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.