Too many peoples

The first thing Eleanor says when she hits town is invariably "too many peoples". As I scoot around at the family Christmas, finding small spaces to myself and thinking that I really should be playing instead with my nieces, I know why it's relatively easy for me to live remote.

Lots of people say, with conviction, "I could never do what you're doing" (although I suspect they could, but that's a different story). In fact, I enjoy the quiet life. I like the limited choices. Sure, it's great being able to go to the supermarket at 3am in the morning if you need to, but rarely is it absolutely necessary. And with a little pre-planning or judicious stocking, the boom and bust of a quarterly trip to town, the absence of convenience is hardly felt.

In our 24/7 convenience world, we have lost some of the skills of quiet life, filled with conversation, books, and family entertainment (although I do admit to watching a little too much TV to fill in some evening spaces!). Just the other day, I bought a book called 'Modern Parlour Games' for exactly this purpose, to re-enliven traditions and get more enjoyment out of the company of others instead of a flickering screen. I'll keep you posted on how we go.... the main trouble will be finding more 'peoples' to play with!

The great god

Coming from a 'dry' (alcohol-free) community, I am often struck at how much we worship at the alter of the Drink. It's a curious thing really.

Just a few weeks ago, Fred and I attended a workshop on 'Working with Complex Clients', people who present with drug abuse and mental health problems. Out in the Lands, the main issues we face are marijuana and mental health issues, so we thought it would be useful. Unfortunately, we hadn't thought it through well enough before signing up.

Without a doubt, at least half of the course time was spent on the impact of alcohol abuse and misuse (either in course content or discussion among participants). An interesting factual snippet I gleaned was that by far the best drug to take in terms of its health impact, having no long term effect on the body and only inconveniencing its user by constipation, is heroin. Pure heroin, that is. By contrast, alcohol wreaks enormous damage on the body, destroying the liver, affecting cognition, impairing judgement (leading to injury) etc etc.

Ergo, when taken in context of factual information about drugs, one of the most damaging things about alcohol is its social acceptability. It's integrated into our lives as a drug of choice, entirely guilt-free (for those of us not addicted to the stuff that is). For example, while few people in my family drink much, we nevertheless have stocked the cool room with various potent brews over the festive season. Never mind that they are not cracked open. For a party of 10 adults, we drank less than half a bottle of white wine and just slightly more of red wine on Christmas Eve. A few more beers were cracked open earlier in the day, but it was stinking hot and the cool room was well stocked and in easy reach. Were it not for the social acceptability of drinking, and the ritualised quality of it at times like this, I doubt we'd even go to the trouble of buying more than the odd bottle or two. The drink is mostly for the occasion.

We are the exception though. On the way through to my brother's place for Christmas, Fred and I stopped over in the Hunter Valley. It was my first time off the highway, and (perhaps having just come from Blackstone the day before) I was gobsmacked at the extraordinary wealth that wine represents. Small roads off the highway were flanked by enormous, stunningly designed 'cellar doors' (a misnomer for the modern incarnation of tasting rooms). Architecturally soaring rooflines sang their high profit notes to the open skies of the valley. Quaint accommodation, overlooking rows of hand chipped vines, bespoke quality.

The sheer density of industry to support the great god of alcohol was omnipresent. A conversation with a friend still on the Lands led to a brief exchange of similar moments in different times, different places. Marijuana cafes in Amsterdam. Absinthe bars in nineteenth century France. Opium dens in England. If it's acceptable societally, we accept it wholeheartedly. Blindly even. Anyone for heroin? We're all injecting up on the verandah.

And I was reminded again, as I often am, of why it's so interesting to live where I do. In an oddly congruent way, there is something deeply Australian and foreign about living remote, in Aboriginal lands. Living there is like turning a mirror onto oneself, just as happens when we go overseas. Why exactly are things the way they are, accepted without question? What exactly makes us think what we think, value what we do, and expect without question? The answer is simple and complex. Culture. It is so deeply embedded that without something like travel to a foreign land, we soon lose sight of it altogether.

A day in the bush

Last weekend, I convinced Fred that it was a good idea to get up at 6am to meet a convoy going bush at 8am, and drive for 11 hours for the sheer enjoyment of it. This was last Sunday's big day out.

We don't normally set off for such long journeys for fun. Our usual jaunt to shake off remote cabin fever would be about 3 or 4 hours (max) - sometimes it's just up the road to 'Singing Rocks', so named because the stunning tumbling of rocks are not only artfully designed but also tunefully amusing. With a high iron density (or something like that), when you tap them with a smaller stone, the rocks of different sizes give off lovely notes of earthy musicality. It's the local tourist stop for a trip to Blackstone, and within 15k of town, it makes an easy trip out.

View from east of Gill's Pinnacle

By contrast, this was a bush adventure of another order. Inspired by the enthusiasm of the Warakurna coppers, we hoped on board and made the extra two hours of early morning travel to meet them on the road. On arrival at the turnoff, beautifully timed with 3 minutes to spare, we found the Blackstone nurse and her partner also waiting. When the convoy arrived shortly after, we were 7 vehicles in all.

The first stop was Gill's Pinnacle. A short distance away, a rocky entry, and a stunning view. The near permanent waterhole must have been a welcome rest point for the locals not so long ago. As always happens on these outings, my mind ticks over relentlessly, trying to imagine what life must have been like back then. Wandering through the bush from rockhole to rockhole, sheltering in caves or holes dug into the sand dunes in extreme heat or the summer storms. Following the ebb and flow of seasonal produce, meeting small groups and moving on, coming together for large ceremonies of real significance before bursting back into the quiet rhythms of family life. I know I romanticise, but from the little I've read of traditional times, there is a deep simplicity and connection to country in their lives then that is missing from all our lives now, to differing degrees.

Winding through in convoy

From Gill's Pinnacle, we set off in earnest. While Warakurna was a mere 50k to the west, we turned east and committed to the road ahead. 250k in total. Normally, this trip would take about 3 hours. On gravel roads regularly graded and maintained. The back road we took, once we left Tjukurla, was so overgrown as to almost disappear at one point. This was proved when we found ourselves winding in convoy through a densely overgrown area looking for anything resembling a track. The convoy slowed and parked in confused directions, waiting for our leaders to right us again. In that case, we had unwittingly veered onto an overgrown airstrip, with its faint raised edges (enough to give a suggestion of a road), and an old windsock pole (minus a windsock that would have helpfully identified it as an airstrip). This particular strip must have been made more than 20 years ago, probably for mining exploration, and was now so covered in low shrubs and bushes as to have effectively disappeared. If Fred had not identified the windsock pole, I'm sure we would have wandered out of there, like a disjointed caterpillar, none the wiser.

The stark beauty of the landscape, with its subtle variations, makes a long slow trip like this worthwhile. The hours flew by as we wove through the sand dunes, past groves of desert oaks, and into waves of spinifex. Small purple wildflowers, set in their foil of grey green foliage, break away along the edges of the road. Knarly trees brushing against the car doors, knocking flat side mirrors as if to assert their natural right to rule. The vehicles heave and jolt, like land-locked boats in the desert, pressing ever forward with the strange fervour of all battles.

Desert oaks in artful formation

And after we pass, the quiet returns. The animal rumble of mechanical beasts fades. The strange Sunday vacationers, with their packed lunches and spare matches are like a momentary vision of madness, and peace returns again. The twitter of little birds, the soft scurry of goannas as they scoot from bush to shrub, the quiet persistence of a waiting thorny devil, poised for action as ants make their last fatal journey past his flickering tongue. The faint memory of a road cleaved through virgin bush, slowly but steadily, reclaimed again.

Living in a windtunnel

It's blustery outside. Huge gusts of wind buffet the house, sweeping Eleanor's toys steadily down to the vege patch, eventually hiding them under the enormous bushels of parsley and tomatoes thriving along the fenceline. Going outside to get the bone dry clothes clinging tenaciously to the line is like battling the elements in a 'do or die' adventure with the elements. Small piles of red sand collect on the house side of the window sills, unmistakeably asserting their right to be everywhere you don't want them to be.

One of the facts of life in Blackstone is that most days are spent in a windtunnel that is commonly known as the 'outdoors'. Without a doubt, Blackstone is the windy-est (sp?) place I've lived in. And I'm not a big fan of wind either. Of course, I didn't know this when we chose to come here. I just thought it was a windy day when we came for the interview. And then when we arrived. And unpacked. And started living here on a day-to-day basis. Over time, the realisation crept up. I'm living in a windtunnel.

40k east of Blackstone, on descent

It might be the nearby ranges that contributes to the overall wind effect. I should really know what the ranges are called, but I confess I do not. They are, however, one of the more beautiful features of the local landscape. Along with what I call 'the expanse', which is an open area covered only with spinifex grass that extends for about 1 k just out of town on the way west to Warburton. I mostly like to call it 'the expanse', because it sounds terribly snobbish and discordant to drive through this intense, harsh natural landscape (wrought with its own natural beauty) and opine 'oh what a beautiful expaaaanse' in my best private school voice. It reminds me of the extreme turns that my life has taken, but at the same time, I do genuinely admire how beautiful that spot is and why I love living here. While I know that this is and never will be 'my country', in the way that we can become incredibly attached to a little patch of land that we might own anywhere else in Australia, at a deeper level this landscape resonates within me in a way that makes little sense.

Why else, indeed, would I choose to live in a windtunnel?

It's the little things

It's the little things that I like about living out here. Like going to the shop ten minutes before closing, buying an icecream with Eleanor, and sitting on the bench watching the afternoon light seep into the community. The odd dog, a few kids coming in for their last treats before closing, a truck loaded with school teachers furniture setting off for the long long drive to Perth.

Just across the road, the house with 'prime position' opposite the shop is dabbed with a scattering of plastic flowers, tied into place along the fence and around the verandah posts. The usually bustling verandahs, teeming with kids, people, cooking fires and dogs, now deserted. Old Mr Lyons died a few weeks ago, and was buried on Friday last. In the short time I was here, his quiet, stately presence, sitting cross-legged on the edge of this house block, looking out towards the shop and the park, was like an institution. From this one position, he could take note of all the significant comings and goings in his community, one that he had helped to found over 25 years ago. Line of sight to the shop, office, '50 cent piece' (a octagon-shaped covered area next to the office, where meetings are usually held), the arts centre and hall. Located on the main road coming in from Wingellina to the east and Jameson to the west, he would have seen all the families and many 'maliki' (strangers) who drove in.

The little I know of Mr Lyons comes mostly from reading his funeral pamphlet. These pamphlets have become standard requirements for all funerals now, but I am reliably informed that they have only come onto the funeral scene in the past five years or so. How quickly things turn from optional to necessities in cultural life. As the only people with access to a colour printer in Blackstone, we do the final print run and get a guaranteed copy.

Beautiful cliffs 15k west of Blackstone

Mr Lyons grew up in the bush - he was one of the older generation that have seen astounding changes in their cultural and social (and economic) life in the course of just three generations. If I understand his story correctly, he lived a nomadic life into his late twenties. His first wife had two daughters, one who died a child (around the same time his wife did) and another who has gone on to be one a significant leader herself on the Lands. When his first wife died, he gave his first daughter to another family to raise, and later married again, and had more children. A strong man about whom I know little. He was described by his family as someone with a good humour and a gentle, calm demeanour. I can't vouch for his humour, not having spoken with him across the many divides that there were to cross, but his quiet, dignified presence outside his house is a loss even I feel.

The people you meet

I've been thinking recently about the 'type' of people that come to work in remote communities (or, more specifically, in the central desert - perhaps they're different, who knows?). I think I've identified the following:

The Idealist - an alternate name might be The True Believer. A truly admirable individual. I admire a pure form of idealism in anyone. For all its character flaws, this person is driven by social justice, a desire to help make the world a better place, and a sense of agency. Unfortunately, the Idealist often suffers with trying to reconcile how things should be with how they are - their choice is to ignore contrary evidence, or to quickly burn out with the failure of achieve that oh so nearly tangible sense of change (within their desired timeframe).

The Pragmatist - A close cousin of The Cynic, this poor soul has the invidious task of reconciling the reality of life with their internal self (whatever that may be). The Pragmatist senses all the different states of play, and attempts to steer their little boat through the treacherous waters (government policy, rules and regulations, cultural life, misunderstandings and miscommunication, difficult personalities, you name it!)

The Careerist - It helps to have remote Indigenous affairs experience on your CV. Sometimes. In some industries (especially government or human services). Can't beat that experience. And the extra salary dollars, or free rent, for the troubles of remote living don't go astray either. Buckle down, get some good mileage out of the job, help pay the mortgage off or build savings, and on your way. 2-3 years max. 1 year will do, if necessary.

The Hungry Beast - Some positions in the communities offer extraordinary tentacles of power over the lives of individuals. The community office in particular has extrarordinary access to and influence over other people's money (communal and individual), often with little effort or oversight. This offers extraordinary opportunities for the morally bankrupt to flourish. And sadly they do. This is by no means to say that all office staff fall into this category. There are some great government jobs that hold bucket loads of power over people in a world of systemic discrimination.

The Adventurer - Curiousity, a desire to do something out of the box, freedom to pick up sticks - all these things bring us the adventurer. He, or she, turns up in every field. I like the adventurer. There is a freshness to their demeanour, a sparky willingness to do anything that makes their company refreshing. I just keep my fingers crossed (behind my back) that they remember they have cultural values too. Once 'the mob' start to confuse or confound them, some turn into the cynic and back out of the experience, looking around for where else to go next that is a little less unsettling.

The Cynic - This poor fellow has given up trying to be any of the above (or perhaps never was, having always preferred this way of being). It is what it is. The mob will fleece you if you let them. The system's fucked. The whole thing is steadily going to pot. But what can you do?

The Recluse - A good way to absent oneself from the mainstream - go remote, go very very remote. Learn to love it, or just love it. Either way, it's better than being out there. Better than having those demons knock on your door daily. I like the Recluse. If they don't enjoy living out here, they find somewhere else to go to, so generally they're happy souls who participate in the community they've chosen to retreat to.

And where do I fit on this schema? Well, with the exception of The Hungry Beast, I think I've got a little of them all. I try to quash the Cynic whenever he rears his ugly head (and yes, it is a 'he'). I try to feed the Idealist some oxygen, but she's sorely starved of that at the moment. I am most aligned with the Pragmatist, but it's a hard path to tread (often it feels like treading water). The Careerist in me reminds me that my CV on the Lands has been a moving feast, and even though I'm not sure what it's morphing into a state of flux isn't a bad thing per se. The Adventurer and the Recluse just plain love being out here. Perhaps this is why I struggle so much with 'how' I am out here (rather than who) - I can't find a simple fit. Most of the time, I'm okay with that. But sometimes I look at the work of a rare few, and think that perhaps the Idealist can do the most, so long as they have a good solid dose of the Pragmatist to help them navigate.

Sophie Staughton
Blackstone, Ngaanyatjarra Lands