* submitted to The Australian for publication
Last night, fifty wild camels came to watch basketball opposite my house. There was no-one playing. The young Aboriginal fellas who usually play late into the night, stereos blasting in their battered Holden Commodores, had gone home. No-one likes to be out in the dark when mamu (evil spirits) roam.
We saw the camels at midnight, just before the streetlights switch off. It’s hard to know how long they were there, drawn in by the scent of water. More often, the camels lurch around the airstrip, causing problems for the ‘doctor plane’ and my partner, Fred, who has to set out the airstrip lights by hand.
Even the water they sought was a mirage. The night before, Fred and I were zooming out to the only working bore, 18 kilometres away. The water had stopped pumping again. There are three bores for the community. Only one is working. The contracted electrician who services the bores and power station for our region of over 250,000 square kilometres in remote Western Australia resigned five months ago. There is no one yet to replace him.
Hastily filling buckets before we left, we prepared for the worst. Days without water in the searing heat of a central desert summer. Only this time, with a large ‘sorry camp’ on the edges of the community, and community numbers swelling for the funeral later that week, no water would be a disaster.
I started to wonder about evacuation plans as I filled the sink to almost overflowing. The aged care centre in our community has water tanks, but hardly enough to last us for more than a day. Our store, which was built 18 years ago when the community had 50 people, is too small to meet even current needs, let along hold emergency bottled water. With a community of over 200 residents and growing, and more than 300 mourners, we were stretched to the limit.
To make matters worse, while Fred was digging the grave for the funeral (he’s a handy chap), the powerhouse went down. Again. Too many old air conditioners, working at peak inefficiency. This was the fourth time the powerhouse went down this week. There are three diesel generators. Only one is working. Thankfully, Fred has done this a few times, so with some advice on the satellite phone, we were back up and running.
In fact, running over the border into the Northern Territory on a 400 kilometre round trip to collect the mail bag. It had been left behind in Alice Springs by the weekly air service. We hurriedly arranged for it to come out on the ‘bush bus’, but that service stops at the border. Mail bags are the top priority, along with medicine for the clinic. Unfortunately, not everyone in town understands this when deciding what has to be left behind. The box of pamphlets we got instead were not nearly as important as the family payment cheques. Many community members rely on this to make it through the weekend, with their per capita incomes the second lowest in Australia.
While we were collecting the mail, we called into the local government business manager’s office, and sounded him out on possible changes now Labor is in power. Rudd says he is interested in the infrastructure needs of remote communities. Perhaps the real costs of servicing the powerhouse and bore might be realised. More importantly, perhaps we could finally get some funding for the new store, so desperately needed here in Wanarn. In the meantime, the camels advance closer, our store gets smaller and we wait.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Tourist time
Giles Weather Station: Burning Daylight HoursThere is limited tourist fodder out here in the Ngaanyatjarra Lands. In fact, if you actually wanted to travel out here, and follow the information provided in the guides, you'd probably get it all wrong.
The main map of Australia in the most recent (just updated) Lonely Planet Guide to Australia, 2007, doesn't even identify the unsealed road from Uluru through to Laverton. As usual, that blank space in the middle of Australia is a useful place to situate interesting notes about tourist places of greater import and attraction, such as Uluru itself. It seems hard to imagine that an (albeit unsealed) road called The Outback Highway, or alternatively, the Great Central Road could be omitted from the leading tourist guide on our country.
A more detailed regional map in the guide itself also shows that if you were to head to Uluru from Laverton, you might well end up trying to get to Uluru via South Australia (which would take an extra 8 hours if you actually did it). Part of the road including Warakurna and the Giles Weather Station that continues on to Uluru, doesn't even exist on the map! The road just peters out to nothing before the NT border.
Another road map I have, which provides detailed road information and (for outback areas) guidance on fuel stops also identifies that there is no diesel or petrol available for the 1700 k trip from Laverton to Uluru. I wonder whether the authors of this bit of information paused to consider how the local communities got their fuel supplies.
With all this misinformation, I was not surprised to see some boy scout tourists at Warakurna filling their car with fuel purchased in Alice Springs (note: there are 4 fuel outlets between Alice and Warakurna) because they thought they might get stuck. The jerry cans were being emptied into their car, next to the bowsers, to lighten their load. They had enough fuel to get to Laverton, a further 800 k away!
For all that, I do agree there are only two readily accessible tourist highlights on the Laverton to Uluru road - a tour of Giles Weather Station at Warakurna (complete with daily weather balloon release), and the Cultural Centre at Warburton. For a 2-3 day drive, it's not yet quite worth writing home about...
Unless, of course, you happen to live out here and it's a highlight of the local event calender for your visiting friends and family. It sure beats taking them to the shop between 2-4pm for a pie!
And, for those who don't like spoilsports, close your eyes for an almost real-life experience of the balloon release at Giles:
Why the great silence?
Humble apologies for the long silence on the blog. It's hard to believe it's been six months since I last wrote something down.
I've been carrying out regularly updated pieces of paper, entitled 'Warburton Blog Entries - To Add' for all that time. Now that the list of blog titles is heading onto page 2 and I have a quiet afternoon, I felt the time had come to bite the bullet again. At last.
Reasons for delay (in order, from May 07):
I've been carrying out regularly updated pieces of paper, entitled 'Warburton Blog Entries - To Add' for all that time. Now that the list of blog titles is heading onto page 2 and I have a quiet afternoon, I felt the time had come to bite the bullet again. At last.
Reasons for delay (in order, from May 07):
- Thought about resigning.
- Decided against it.
- Ethical dilemma at work, flurries of activity, misinformation and difficult judgment calls. (Note to self: Next time, call on Ethi-call 1800 672 303)
- Vincent Fairfax Fellowship (VFF) reading (one packed, double-sided A4 folder)
- VFF homework, being 'notes to self' and 'various chats with friends' (right up my alley).
- Went to Sydney for VFF recall
- Went to Bali for quick holiday
- Travelled many thousands of kilometres for work, no settled home
- Organised a week long language course on the Lands (just recently held)
- Weeks 1-2 Being courted by and courting new 'lub'
- Week 3 Made successful move on new lub
- Week 4 Moved office into new lub's house
- Week 5 Moved house from Kanpa to Wanarn
- Week 6-12 Got to know new lub
- Applied for remote Central Australia public service jobs for next year
- Dad visits Wanarn
- Panicked about lack of preparation for VFF overseas trip next year
- Learnt how to use and buy things from eBay
- Went east for Carrie Balneave's wedding and meet family (mine and Fred's)
- Attended language course
I thought I was very remiss, but it does rather make sense when you look at it like that!
Here's a picture from Dad's visit:
Four times a year
Yes, to the carefully observant and regular visitor to my long suffering, much neglected blog, you will notice that the title has changed. I am no longer resident in Warburton (as the blog title suggested, correct as at Feb 07 this year) nor in Kanpa (as blog readers would know was really the case). I am now in Wanarn.
And here is my new address. I plan to keep this address for the foreseeable future, so feel free to update your address books with pen not pencil this time:
Wanarn is about 150k east of Warburton, so now I'm much more centrally located. If you can call 'central' a location that is 1000k from a Coles or Woolworths supermarket. Wanarn is home to Fred, my new 'lub'. He'll absolutely love to have his photo up here on the web, so here it is:
And here is my new address. I plan to keep this address for the foreseeable future, so feel free to update your address books with pen not pencil this time:PMB 117, Wanarn Community
via Alice Springs NT 0872
08 8955 8000
The curious amongst you, here are a few pictures of Wanarn, taken from the top of the water tank.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Turtle Touring
One of the great frustrations with my job is the lack of housing. I've made comments before on the blog, but it's worth another indulgence if you'll please.
Theoretically, my job is to work up agreements between community members and government, and to help them advocate for and present those agreements at government meetings. That's the theory anyhow.
In order to do that job, you need to actually meet and get to know community members. Without this, you have no job.
If you tried to do that task from Alice Springs, you'd never get back to your computer. It takes nearly a day to reach the first community, let alone talk to anyone.
When you try to do it from the Lands, you still find that some weeks clock up to 3000k on your odometer! The region is, after all, the size of Victoria.
So, after deciding to up stakes and just take a risk, I moved out and trusted to fate.
The end result was living in 4 different houses in one year, with 3 different office spaces.
And, even then, I still felt like a turtle! By that, I mean, I would have to carry around my house on my back, wandering from place to place. My yurltu would be packed with sleeping bag, pillow, swag, food in the fridge, clothes for anything from 2 days to 2 weeks, and myriad safety gear.*
Plans are quick to change out here, and it's not always possible to make the 400k round trip home to pick up your sneakers.
* I use the past tense because the job has changed so markedly there is no longer much point in being on the road constantly, developing agreements with community members. When government can be responsive to the agreement-making process, perhaps the turtle will reappear!
Theoretically, my job is to work up agreements between community members and government, and to help them advocate for and present those agreements at government meetings. That's the theory anyhow.
In order to do that job, you need to actually meet and get to know community members. Without this, you have no job.
If you tried to do that task from Alice Springs, you'd never get back to your computer. It takes nearly a day to reach the first community, let alone talk to anyone.
When you try to do it from the Lands, you still find that some weeks clock up to 3000k on your odometer! The region is, after all, the size of Victoria.
So, after deciding to up stakes and just take a risk, I moved out and trusted to fate.
The end result was living in 4 different houses in one year, with 3 different office spaces.
And, even then, I still felt like a turtle! By that, I mean, I would have to carry around my house on my back, wandering from place to place. My yurltu would be packed with sleeping bag, pillow, swag, food in the fridge, clothes for anything from 2 days to 2 weeks, and myriad safety gear.*
Plans are quick to change out here, and it's not always possible to make the 400k round trip home to pick up your sneakers.
* I use the past tense because the job has changed so markedly there is no longer much point in being on the road constantly, developing agreements with community members. When government can be responsive to the agreement-making process, perhaps the turtle will reappear!
Sunday, May 20, 2007
On the road again...
On the road again
Goin' places that I've never been
Seein' things that I may never see again
And I can't wait to get on the road again
This is the story of what happens when I get on the road on the Ngaanyatjarra Lands.
First, my satellite phone, courtesy of Globalstar, doesn't work. Leave a message. Suddenly, while driving, it'll come into range, beep madly, I'll dial 121 to get the message, and it'll cut out before I hear it. Later I'll realise it's in range again, and hopefully I'll get the message just in time. On rare occasions, the phone is in range, it rings and I answer it. Globalstar is putting more birds in the sky, apparently. In the meantime, if you need a satellite phone, I urge you to purchase Iridium.
Second, if I am travelling alone, I spend my time listening to podcasts that I've now been able to download from my new satellite broadband connection. Great Speeches of Hhistory. The Philosopher's Zone. Free podcast novels. This American Life. Send more podcast links. Many hours are spent on the road to and from Kanpa listening to the goings on of the outside world.
If I am travelling with Yarnangu, it's the Dixie Chicks. Well, more correctly, the music on my iPod comes into it's own but after a while the passengers are asking just for the few country music songs I have (read: Dixie Chicks). After 5 hours of the same songs, I'm calling my friend Pip to ask him to send me the code for an iMusic card purchased from Woolies in Canberra and I'm buying $20 cassette tapes from roadhouses. Purchase 1: Dan Vogler - Christian country music. Purchase 2: Pitjantjatjara country music, including Waltzing Matilda in language. These are desperate times, the choice is limited, and I'm not always making the final decision. Send more cassettes.
Three, look out for camels and wild animals. Camels, so that we can keep the car in functioning order. Wild animals, so we can eat for dinner tonight. Now that Robin has bullets for his rifle, and there are difficulties storing it away from children when he's not in Warburton, our trips to communities for work are also hunting trips. I'm trying to train my eye for the distinctive glint of white, far off in the shrubs, that signals the neck feathers of a bush turkey. I've had no luck so far. Instead, the best I've been able to spot them is when they rise heavily into the air by the side of the road when disturbed.
Strangely, the bush turkeys don't always fly away, or even far away when they are disturbed (such as be vehicles or a passing bullet at speed). More often, they will bump along at a rolling gait by webbed foot, heading somewhat haphazardly for higher shrubs to shield them. Of course, this doesn't stop us from getting off the road and following them slowly in the Toyota, over spinifex and small bushes, looking out for large fallen branches that will spear the tyres and leave you with a flat and no turkey. I've also discovered that if you wound a turkey in the wings, leaving it unable to fly, it's then the responsibility of the fastest in the car to chase it and bash it over the head with a wheel jack. It hardly needs stating that I am never the chosen for this task, being normally the one behind the wheel or unable to be convinced to take off into the bushes with a wheel jack.
Once the turkey is dead, by whatever means, and retrieved, the first task is to take it's intestines out. Well, I'm not sure it's really it's intestines, whatever it is, it comes out of its bum, and is long and intestine-like. Someone will usually pluck some breast feathers off, and use those for leverage on the inside. Either that, it's the keep your hands somewhat less slimy than they would otherwise be, I'm not sure. I've just watched this bit too, as you can imagine. The turkey is then deposited into a spare garbage bag (always carry a sturdy disposable bag for just this reason), or wrapped in whatever else is to hand (a tarpaulin, perhaps), thrown in the back or on the back seat floor, and continues with us on the journey.Luckily, or perhaps not, I've never had to deal with how a kangaroo is stored in a packed car, with the back filled to the brim with bags, blankets, and a car fridge; 3 women and a baby in the back seat; a driver, passenger and gun in the front. And no roof rack. I almost found out on my last trip to Cosmo-Newberry, as we rounded a corner and practically ran over three kangaroos on the road, having a quiet time at dusk. Despite a few attempts to get them as they bounced off, paused and retreated again, we didn't manage to down them and find out what next. Send more wild animals.
Fourthly, there are the directions. Sign language is commonly used by Yarnangu. So when I'm driving, I'm also keeping an eye out for any small signs being made by my passenger, such as a 'slow down' (palm of your hand moving down and back towards you), a bend in the road coming up (hand veering off around the bend), or a camel that I haven't seen (a finger pointing towards the direction of the camel). Because whitefellas always travel too fast on the roads (Yarnangu travel at the very safe speed of 80k, good for people not wearing seatbelts, to see the countryside, and slow down quick enough for turkey), I also keep my eye on the speedometer. If I don't, it won't be long before Debra says quietly from the back 'purin-purin' or 'purinpa', meaning steady, steady, slow down Sophie. Send more patience.
Lastly, there are the rockholes. But pointing out, naming, or stopping by rockholes isn't just that action alone. Travelling along a stretch of road for Yarnangu seems to be a completely different trip than what I might take, bouncing along, long kilometre after long kilometre. For Yarnangu, it's tracing a way past and between rockholes and different Dreaming sites. I imagine a vast map, spreading out from the road we are on, with rockholes, tjukurrpa, songs, stories, history, bush trips, and birth sites. Sometimes, Debra might start singing and if it's not a gospel tune, I imagine it must be related to where we are. Robin might point out a rockhole as we pass it, and I'll practise saying the name correctly. We might pull over, and have a look at it, seeing if it's clean, or the camels have been there recently. Some rockholes have 'spiders' over them, a welded iron construction that looks like a large skull cap, designed and made by Wanarn mob and installed by Ng Land Management Unit. The keystone of the spider is a recyled hub cap, and the spines stretching down are iron beams. Sometimes, rockholes and birthsites pass without me ever knowing. It's part of the journey, and even though we are in the same car, it's not the same journey. Send more language lessons.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Marnkurrpa
Robin leaned on the car door, having just come from the Warburton community office. They already knew the questions passing between them.
'Friday', he said.
'Marnkurrpa? (three)', she checked.
'Yuwa', he replied. Yes.
Three funerals on Friday.
It was a long week in Warburton, the second week of May. Robin was burying his niece, Debra her sister, and an old man from Patjarr was also to be buried on the same day.
When you hear about the low life expectancy among Aboriginal people, it sounds like an awful statistic. On average, an Aboriginal man can expect to live to age 60; an Aboriginal woman, age 65. But it sounds like that, statistics only. It's hard to imagine people dying regularly, routinely, at young ages.
In order to get an average that is so low, it also means that there are many deaths at much younger ages. While Mr Ward from Patjarr may have been an old man, the other two women being buried in Warburton where young. Robin's niece, 36. Debra's sister, 41. Only two years difference from the ages of my brothers and I.
Three funerals in Warburton.
It is hard to write a post like this. There are some things that are not appropriate to say. The names of the people who have passed away. The different events of the funeral itself, with the three families mourning. But there are some observations I feel comfortable making. And here they are.
Sometimes, I and others wonder why things take so long to achieve in Aboriginal communities. Engagement can be hard to achieve. People are hard to find. Only a small number might be interested, and then only for a short time. Shy and unconfident, encouragement happens in small steps.
But the week I spent helping Robin and Debra's families with their funeral pamphlets was the most engaged and participative I've experienced on the Lands, even if the events framing it were full of sorrow. Funeral pamphlets are important to people. I was sought out for assistance. Surrounded by larger numbers of family members, debates over the right names and wording and stories and pamphlet design would swirl around me. I was confidently directed in English, the story being read and re-read aloud, changes made. At times, I would suggest a different way to say something, or the types of words used when talking about the deceased. My suggestions would be carefully considered and I would be directed to make the changes or 'wanti' (leave it). My expertise was technical - correct English, a computer, a printer, inserting borders and pictures, changing colours and fonts, access to a phone, access to help to make it happen. I made changes to the pamphlets wherever I was, or wherever I was needed - at the office, a friend's house, in a tent in a sorry camp, sitting on the esky, at the Shire and in a single bedroom in the roadhouse.
I don't know for how long funeral pamphlets have been produced on the Lands, or where the idea came. When Debra's family came to me, they had a clear idea of how it must look - front page (with a photo) including name and date of birth, 'in loving memory of' pages listing names of family members, special words, life story and then the order of service. But producing this is not an easy task, especially when there are three funerals, and it is hard to know exactly how it will be run.
Much time was spent on sourcing a photo (all done without me) of Debra's sister A colleague told me that the introduction of photos onto the pamphlets only occurred a few years ago, at the funeral of a young woman who died in a particularly tragic and shocking way. If we had been able to find an electronic photo of Robin's niece, that would also have been on her pamphlet. As she had not spent much time at Warburton recently, and calls to recent staff did not elicit any photos, we chose instead to insert a picture of a church in autumn.
The pages with the names of family members told the truth of extended Aboriginal families. The numbers of names left me reeling - at least three A5 pages of names with close family members for each booklet. The names of family groups connected to the deceased also numbered over 10 for each. The interconnectedness of Ngaanyatjarra families should not have surprised me, but still I found it remarkable.
Considering that the Ngaanyatjarra kin system is different from the English system (where the child of my sister would also be my child, but my brothers' children are nieces and nephews, and similarly if I were a man, my brother's children are my own), I was interested to note the difference between the two pamphlets. Debra's family chose to put the names down according to the English kin system, however baulked when they could not write down all the names of her sister's kaparli (grandchildren). In the end, they found the perfect solution - the direct grandchildren were named, and then a separate entry put in for all the kaparli (with this being the only use of Ngaanyatjarra in the pamphlet, all the rest being in English). Other than that, the main difficulty was finding a way to properly represent the slight difference that arose because Debra's father has two wives, and therefore brothers and sisters needed to be represented in a way that showed who was the natural mother of both the deceased and her siblings. By contrast, Robin's family used the English terms, but represented family members according to Ngaanyatjarra kin system. This meant 6 sets of grandparents, and long lists of uncles, aunties, nieces and nephews.
While I didn't understand the relationships, it is not surprising that the entry for 'cousin' on both pamphlets was very long. I suspect that Debra's family used this section to also put in names that had to be represented, even if not strictly cousin by the English kin system. It was also interesting to note that a 'wrong way' marriage (for Ngaanyatjarra people have strict marriage rules related to skin groups) meant that the individuals concerned couldn't be represented in the pamphlet in their correct English kin relationship to the deceased.
The life stories of both women were sad, sweet and short. They had happy family lives, growing up in Warburton, going out bush with their family, hunting and joking with family. Sometimes they lived with family in communities further west, closer to Kalgoorlie, but moved back to Warburton. They went on excursions to Perth and Alice Springs. They got married. Debra's sister had children. They travelled around the State, sometimes coming back to Warburton for short stays. They ended up in Kalgoorlie, became unwell, and died. They would leave a empty space in the hearts of their families.
Once the pamphlets were completed, we then had to find a printer. This is harder than it looks, because printers are usually held by organisations, who usually do not condone large number of coloured booklets for 'unrelated' business being printed out from their resources. In the interests of helping people with their business, I would have used my printer, however the colour cartridges were running out and I had a technical glitch that was also wrecking the double-sided copies (which in turn destroyed the 'book fold' for the pamphlets). In the end, we used the school's printer for Robin's niece's' pamphlet, and because it didn't print double sided, we spent an hour glueing and stapling the booklet together. After the school closed, however, we had to find another printer for Debra's sister's pamphlet (along with making final edits and additions to the booklet).
In the end, at about 8.30pm on the night before the funeral, we were searching for a functional printer. A colleague loaned me her keys to the Shire building, told me the security code and her password, and wished me the best. With 5 women and one baby in tow, we proceeded to set off the security alarm, call over the Shire CEO, print an inadequate copy on a dotjet printer, make some more final edits, call over the Shire CEO again to connect to the better colour printer, spend 90 minutes printing and glueing and stapling, and then just for good measure, laminating three copies of the front page. At last, 10.30pm, we closed the Shire, reset the alarm, pocketed the pamphlets, and went to bed.
The next morning, the three family groups collected in different parts of Warburton, waiting for the caskets to arrive by plane. Family members from prison flew in, handcuffed to corrections staff. Visiting pastors read out passages of the Bible while the Ngaanyatjarra Health ambulances and a spare troopie took the caskets from the plane to the waiting tables in front of the church, and slowly the three groups walked in to the church yard, assembling for the funeral. The pastor leading the service encouraged everyone to ensure there was a 'successful funeral'. Flowers were woven through the chainwire fence. Three women sang, and the funerals started.
As the families read the pamphlets, then and later, I am sure it would not have gone unnoticed that so many of the listed names had a small marker next to them. In 8 point font and italics, the names of relatives unable to attend, many younger or similar in age to the woman being remembered that day, marked the real story of Aboriginal life in Australia today.
(dec)
'Friday', he said.
'Marnkurrpa? (three)', she checked.
'Yuwa', he replied. Yes.
Three funerals on Friday.
It was a long week in Warburton, the second week of May. Robin was burying his niece, Debra her sister, and an old man from Patjarr was also to be buried on the same day.
When you hear about the low life expectancy among Aboriginal people, it sounds like an awful statistic. On average, an Aboriginal man can expect to live to age 60; an Aboriginal woman, age 65. But it sounds like that, statistics only. It's hard to imagine people dying regularly, routinely, at young ages.
In order to get an average that is so low, it also means that there are many deaths at much younger ages. While Mr Ward from Patjarr may have been an old man, the other two women being buried in Warburton where young. Robin's niece, 36. Debra's sister, 41. Only two years difference from the ages of my brothers and I.
Three funerals in Warburton.
It is hard to write a post like this. There are some things that are not appropriate to say. The names of the people who have passed away. The different events of the funeral itself, with the three families mourning. But there are some observations I feel comfortable making. And here they are.
Sometimes, I and others wonder why things take so long to achieve in Aboriginal communities. Engagement can be hard to achieve. People are hard to find. Only a small number might be interested, and then only for a short time. Shy and unconfident, encouragement happens in small steps.
But the week I spent helping Robin and Debra's families with their funeral pamphlets was the most engaged and participative I've experienced on the Lands, even if the events framing it were full of sorrow. Funeral pamphlets are important to people. I was sought out for assistance. Surrounded by larger numbers of family members, debates over the right names and wording and stories and pamphlet design would swirl around me. I was confidently directed in English, the story being read and re-read aloud, changes made. At times, I would suggest a different way to say something, or the types of words used when talking about the deceased. My suggestions would be carefully considered and I would be directed to make the changes or 'wanti' (leave it). My expertise was technical - correct English, a computer, a printer, inserting borders and pictures, changing colours and fonts, access to a phone, access to help to make it happen. I made changes to the pamphlets wherever I was, or wherever I was needed - at the office, a friend's house, in a tent in a sorry camp, sitting on the esky, at the Shire and in a single bedroom in the roadhouse.
I don't know for how long funeral pamphlets have been produced on the Lands, or where the idea came. When Debra's family came to me, they had a clear idea of how it must look - front page (with a photo) including name and date of birth, 'in loving memory of' pages listing names of family members, special words, life story and then the order of service. But producing this is not an easy task, especially when there are three funerals, and it is hard to know exactly how it will be run.
Much time was spent on sourcing a photo (all done without me) of Debra's sister A colleague told me that the introduction of photos onto the pamphlets only occurred a few years ago, at the funeral of a young woman who died in a particularly tragic and shocking way. If we had been able to find an electronic photo of Robin's niece, that would also have been on her pamphlet. As she had not spent much time at Warburton recently, and calls to recent staff did not elicit any photos, we chose instead to insert a picture of a church in autumn.
The pages with the names of family members told the truth of extended Aboriginal families. The numbers of names left me reeling - at least three A5 pages of names with close family members for each booklet. The names of family groups connected to the deceased also numbered over 10 for each. The interconnectedness of Ngaanyatjarra families should not have surprised me, but still I found it remarkable.
Considering that the Ngaanyatjarra kin system is different from the English system (where the child of my sister would also be my child, but my brothers' children are nieces and nephews, and similarly if I were a man, my brother's children are my own), I was interested to note the difference between the two pamphlets. Debra's family chose to put the names down according to the English kin system, however baulked when they could not write down all the names of her sister's kaparli (grandchildren). In the end, they found the perfect solution - the direct grandchildren were named, and then a separate entry put in for all the kaparli (with this being the only use of Ngaanyatjarra in the pamphlet, all the rest being in English). Other than that, the main difficulty was finding a way to properly represent the slight difference that arose because Debra's father has two wives, and therefore brothers and sisters needed to be represented in a way that showed who was the natural mother of both the deceased and her siblings. By contrast, Robin's family used the English terms, but represented family members according to Ngaanyatjarra kin system. This meant 6 sets of grandparents, and long lists of uncles, aunties, nieces and nephews.
While I didn't understand the relationships, it is not surprising that the entry for 'cousin' on both pamphlets was very long. I suspect that Debra's family used this section to also put in names that had to be represented, even if not strictly cousin by the English kin system. It was also interesting to note that a 'wrong way' marriage (for Ngaanyatjarra people have strict marriage rules related to skin groups) meant that the individuals concerned couldn't be represented in the pamphlet in their correct English kin relationship to the deceased.
The life stories of both women were sad, sweet and short. They had happy family lives, growing up in Warburton, going out bush with their family, hunting and joking with family. Sometimes they lived with family in communities further west, closer to Kalgoorlie, but moved back to Warburton. They went on excursions to Perth and Alice Springs. They got married. Debra's sister had children. They travelled around the State, sometimes coming back to Warburton for short stays. They ended up in Kalgoorlie, became unwell, and died. They would leave a empty space in the hearts of their families.
Once the pamphlets were completed, we then had to find a printer. This is harder than it looks, because printers are usually held by organisations, who usually do not condone large number of coloured booklets for 'unrelated' business being printed out from their resources. In the interests of helping people with their business, I would have used my printer, however the colour cartridges were running out and I had a technical glitch that was also wrecking the double-sided copies (which in turn destroyed the 'book fold' for the pamphlets). In the end, we used the school's printer for Robin's niece's' pamphlet, and because it didn't print double sided, we spent an hour glueing and stapling the booklet together. After the school closed, however, we had to find another printer for Debra's sister's pamphlet (along with making final edits and additions to the booklet).
In the end, at about 8.30pm on the night before the funeral, we were searching for a functional printer. A colleague loaned me her keys to the Shire building, told me the security code and her password, and wished me the best. With 5 women and one baby in tow, we proceeded to set off the security alarm, call over the Shire CEO, print an inadequate copy on a dotjet printer, make some more final edits, call over the Shire CEO again to connect to the better colour printer, spend 90 minutes printing and glueing and stapling, and then just for good measure, laminating three copies of the front page. At last, 10.30pm, we closed the Shire, reset the alarm, pocketed the pamphlets, and went to bed.
The next morning, the three family groups collected in different parts of Warburton, waiting for the caskets to arrive by plane. Family members from prison flew in, handcuffed to corrections staff. Visiting pastors read out passages of the Bible while the Ngaanyatjarra Health ambulances and a spare troopie took the caskets from the plane to the waiting tables in front of the church, and slowly the three groups walked in to the church yard, assembling for the funeral. The pastor leading the service encouraged everyone to ensure there was a 'successful funeral'. Flowers were woven through the chainwire fence. Three women sang, and the funerals started.
As the families read the pamphlets, then and later, I am sure it would not have gone unnoticed that so many of the listed names had a small marker next to them. In 8 point font and italics, the names of relatives unable to attend, many younger or similar in age to the woman being remembered that day, marked the real story of Aboriginal life in Australia today.
(dec)
Monday, April 30, 2007
ARIA Award
The ARIA Award goes to...
Well, perhaps I should explain what ARIA is. No, it's not the Australian Recording Industry Association. It's the Accessibility/Remoteness Index of Australia. This was developed by the Commonwealth Dept of Health and the National Key Centre of Social Applications of Geographic Information System in 1997 (there is such a centre!... I wonder what else they do other than ARIA awards...).
The ARIA measures how far you are, from any one point, to the nearest urban centre. There are 5 major categories: major city, inner regional, outer regional, remote and very remote. There is also a category called 'migratory' but unless this relates to birds or the nearest urban centre is liable to move, I'm not really sure what that one means.
The class of remoteness is assessed according to the 'restriction upon accessibility to the widest range of goods, services and opportunities for social interaction'.
But what does this really mean in practice:
Goods
Well, perhaps I should explain what ARIA is. No, it's not the Australian Recording Industry Association. It's the Accessibility/Remoteness Index of Australia. This was developed by the Commonwealth Dept of Health and the National Key Centre of Social Applications of Geographic Information System in 1997 (there is such a centre!... I wonder what else they do other than ARIA awards...).
The ARIA measures how far you are, from any one point, to the nearest urban centre. There are 5 major categories: major city, inner regional, outer regional, remote and very remote. There is also a category called 'migratory' but unless this relates to birds or the nearest urban centre is liable to move, I'm not really sure what that one means.
The class of remoteness is assessed according to the 'restriction upon accessibility to the widest range of goods, services and opportunities for social interaction'.
But what does this really mean in practice:
Goods
- I stock up on my favourite toothpaste and soaps whenever I'm in town
- Passing visitors bring me out emergency supplies when I miscalculate stocks
- I have all the non-fiction books I'll need for the next year piled up around me
- If my laptop dies, I'm stuffed
- I've learned to live without a highlighter. It' s just not high priority enough to remember on town trips.
Services
- My front and back screen doors don't close properly. They will continue not to close properly until we either get a training course for the young fellas on CDEP or I get new doors
- The dogs get into my bin on a regular basis (bins are emptied sporadically, all depends what the fellas are doing that day)
- My tax is overdue. I keep forgetting to do something about it, but it all seems too complicated to work out. Calling up, explaining, sending the papers, etc
- Getting something laminated requires more organisation than it's worth.
- My hair is getting long, and I'm resorting to leave-in hair conditioner.
- One day, I'm going to have to work out how to get that pinboard mounted onto my office wall. Myself.
Opportunities for social interaction
- Thankfully, I like my own company.
So, the ARIA goes to ... Kanpa!
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Bush Kitchen
Consistent with my prediliction for all matters food, I thought I'd turn my hands to the bush kitchen. Food and cooking in the outback.
It is an unmistakable fact that since I've moved to Kanpa, I've made more creative meals than I have in decades.
Case in point: Tonight's Fetta and Baked Pumpkin Pizza (with Homemade Pizza Dough).
As Pip can attest, I don't really cook. And certainly not with any sense of creativity. Pizza is a good example. It generally doesn't come with a recipe (instead requiring the cook to exercise some quality of invention to personalise his or her pizza), and I certainly don't bother to create or knead dough under normal circumstances.
Perhaps it's the fact that I just can't go out for dinner. So if I want to avoid eating steamed vegies with a can of salmon (my old standby dinner) or make a one-pot stew strictly according to the recipe (and from a selection of favourites that I can count on one hand), I need to get more creative. I've got a bit more time on my hands too, with not seeing 2 movies a week, going out, or popping up to the local theatre.
So, when the moment comes in between reading, listening to podcasts or music, or doing another laborious load of washing on my twin tub washing machine, I am sometimes inspired to approach the kitchen like an enthusiastic novitiate. I've even taken to turning out meat and 3 veg dinners (which had always seemed too daunting - how on earth do you coordinate 4 items with disparate cooking requirements to come out at the same time?!).
Recent delights include Vegie Pack Soup (believe it or not but I've never used those soup packs, who on earth would have thought you could just chuck them all in at once), Lentil Soup Creation, and Spinach & Ricotta Filo Parcels. And even though I told Pip not to send anything I wouldn't know immediately what to do with, perhaps I will find a way after to use that tub of preserved lemons...
But a tub of preserved lemons is hardly the thing needed for the Yarnangu bush kitchen. Last week, my friend Tahana and I were lucky enough to be invited to a bush tucker feast unlike any I've seen (and this just a mere 200m from my door).
A knock on the door and the invitation to see 3 emus and 2 bush turkeys make their final hours in the world was extended. Bernard Newberry had been out hunting and, courtesy of the excellent rain in recent months, there was an abundance of things to shoot. Emus from Laverton had migrated up to the Lands and were hanging around waiting to have their necks broken, legs cut off below the knee, plucked, singed and then slung bum pointing up in a communal sacrificial pit.
A long pit, fit for the 3 emu bodies, was prepared. 
After it burnt down to coals, these were shovelled out and the birds thrown in. Bernard told me that in the 'olden days', they used to stuff the birds with eucalyptus leaves (in order to 'fatten' the birds and extend the meat further amongst all the waiting family members). The birds were also cooked in a type of oven created by hollowing out a cave in the side of pit, which cooked the birds slower. But today, they were being cooked like a marlu (kangaroo), by being placed at the bottom of the pit with coals and dirt heaped around them. The dirt helps to stop the outside of the bird from being charred. As Bernard said, 'it's not a burnt sacrifice'.
After it burnt down to coals, these were shovelled out and the birds thrown in. Bernard told me that in the 'olden days', they used to stuff the birds with eucalyptus leaves (in order to 'fatten' the birds and extend the meat further amongst all the waiting family members). The birds were also cooked in a type of oven created by hollowing out a cave in the side of pit, which cooked the birds slower. But today, they were being cooked like a marlu (kangaroo), by being placed at the bottom of the pit with coals and dirt heaped around them. The dirt helps to stop the outside of the bird from being charred. As Bernard said, 'it's not a burnt sacrifice'.While hunting with a gun is clearly a better way to down a bird, I wondered how emus used to be hunted. Bernard told me that they hunted them by luring the emu into a smaller space, then closing off the exit. Alternatively, witchetty grubs were hung in a circle from a tree, and when the emu approached, the hunter (who was perched in the tree) would spear the bird from above. The 'food in the tree' method was also what my colleague Robin Smythe said was used to hunt bush turkey, although the hunter was nearby with a boomerang ready instead of being in the tree itself.
Bush turkeys are normally thrown onto the top of a small fire, and cooked this way. That night, however, the turkeys were on their way back to be cooked in the oven. While Bernard thinks it spoils the turkeys a little, as they have more flavour when cooked on a fire, both Maria (Bernard's partner) and I agreed that it was a less gritty way to each a turkey.
The little kids are Maria's grandchildren and the nephew of one of the other residents here.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Breakfast with James Blundell
One of the delightful things about being in a slightly bigger remote town in the middle of nowhere is that, just sometimes, things happen in Warburton that wouldn't happen elsewhere.
Like James Blundell doing a special Warburton gig.
The Tamworth Country Music Festival On Tour was visiting about 20 remote towns in country Western Australia over 8 weeks. Warburton was on the list. The line up: James Blundell and Felicity Someone (she just won a Golden Guitar).
While I'm not much of a country music fan, other than the Dixie Chicks, even I know James Blundell and Way Out West.
So, with more careful attention to detail than usual, I made sure to be in Warburton last Monday night for a private concert with James Blundell.
The main Yarnangu cohort I hang out with at any community events are the West family women. They urged me to find out if James would do requests. I hardly needed prompting. After all, when else would I get the chance to speak to James and with a valid pretext.
Once I'd tracked him down in the little battered caravan next to the stage, he amiably agreed to dedicate 'Way out West' to the West family. We settled down in a pile of blankets, surrounded by the cool April fog and a clear night sky, to listen to the show.
The show as on a temporary stage down by the oval. Family groups sat around in small circles, dotted around the oval. Utes, landcruisers, troopies, and battered cars surrounded the smaller circles, just outside the low white fence of the oval. A game of touch footy was being played by the kids up the back.
The local coppers wandered around, smiling. Probably hoping that Yarnangu weren't too pissed off about being booked for traffic offences by all the visiting coppers on a marijuana sting operation the week before. The visiting coppers swaggered about, forgetting that they're the minority and not that ninti for anything really.
And Felicity and James played on. In between songs, there was a smattering of applause, but mostly just a quiet audience, watching the show, enjoying the music. A few nurses got up to dance, but only young kids joined them. Intermittently, one in a bunch of adolescent girls would jump out of the security of their group, and gyrate their hips to the music, arms in the air (this particularly erotic form of dance is the only one I've seen out here, apparently copied from black American music video clips).
After Way out West, with the cold setting in, and only one more song to go, we packed up and started to retreat to the comfort of our respective beds. Just at the final set ended, Debra and Nyingurta decided to ask for their photos to be taken with James. Like true groupies, we clustered around the caravan door, and finally emerging, we converged upon him. Like a true star, he was friendly and willing to pose for any number of photos. But was he just being nice, in a practiced star-like manner? Regardless, much was made later when we poured over the shots of Nyingurta being 'held tight' by Mr Blundell. See the squeeze at the top of her right shoulder!:
But what of breakfast?
The next morning, while poking around the roadhouse camp kitchen, I suddenly realised that my other breakfasting companion was none other than James himself. As often happens in the kitchen with passing visitors, we struck up a conversation and had a nice little exchange about what we were both doing here and what it meant for each us respectively.
And yes, he really is a nice bloke! I'm won over. He looks good in jeans, and perhaps it's time that the Dixie Chicks had some competition.
Like James Blundell doing a special Warburton gig.
The Tamworth Country Music Festival On Tour was visiting about 20 remote towns in country Western Australia over 8 weeks. Warburton was on the list. The line up: James Blundell and Felicity Someone (she just won a Golden Guitar).
While I'm not much of a country music fan, other than the Dixie Chicks, even I know James Blundell and Way Out West.
So, with more careful attention to detail than usual, I made sure to be in Warburton last Monday night for a private concert with James Blundell.
The main Yarnangu cohort I hang out with at any community events are the West family women. They urged me to find out if James would do requests. I hardly needed prompting. After all, when else would I get the chance to speak to James and with a valid pretext.
Once I'd tracked him down in the little battered caravan next to the stage, he amiably agreed to dedicate 'Way out West' to the West family. We settled down in a pile of blankets, surrounded by the cool April fog and a clear night sky, to listen to the show.
The show as on a temporary stage down by the oval. Family groups sat around in small circles, dotted around the oval. Utes, landcruisers, troopies, and battered cars surrounded the smaller circles, just outside the low white fence of the oval. A game of touch footy was being played by the kids up the back.
The local coppers wandered around, smiling. Probably hoping that Yarnangu weren't too pissed off about being booked for traffic offences by all the visiting coppers on a marijuana sting operation the week before. The visiting coppers swaggered about, forgetting that they're the minority and not that ninti for anything really.
And Felicity and James played on. In between songs, there was a smattering of applause, but mostly just a quiet audience, watching the show, enjoying the music. A few nurses got up to dance, but only young kids joined them. Intermittently, one in a bunch of adolescent girls would jump out of the security of their group, and gyrate their hips to the music, arms in the air (this particularly erotic form of dance is the only one I've seen out here, apparently copied from black American music video clips).
After Way out West, with the cold setting in, and only one more song to go, we packed up and started to retreat to the comfort of our respective beds. Just at the final set ended, Debra and Nyingurta decided to ask for their photos to be taken with James. Like true groupies, we clustered around the caravan door, and finally emerging, we converged upon him. Like a true star, he was friendly and willing to pose for any number of photos. But was he just being nice, in a practiced star-like manner? Regardless, much was made later when we poured over the shots of Nyingurta being 'held tight' by Mr Blundell. See the squeeze at the top of her right shoulder!:
But what of breakfast?
The next morning, while poking around the roadhouse camp kitchen, I suddenly realised that my other breakfasting companion was none other than James himself. As often happens in the kitchen with passing visitors, we struck up a conversation and had a nice little exchange about what we were both doing here and what it meant for each us respectively.
And yes, he really is a nice bloke! I'm won over. He looks good in jeans, and perhaps it's time that the Dixie Chicks had some competition.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Bring me a Zucchini
For those of you starting to read the blog in the right order (ie, from bottom to top), this is the promised 'Tall Tales from the Store' entry.
Shopping seems to be a preoccupation of mine out here. Re-reading my blog to date, it seems to reappear regularly, despite shopping being my next favourite thing to a poke in the eye.
But if the shop hours alone weren't reason enough to be keeping a pretty sharp eye on the basics of sustenance and survival, I also can't help but turn my attention to matters within the store.
I have been generally interested in the sorts of things that are and aren't for sale in the Warburton store. There is- rather surprisingly - gourmet cheddar sticks, chai latte sachets and pickled asparagus. There isn't - equally suprisingly - hot water bottles, skim milk powder, and diet cordial. And this in a community where health problems and low incomes would mean the latter probably should be available and the former easily de-stocked. I think the explanation has to be that the people who can best advocate for their needs are those with the least need to do so. Equally, store policies on good eating and stocking (such as not putting 1 year out of date stock on the shelves) are not a top priority for the money making enterprise that is the community store.
The other interesting thing is that there is no EFTPOS or credit facilities at the store (or even the roadhouse). Cash in general is often a problem for me, and not just because I'm too busy with my burgeoning art collection to focus on the health of my bank balance. If I need a large amount of cash for whatever reason, such as paying my vehicle registration, organising travel allowance for 10 members, or fraud, I'm completely stumped. I rely upon the goodwill of the store managers to give me a wad of cash from the store safe, and then invoice back Ng Council with a purchase order. None of which is a profit making enterprise for the store. This means it's not something they're particularly interested in doing if it's busy or the safe is low on reserves. All in all, it has made me acutely conscious of the ease with which business is disrupted when you're thousands of miles from a bank and/or an electronic point of sale machine.
The ATM at Warburton is also liable to go bung for a few days in a row, as happened recently. There was a general stampede up to the roadhouse, and their cash reserves were wiped out. Luckily, the ATMs were fixed and re-filled pretty quickly, so there were no riots, but it did put me to mind how much harder it must have been before ATMs were installed in Warburton. Frankly, how did staff access their accounts? I'll need to ask an old timer that question.
The other disadvantage, however, of having only two ways to access my cash (Warburton Store, Warburton Roadhouse), is that I am always charged non-Commonwealth Bank ATM fees. I raised this with my bank, and was informed that despite there being no other way I could access my account, they couldn't help me. While I did get a nice $37 fee refund, it's hardly a system I can continue to rely upon! I've flagged that I'll have to talk to the Banking Ombudsman about equity issues, but haven't had the chance to begin that path yet. The only benefit of doing so, apart from a fee refund which might be small fry for me, is that hopefully it will lead to an exemption for all remote customers.
But I digress. This post is called Bring me a Zucchini. All the above was a scene-setter for the little tale I want to tell about the store. It involves zucchinis, two inter-state visitors, and an empty fridge.
Shortly after I arrived in Warburton this year, I thought the time had finally come to get some basic provisions beyond milk, bread and cereal.
I trotted down to the little cool storage area at the back that holds the fruit and vegies and stopped. The shelves were bare, save one box of apples and one of oranges. I looked around for a store worker and asked, 'what's up with the vegies?'.
It turned out that the cold fridge truck only comes once a fortnight now, and it was the alternate week.
What day is the truck due? I asked, certain it had to be anytime soon. About 5 days from now.
I looked back at the sad little pile of oranges and apples, and wondered how I'd made a vegie stew with that. Taking into account my pathological aversion to canned vegetables, things were looking dire.
I jumped into the car and went up to the roadhouse (which also stores fruits and vegies for passing tourists). A limp stick of celery and a mouldy pack of corn stared back at me.
'This it?' I asked mournfully of the roadhouse worker, fully expecting the answer that came back. Yep.
Just the day before, I'd left a message with one of two inter-state visitors that were on their way now to Warburton. I'd asked for some fancy icecream making ingredient ('fecula', which incidentally they couldn't find either) and the weekend newspaper.
Being the wonderful, generous people they are, they also took the liberty of guessing what culinary deights I might be missing in Warburton and packing me a care package along with the newspaper.
When they arrived the next day, with care package in tow, I lit up.
Is it possible, I asked, that you thought to bring me a zucchini?
Needless to say, a zucchini is hardly the sort of item that a city-based visitor thinks won't be available in Warburton.
And, by luck, the blue vein cheese and pear gourmet cheddar sticks were also a novelty flavour.
Shopping seems to be a preoccupation of mine out here. Re-reading my blog to date, it seems to reappear regularly, despite shopping being my next favourite thing to a poke in the eye.
But if the shop hours alone weren't reason enough to be keeping a pretty sharp eye on the basics of sustenance and survival, I also can't help but turn my attention to matters within the store.
I have been generally interested in the sorts of things that are and aren't for sale in the Warburton store. There is- rather surprisingly - gourmet cheddar sticks, chai latte sachets and pickled asparagus. There isn't - equally suprisingly - hot water bottles, skim milk powder, and diet cordial. And this in a community where health problems and low incomes would mean the latter probably should be available and the former easily de-stocked. I think the explanation has to be that the people who can best advocate for their needs are those with the least need to do so. Equally, store policies on good eating and stocking (such as not putting 1 year out of date stock on the shelves) are not a top priority for the money making enterprise that is the community store.
The other interesting thing is that there is no EFTPOS or credit facilities at the store (or even the roadhouse). Cash in general is often a problem for me, and not just because I'm too busy with my burgeoning art collection to focus on the health of my bank balance. If I need a large amount of cash for whatever reason, such as paying my vehicle registration, organising travel allowance for 10 members, or fraud, I'm completely stumped. I rely upon the goodwill of the store managers to give me a wad of cash from the store safe, and then invoice back Ng Council with a purchase order. None of which is a profit making enterprise for the store. This means it's not something they're particularly interested in doing if it's busy or the safe is low on reserves. All in all, it has made me acutely conscious of the ease with which business is disrupted when you're thousands of miles from a bank and/or an electronic point of sale machine.
The ATM at Warburton is also liable to go bung for a few days in a row, as happened recently. There was a general stampede up to the roadhouse, and their cash reserves were wiped out. Luckily, the ATMs were fixed and re-filled pretty quickly, so there were no riots, but it did put me to mind how much harder it must have been before ATMs were installed in Warburton. Frankly, how did staff access their accounts? I'll need to ask an old timer that question.
The other disadvantage, however, of having only two ways to access my cash (Warburton Store, Warburton Roadhouse), is that I am always charged non-Commonwealth Bank ATM fees. I raised this with my bank, and was informed that despite there being no other way I could access my account, they couldn't help me. While I did get a nice $37 fee refund, it's hardly a system I can continue to rely upon! I've flagged that I'll have to talk to the Banking Ombudsman about equity issues, but haven't had the chance to begin that path yet. The only benefit of doing so, apart from a fee refund which might be small fry for me, is that hopefully it will lead to an exemption for all remote customers.
But I digress. This post is called Bring me a Zucchini. All the above was a scene-setter for the little tale I want to tell about the store. It involves zucchinis, two inter-state visitors, and an empty fridge.
Shortly after I arrived in Warburton this year, I thought the time had finally come to get some basic provisions beyond milk, bread and cereal.
I trotted down to the little cool storage area at the back that holds the fruit and vegies and stopped. The shelves were bare, save one box of apples and one of oranges. I looked around for a store worker and asked, 'what's up with the vegies?'.
It turned out that the cold fridge truck only comes once a fortnight now, and it was the alternate week.
What day is the truck due? I asked, certain it had to be anytime soon. About 5 days from now.
I looked back at the sad little pile of oranges and apples, and wondered how I'd made a vegie stew with that. Taking into account my pathological aversion to canned vegetables, things were looking dire.
I jumped into the car and went up to the roadhouse (which also stores fruits and vegies for passing tourists). A limp stick of celery and a mouldy pack of corn stared back at me.
'This it?' I asked mournfully of the roadhouse worker, fully expecting the answer that came back. Yep.
Just the day before, I'd left a message with one of two inter-state visitors that were on their way now to Warburton. I'd asked for some fancy icecream making ingredient ('fecula', which incidentally they couldn't find either) and the weekend newspaper.
Being the wonderful, generous people they are, they also took the liberty of guessing what culinary deights I might be missing in Warburton and packing me a care package along with the newspaper.
When they arrived the next day, with care package in tow, I lit up.
Is it possible, I asked, that you thought to bring me a zucchini?
Needless to say, a zucchini is hardly the sort of item that a city-based visitor thinks won't be available in Warburton.
And, by luck, the blue vein cheese and pear gourmet cheddar sticks were also a novelty flavour.
Lonely Planet Guide to Nyapari
Orientation
The Anangu Pitjantjatjarra Yankunyatjara (APY) Lands are situated in the far north west corner of South Australia. In this remote area of Australia, the lucky tourist can experience a remote bush experience in a traditional setting unlike any other.
So rather than rushing in to join the rat race in Alice Springs or some other bustling metropolitan centre, kick back a little and take in the sights of the APY Lands in South Australia.
The APY Lands are strikingly beautiful, with immense mountain ranges, rich colours and bad roads (creating a heightened sense of danger while travelling). Not for the faint hearted, and only for those with 4WD, the APY Lands provides a remote holiday experience for the lucky few.
Nyapari
One of the westernmost communities of the APY Lands, Nyapari is a small but engaging community. With no more than 15 houses, one clinic, an artc centre, and only two staff houses, Nyapari is a quiet and comfortable place to stay. The local residents are traditional owners, or community members with long established family ties to the region. The nearby Piltati rockhole, a significant Dreaming site and source of water, provided the impetus for establishing the community when government policy facilitated the establishment of outstations in the early 80s.
Sights
The main attractions of Nyapari are the quiet and peaceful surrounds. Nestled at the base of a mountain range, with scenic views and quiet strolls through the nearby creek and waterholes,
there is ample opportunity to feel the serenity.
Within the community, however, there is a surprising attraction. In 2006, a community art centre has been established by Amanda Dent (ably assisted by her partner Brian Hallett). Tjungu Palya, the art centre services two other communities, nearby Kanpi (20 k away) and Watarru (a 5 hour drive). While the art centre doesn't provide retail services (yet, there are plans to establish a tourist outlet), the art centre manager can be convinced to do a special deal for the few outside visitors that come to Nyapari. However, a warning for future tourists - any time spent helping you decide if the painting will match the colour of your couch is only going to take Amanda's time away from artists. So, be prepared to be self-sufficient, or offer your services to the art centre in return (such as straightening up their office or re-arranging the small artworks on display to better artistic effect).
In addition to making a unique purchase at the art centre (such as this 'Piltati' painting by Eileen Yartija Stevens, acquired by the author), other activities include a trip to the nearby Kanpi store, and strolling to nearby rockholes. While the scent of a rotting camel was evident on a recent visit to the main waterhole near Nyapari, this will soon disappear and the bones will no doubt be a further scenic addition to the area.
Guests at the sole Nyapari accommodation (see below) will also be able to spend the ample time on their hands by working through their hosts' fine library collection, including books on exchange from the other resident staff member and art magazines ordered by subscription.
Sleeping and Eating
Accommodation and dining options in Nyapari are limited. The only available accommodation is the home of Amanda and Brian. Bookings are tight, but can be arranged with considerable notice and much persuasion (such as offers to bring Easter chocolate treats, not stay longer than 4 nights, and to tell no-one of the experience).
Amanda and Brian are amiable and relaxed hosts. Each evening, in lieu of other dining options, they prepare sumptuous meals with flair and creativity reminiscent of their day jobs. Their home has been artfully renovated by Amanda, creating a stunning effect resembling an Ikea catalogue.
Getting There and Away
Nyapari is 5 hours from the nearby bustling metropolis of Warburton, and 3 hours from Uluru (Ayers Rock). Most visitors would come to Nyapari via Uluru, hiring a vehicle from the airport and taking the back road south over a bone-shattering 4WD road that is, as far as can be determined, never graded.
Permits are required. Permits are only issued to visitors with a valid reason for travelling to the APY Lands. This does not include visiting Amanda and Brian as tourists. It does extend to those holding permits on the nearby Ngaanyatjarra Lands, wishing to travel through the APY Lands to Alice Springs. It also extends to those holding permits to see their friends. All in all, getting there and away is probably the hardest thing about visiting Nyapari.
Getting Around
4WD only. While in Nyapari, however, one can easily take in the sights on foot. There is no public transport available in Nyapari. A public transport link from southern South Australia into the APY Lands has been proposed, but at this stage it is only anticipated to extend into the easternmost communities, thereby missing all communities west of Amata (including Nyapari).
(Author wishes to thank Amanda and Brian, who took a booking very generously over the Easter holiday period. This extract will be submitted for Lonely Planet 'Central Desert Aboriginal Australia' edition, when it is proposed for printing.)
The Anangu Pitjantjatjarra Yankunyatjara (APY) Lands are situated in the far north west corner of South Australia. In this remote area of Australia, the lucky tourist can experience a remote bush experience in a traditional setting unlike any other.
So rather than rushing in to join the rat race in Alice Springs or some other bustling metropolitan centre, kick back a little and take in the sights of the APY Lands in South Australia.
The APY Lands are strikingly beautiful, with immense mountain ranges, rich colours and bad roads (creating a heightened sense of danger while travelling). Not for the faint hearted, and only for those with 4WD, the APY Lands provides a remote holiday experience for the lucky few.
Nyapari
One of the westernmost communities of the APY Lands, Nyapari is a small but engaging community. With no more than 15 houses, one clinic, an artc centre, and only two staff houses, Nyapari is a quiet and comfortable place to stay. The local residents are traditional owners, or community members with long established family ties to the region. The nearby Piltati rockhole, a significant Dreaming site and source of water, provided the impetus for establishing the community when government policy facilitated the establishment of outstations in the early 80s.
Sights
The main attractions of Nyapari are the quiet and peaceful surrounds. Nestled at the base of a mountain range, with scenic views and quiet strolls through the nearby creek and waterholes,
there is ample opportunity to feel the serenity.Within the community, however, there is a surprising attraction. In 2006, a community art centre has been established by Amanda Dent (ably assisted by her partner Brian Hallett). Tjungu Palya, the art centre services two other communities, nearby Kanpi (20 k away) and Watarru (a 5 hour drive). While the art centre doesn't provide retail services (yet, there are plans to establish a tourist outlet), the art centre manager can be convinced to do a special deal for the few outside visitors that come to Nyapari. However, a warning for future tourists - any time spent helping you decide if the painting will match the colour of your couch is only going to take Amanda's time away from artists. So, be prepared to be self-sufficient, or offer your services to the art centre in return (such as straightening up their office or re-arranging the small artworks on display to better artistic effect).
In addition to making a unique purchase at the art centre (such as this 'Piltati' painting by Eileen Yartija Stevens, acquired by the author), other activities include a trip to the nearby Kanpi store, and strolling to nearby rockholes. While the scent of a rotting camel was evident on a recent visit to the main waterhole near Nyapari, this will soon disappear and the bones will no doubt be a further scenic addition to the area.
Guests at the sole Nyapari accommodation (see below) will also be able to spend the ample time on their hands by working through their hosts' fine library collection, including books on exchange from the other resident staff member and art magazines ordered by subscription.
Sleeping and Eating
Accommodation and dining options in Nyapari are limited. The only available accommodation is the home of Amanda and Brian. Bookings are tight, but can be arranged with considerable notice and much persuasion (such as offers to bring Easter chocolate treats, not stay longer than 4 nights, and to tell no-one of the experience).
Amanda and Brian are amiable and relaxed hosts. Each evening, in lieu of other dining options, they prepare sumptuous meals with flair and creativity reminiscent of their day jobs. Their home has been artfully renovated by Amanda, creating a stunning effect resembling an Ikea catalogue.
Getting There and Away
Nyapari is 5 hours from the nearby bustling metropolis of Warburton, and 3 hours from Uluru (Ayers Rock). Most visitors would come to Nyapari via Uluru, hiring a vehicle from the airport and taking the back road south over a bone-shattering 4WD road that is, as far as can be determined, never graded.
Permits are required. Permits are only issued to visitors with a valid reason for travelling to the APY Lands. This does not include visiting Amanda and Brian as tourists. It does extend to those holding permits on the nearby Ngaanyatjarra Lands, wishing to travel through the APY Lands to Alice Springs. It also extends to those holding permits to see their friends. All in all, getting there and away is probably the hardest thing about visiting Nyapari.
Getting Around
4WD only. While in Nyapari, however, one can easily take in the sights on foot. There is no public transport available in Nyapari. A public transport link from southern South Australia into the APY Lands has been proposed, but at this stage it is only anticipated to extend into the easternmost communities, thereby missing all communities west of Amata (including Nyapari).
(Author wishes to thank Amanda and Brian, who took a booking very generously over the Easter holiday period. This extract will be submitted for Lonely Planet 'Central Desert Aboriginal Australia' edition, when it is proposed for printing.)
And it looks like...
Front view of my house in Kanpa:
And here's the view from the front door:
See the bull's horns above the gate, referred to in an earlier post. The horns really 'swung the deal' for me when I was considering living at Kanpa. How could I say no?!
Looking out through the gate, you can see the edge of the workshop on the right, and the edge of the diesel generator on the left. There also seems to be some white goods over there. Not sure why.
The little garden was created by Frank, Preston Thomas' (the Chairman of Kanpa) brother. When chatting to Beverly, I found out that Frank had a hammock set up in the right-hand side corner of the front of the house (in between two shade sails, one of which you can see in the top photo). On closer inspection, I found two rings welded onto the posts, to tie the hammock ends. Next purchase: 1 x hammock.
Does it get any better than this?
Ngura walkamunu (nice home).
And here's the view from the front door:
See the bull's horns above the gate, referred to in an earlier post. The horns really 'swung the deal' for me when I was considering living at Kanpa. How could I say no?!
Looking out through the gate, you can see the edge of the workshop on the right, and the edge of the diesel generator on the left. There also seems to be some white goods over there. Not sure why.
The little garden was created by Frank, Preston Thomas' (the Chairman of Kanpa) brother. When chatting to Beverly, I found out that Frank had a hammock set up in the right-hand side corner of the front of the house (in between two shade sails, one of which you can see in the top photo). On closer inspection, I found two rings welded onto the posts, to tie the hammock ends. Next purchase: 1 x hammock.
Does it get any better than this?
Ngura walkamunu (nice home).
Sunday, April 08, 2007
What's it Like?
This much asked question is hard to answer. One of the reasons for the long delay in getting my Warburton blog up and running again - so I could defray this question artfully with 'oh, it's good, why don't you check out my blog for more details' - was that I accidentally lost my book of work scribbles. That wouldn't seem to be a valid reason, were it not for the last page of that book. Scribbled there were all the memory prompts I collected in the first frantic three months of arrival. Waiting for a free moment to relate them online. After moving office and packing for different trips too many times, the book with its precious page has gone missing. With it went my desire to 'rethink' all those interesting blog ideas. Instead you'll have to make do with some fresher, and less inspired, thoughts.
What's it like?
Well, it's different. But not that different. More expensive, but a lot cheaper. Easier, but much harder. (See, not so fresh...)
What's it like?
Well, it's different. But not that different. More expensive, but a lot cheaper. Easier, but much harder. (See, not so fresh...)
To make sense of that, here are some examples.
Different:-
- I'm not used to seeing baby camels as pets. He's cute, but a bit noisy. Thankfully, when I was in Warburton, he didn't live on my side of town, so I didn't hear him too much.
- What I could hear without too much trouble from my old house was the sound of the generator. Warburton uses thousands of litres of diesel a week to keep the place ticking over. Being inside the generator shed is a powerful experience. When the power goes off (which has been happening a bit lately, rumour has it that the education department installed split system airconditioners without thinking), the town is quiet. Too quiet. Eerily quiet. I bought candles the other day. Not cute, smelly ones. Simple white ones to put in a handy place I can scramble to in the dark.
- The dark. At Kanpa, there are no streetlights, I can lie in bed and not see a single thing. I can wave my hands in front of my face, less than a centimetre away, and see absolutely nothing. I'm thinking of buying a nightlight. Mamu (spirits) might get me.
- Mamu may have frightened Yarnangu into staying close to camp in the olden days, but with some streetlights and the familiarity of settlement life, Warburton at Night is a different community. While the white staff are ensconced in front of the TV, watching DVDs they've seen before, or chatting on the phone, young people emerge and start to make the place theirs. Apart from the odd rock on my roof, without venturing outside I would forget that there is a whole place out there that I barely know exists, let alone understand.
- Yes, it is pretty hot. Last year, melting butter to make a cake was easy. Just take it out of the fridge and put it into a bowl from the cupboard. Similarly, hot apples were a new experience. Preparing for a humid trekking experience in January by not putting on the airconditioner was a real endurance test.
- Walking to the store, and back home again, in under 5 minutes, is a somewhat easier endurance test. For someone with a pathological dislike of shopping, the easy accessibility of the store does make it just that little bit easier. It even defrays some of the annoyances, like shopping hours that are so limited there is no option but to shop during work hours. Plan ahead or suffer the consequences. Luckily, Warburton has one of the best shops for the range of choices in the vast region between Kalgoorlie and Uluru, so planning (even for my monastic eating habits) is not so onerous.
- Notwithstanding this, the shop does have some logistical challenges. The 'cold truck' arrives fortnightly. It's boom and bust with the yoghurt, fresh milk and - when some poor planning takes effect - vegetables. See a later blog entry for more on the store.
Not different:-
- People. Yep, we're pretty much the same everywhere. I'm not denying culture, but I am denying the immutable presumptions built into the "these people..." statements. Statements that are all too frequently made out here, as if whitefellas don't have cultural mores guiding our actions and beliefs.
- Being in touch. For someone who is chronically feeling 'out of touch' with friends and family, the value of being able to be 'in touch' is now much more appreciated. One weekend, soon after returning from Xmas holidays, I spent a weekend without any phone or email options at all. It is the only time I've really felt isolated in the Lands.
- Stable home and office. The reason stable is such a nice word to use here is that the idea of parking myself each day and evening in the same place, having access to the same regular bale of hay, the same brush down at the end of the long ride, seems to accurately reflect how important it is to have a home and office that isn't constantly changing. My office is a mish-mash of different options, depending on how hot it is, or what sort of work I'm doing (ie computer work, or talking to people). No airconditioner really makes the benefit of having a 'free' phone and a satellite broadband connection seem almost useless. But equally having an office without a regular phone and internet connection is useless. I live in hope.
- Exercise. It's hard to find time to do, wherever I am. While I'm no longer spoiled for choice - walking/jogging on the airstrip being my only really practical form of exercise - it doesn't account for motivation. While the benefits of the regular quiet walk far outweigh the disadvantages, my desire to curl up in bed and hibernate for the winter (regardless of the season) is unchanging.
More expensive:-
- $32 at the shop will buy you one 10L water, one loaf of bread ($3.60), 4 tomatoes ($2), a block of cheese ($8) and a small pack of mixed fruit ($7).
Less expensive:-
- With a weekly rental contribution of $10, and no entertainment options other than free ones on the radio, TV and borrowed DVDs, I should be saving money. Note, I should be. Whether I am or not, depends upon my continuing desire to have a nice little art collection. When I return, no doubt my financial adviser will look at me over my bank statement and heave a little sigh of opportunities lost.
Until next time... Exciting Tall Tales of the Store. Depressing Partnerships with Government. And, hopefully, the Lost Blog Ideas of 2006 Recovered.
Kanpa (sounds like, home)
The first and most important reason for living in Kanpa is that I have a house. I even have a little garden. And an entrance gate with some bull's horns. Like an old ranchero entrance. Enchanting. Considering that 'enchanting' is not a word I would use for many (any) of the houses I've seen on the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, it's nice to be able to stretch its use for mine.
Similarly, all three rooms and living spaces in the house are occupied solely by me. This is again another advantage. After having spent 4 months in a share house in Warburton, the presence of people and the absence of space was a bit too much to bear. I know 'space' shouldn't be a problem out here in the desert, but considering that we're now very much in the habit of living under a roof, what goes on under that one roof (when you get one) becomes considerably more important. For those with Google Earth technology, imagine your focus of attention honing inexorably towards that one tiny pinpoint on earth. Unable to stop no matter what keys you frantically press. Now you are experiencing what happens to many people out here - as they move further and further away from more people, the greater the magnifying glass focus on just the few people around. Perspective is easily lost. For me, the best way to safeguard against this loss is to have more space to muse on the many (ie, few) people. In all their crazy and delightful ways. And one small bedroom just wasn't enough. (Some people are very puzzling. And I don't mean Yarnangu.)
Running a close third to the above two features is that Kanpa has the best selection of radio (and TV) that I've ever actually experienced, in any State or Territory. Now, admittedly, my TV viewing has been limited. But I do generally know how many channels there are. Kanpa has all those and more. I've got about 7 TV stations, representing the offerings of a few nearby States, with different timezones. I also have a fantastic array of radio stations. And most important of all, RadNat (as the Chaser boys would have it called). Radio National. It may not be popular, but it is my thing. In fact, so much so, that I need only send a sharp look towards Damian (the Community Advisor of Warburton) and he knows that I know that Radio National has been 'turned off' in favour of local radio and I'm not happy. I'm not really sure how the radio stations work in Warburton, but apparently they can be turned on and off according to ... some system. I'm a hard and fast RadNat listener. I think I'm the only one in Warburton. Luckily, Damian does listen to it with as much equanimity as local radio, so I have a way of encouraging the switch to be turned back on. When I'm in Kanpa, however, I need not worry. It's in my hands. And it's called satellite.
Which brings me to my broadband. Another reason Kanpa is a good place to be. Courtesy of a generous subsidy from the 'guvment', Telstra has installed a satellite broadband service. Thank you, Universal Service Obligation. Thank you, National Party members. For a mere $500, I can get three boxes of equipment delivered, a man anxious to drive on boggy roads to meet his service expectations, and a cute dish on my tin roof in a few short weeks. Of course, this was after spending about an hour on the phone explaining that Kanpa wasn't in or near Alice Springs (like it's postal address), being 1200k west. Approximately. And no, there were no streets, nor house identifiers. But I could assure him that someone would be there, and they would know which was Sophie's house. If he really had to put something in the computer, he could write 'House 3' (after all, it's the third house on the left when you drive in). It may not be as good as the new fancy cable that is being laid over at Warburton, but it's a damn sight faster than dial-up and allows me to log in and talk on the phone at the same time (oh joy of joys, how some things are so easily taken for granted).
Of course, it's not all a bed of roses. It is an hour and a half to Warburton, and my Yarnangu team. I do need to stay in Warburton during the weekdays so I'm able to more easily work with colleagues and those ubiquitous stakeholders. It is going to be harder to learn language than if I were in Warburton (Kanpa is mostly English-speaking residents). I won't have the same 'drop by' social visits on the weekend from my team that I enjoy so much, including the easy invitations to go hunting for goanna, honey ants or sweet sap.
But it will be more than a room of my own, and for that I give thanks.
Kanpa phone: 08 9037 1171
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