen very often because basically we’ll ignore you.”
I can’t see how this helps the self-respect of the person with the job, helps them take their responsibilities seriously or helps the community respect the worker’s authority viz-a-viz the running of the telecentre.
So the telecentre workers who open the room, leave it open 24/7 while they’re away, come back to (surprisingly enough) broken computers, shitloads of downloaded porn and a very uncomfortable community, gets paid the same amount as the worker in another community who works long hours, keeps the place locked up at night, calls community meetings to develop a grassroots response to the porn issue… all in the name of “investing in jobs for Aboriginal people”.
Giving Aboriginal people “real jobs”, without training, support, consequence etc, is just as problematic as all the other paternalistic policies, I reckon, though I’m sure that’s controversial. In the end the government will no doubt say, “well look, we tried. We paid you good money. And what happened? You trashed computers, downloaded porn in front of kids, etc etc…”
And another service will be taken away, again without people really understanding why, although they will understand that somehow they have failed another mystifying whiitefella test.
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Things we see on the road
Ideally this blog post would be illustrated. There are many photo-worthy things happening on the roads out here. But alas we are always so focused on getting from A-B (remember the distances out here), that so far I have no photos to go with this story. Let’s call it a work in progress. One day we will remember not to pack the camera cases away in the depths of the troop carrier, will keep a camera up front with us, and will add photos. Maybe.
For now, I will paint a picture with words, no analyses or solving the problems of the world, tonight, dear reader. Just a ride with us in the front of the Toyota, along the 2500 kms we’ve done since May 1.
For the map-inclined, our journey has roughly been: Alice Springs-Irrunytju-Blackstone-Yulara/Uluru-Jameson-Patjarr-Tjirrkarli-Cosmo-Newberry. With more to come!
TRACKS
We see lots of tracks of course. When the road gets rough you’re meant to stay in the tracks of the last car that went through. It’s the best way to avoid getting bogged, and a helpful way of deciding whether to go through or around the puddles.
Also from the car you can see camel tracks in the sand fairly easily. For the smaller animals you need to be travelling by foot to see their tracks.
At Patjarr I would go for a walk along the road each morning and see how many animal tracks I could spot. One day, back in town, a nine-year-old girl was walking behind me. She suddenly said “Emma- have you been going for walks out on that track?” I asked her how she knew, and she pointed to my shoes’ imprint and said “I was out there this morning, and I didn’t know whose track that was. Now I know it’s yours!”
CAMELS
Cheeky things. They like to sleep on the sand after the sun has warmed it all day. They’re never in a hurry to get out of your way, either. They tend to amble along slowly in front of the car rather than move to the side. Last night, we came across a big mob on the road after dark. I don’t know if it was fright or if we’d interrupted some serious cud-chewing, but as they slowly jogged along in our headlights, there were some impressive drool-strings blowing out behind them.
GRADERS
What long, solitary hours those grader workers spend making sure these roads are passable. There are so many long roads out here, which people rely on for clinic visits and food supplies, that you can’t really drive for more than half a day without passing one.
Whenever I pass one I think about a day in the life of one of these men (so far they have all been men).
Sometimes there are two graders a few hundred kilometres apart, so I imagine them meeting halfway, camping together to at least have some social interaction in the evenings. Because of the distances, and the slow speed at which they travel (about 20ks an hour when they’re actually grading), they usually don’t make it back to a town. Hence they are fully self-contained, travelling with a caravan and a vehicle in case they need to get somewhere in a hurry.
Usually you will pass this rough graders’ camp before or after you come across the grader. But on one track, a very rough disused track (I was surprised to see it being graded) we came across a site that for some reason I found quite exciting. It was a grader towing a caravan, towing a ute. While it graded. How cool?
I was reminded of China Mieville’s The Iron Council, although I’m sure I was reading too much into it.
I like to imagine the grader drivers with a dog or two. For company. The graders go so slowly, the dogs could run alongside sometimes, or sit up in the cabin at the driver’s feet. And a little comic relief and puppy-distraction never goes astray on long drives.
DINGOS
After camels and birds, dingoes are the next most numerous, at least that’s the view from the road. One day, on the same old track where we saw the travelling grader road show, we spotted a dingo up ahead. They are usually fairly shy, but this one wagged its tail and ran towards the car. It seemed genuinely excited to see us, and when we passed it slowly it started running behind the car.
Was it someone’s pet? Out here in the middle of nowhere? It got shy and ran off when I opened the door, which is probably just as well because I might have had to adopt it.
We still don’t know what that tail wag of recognition and the car-chasing was about. Maybe prior experience had told it that sometimes the white Toyota animals camp along there and leave food scraps in their wake.
CAR WRECKS
Everybody has probably heard of the famous car wrecks strewn along the tracks of outback Australia. There’s a great one near the SA/NT/WA border, an old panel van, painted like an ice cream van and brightly displaying the words “Ice cream. Now open.” If you’re doing the eight-hour drive from Alice Springs to Irrunytju, that wreck appears just at about the time you wouldn’t mind a roadside stop and, say, an icecream.
INTRIGUING SCIENCE-Y STUFF
Around Warburton, we kept passing this big mob of utes, trucks and caravans with “Terrex Seismic” logos on them. I had no idea what it was all about but it was an exciting distraction after numerous hours on the road.
Anyway someone pulled us over and said “We’ve got men on the road for the next 20ks, so just take it easy and slow down past the equipment”. The “equipment” was one very long extension lead lying along the road, at various points plugged into something stuck into the ground. That’s the technical definition, anyway. Plus there were fancy looking trucks with satellites on their trays and metal legs that held them firmly into the ground.
It was all very intriguing and hard to keep my eyes on the road ahead.
I didn’t really know whether “slow down past the equipment” meant “..in case someone steps out in front of you” or “…because that extension lead is plugged into machines buried underground that might explode if the vibrations get too full on”. Anyway we didn’t explode, nobody got hurt, and I just found this link on Terrex’s website: http://www.terrexseismic.com/html/terrex_seismic/seismic-exploration-australia.html
“The “Reflection Seismic Method” is a geophysical technique used to map in 2D or 3D, an image of the earth’s subsurface. Reflection Seismic is used by Oil & Gas, Coal Seam Gas, Minerals and Coal Exploration and Production companies to develop a clear understanding of subsurface rock structure and other geologic properties. “
Fabulous. I’ve read a thing or two about coal seam gas. Not impressed. http://www.greenleft.org.au/node/47808
So far, these are some of the visual highlights from our driving adventures. My words won’t do them justice, alas, but soon hopefully I will add photos.
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Patjarr: In which Emma rides in a helicopter and the future looks grim for camels
We were looking forward to a week at Patjarr. Perhaps it was because of how tiny and remote it was: even by my standards.
Populatipon:30. About 12 of them are children. The government, however, insists there’s only one child there, and as such has closed down the school. Quite literally there is no school there; there empty block behind the friendly, colourful “Patjarr Remote Community School” sign confirmed the government’s “re-allocation of resources”, which in this case meant taking the school building to a community down south.
The community consists, it seems, of one or two extended families plus three whitefellas who combined run the store (open two hours a day), the office (which last year burnt down and has been relocated to a staff member’s kitchen table) and the art centre.
This tiny, very functional and largely self-reliant community confirmed what we have already heard in terms of the improved health and social engagement in the smaller homelands and communities not over-serviced by government agencies.
Each day when the shop opens, a group of kids and adults will wander down and help sweep, stack shelves, flatten boxes then quickly do their shopping so the store manager- who is also the office manager- can lock up and go back to her other job.
The adults as much as possible try to compensate for the lack of school by organising bush trips for the kids and involving them in the daily jobs around the community.
When we arrived and went looking for the key to what would be our house for the week, we were told the house didn’t lock. In the months since the lock had broken, nobody had gone into the place, nothing was stolen, so they figured they wouldn’t bother with locks anymore.
This contrasts enormously with the “whitefella houses” in most communities, which feature deadlocks, bolts, and often a padlocked cage around the front door.
But what about the camels? And the helicopter?!
We saw many camels- and camel tracks- on our drive to Patjarr, though deep red sand and over steep sandhills. They like walking and sleeping on the soft sand of the tracks, so one needs to take care when going over crests.
Camels look like they belong in this arid country but they were introduced by explorers who recognised their advantages over horses in this landscape and, more numerously, by Afghan camel drivers who have a rich history intertwined with the history of colonisation, of “opening up” of the Centre, starting in the 1840s.
Australia is now the only country in the world where camels live and breed in the wild. In fact, Australian camels are in demand from tourist operators around the world. There are specially converted aeroplanes to transport them in comfort and safety.
But these majestic, entertaining characters of the desert are endangering the original animal inhabitants. Indeed, this time round we have seen no emus and only one kangaroo in the 1000+ kilometres we’ve travelled so far.
That’s a huge change from 10 years ago when I would see mobs big and small of the native creatures – and the occasional camel.
And hence the Camel Management Program, the government’s pseudonym for culling what are indeed pests in this delicate ecosystem- very large , somewhat endearing pests, but nonetheless…
On a quiet Patjarr morning, the arrival of a helicopter- which landed just metres from the store- caused much excitement. It was the camel management blokes, flown in from Kalgoorlie to fly over country with the owners of the land around there, plotting the likely camel habitats and seeking permission to come back later in the year to do an air-to-ground cull.
I learnt that in most parts of the Australian desert, you can tell whether a body of water is salty or fresh from the air. There is something unique about the country around Patjarr though, and the only way to predict if the camels will come back to a certain lake or waterhole in the dry is to land the helicopter and test the water the old-fashioned way.
I was struck by the seriousness and sensitivity with which these two ex-army, frontiersmen who shoot large animals for a living approached the task of building relationships with elders, learning the laws and culture for the area, and ensuring land owners knew what they were agreeing to as they flew over their vast estates and gave permission for them to come back later and shoot the camels.
Just goes to show, I guess…
So for three days, the helicopter arrived early in the morning, swooping low over the houses to wake people up, then landing to pick up two men who would spend the day flying over with them.
I thought about these old fellas, the first time they see their country from a chopper or plane. Country they have walked over since the beginning of time. Somehow, having never been airborne, the people already have aerial views of their country: when they paint, they paint as if looking down on the earth.
So I wondered what it must be like being up there in the sky, looking down on it for the first time. Would it be like… an epiphany? An exciting moment of seeing something so close to them from a whole new perspective? But Pete pointed out they know the country so well, they probably just nod and say “Yep. That’s it.”
Be that as it may, they still took more than 300 photos with the camera we lent them, and other family members painstakingly arranged them in the appropriate order into a stunning slideshow.
And, also? I got to ride in the helicopter. Just for the hell of it, because I could. Because I looked jealously at the guys getting in and said “I’ve always been fascinated with, and a bit scared of , the idea of riding in a chopper”. And the boss said he’d take me for a quick spin, up to the airstrip to re-fuel. Possibly because he was about to ask us to make a short promotional film about the project which he could show other communities. Whatever. The six-year-old in me was rapt.
And flying in a tiny helicopter, over amazing country, with a pilot who quite possibly wanted to show off, was as terrifying and breathtaking and fun as I always thought it would be.
Populatipon:30. About 12 of them are children. The government, however, insists there’s only one child there, and as such has closed down the school. Quite literally there is no school there; there empty block behind the friendly, colourful “Patjarr Remote Community School” sign confirmed the government’s “re-allocation of resources”, which in this case meant taking the school building to a community down south.
The community consists, it seems, of one or two extended families plus three whitefellas who combined run the store (open two hours a day), the office (which last year burnt down and has been relocated to a staff member’s kitchen table) and the art centre.
This tiny, very functional and largely self-reliant community confirmed what we have already heard in terms of the improved health and social engagement in the smaller homelands and communities not over-serviced by government agencies.
Each day when the shop opens, a group of kids and adults will wander down and help sweep, stack shelves, flatten boxes then quickly do their shopping so the store manager- who is also the office manager- can lock up and go back to her other job.
The adults as much as possible try to compensate for the lack of school by organising bush trips for the kids and involving them in the daily jobs around the community.
When we arrived and went looking for the key to what would be our house for the week, we were told the house didn’t lock. In the months since the lock had broken, nobody had gone into the place, nothing was stolen, so they figured they wouldn’t bother with locks anymore.
This contrasts enormously with the “whitefella houses” in most communities, which feature deadlocks, bolts, and often a padlocked cage around the front door.
But what about the camels? And the helicopter?!
We saw many camels- and camel tracks- on our drive to Patjarr, though deep red sand and over steep sandhills. They like walking and sleeping on the soft sand of the tracks, so one needs to take care when going over crests.
Camels look like they belong in this arid country but they were introduced by explorers who recognised their advantages over horses in this landscape and, more numerously, by Afghan camel drivers who have a rich history intertwined with the history of colonisation, of “opening up” of the Centre, starting in the 1840s.
Australia is now the only country in the world where camels live and breed in the wild. In fact, Australian camels are in demand from tourist operators around the world. There are specially converted aeroplanes to transport them in comfort and safety.
But these majestic, entertaining characters of the desert are endangering the original animal inhabitants. Indeed, this time round we have seen no emus and only one kangaroo in the 1000+ kilometres we’ve travelled so far.
That’s a huge change from 10 years ago when I would see mobs big and small of the native creatures – and the occasional camel.
And hence the Camel Management Program, the government’s pseudonym for culling what are indeed pests in this delicate ecosystem- very large , somewhat endearing pests, but nonetheless…
On a quiet Patjarr morning, the arrival of a helicopter- which landed just metres from the store- caused much excitement. It was the camel management blokes, flown in from Kalgoorlie to fly over country with the owners of the land around there, plotting the likely camel habitats and seeking permission to come back later in the year to do an air-to-ground cull.
I learnt that in most parts of the Australian desert, you can tell whether a body of water is salty or fresh from the air. There is something unique about the country around Patjarr though, and the only way to predict if the camels will come back to a certain lake or waterhole in the dry is to land the helicopter and test the water the old-fashioned way.
I was struck by the seriousness and sensitivity with which these two ex-army, frontiersmen who shoot large animals for a living approached the task of building relationships with elders, learning the laws and culture for the area, and ensuring land owners knew what they were agreeing to as they flew over their vast estates and gave permission for them to come back later and shoot the camels.
Just goes to show, I guess…
So for three days, the helicopter arrived early in the morning, swooping low over the houses to wake people up, then landing to pick up two men who would spend the day flying over with them.
I thought about these old fellas, the first time they see their country from a chopper or plane. Country they have walked over since the beginning of time. Somehow, having never been airborne, the people already have aerial views of their country: when they paint, they paint as if looking down on the earth.
So I wondered what it must be like being up there in the sky, looking down on it for the first time. Would it be like… an epiphany? An exciting moment of seeing something so close to them from a whole new perspective? But Pete pointed out they know the country so well, they probably just nod and say “Yep. That’s it.”
Be that as it may, they still took more than 300 photos with the camera we lent them, and other family members painstakingly arranged them in the appropriate order into a stunning slideshow.
And, also? I got to ride in the helicopter. Just for the hell of it, because I could. Because I looked jealously at the guys getting in and said “I’ve always been fascinated with, and a bit scared of , the idea of riding in a chopper”. And the boss said he’d take me for a quick spin, up to the airstrip to re-fuel. Possibly because he was about to ask us to make a short promotional film about the project which he could show other communities. Whatever. The six-year-old in me was rapt.
And flying in a tiny helicopter, over amazing country, with a pilot who quite possibly wanted to show off, was as terrifying and breathtaking and fun as I always thought it would be.
Saturday, 14 May 2011
I am basically an adult now
(taken with the laptop camera, so a little lo-res)
After many hundreds of dollars, dozens of hours of training and untold induced heart attacks, the Motor Vehicles Registry has seen fit to issue me with a license to drive a motor vehicle.
God help us all.
To get my license in time to help with the driving for our desert job, I had to go to Yulara, which is a very strange place. Yulara is basically the resort for tourists who want to visit Uluru or for those rare ones with taste who want to see Kata Tjuta (which is a far more interesting rock formation that is not that far away).
That observation about Kata Tjuta (known as the Olgas to whitefellahs) was going to be an aside but I'll spend a little longer on it now. Emma's previous post was about the weirdness about Yulura and the strange choice of perspective of Uluru that means everyone's seen it a million times from that same angle even if they never come here. In addition to that, it's just a large samey sort of rock. I mean, that's not bad. It's nice as far as that goes. But you can't really spend that much time looking at it.
But Kata Tjuta is awesome. It's not just one rock, it's dozens of the things. In the local language it means "many heads" and it absolutely looks like the grisly remains of some Dreamtime titanic decapitation session. Every bit of it, every angle, every structure is unique. I can't show you a picture because the camera in the laptop is too weak to go that distance, but one view is the background of our blog. That gives you some idea.
You can spend hours on it. And, as a side note, the locals have no problems with people climbing on it or swimming in the water holes within it's byzantine tunnels (unlike Uluru which is sacred to locals and they'd really prefer if you didn't crawl all over it).*
And it's just down the road but most tourists prefer Uluru and prefer to crawl all over it.
Anyway, this is related to my license because today we were meant to leave Yulara. I was going to do the first leg. I put the P-plates on, climbed in the Landcruiser, turned the key and ... nothing. The AANT guy said the alternator is shot and we have to wait until at least Monday and probably Tuesday before we can leave.
A forced stay in a resort doesn't sound like punishment but when everything to do here is aimed at people who would prefer to see a rock they've seen 1000 times before and pay $35 to cook meat on their own Aussie BBQ and you can't go to Kata Tjuta because your car is broken down... well it's not as much fun as it could be.
Which all sounds a little too much like adulthood, huh?
* You can swim at Kata Tjuta but you are warned that giants will try to drown you and eat you, according to "Strict Rules" the book about the Blackfellah/Whitefellah tour by Midnight Oil and Warumpi Band. You can risk death but it doesn't insult the locals, unlike climbing Uluru.
Wednesday, 11 May 2011
Uluru: view from the other side
I think everyone who lives in Australia, or visits Australia, or possibly knows anything about Australia has quite possibly seen Uluru (some whitefella in the 1800s decided it as his right to name it after some other whitefella called Henry Ayers, but we’ll stick with the name its custodians give it, eh?)
I don’t necessarily mean you’ve visited it, climbed it, bought the t-shirt… but its image is iconic. I’m not sure how it came about that most nature photographers decided on exactly the same spot to snap the rock (or maybe the Traditional Owners decided on it?). Some have ventured beyond, to take different perspectives, but for many people, that one image of the rock – slightly flat on top, almost rectangular shape, sticking out of the earth- is the one that springs to mind.
One day, years ago, thought I’d pinpointed the exact place from where the iconic photos had been shot: just off the road, where the tourist buses lined up to watch the sunset. As soon as it is dark they are quickly shuttled back to the Ayers Rock Resort at Yulara, that anachronistic, slightly freaky multi-million dollar place that the architects claim blends in so naturally with its stunning surroundings.
I’ve always found it … slightly scary. I can’t be at Yulara without feeling culture shocked and like the beauty that is the desert has somehow been wrapped up in glad wrap.
But then, when I’m in Yulara, usually I have come there from the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, from a remote Aboriginal community some will describe as “the Third World within the First”. I guess culture shock is relative.
I have approached Uluru many times over the last 15 years. The Uluru I know is shaped differently to the one on the postcard. Generally, the view I get is the view from the other side; the view the aṉangu have. The view from the side of the rock that isn’t so marketed.
At the base of the rock, the side that Yulara isn’t on, lies the community of Mutitjulu. In the mornings, it is in the shadow of the rock. I remember camping there with a group of school kids who had been selected to “welcome” the Olympic flame when it came to Central Australia.
Mutitjulu isn’t really on the schedule of the people operating the tours of the area. The aṉangu probably aren’t interested in having tourists traipse through their homes taking photos of the “natives”, and the government definitely isn’t all that interested in the world seeing the conditions in which the Aboriginal people, the owners and custodians of that multi-billion dollar tourist attraction, live.
But here’s the thing. Yulara, which is surely just as remote as Mutitjulu (unless remoteness is measured by distance to airports, in which case Muti is maybe forty k’s more remote), and yet there are fresh vegetables there. According to the cops (no need to go into why we suddenly are on speaking terms with the Yulara police station), mail is delivered daily- albeit slightly unreliably.
In keeping with the introduction at the top of this blog (we had to write something there…), I’d suggest that, in Yulara, you can buy everything you need to make a pie. Even one of my yummier, more exotic pies.
It’s been a while since I was at the Muti store, but I’d be pretty happy to bet that you couldn’t, there. Certainly you never used to be able to.
And yes, unlike the Ngaanyatjarra communities, it’s true that the aṉangu of Mutitjulu have the option of driving to the supermarket at Yulara- it’s even bitumen all the way!
But getting back to my culture shock. If I, a whitefella who hangs out in town and country, and has done on various continents, find the place disturbing- how must they feel?
I’d be willing to posit that for each million dollars you pay an architect to design something “natural, unimposing, in keeping with the surroundings”, the more alienated and separated from nature the people staying there are going to feel.
I love staying “in nature”. That’s why I have a swag. I spent a few hundred dollars on it because I wanted a good one that the tropical bugs wouldn’t penetrate.
For reasons related to the Yulara police station but in no way suggesting any illegal activity on anyone’s behalf (Pete may well blog about it someday), we are destined to spend a few nights at Yulara.
As is usually the case, we go there from across the border, in the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, where we are two weeks into a nine-week stint.
For two weeks, living out here in a part of Australia most never see, surrounded by a law, language and culture that is not my own (though so close to my heart), I have been thinking “I should blog. People want to hear about what it’s like out here. And we’re having an adventure- aren’t we?!”
But somehow, the daily desert dramas seem too homely to me, too normal to write about. And it is the pending trip to Yulara, back to “civilisation”, where there’s fresh food and – “hey, you can get drunk at Yulara! Weren’t expecting a drink til July, eh? Bonus!” – that has given me something to write about.
It has been a hard week, there have been some confronting moments. We’re tired. We’re letting ourselves get excited about a few nights in a hotel room worth more per night than my swag. We can go out for dinner, stock up on fresh food… yes, maybe have a drink.
But I know how I’ll feel when I get there, because I always feel it. I will be relieved I am not travelling with aṉangu, as I can imagine how uncomfortable they would feel there, in the cafes that have a dress code, with their culture packaged and on sale all around them.
At the same time, in a weird way, I will feel uncomfortable that I am not with aṉangu. That the people I am leaving “just til Saturday, see you then, palya?” – don’t have access to all the wealth, the bells and whistles and good food and comfy beds, that Yulara represents, and that has come the dispossession, exploitation and commercialisation of them, their land, their culture.
Munta, aṉangu ngaltutjara, ngura ngaltutjara.
I don’t necessarily mean you’ve visited it, climbed it, bought the t-shirt… but its image is iconic. I’m not sure how it came about that most nature photographers decided on exactly the same spot to snap the rock (or maybe the Traditional Owners decided on it?). Some have ventured beyond, to take different perspectives, but for many people, that one image of the rock – slightly flat on top, almost rectangular shape, sticking out of the earth- is the one that springs to mind.
One day, years ago, thought I’d pinpointed the exact place from where the iconic photos had been shot: just off the road, where the tourist buses lined up to watch the sunset. As soon as it is dark they are quickly shuttled back to the Ayers Rock Resort at Yulara, that anachronistic, slightly freaky multi-million dollar place that the architects claim blends in so naturally with its stunning surroundings.
I’ve always found it … slightly scary. I can’t be at Yulara without feeling culture shocked and like the beauty that is the desert has somehow been wrapped up in glad wrap.
But then, when I’m in Yulara, usually I have come there from the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, from a remote Aboriginal community some will describe as “the Third World within the First”. I guess culture shock is relative.
I have approached Uluru many times over the last 15 years. The Uluru I know is shaped differently to the one on the postcard. Generally, the view I get is the view from the other side; the view the aṉangu have. The view from the side of the rock that isn’t so marketed.
At the base of the rock, the side that Yulara isn’t on, lies the community of Mutitjulu. In the mornings, it is in the shadow of the rock. I remember camping there with a group of school kids who had been selected to “welcome” the Olympic flame when it came to Central Australia.
Mutitjulu isn’t really on the schedule of the people operating the tours of the area. The aṉangu probably aren’t interested in having tourists traipse through their homes taking photos of the “natives”, and the government definitely isn’t all that interested in the world seeing the conditions in which the Aboriginal people, the owners and custodians of that multi-billion dollar tourist attraction, live.
But here’s the thing. Yulara, which is surely just as remote as Mutitjulu (unless remoteness is measured by distance to airports, in which case Muti is maybe forty k’s more remote), and yet there are fresh vegetables there. According to the cops (no need to go into why we suddenly are on speaking terms with the Yulara police station), mail is delivered daily- albeit slightly unreliably.
In keeping with the introduction at the top of this blog (we had to write something there…), I’d suggest that, in Yulara, you can buy everything you need to make a pie. Even one of my yummier, more exotic pies.
It’s been a while since I was at the Muti store, but I’d be pretty happy to bet that you couldn’t, there. Certainly you never used to be able to.
And yes, unlike the Ngaanyatjarra communities, it’s true that the aṉangu of Mutitjulu have the option of driving to the supermarket at Yulara- it’s even bitumen all the way!
But getting back to my culture shock. If I, a whitefella who hangs out in town and country, and has done on various continents, find the place disturbing- how must they feel?
I’d be willing to posit that for each million dollars you pay an architect to design something “natural, unimposing, in keeping with the surroundings”, the more alienated and separated from nature the people staying there are going to feel.
I love staying “in nature”. That’s why I have a swag. I spent a few hundred dollars on it because I wanted a good one that the tropical bugs wouldn’t penetrate.
For reasons related to the Yulara police station but in no way suggesting any illegal activity on anyone’s behalf (Pete may well blog about it someday), we are destined to spend a few nights at Yulara.
As is usually the case, we go there from across the border, in the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, where we are two weeks into a nine-week stint.
For two weeks, living out here in a part of Australia most never see, surrounded by a law, language and culture that is not my own (though so close to my heart), I have been thinking “I should blog. People want to hear about what it’s like out here. And we’re having an adventure- aren’t we?!”
But somehow, the daily desert dramas seem too homely to me, too normal to write about. And it is the pending trip to Yulara, back to “civilisation”, where there’s fresh food and – “hey, you can get drunk at Yulara! Weren’t expecting a drink til July, eh? Bonus!” – that has given me something to write about.
It has been a hard week, there have been some confronting moments. We’re tired. We’re letting ourselves get excited about a few nights in a hotel room worth more per night than my swag. We can go out for dinner, stock up on fresh food… yes, maybe have a drink.
But I know how I’ll feel when I get there, because I always feel it. I will be relieved I am not travelling with aṉangu, as I can imagine how uncomfortable they would feel there, in the cafes that have a dress code, with their culture packaged and on sale all around them.
At the same time, in a weird way, I will feel uncomfortable that I am not with aṉangu. That the people I am leaving “just til Saturday, see you then, palya?” – don’t have access to all the wealth, the bells and whistles and good food and comfy beds, that Yulara represents, and that has come the dispossession, exploitation and commercialisation of them, their land, their culture.
Munta, aṉangu ngaltutjara, ngura ngaltutjara.
Tuesday, 26 April 2011
Ode to the long-grassers out the back
When you live in paradise, sometimes it is good to get up extra early, just to appreciate it in all its beauty.
So it was sunrise, the birds were going crazy. It was high tide, so I could hear the waves crashing on the sand. I was in the garden, which opens onto a park. Through the banana palms, I watched a family pack up their belongings, preparing for another day of trying to look like they weren't loitering.
The last few days, I'd noticed, jammed between branches in one of the park's trees, blankets and pillows, so I'd figured someone was camping there. Sitting in the garden, I watched young children dress younger children, as adults shook out the bedding and stashed it in the tree. One man came back from the public toilet, carrying bottles of water to drink and a bucket of water to wash in.
Someone peeled oranges and passed them around.
It was very orderly and peaceful, as I've always thought mornings should be. I wondered if this was the group of people I'd heard the night before, playing guitar and singing what sounded like hymns. I'd been trying to catch some of the phrases to see if I could identify the language, to figure out where these fellow travellers were from. I don't think they were speaking Yolngu Matha.
There are some very flash houses where we live. You know the tendency we whitefella coastal dwellers have to clamour for the "priceless" ocean views (I've found, funnily, they do have a price- usually a fairly hefty one)? I thought about the other properties that back onto the park, as I sat watching the family very quietly tidy up and begin to leave. Perhaps it was out of respect for people still asleep.
I'll choose to believe that's what it was, and not fear that someone looking out the kitchen window at the view they pay so much for might call the police on the "illegal" campers in their sight-line. Are there really people in the work who would dob people in for sleeping outside in a public space? Isn't public space... public?
It got me thinking about the various attitudes to "long-grassers". What are some fairly typical responses to seeing a family- no, actually, let's racialise this, just to be realistic. What are some fairly typical responses to seeing an Aboriginal family, early in the morning, out in a park, surrounded by bedding and bottles?
a) Drunks! Those bottles are of course full (or worse- empty!) of grog (or worse- metho!)
b) Stay away! They'll rob/humbug you.
c) The poor things... nowhere better to go...
Well, I'm not sure about that third one. Remember the "priceless" views around here? Who wouldn't choose to live metres from the foreshore (global warming notwithstanding). For all I know, this area, where I park my car, ride my bike and go about my business like it's my place, belonged to the family out the back for ... thousands and thousands of years. Are there any whitefellas around here, sipping g & ts in their fenced fortresses and enjoying the sunset, who can lay that sort of claim?
And then I remembered this report I'd recently read, conducted by Yolngu researchers who, using Yolngu research methodology (but, what.... you mean Aboriginal people had... academics and learning institutions before colonisation??? Didn't all that civilised stuff arrive on the First Fleet?), studied the stories of the Darwin "itinerants"/long-grassers.
I am so glad I'd read that report and was able to see our neighbour long-grassers with (hopefully) less western-biased eyes. The report can be found here:
It would help the community of Darwin a lot, I think, if police, councillors, residents of Darwin writing letters to the NT News were to read that report.
Here's a snippet:
"The main findings from this research were that for most people drinking
alcohol was not their reason for living in the long-grass."
Dear readers of, and writers to, the mainstream media: Please take a minute to read that sentence a few times.
"Rather, it was the consequence of deeper problems, which had not been addressed or resolved.
"Most people said they wanted to go home and live on their country but
there were many difficulties which prevented them doing so, and had usually
triggered their leaving in the first place. The main reason for coming to
Darwin was fear - fear of violence, including suicide, mental illness,
aggressive behaviour and galka’ (sorcery).
[I have been told there is also an increase in "intervention refugees" in the long-grass: people fleeing the proscribed areas the government has taken control of, blanket-banning porn and alcohol, enforcing leases of Aboriginal land, disempowering elders and "quarantining" welfare and CDEP wages.]
To continue from the report:
"Some people who are living in the long-grass in Darwin have come to seek
medical treatment, or to look after a relative receiving medical treatment,
and have been unable to find acceptable, appropriate and/or affordable accommodation. When these people want to return home, they sometimes find themselves stuck, unable to afford the cost of the airfare, and having to wait until their family can afford to buy them a ticket.
"Other reasons why people chose to leave large settlements in East Arnhem
Land to live in Darwin are grief at the loss of a relative, or seeing their
elders being treated disrespectfully. They leave to escape disputes and
conflict in the community. People also leave because they feel alienated by
those in power, and cannot get jobs or access to other resources such as
housing. Some leave because they do not want to live in large settlements,
and some live on outstations in the dry, but return to Darwin for the wet
season. Many people say they enjoy the freedom of living in the long-grass."
I think the family out the back has moved in the last few days. The dry has kicked in, so rather than the shelter under the thick tree in the park, they might be sleeping out in the open, under the stars, near the beach. Or maybe their holiday in town has finished, school term has started again and they've returned to some other place they call home?
If they come back, I would like to say hello. I've been wondering if it was them who took the paw paw we left ripening on the table outside. I was hoping it was them, but it was possibly the possums.
I'd like them to feel that, when they're sleeping out the back of our house, they don't need to be silent in case we call the police, that we will say hi to them like we do our other neighbours. Who are we to either pity them or feel uncomfortable with them around.
We live in paradise, but it's most likely more theirs than it is ours.
And, in paradise, who DOESN'T love sleeping out under the stars sometimes, falling asleep to the sound of the waves?
So it was sunrise, the birds were going crazy. It was high tide, so I could hear the waves crashing on the sand. I was in the garden, which opens onto a park. Through the banana palms, I watched a family pack up their belongings, preparing for another day of trying to look like they weren't loitering.
The last few days, I'd noticed, jammed between branches in one of the park's trees, blankets and pillows, so I'd figured someone was camping there. Sitting in the garden, I watched young children dress younger children, as adults shook out the bedding and stashed it in the tree. One man came back from the public toilet, carrying bottles of water to drink and a bucket of water to wash in.
Someone peeled oranges and passed them around.
It was very orderly and peaceful, as I've always thought mornings should be. I wondered if this was the group of people I'd heard the night before, playing guitar and singing what sounded like hymns. I'd been trying to catch some of the phrases to see if I could identify the language, to figure out where these fellow travellers were from. I don't think they were speaking Yolngu Matha.
There are some very flash houses where we live. You know the tendency we whitefella coastal dwellers have to clamour for the "priceless" ocean views (I've found, funnily, they do have a price- usually a fairly hefty one)? I thought about the other properties that back onto the park, as I sat watching the family very quietly tidy up and begin to leave. Perhaps it was out of respect for people still asleep.
I'll choose to believe that's what it was, and not fear that someone looking out the kitchen window at the view they pay so much for might call the police on the "illegal" campers in their sight-line. Are there really people in the work who would dob people in for sleeping outside in a public space? Isn't public space... public?
It got me thinking about the various attitudes to "long-grassers". What are some fairly typical responses to seeing a family- no, actually, let's racialise this, just to be realistic. What are some fairly typical responses to seeing an Aboriginal family, early in the morning, out in a park, surrounded by bedding and bottles?
a) Drunks! Those bottles are of course full (or worse- empty!) of grog (or worse- metho!)
b) Stay away! They'll rob/humbug you.
c) The poor things... nowhere better to go...
Well, I'm not sure about that third one. Remember the "priceless" views around here? Who wouldn't choose to live metres from the foreshore (global warming notwithstanding). For all I know, this area, where I park my car, ride my bike and go about my business like it's my place, belonged to the family out the back for ... thousands and thousands of years. Are there any whitefellas around here, sipping g & ts in their fenced fortresses and enjoying the sunset, who can lay that sort of claim?
And then I remembered this report I'd recently read, conducted by Yolngu researchers who, using Yolngu research methodology (but, what.... you mean Aboriginal people had... academics and learning institutions before colonisation??? Didn't all that civilised stuff arrive on the First Fleet?), studied the stories of the Darwin "itinerants"/long-grassers.
I am so glad I'd read that report and was able to see our neighbour long-grassers with (hopefully) less western-biased eyes. The report can be found here:
It would help the community of Darwin a lot, I think, if police, councillors, residents of Darwin writing letters to the NT News were to read that report.
Here's a snippet:
"The main findings from this research were that for most people drinking
alcohol was not their reason for living in the long-grass."
Dear readers of, and writers to, the mainstream media: Please take a minute to read that sentence a few times.
"Rather, it was the consequence of deeper problems, which had not been addressed or resolved.
"Most people said they wanted to go home and live on their country but
there were many difficulties which prevented them doing so, and had usually
triggered their leaving in the first place. The main reason for coming to
Darwin was fear - fear of violence, including suicide, mental illness,
aggressive behaviour and galka’ (sorcery).
[I have been told there is also an increase in "intervention refugees" in the long-grass: people fleeing the proscribed areas the government has taken control of, blanket-banning porn and alcohol, enforcing leases of Aboriginal land, disempowering elders and "quarantining" welfare and CDEP wages.]
To continue from the report:
"Some people who are living in the long-grass in Darwin have come to seek
medical treatment, or to look after a relative receiving medical treatment,
and have been unable to find acceptable, appropriate and/or affordable accommodation. When these people want to return home, they sometimes find themselves stuck, unable to afford the cost of the airfare, and having to wait until their family can afford to buy them a ticket.
"Other reasons why people chose to leave large settlements in East Arnhem
Land to live in Darwin are grief at the loss of a relative, or seeing their
elders being treated disrespectfully. They leave to escape disputes and
conflict in the community. People also leave because they feel alienated by
those in power, and cannot get jobs or access to other resources such as
housing. Some leave because they do not want to live in large settlements,
and some live on outstations in the dry, but return to Darwin for the wet
season. Many people say they enjoy the freedom of living in the long-grass."
I think the family out the back has moved in the last few days. The dry has kicked in, so rather than the shelter under the thick tree in the park, they might be sleeping out in the open, under the stars, near the beach. Or maybe their holiday in town has finished, school term has started again and they've returned to some other place they call home?
If they come back, I would like to say hello. I've been wondering if it was them who took the paw paw we left ripening on the table outside. I was hoping it was them, but it was possibly the possums.
I'd like them to feel that, when they're sleeping out the back of our house, they don't need to be silent in case we call the police, that we will say hi to them like we do our other neighbours. Who are we to either pity them or feel uncomfortable with them around.
We live in paradise, but it's most likely more theirs than it is ours.
And, in paradise, who DOESN'T love sleeping out under the stars sometimes, falling asleep to the sound of the waves?
Sunday, 24 April 2011
A day at the football
Well, this is rather late but I thought I should share our last football-based adventure in the Tiwi Islands.
This was the day of the fabled Tiwi Island cup and the requirement for permits is waived for the day.
You go over by small plane. So small that Emma had to sit in the co-pilot's chair. Occasionally she bumped the steering wheel (or whatever that's called) but no one died and we can all laugh about it now.
The day is also a chance for the islands to showcase art and culture. Football fans rub shoulders with the artistic crowd and vice versa. Above is from the museum. The poles are carved into birds that indicate signs or events associated with that bird, such as fresh water and a particular plant, or clan groups for whom the particular bird may be a totem. They are also used in funerals.
This was the day of the fabled Tiwi Island cup and the requirement for permits is waived for the day.
You go over by small plane. So small that Emma had to sit in the co-pilot's chair. Occasionally she bumped the steering wheel (or whatever that's called) but no one died and we can all laugh about it now.
"I didn't just see something fall off that wing, did I? Did anyone else? I'm sure it's fine."
The day is also a chance for the islands to showcase art and culture. Football fans rub shoulders with the artistic crowd and vice versa. Above is from the museum. The poles are carved into birds that indicate signs or events associated with that bird, such as fresh water and a particular plant, or clan groups for whom the particular bird may be a totem. They are also used in funerals.
It's a nature shot!
Ah sweet shade — a precious resource today.
"But Pete," you ask. "WHAT ABOUT THE FOOTBALL?"
Oh right. Action photography!
We did get better photos than that. First here's some shots of the women's game:
We can't really tell you much about that game because we were stuck looking for something vegetarian at the bistro. We settled for chicken.
The main game between the Imalu Tigers and the Ranku Eagles we got much more of. We found a place to sit, noticed we were in the Tigers' section and decided to go with them as our team. We got to meet some of the Tigers' strongest players:
And their most ardent supporters:
The Imalu Tigers won the day (GO TEAM!) mostly through, as far as I can tell, superior ball control and marking. There was some controversy that the Eagles had some bad calls from the umpire but I don't see it.
Then people retired to the club for a hard-earned light beer.
Having XXXX Gold as your main beer may be the most ingenious anti-drinking campaign yet.
The above photo would probably used by a mainstream media organisation to decry alcohol abuse in remote Aboriginal communities but this really was just a nice little club in a unique location.
The club is run by locals who enforce strict rules about how much alcohol you can have and when the club is open. It does make you wonder whether more "wet canteens" would be a good idea in more remote communities but, as always, I think it depends on what that community wants.
No one got out of control here and actually most people were way more friendly than you'd find in many towns this size. It was simply a very pleasant afternoon.
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