Mama-ku Christmas

It was a quiet, merry Christmas today in Blackstone. Eleanor was presented with an enormous trampoline (it didn't look that big in the box), which now dominates the backyard. While I was initially worried that it would be out of bounds during the day with the heat blooming on the dark mat, I realised with one stroke that the hose would be enough to turn that problem around.

The view

So early morning, I finally got to properly see the view from the back yard. On tippy toes, it's always seemed good. But in one second bouncing bursts, trouser hems wet, it was even better. Enhanced by the view over our neighbour's yard and highlights of the community to the west. I was reminded of the joy of simple play as a child, and briefly recaptured the moment (only this time without fear of plummeting through the springs on landing).

I am yet to see if the trampoline was a good idea. Eleanor loves it, so it scores top marks there. The main concern is that it will attract lots of bored kids to jump the fence into our backyard when we're away. While I'm perfectly happy for kids to bounce, the problem is that generally it doesn't stay at that. Bouncing turns to disagreements, which becomes frustration and then anger. The nearest thing takes the brunt of all that miniature burst of pure energy, and there is much to vent one's feelings on in the backyard. Fingers crossed ...

The day progressed apiece. After ambling through only half of the food we'd prepared, much of it spontaneously generated with the useful help of Fred's new iPad and online recipes, we marshalled to join the local police sargeant who had opened the pool for the afternoon. A kind gesture by him to give of his time, and one much appreciated by the kids.

The first thing Al said to me when I arrived was 'you wouldn't have thought there were this many kids in the community!' Indeed, it was packed full of leaping, backflipping, dunking, laughing bodies. At least 25 or 30, with more coming in and out, enjoying the rare opportunity to use the pool so tantalisingly close but sadly locked most of the time.

Unfortunately there is no youth worker at Blackstone at present. There seems to be inordinate trouble getting youth workers, paying for them and then encouraging them to stay. When the Shire hurdles the former two, the latter normally knees them after six months. It's a thankless task being a youth worker. Working late shifts, always in demand, constantly needing to find something new to do with limited resources, remote management. Since the best youth workers are young themselves, the sense of adventure wears off after a few months and the job just doesn't seem that attractive anymore. The only ones I know who have stayed have either been community members or temporary visa holders seeking permanent residency.

This evening, as the night closed in, the sounds of the community church wandered over the sky. Hymn songs in language. The unique cadence of the chairman's voice by megaphone, drifting across to the edge of the community.

Christmas lights on solar softly twinkling, the summer glare put to good use. The day is done.

Go quietly

I had a pretty stressful day today.

When I came home and lay in the hammock, the first thing that popped into my head was this: the only people who had a unified view on today's situation were Aboriginal staff and those living closest with them in their communities.

As always,  I am struck by the immense power of culture. About what we take to be normal, and therefore unexamined, and how we interpret 'abnormal'.

Take a simple, and perhaps innocuous thing like 'bad' language. While staying at my brother's house not that long ago, I because acutely aware of the different standards of what we would each regard as acceptable language. I counselled my daughter on a few occasions that while Daddy or Mummy might say certain words, they weren't okay where we were staying.

Personally, I think 'butt crack' is a funny way to describe someone's bottom, but clearly that's just my sense of humour! I'm not particularly fussed by the word 'bugger' either as a general expression of frustration. After doing protective behaviours, I also try to focus on using the proper names for private parts to demystifying for children and adults alike what is basically just a word for a body part. All these revelations were from within my own culture context. What about a context where cultural values and their manifestations in personal and social interactions were markedly different?

Living here, I hear a lot of swearing from the kids. Now that I know a bit of the local language, I'm even more aware of the frequency of swearing. The 'f'word is thrown around a bit, but that doesn't seem to worry the parents.Who am I to judge?

In fact, who I am to know? There is a whole lot more here that is different from other places. People encourage little kids to retaliate physically when they are aggrieved. I remember being slightly shocked when I heard another staff member telling me that he'd observed a parent gently encouraging their baby to 'stone' (ie throw little rocks) at a toddler sibling who was annoying her.

Clearly not something that falls within the Western parenting values repertoire, but the existence of this little moment in time indicates a much larger, substantially different way of dealing with conflict. A way of dealing with conflict that is more open, more immediate and more physical.

There are undeniably times when that physical expression of emotions tips the line and becomes violence. The bar where this occurs, however, is not where I draw it. It is where it is drawn within the culture of the people concerned, and within the bounds of the law generally. Making judgment calls on physical displays of emotion as indicative of a broader malaise is, however, a very risky thing to do with confidence.

I am very tempted by the idea of what it would feel like to truly walk in the shoes of another. Where daily the world is unpredictable, when my culture meets the culture of the mainstream. The power of the mainstream. When having an open fire, instead of a barbeque or a kitchen, is a matter worthy of note. When interactions seemingly innocuous snowball exponentially into events of monumental personal proportions.

There is a general quiet, reserved wariness I notice in Aboriginal people I meet for the first time. As if perhaps I am being tested for the true quality of our time together. Is it with good intent or to judge? It takes a while to get past this, to begin to communicate as much as possible that I see their way of living as inherently valid as my own.

To walk in their shoes is a journey unimaginable in my mind. The gulf is too great. Making the gulf all the more important to note before I and others take a flying leap into the void between us.

Loaded up

The past three weeks, since returning to Blackstone, I have been on a clean out blitz. So far, at least 10 boxes of junk have gone to the tip. Six bags of clothes and toys are stored at Warburton, pending the opportunity to sell them at a discount rate. Two large boxes of books have been set aside to start the Blackstone Coffee Club book exchange.

And still I'm cleaning out. I've only done two rooms so far. I'm yet to finish the study or look into odd cupboards and storage areas that I generally avoid (under the bed, hall cupboard, and so on).

What amazes me is how much stuff we seem to accumulate. Most of it we use rarely. As I wonder whether to chuck out a small plastic car with a popular brand toy driver (currently a hot favourite with Eleanor), I can see why I still seem to have so much left even after all my hard work so far.

Be ruthless, I say to myself. But with every snap decision to 'just keep this, just in case', I find myself reflecting instead on how hard it is to get rid of things. Things that I've spent time earning the opportunity to purchase, with little apparent value in the end. Was it really worth it?

Which leads me to the old man that we helped on his way the night before last. We came across him, by the side of the road, front wheel off, digging a small hole to make room for the spare. With the help of jack lever, and some grunt work from Fred, he continued on to sleep with family that night in Jameson.

What struck me, however, was the extraordinarily utility of every single thing he had with him in that old, nearly falling apart, nearly empty car. The car worked (albeit a bit noisy with the muffler off). He had a spare wheel. Some tools. A torch and a knife. He said he was prepared to bunk down on the side of the road if we hadn't come past. With his bottle of water, some billy tea, a can of tinned meat.

The only thing he said he was missing was a box of matches. (I would add a working jack, but we had one). Not a bad effort.

Our car, by contrast, was so full there was no way we could have offered him a lift without ditching some stuff.

Which makes me wonder. Is all this really worth it? Is all this really necessary? Is it indeed better to have just barely enough, and fill in the gaps with the kindness of strangers and family?

I suspect so.

Child centred

Blackstone community playgroup

I was asked the other day, in the typically direct style of my manager, whether I was being 'child centred'. I was a little astounded at the time. Being child centred was exactly what I was doing.

The asking, however, alerted me to a singular fact. That my idea of the 'child' was markedly different. So different in fact that my discussion appeared to be about other people in the child's life, not the child in question.

I am happy I was asked the question, however, for that one point in time helped clarify something that has been exercising me of late.

To put it starkly, I have been quite concerned that perhaps I am spearheading an altogether new type of stolen generation. The generation that intervenes in the lives of children out of their best interests. That characterises their best interests in such a way as to make their current lives seem untenable.

That so tarnishes their everyday existence that almost any alternative has to seem better.

Does it sound familiar? Do we all, each in our own generation, make personal and community decisions with the best of intent that are fundamentally misguided. How will we look back on this time, with the benefit of hindsight from 2061?

Will the markings I make on indelible electronic records be scoured over with simmering outrage by future researchers, not even yet a faint possibility in their yet unborn parents eyes? (There is considerable optimism in this future forecast - the assumption of a world that continues to sustain historical inquiry as an endeavour both worthy and necessary).

In any case, assuming the world continues as it is, how will my small part in it come to be regarded many years hence?

I'm not preoccupied with my personal record, more my personal values. Is this action now, quite simply, right or wrong?

A wise guide once told me 'you just know, when it feels wrong'.This intuitive affirmation has been a useful lighthouse for me in many decisions. Working back from a wrong feeling to work out why, then coming forward again with a clear rationale.

Which leads me back to the original question. Was I being child centred? The wrong feeling I got was steeped in a profound sense of disadvantage. The voice of the family so quiet, so solitary, so unique as to be effectively inaudible in our perfect English conversation.

Yes, this is wrong. This child is with family, on country. Visible. In fact, more visible than many. The many we do not see who in fact need the brutal, scarifying light of our attention.

Instead, we turn to those who are least like us and ask about 'the child'. As if the child is somehow able to be considered separate from his parents, his culture, his community, his identity. As if the child can somehow be distilled down to an essential blood and bone, a statement of milestones and achievements and little else.

For discussing the parents is discussing the child. Discussing the community is discussing the child. The child is more than just that. The child is part of a bigger whole.

While I think there are times when the child's 'best interests' seems to outweigh all those people that in fact make up who the child is, the times when this are true in my world are rare indeed.

A mirror and a window

I received an email from a good friend. It makes me cry each time I read it (which has not been often, for exactly that reason). I have been prevaricating about how best to respond.

On the way home today, I realised this was indeed the best way to respond.

Openly. Opaque, yes, for the general reader. But an open letter, nevertheless, which is important in itself.

Good friendships come rarely in life. Good friendships across generations perhaps even rarer (maybe for want of opportunity rather than any other inherent reason). Friendships of a certain deep hue need to be treasured, nurtured, sustained.

I have always prided myself on being a protector of such friendships. They have been precious to me in ways that fill a hole in my soul, excavated in the lonely rooms and halls and open spaces of institutional living.

I wonder sometimes what kind of end my aged body will come to, if indeed I make it long enough to age well. I linger on the thought that perhaps I will come (almost) full circle back to one of the more instrumental times in my life, institutional living.

I hope that I will die at home, in my bed, with loved ones nearby. That would be a lucky death indeed.

Death and life are intimately woven into each other, much as we choose not to acknowledge this.

I have become quite attuned to the possibility of imminent death. Passing road trains. A sliding turn on a freshly gravelled road. Another funeral. The sight of a small child going face first into the water, so close but too far.

It feels very near. I idly wonder on long journeys if perhaps I'll get cancer. I morbidly consider if a recent bruise heralds the onset of leukaemia. Or if one of my many moles will turn on me while I blithely smooth sunscreen on my face daily.

Having had very little experience of death, I feel its presence near. When will my luck run out? And when it does, will it be sudden and I will have had no time to say.

That I forgive you. That I choose not to forget either. That I hold certain moments precious in the memory of my life.

I feel the same way and I'm sorry too. We'll be friends again and take our imperfect perfect selves along for the ride.

Dazzling white all around

I'm back. At last. Heave a huge sigh of relief (it's been a long short time away).

Like all spells in a different country, it's been a very productive time for self reflection. Helped no doubt by studying a complementary uni subject (aka Critical Reflective Practice) and some significant personal challenges.

I've been mulling over this post for a while. As seems to always happen, my creative juices start to flow as soon as I hit the long red dusty roads again. Already I've clocked up 1700k and it's only been a week and a day since I stepped onto the tarmac at Kalgoorlie airport.

Now I have to distil my experiences of four months in Toowoomba into one return blog. The result: the dazzling power of white.

Undoubtedly one of the most interesting things to strike me about my work back in the 'mainstream' is just how transferable what I've learnt is to other cross-cultural situations.

I can't get away from just how damn white I actually am. The odd 'look and feel' of that statement first struck me when I was reading an article about working with Aboriginal people. It posed the interesting question of what answer you would give to someone who came up to you on the street and said (all casual and chatty, in good interview style) "so, what's it feel like to be White?"

The question in fact seems ludicrous. Umm, what do you mean? the most likely puzzled response.

You know, White, non-Indigenous, Caucasian, Westerner. White.

Oh, um, I'm not sure. It feels ok, I guess.

It's a pretty hard question to answer. But unless I stop to ask it (and I only just avoided bringing you all into my assumed white loop, by not saying 'we' just then), I will hardly have the self awareness to see where I daily go wrong.

A fun way to spend the day - for some!

For example, my first question, after introducing myself to a refugee community leader: 'So, what do you do?' This I asked to someone who only 2 years ago was living in a refugee camp, who had arrived in Australia, learnt a new language, found somewhere to stay, navigated enormous personal and social change, and commenced study for a new future. And my opening fallback question is what does he do for a job! What on earth was I thinking?... or rather, wasn't thinking.

As it turned out, that meeting proved to be one of the highlights of my Toowoomba stay. At the end of a fascinating, engaging conversation, we shook hands with genuine feeling and went back to our respective worlds, a small rope bridge thrown out between us. Some shared moments based on the truth of our own experiences, many of which for me were grounded in what I've learned out bush.

My whole time on bitumen has led to not one blog post . The deceptive solidity of the ground beneath me, where (almost) everyone and everything makes sense just as it should.

What grounds us is our culture, but it's not as solid as it seems. In fact, it's a dazzling white fragile fabric beneath.

So while I relentlessly strive for a better, slimmer, more perfect me, what am I leaving in my wake? What values am I fostering in my child, unconsciously, despite the best of intent? Some things can't be shifted by thought or good intention along. They are deeply embedded in the fabric of our daily personal, family and social interactions.

Only by being aware of the threads of that dazzling white, do I begin to see it for what it is. I won't ever be any different, but I hope I can start to better appreciate and value the alternatives. See the strengths where other see the deficits.

See the small child happily playing while others notice only the things around him.

With humble thanks to the team at Mercy Family Services Toowoomba (especially Frances, David, Melina, Nicole, Rachel and Candice - what a great bunch of people and a great place to work!).

A word(le)... watch this space

Click on the thumbnail to see the word picture in more detail

 - all the main words from my blog since it's been created.

I'm soon returning to the blog... one more month.

Kunda (shy)

I am preoccupied tonight by concerns about my shyness.

Not shyness in the usual sense. I think generally people would not regard me as shy. Would be more likely to use words like confident, assertive... maybe reserved.

Undeniably, deeply shy am I. This has been borne home to me this week when I consider how little I know people in the communities I live in. Communities that I have been living in for many years.

How easy it is to engage at a surface level, through the prism of interactions primarily in a non-Indigenous world. Gravitating towards non-Indigenous safety zones. Validating priorities that don't reflect reality outside my working space.

This reinforces to me how deeply culture guides our interactions, for it's not for want of intent or interest on my part that this has occurred. Get out of your cultural depth, and what happens: ghettos. Not in the pernicious sense of the word (although this is certainly possible, at its extreme) but in the sense of familiar worlds. You and me. Not us and them (and we know who we are).

Just like I observe that Eleanor, nearly 3 years old, has a completely different way of interacting socially within her own cultural context and outside it. An easy confidence, quick to play, hesitant to share, but essentially comfortable. In a cross-cultural context, not too bad but her genuine cross-cultural forays are few. Outside her context, she copies what we do. We stand up against the wall with our legs crossed, so does she. We sit on the verandah edge, so does she.

A few people have said to me 'what an experience she's having!' but I know that's not true. She's living in a remote Aboriginal community, but she's really a Westerner in a Western world. She spends 95% of her time with her parents, in our world. She interacts as we do. She's not living a remote Aboriginal life in the way you might imagine it. Those comments about experience presuppose an immersion that she's not having. Her context is Aboriginal, but her experience is Western.

Mainstream suburban living in the Ngaanyatjarra Lands

So as I find out more about where people live and who they live with this week (by virtue of a series of unrelated events), I am struck by a profound awareness that I should know this information already! I live here. Why would I not have a basic awareness of certain family groups, where they generally live, and who they generally are related to?

The reason being is that my contact is tiny compared to the totality of my life here. The reality of an office environment that dictates documentation as proof of accountability. That targets individuals for reasons informed by Western values not local realities. That dictates enormous amounts of travel to neighbouring communities for reasons of efficiency not effectiveness.

And when I have spare time, I chose comfort. Familiarity. Even when I know I shouldn't, and maybe it would help if I just got out more and talked to the family across the road rather than waving a friendly wave as I searched for my front door key.

I'm kunda. Shy. Just as I would be if I were immersed in a culture overseas and sought out the local Western cafe. Just to relax, read a menu in English, and order a drink that makes sense. It's not really experiencing the place, but from outside it certainly looks like you're there (just don't look too hard or you might find it's harder than you think to really be in an unfamiliar place).

Desert discos

Desert discos pump through the night air in small communities. Organised by the boys (and girls) in blue, a rare positive treat from the justice system.

Dusk approaches, trestle tables with music equipment, stands with coloured lights. Little kids gather, their eyes alight. Anticipation.

Coppers and staff mill about, set up barbeques or gather together chips and drinks for small profit sales (profits returning to various events from playgroups to footy jumpers). Dogs congregate, the scent of sausages wafts through the cool night air.

Dusk settles on Blackstone, out the back of the station

In Warburton and Blackstone, discos are held outside the police station on a sweep of lawn kindly laid by the federal government. In other communities, any covered area will do. The community hall, its walls torn and rusted. A bower shelter for the equipment, next to the single power socket, open air for the disco hall.

Cars drive the few hundred metres to disco tunes, filled with families of all ages. Night falls swiftly. The music starts and the air begins to thump, stragglers draw in.

Young men watch the young girls dance. Boys eager to copy music rap videos. Young girls shy and smiling. Little kids toddling, under foot.

The centre of the dance space filled only by the occasional happy worker, moving to familiar tunes of city venues or nostalgic moments past. Young kids ripple around the edges, practising moves. Preparing.

Suddenly a boy darts from the shadows. A rap scene snippet flies from his thin arms and legs, cap turned backwards. The crowd noise rises and he darts away. A second boy jumps out, newly brave. Shorter snippets of TV African American dance, he flees.

Three girls on the sidelines take a few steps forward. Twisting and gyrating in unison, arms flung in simulated abandon above their heads. Hips rotating a mesmerising smooth tight circle. Sexual energy in tiny bodies, emerge and captivate. Kunda (shy), release and hasty retreat.

Occasional bravery pushes one or two girls further forward, abandon increases, spotlight of attention intensifies. The moment cracks, they dart from centre to the comfort of shadows.

Little kids, just standing, dance with easy flow, unmoved by the subtle shifts and tugs of adolescents testing. Rites of passage hiding in the shadows, just behind older siblings and cousins.

The night draws closer and older kids move away, searching out darker shadows, the music a backdrop now.

Gradually dispersing, lengthen and retreat, music still pumping in their ears. The energy fades, back into houses and small fires lit. Another disco night.

Another desert night.

For some of the sounds of the night: The Yabu Band, 'Beautiful Girls'

Low-lying dinosaurs of Ilkurlka

Dinosaurs roam the earth still.

Or so I was led to believe by Fred on our previous trip south on the Aboriginal business road from Wingellina to Tjuntjuntjara.

"I just saw a low-lying dinosaur", he exclaimed as we bounced along the two wheel sandy track.

I was disbelieving, to say the least.

This time, proof.

What do you think?

Should we send out the authorities?

Day dreaming

I'm daydreaming.

Dreaming of a day when unspoken words are spoken, and paths ahead converge and merge without my even noticing clear space ahead.

I was asked the other day if I plan to settle here. My response was that it was not possible. The simple answer: it's not my country.

I have a spot picked out that would be perfect for a little house. Something small, self-sufficient. Solar powered. Open verandah across the spinifex to the distant ranges. No fences.

Today, while going for a walk to a nearby hill, the perfect camping spot arose and enfolded. I could see small family groups sitting around a fire, winnowing and sifting. Or swags and a camp oven, settling in for the night.

Weaving my way around and over silent spinifex, poised to pounce, I noticed tiny tracks. Animals. Feet. Ancient tyre tracks. Not nearly so ancient as all around me.

It's not my country. But I feel it, still.

Caught in the door of the law

I've been lost in action for the past week. Caught in the door of the law.

Let me explain. I've recently had to do an assignment for uni, and being the good little Westerner I am, wanted to make it something (as Pooh Bear would say) Useful-ish and Somewhat Helpful.

So rather than pursing topics of particular interest to me, I asked those in the know to nominate a topic that needed some advocacy. Basically free consultancy for the region.

My topic: reducing the impact of motor driver's suspensions and disqualification, by court order and fines enforcement, on rates of secondary offending and ultimately imprisonment.

Having got my topic, and indulging in a moment of lost confidence, I went back and asked for the #2 priority. Appeals of decisions of the magistrates courts by the DPP. That wasn't much more confidence building. So I sighed deeply and being a very good Eeyore (now) decided to Commit to the Task at Hand.

And as it turned out, the topic wasn't half interesting. It was pretty damn fascinating. Did you know that Western Australia has the highest rate of imprisonment of Aboriginal people in Australia? More than 26.5 times that of non-Indigenous people in the State. That's extreme.

Of Aboriginal prisoners, approximately half are in prison for driving offences, including offences that stem from having their licence suspended because they have defaulted on fines.

Fines like failing to vote in the last election. Failing to hand in number plates on a car after it ceases to be registered. Failing to transfer a vehicle registration. Failing to wear seatbelts.

Rego: employer. Licence & car seat: cashed up employees

Of the Aboriginal women in prison, approximately 3/4 are in prison for offences related to driving and fines suspension.

The Chief Justice of WA has called this issue the 'revolving door' of justice for Aboriginal people. 

And as happens, those with the least capacity to pay and the most need to drive fall foul of the law. Penalised by the system, and how it chooses (or not) to exercise discretion.

Fundamentally, just because a policy or a law makes sense in metropolitan Perth and the south-east, that does not make it substantively fair when it applies to a tiny number of people in remote communities.

The obligation should be on governments and departments to explore systemic alternatives. Yet report after report, parliamentary debate after debate, shows knowledge of the problem but a commitment only to drilling down to more effective means of enabling payment. Not re-assessing the system.

It couldn't possible be the system at fault. Could it?

How many fingers am I holding up? (Two)

I think the most successful inter-agency meetings I have participated in out here involve no more than two agencies.

In the four years I've spent in remote communities, I can only remember one standout successful inter-agency meeting with more than two agencies present. Four years. And I participate in at least two or three inter-agency exchanges a week (on average), with a formal inter-agency meeting about once a month.

A visual metaphor for inter-agency collaboration

That's not such a great strike rate. In fact it's abysmal. So why is inter-agency work so difficult?

Part of the answer is I think explained in the previous post. The extraordinary impact that individuals have on the success or otherwise of a service or program. Individual personalities become almost larger than life, for there is frankly no-one else in the particular organisation to work with if personalities clash.

I wonder too if a certain type of personality is attracted to work out here. Driven, ambitious, confident, risk-takers. Perhaps that was me too when I first came (or even now... I'm not so sure). This is hardly the personality type that thrives on collaboration and cooperation. That deeply enjoys the experience of a mutually agreed way forward.

When underpinned by a standard Western mentality of individualism, and the importance of 'doing' (something.... anything), this may go some way to explaining the stumbling blocks in joining up.

Over the years I've found that most inter-agency meetings are mere descriptions of activities, stated with the usual rider that all assistance is welcome from others to help them meet their agenda. Sometimes, in sadly familiar 'disaster-prone' territory, the dominant individual asserts his or her agenda to the exclusion of others. Demanding explanations for how others are contributing to their goals. Worse, it ends up as a debate between two strong personalities, neither understanding nor likely to understand each other.

The simplest way I've found is to ride them out. Through gritted teeth. For in a year or so, the dominant personality gets frustrated and leaves. And community members wait patiently, with a mild interest, for who arrives next.

In the meantime, while I attend the multi-agency meetings out of respect, I've found the most successful collaboration comes from simple attempts to join up with another person in another agency on a specific task. That person may be gone next week, next month or next year, but at least you've found a way to work together this time, for now.

The exit interview you never had

I have a theory.

Leaving your job can be a pretty hard decision for most remote workers. It's more than just a decision about what job you do. It's also about where you live. Who you spend time with. The daily challenges you enjoy or feel energised by. The new (often strange) experiences you've had.

Everyone knows that life in remote communities is hard, and there is a high turnover of staff. I think since many people could not contemplate making the life decision to move out here and work, it's easy to conjecture that people leave because they don't want to be so isolated anymore.

I could be wrong. But after many years of seeing workers come and go, and leaving once myself, I have often reflected the reason for leaving may be different.

My theory is that people leave more often because of the challenges of working within their particular organisation. It is a reality that very few of the organisations in remote communities, if larger than the community itself, do not really understand or accommodate the needs of remote workers.

Similarly, life in remote communities brings a certain luminous focus to the quality of relationships within the organisation. Having a supportive boss is essential for day to day sanity, as mainstream assumptions and preconceptions clash with daily life. Alternatively, or worse in addition, working with other colleagues in the organisation who do not understand your situation makes life endlessly frustrating.

And sometimes there is just the challenge of dealing with big personalities in a small space. The experience of dealing with challenging people at work cannot be easily absorbed into other quality work relationships. This is because the impact of that one person will be far greater by virtue of  (usually) being the main person you have to deal with in that organisation.

I could be wrong. In fact, I'm fascinated to know if I am indeed wrong. This subject is probably worthy of a PhD, but in lieu of spending a few years tracking down ex-remote workers (let's just say, of the Central Desert region), and writing thousands of words on the topic, I'd be interested in hearing from you here.

So for all the challenges of living remote, working in a confusing, cross-cultural context, with the flies, heat, dust, isolation, poor housing, and limited social life, is there instead another more important factor at play? Having accepted that life would sometimes be challenging, is it the frustrations of working within your organisation what tipped you over the edge in deciding to leave?

Here's the opportunity for the exit interview you probably never had...


(Anonymous comments also welcome from those who would prefer to remain so)

Robbing me nicely

Today I heard a classic statement. The kind that captures so many meanings in an instant.

It came from a Ngaanyatjarra man, an artist, who has built a wonderful close relationship with the art centre manager. With that closeness also comes tension.

'Three Ways' (Surveyor-General's Corner) - border of NT, SA, WA

The art centres can be fantastic, vibrant places in each community. At the core of each, however, usually rests a few top quality artists that sustain the business.

Of course, there are many other factors in a sustainable remote creative enterprise, not least of which is a talented art centre manager.

This worker has to balance being the boss and the bossed around. After all, he or she is fundamentally the employee of the members of the art enterprise. At the same time, the manager is the 'expert' (as much as that is possible) in the whitefella world the enterprise is targetting.

They have to be assertive, patient, kind, compassionate and firm. And most important of all, friendly.

At the core of all good work in remote communities is relationships. Any multitude of cross-cultural hurdles can be jumped with a good relationship.

There will be inevitable misunderstandings. Especially when it comes to money. Explaining 'the money story' is a continuous, difficult process. It wears you down.

Conversations about money (on a personal, family, and enterprise level) all seem to engage the greatest potential for misunderstanding when interpreted from such different worldviews. The complexity of even the most simple things, like where the money goes, can be hard to explain.

Hence, the classic statement. You're robbing me nicely.

In this statement, I hear so many things:

• The accusation. Where's my money? You must be holding onto it because I'm not getting enough.
• The forgiveness. I like you. I'm still here with you, even though I think we're in trouble.
• The test. Explain to me again why I'm not getting what seems right. What am I missing? (for I do trust you, even though I'm angry).
• The relationship. If we weren't connected, I wouldn't need to even say this to you. I'd be chasing you with a stick instead!

Sadly, I also hear the risk. The real risk that perhaps the person is indeed using their knowledge against someone disadvantaged by their minority culture and second language. I have seen times when people working out in remote communities have been robbing the poorest. Nicely. Disarmingly genuine in appearance, yet full of deceit or a sense of entitlement owed for choices they have made (like choosing to live remote and accept a modest salary in exchange).

What sustains me is the knowledge that in every true partnership between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, such as between this artist and art centre manager, there is trust and forgiveness on both sides. Which brings people along even when a shared understanding is not possible.

Doing it tough

Today's post is a little different. It is a message written by a colleague, Clive Buckingham, doing the same job as me, but based in Oombulgurri (a community in the north east of the Kimberley region, WA). Oombulgurri has been effectively closed by withdrawal of government support.

With winter rapidly approaching and as the bright red orb of the setting sun disappears behind the rugged hilly outcrops, the normal balmy Kimberley evening starts to cool. At the same time the virulent Wyndham mozzies start to descend on every piece of bare flesh. However, as evening darkens into the nightly cold even the mozzies head home. 

Not so for several groups of mainly Aboriginal women and a few children, many of who once called Oombi home.  These groups are doing it tough Kimberley style. Their home for the night is the “long grass” around Wyndham with the hard cold earth as a bed. They sleep huddled together sharing body heat to help ward off the permeating cold. Tourists from the southern states flock to the experience the rugged beauty of the Kimberley. However, there is no beauty in being homeless in Wyndham.

Yesterday we went out to locate these groups and see what support we could offer.  We supplied blankets and water containers. In one such group we encountered an elderly lady from Oombi who I knew well. She still retained her wicked sense of humour as she reminded me that at 79 she was starting to get a little too old for all this. She had some other family members and children with her. The worker with me expressed concerns about the children but to me they were safe with this group of strong women. In other groups we found people who preferred the safety of the “long grass” to the nightly alcohol fuelled violence in town.  One group was camping in the public toilets where they at least had a roof and walls.

The simple truth is that there is not enough housing in Wyndham and what housing there is  overcrowded.  Rumours are that the housing authorities are starting to crack down on this overcrowding, forcing more people into the long grass. Oombi is no longer an option as vacant houses have had the electricity disconnected and the power station is soon to be decommissioned.  No electricity means no water or sewerage.

The irony is if this situation was the result of a natural disaster, relief and assistance would be available.  However, given that this is a man-made (gender bias intended) disaster no such assistance is available.

Little miss ...

I miss having a playground that is clean and functional. I miss my gym in Alice Springs. I miss the possibility of going to the movies. I miss going to festivals and events. I miss catching up with good friends for Sunday brunch. I miss the library. I miss catching up with friends in person.

There are a few things I miss. But mostly I can do without, quite happily, with  most of the things I used to do. Going out for coffee, wandering through the shops, seeing too many movies.

What I like about my current life is that it's pared back to essentials. A simple life is really the life I choose. When I'm too close to the centre of town, or right in the heart of the city, invisible tentacles of consumerism slowly creep and enclose. 

I think I have learned that I need to live just a little out of town, to make all the things that I do miss possible. The trick is leaving far enough away to avoid falling into the excesses of our culture. A little house, a little way away, with enough open space and nice flat bitumen road to town.

I'm not quite there yet, for I don't miss all those things enough at this point. But the day is approaching, and no doubt will be here quicker than I expect.

Specialising in failed service delivery

I like to think I could be a specialist in failed service delivery.

I certainly think I've had enough opportunity. After all, I've spent almost 5 years failing in service delivery roles in remote Aboriginal communities.

I know I do a great job at failing when I work for government. That's almost a given.

What I'm not so confident about is whether I can refine my skills even further.

To be a little less obtuse, I have mostly been working in a 'service delivery' way (even though my job specifications have largely been about working in a developmental, or participatory, way).

I'm a fantastic systems operator. I gravitate to systems. I love the complexity of systems. I search for simplicity in systems. I strive to project simplicity. I seek justice through systems.

And systems just love me back. Here, have some more work (we love the way you write). Here, represent us (we love the way you talk). Is there anything else I could do for you? I ask earnestly in return.

But the catch is that systems don't work. Programs don't work. Preprepared solutions don't work. Rules and regulations don't work.

We place enormous trust in systems. We devote enormous energy to systems. In fact, we need systems. But at a local level, and even more so in non-mainstream places, they don't work.

My response. Work harder. Be more responsive to the local. Be simpler. Be more culturally aware. Be more aware.

But that won't work (I know, I've done it).

Fundamentally, service delivery requires supplicants. It asks only that people access the service, or be prepared to be accessed. It holds attention but requires no thought. It asks questions to which it already knows the right answers.

Hence, operating as a service deliverer means I have failed. Spectacularly. Beautifully recorded, succinctly stated failure.

So the answer. Specialise in failed service delivery. Refine the skills of a craft of operating that is so different as to bear no resemblance to what I'm being paid to deliver.

And through real dialogue, real relationships, deliver.

How are you today?

I've recently bought myself a small start-up set of cards to use in therapeutic work with clients.

Well, that's the cover story.

As a student social worker, beginning to conceptualise exactly how I might use my future degree, I have been particularly drawn to the use of visual tools. I first came across these when we were shown Bear Cards last year in our training to teach protective behaviours on the Lands.

The little bears appealed to me straight away. In fact, I wanted a set just for me. To play with on my own, ruminating indulgent self-contemplation.

My Bear cards arrived last week. Along with a man in a bathtub out at sea (Ups and Downs), strengths cards for kids (I have Eleanor as an excuse to purchase these), the Cars 'R Us set (lots of fun on four and sometimes more wheels), some Lost in Normality cards (because that sounds like my existential dilemma), and a Growing Well set (who doesn't want that?).

I might have gone a little overboard... but hey, I have a great card that shows that feeling now!

Here's how I am feeling today, in bears:

What is a community?

Such an easy question to answer ... or is it? I sometimes struggle with this idea of community, as it seems like many view the idea of an Aboriginal community in static or stereotypical ways.

For example, well it's a group of Aboriginal people all from the same area who speak the same language (isn't it?) Or it's [insert name] Community, you know, about [kilometres] from [town].

It's not. And it is.

Just as I might identify as 'Australian' when I'm in England, or 'country NSW born and bred' when I'm in Canberra, what is my own sense of community identity shifts according to who I'm with and where I am. So yes, sometimes people will say they are from Warburton, or sometimes from the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, or sometimes Central Desert, but it shifts according to context.

Blackstone Community - from office up to the store

The really interesting thing though, is how the community works when it's just a conversation about what's happening in one place. What does it mean when we're thinking just about one community, like Warburton or Blackstone?

One of the early things I learnt about work out here is that communities are really collections of families sitting around the one bore (so to speak). As traditional life shifted to contemporary settled life, places developed in ways that gave the impression of just one set of related mob, but really it is more complex.

Family comes first. Family is the abiding connector. So when outsiders say "the community should sit down and talk about this", what does that mean? Very little. The community is a collection of families. And like any collection of individuals, they will face all the usual struggles of meeting, sharing, agreeing and deciding what to do next that any of us face in small communities all across Australia (suburbs, communities of interests, little regional towns).

Somehow, people assume that because community members are tied together by language, culture, remoteness etc, there is somehow a magical additional layer of cohesiveness and collective decision-making. There are culturally informed ways of sitting down and trying to nut things out, but there are exactly the same challenges in doing that as there would be anywhere else.

Karrku Community (now abandoned) playground

Yet, when things go wrong in Aboriginal communities, in ways we don't ask of mainstream Australian communities, "the community" need to sort it out. Ta da.

It's not that simple. It can't be that simple.

Really, we are united by our similarity more than our diversity!

What time tells us

I walked up to the police station from my little DCP house earlier this week. It felt like it was going to be a long walk, being almost from one side of the community to the other.

It took 7 minutes. As I arrived, checking my watch with astonishment, I remembered an early reflection I had when I first arrived in the community five years ago. Within about a week, I was driving distances that seemed absurd, yet going any other way than by car was inconceivable.

Like all things, we fall into the norm. By car. Even if it's just a few blocks. Very rarely do I see non-Indigenous people on foot around the community. Don't ask me why - my little expedition earlier this week confirmed that it is indeed not very far to walk anywhere.

This led me to ponder more broadly on the notion of time. How our mind conflates and expands time, making time a quality more reflective than objective. I remember how long my first year out bush seemed. It stretched on forever as my mind stretched to accommodate the endlessly new information it was processing.

Now it has slowed. Slowed to a pace I recognised also when I very first visited remote communities. Why so slow? Why can't people pick the pace up a little! I wondered, exasperated. My Canberra high-energy hat buzzing.

Over time, I have come to appreciate that slowed down quality. I'm still a little wary of the propensity to lethargy, but more often than not, I see that all things pass. Over time, only the most important things keep coming to the surface.

It reminds me of a favourite Dilbert cartoon, with the office dinosaur (literally) holding up his little hands in simple gratitude as he expresses to Dilbert that if you wait long enough, the people doing the restructuring leave and everything returns to normal. "I don't know why, but it works every time."

Turning the idea around again, I reflected on a recent lesson I learnt in a book. Pila Nguru by Scott Cain. A book I've started dipping into about the Spinifix Arts movement and Tjuntjuntjara mob native title early days. The author recounts another tale of time to blow our objective minds.

While visiting a sacred site, Scott left an old, sick, frail elder in the Toyota while he set out to follow the other men as they danced across a salt pan.

When they had danced the kilometre or so across the flat, they arrived to find the old man already there, keening in a deep trance, met by the men with simple acceptance not incredulity. In our world, a physical impossibility. In Anangu world, reality.

Time passes in different ways. Speed is not an objective quality of physical strength, but a character held by some according to cultural power and wisdom.

In that moment, the author believed that time is not as we believe it. More than just in our heads, or even our wrist watches. In our bodies, an untapped potential to change the world we are in by strength of connectedness.

Time, reflective and spiritual. Certainly not objective.

Share and share alike

Playgroup re-opened today in Warburton. Eleanor has been on the lookout for Anne (who runs the playgroup) for a while, and regularly comments as we go past "Anne's on holidays, she'll be back soon". Soon arrived at last, and playgroup started up again, linked to the school term timetable.

This post is actually about one 10 second moment in playgroup. A moment that speaks volumes about how people live their lives, and deeply embedded cultural values that pass on to children at a very young age.

As a pre-cursor to that moment in time, it might be worth mentioning that I spent a bit of time today secluded in the little cubby house. Eleanor was happy to have me in there, but fought off any other incursions with statements like "no, it's too crowded in here", or "we're already full" (it was just me and her), or "no stop touching the edge" (to a little baby just learning to stand, and having the temerity to put her fingers on Eleanor's cubby windowsill).

So the conventional wisdom is that children this age are developmentally not very good at sharing. I tried to encourage the sharing gene, with regular entreaties "Eleanor, they can come in, let's share" or pulling her hands away from the baby's fingers as she tried to prise them loose. At one point, I upped the ante by saying that I'd leave the cubby house if she didn't start sharing it. That sort of helped but it felt a little like emotional blackmail! The Aboriginal mums just laughed at Eleanor and remarked on how "bossy" she was. It was all good natured, but I do generally struggle with Eleanor not really playing well beside other kids. Still, it's an age and stage.

Or is it... so to 10 seconds of interest. Just as the morning tea and story was coming to a close, little Damiana - about Eleanor's age - burst into the room with her mum. Flash in her pink outfit and new shoes, she was ready for all that playgroup had to offer and morning tea was a good time to arrive. I'm not sure of the family connection, but little Tiawana (about 3 years), immediately motioned her to come sit next to her. Damiana sat down and looked about for something to eat. Tiawana moved her cup of milo closer to Damiana's knee. She didn't notice, so Tiawana tapped her on the knee and pointed at the milo. Without a word between them at any point since she arrived, Damiana picked it up Tiawana's milo and drank it, then looked around for what else was on offer.

This spontaneous unconscious sharing of your own food is something I have seen a lot over the past few year, but hadn't really thought about it until I saw it in mini replay. Cultural values so deeply ingrained that little kids Eleanor's age reproduce it exactly.

So is 'doesn't share well with others' really a developmental stage, or Western cultural values at work again? Is our propensity to own and hoard something that kids are in fact demonstrating in their 'playing beside' rather than 'playing with' behaviour? Developmental charts then become cultural by-products rather than scientific fact.

When you reach for a new cup to pour someone a fresh cup of tea (rather than sharing your own) are you in fact reinforcing cultural values of separateness and individuality. All part of the great Western way. Based on today's 10 second moment, it seems so.

Bush camps - the madness that makes sense

These past few days I've participated in two bush camps, one overnight, one daytime.

This is one of the few times I've been on camps out bush, despite it being the best way to get to know people! A good opportunity to spend time with community members, outside the normal spaces encircled by houses and community buildings.

This story is mostly about the Wednesday night bush camp, as today's day camp was also for work (and therefore a little harder to describe). There were, however, lots of shared moments, as kids disappeared into the surrounds, fires lit, and damper cooked gently on the coals.

So, on Wednesday night, we rushed back from a DCP meeting at Jameson to hurriedly change and pack our swags for a night in the bush with Warburton breakfast ladies and heaps of children.

The Shire bus was rolled out, a large 4WD monster that sits as high as a truck and heralds the promise of bush adventure.

After the usual waiting, one man wielding two axes, and various negotiations about which particular spot to go to (the answer being 'we'll just drive, we'll see when we start') we headed east out of town. Barely out of mobile range, we pulled off onto a small track and soon settled down at an open site, with lots of sandy flats.

Before I had our swag out of the car, two fires were light and groups of families began to cluster around with their swags and blankets. A third fire started up, as a new cluster gathered. Coals emerging to cook kangaroo tail, sausages and pumpkin in foil, and the ubiquitous damper.

The kids took off onto the flat, kicking balls, and rampaging through the camp with cartwheels and unburstable energy. I wandered around somewhat uselessly, until I mustered up the focus to collect a few bits of wood for our fire.

By 6pm, it was dark and we were tucking into bits of shared food. Children were fighting and laughing. Adults shouting to break them up. There is a particularly strident tone to this exchange, with the aim being to raise your voice so loud it pierces through the child's brain to force them into submission from afar. Kids started to settle, and adults extracted sand painstakingly from stinging eyes

At one stage, in order to settle the kids down too, one of the ladies dressed up as a 'mamu'(bad spirit) to scare the kids into bed. She sat by the edge of the camp ominously, then hobbled in at a crazy rollicking pace, scattering kids as she went.

Finally the children dropped off, and adult cadences rose and fell. The ebb and flow of shared stories and confidences. At one stage, in between the children sleeping and us talking, one woman cried out in a louder voice (and English) - hey you kids be quiet and let the big people talk! It made us laugh, a shared moment, as we slept in separate groups.

As the morning came on, the snoring echoed by owl hoots was replaced by small birds twittering the sun over the horizon. Eleanor's first words of the day: The moon! in astonishment as it brightly shone in the grey dawn light. Fires started up, water heated for tea, and yesterday's damper eaten with butter and jam.

Various prizes were found by the kids - bird's nests complete with little eggs and newly hatched chicks. A goanna. Sadly, all had a short life - it being hard to survive a bush camp morning with a pile of bush kids! While some white staff were a bit put off by the chicks, I've seen it before and am reconciled. I just choose not to touch the poor animals as they await their inevitable fate.

A lovely camp, albeit a bit dusty, a bit raucous and fatal (at times), but certainly a nice break to the flow of daily life.

And an aside for those policy makers who like to read this blog: don't ban going bush - it's the best way to start building relationships, an essential foundation for any work out bush. I was amazed at the madness of some organisations who ban their staff from taking vehicles on bush camps! A policy decision that makes sense in town, but none out here.

Spatial re-alignment

The unexpected lessons we learn.

Yesterday, as part of Easter Sunday festivities in the bush, we decided to drive to Jameson via a north-western back road. The plan was to set out on the Walu road, take a left at the first windmill, and wind across to Jameson. Speed home on the main road. Snacks packed, iPod loaded, gun in the passenger seat, off we set.

Gun. Yes. (Did you do a double take and re-read?) We don't normally take the gun. But yesterday, in one of those rare 'why not' moments, in it went. A little target practice for recreational purposes only. Fred is over shooting to kill, and I've never really been into it anyway.

In fact, Fred is currently tossing around the idea of a clay target shooting range on the Lands, which I think would go down great guns. After all, hunting is a local passion.

Guns are one of the few things I see people regularly engaging with whitefellas, and the broader 'law and order system' in general. Coming up to the police station to renew a gun licence. Shelling out for the relatively exorbitant cost of secure cabinet to store their gun at home. I guess it's the modern day spear.

So off we set, Jameson in our sights. We drove, turned left, and drove, and drove. Around washed out roads, across new scenic stretches. Small hills and tussocks, with a two wheel track winding through, no tyre tracks evident. Sensing the subtle enjoyment of seeing new country. Sensing we were nearing Jameson.

And then, with some considerable astonishment, we popped out at Walu.

Walu, for those not living on the Lands, is _not_ just near Jameson. In fact, it's centrally between Jameson, Blackstone and Wanarn. Which means we had been heading more north than west. By a long shot.

All that 'new country'. Seen it. Not that long ago either (probably six months). But just like those conversations you have where the world as you understand it has to spatially re-align, we suddenly realised our mental map was all wrong.

And so, re-adjusted, we sighed and turned back. Not quite what we wanted, but a good lesson all the same. That the world is not always as it seems. It's mostly what goes on inside our heads.

A working phone

View coming in by plane

Today, I flew to Tjuntjuntjara for work. It's one of the remotest Aboriginal communities in Australia. Unlike the Lands, which is a constellation of communities of varying sizes within 250,000 square kilometres, Tjuntjuntjara is an outpost in the heart of country like few others.

The journey by car is so far that, at times, there comes a moment when the ground is on a slight rise and all the world stretches before you. The curvature of the earth evident, proving that we are indeed a globe circling the sun. Proving also that land is so central to meaning that people will do what is necessary to make a return to country a reality.

The curvature of the earth just out of shot!

I do not know much of how Tjuntjuntjara came to be, save the few stories told to me by people who helped establish the community. I will leave that for others to recount or research as their heart desires.

What I want to write about is the meaning of a working phone. How the quality of community functioning can be seen in this (and other) small signs.

The common conception of remote Aboriginal communities is dysfunction, violence, drug use, sniffing, lawlessness. This is the media story we are told again and again, reinforced by strategic photos and a swiftly passing journalist with intent.

My understanding is the opposite. The more remote, the safer it becomes. The closer to country, the stronger the families. The more distant, the easier it is to resist alcohol and its destructive power. The harder to access, the more stable the governance.

Tjuntjuntjara stands out for me in the following ways. Old people, sitting out the front of the shop, watching the passing day. The houses and infrastructure, grown steadily and over time. Community staff who want to stay, who are drawn to community members' strengths, resources and determination. A shop that sells no lollies or chips.

And a working public phone. Out in the central area, which looks upon the community houses, the shop, office, school, clinic and women's centre, the public phone stands sentinel. The mobile of most use here is the young person who can get to the phone before it stops ringing. Beckoning over the intended recipient of the call.

I don't want to overly romanticise Tjuntjuntjara. There are the usual challenges of life remote, including boom and bust with money, jealousies and family disagreements, problems with getting a plumber, flies and a few too many dogs!

But what distinguishes it from other communities is that it's quiet, calm, 'no fighting here' as one community member (formerly of Warburton) told me today. Not as much anger, seen in the 'wild' moments when someone grabs the steering wheel of a car and goes spinning through the community knocking the public phone over. Or grabs a stick and belts it after a jealous fight. Or destroys it trying to get the coins out. Or rips the handset off to wreak revenge on others.

It's a safe community, a strong one, open and friendly. Welcoming strangers like us, and straight away starting to share their stories. When Fred and I first went there last year, we came back to Kalgoorlie buzzing with the experience. Friendly, helpful, welcoming. Prepared to take us as who we were and start from there. There's much that Tjuntjuntjara mob have to show us about how to be in the world.

Getting started

I was reminded tonight of some of the classic mistakes I made when I first came here, 5 years ago.

My fire engine red skirt that I wore to a meeting of community council governing committee. My query about why a community member had cut her hair off when it had looked so great before (and refusing to accept her shrug response). My direct questions.

All problematic. Ignorance of certain colours reserved just for men, rituals on the death of a close family member, ways of engaging respectfully.

Thankfully, I was saved by time. A genuine interest to engage. The gentle guidance of colleagues and soon-to-be friends. An inquiring mind. But most important of all, time.

Time on feet. Time in the communities. Time engaging with people. Time finding out more, asking those who knew. Time getting to know others.

Our Western world transacts our interactions with others with ferocious speed. Rules of engagement are clear. In most domains, it is not necessary to know much about the other person you are talking with. It's not necessary to know them at all.

I recently read an article on how to engage with Aboriginal people in a social work context. I skimmed through to the end to see what the conclusions were. I was relieved to see that it said focussing on the relationship, taking time, and engaging in 'self-disclosure' (letting people know who you are) was important.

Why exactly do we eschew this in Western culture? Why is knowing about the other person relatively unimportant in how we relate to them? In this highly individualistic culture, we seem to have lost the individual quality that enriches life.

Individuals. Me. You. Us. What we share together.

Through the window

After five years on (or near) the Lands, I'm getting to the point where I want to start to write something about my time out here. Observations, musings, reflections.

Lands equivalent of a crystal ball

I am struggling with a concern about my legitimacy to put pen to paper (so to speak). I can name five people in a heartbeat who are infinitely more qualified than I, in terms of time on the Lands and engagement with people, to comment publicly.

I've also always been wary of advancing my thoughts, in a way that may benefit me, off the back of  experiences with one of the most disadvantaged groups in Australia. There is an element there that seems, plainly speaking, wrong.

For all these misgivings, however, I also think that I've perhaps had a better opportunity to stand at the window I've been gazing through and observe what goes past. Events and experiences accumulate, repeat, grow in depth.

Most people stand at the window a short time, get confused, frustrated, or tired out, and leave. I've pulled up a chair and sat back for a little longer. I've moved the chair around a little to get some new perspectives. I've observed the same things happening time and again.

Now the time has come to process these thoughts, churn, contemplate, regurgitate. Here's hoping it's a worthwhile wait.

p.s. Yes, we did get back to the Lands at last, yesterday. Courtesy of a serendipitous charter from the Department of Education, leaving Kalgoorlie empty to pick up school teachers for the holidays. We managed to hitch a lift, and flew home in style on a twin jet.

Breaking the rules

Some light relief from all these intense posts about social justice and existential angst!

Sometimes, you just gotta break the rules to have the most fun...

Home sweet home

I am preoccupied with the idea of home. Getting home. Going home. Home.

At present, we are somewhat stuck approximately 900k from home (being Warburton, add another 200k if you imagine Blackstone). The tyranny of distance rears its ugly head in response to a simple weather event (rain).

A large hole in one part of the road from Laverton to Tjukayirla has had that section of the road closed for weeks. The only other option to get in to the Lands from the west has been the mail plane. Currently booked out 3 weeks in advance. Waitlisting chances are probably good, provided we're prepared to pack up at 6.15am two mornings a week and take our chances. Separately (three seats on one plane being impossible).

For all that, it is more than the mere act of getting home that is preoccupying me. Sure, I miss it. I want to be out of hotel rooms. I've had enough of my morning coffees, and eaten out in restaurants all that my body can take (too much). I'm tired of the convenience, the parking hassles, the frenetic pace of city life.

I'm preoccupied by the idea of home. The allure of an oasis in the desert is paling. It's certainly a complete package that I enjoy. It's challenging, interesting, exciting, relaxed, remote. But fundamentally not home.

The closer we get to the point where Eleanor needs to go to preschool, or primary school (if I delay just a little), the more the question draws closer. Where is home?

Are we nearly there yet?

Complacency is not an option

I try to avoid being political in this blog.

At times, however, neutrality is not an option. This is one of those times.

I am filled with a visceral sense of latent injustice. It almost feels like I can touch it, even though I cannot see it clearly. Injustice that arises not from a lack of good intent, or even good deeds, but from systemic powerlessness and enormous gulfs in understanding.

I believe that a powerful response to the challenge of cross-cultural communication is humility. Simple openness to learn and understand, guided by the person you are talking with. For all that people say about talking with Aboriginal people, protocols to observe or facts to know, I go by the simplest of maxims. Openness. Honesty. Willingness to learn.

As soon as someone sets him or herself up as an expert, as soon as someone establishes rules inside his or her own head for how to act, problems arise. Those rules, that 'expert' knowledge, is based on understanding the world from a particular perspective. So deeply informed by our experiences in mainstream Western society as to be almost invisible.

We're taught to critically analyse this in social work studies. But is it truly possible to be critically self-aware on a daily basis, in every action and interaction? Especially when surrounded (in the main) by people and systems deeply embedded in the dominant culture. Even when I am daily surrounded by a minority culture, I find it hard to maintain that quality. What hope for those who are not so challenged at every turn?

Aboriginal people live in a world where they are marginalised and discriminated against. Their culture and language is devalued, misunderstood, or ignored. In this space, room opens up for enormous injustices. For people to feel unable to express themselves. To feel unable to be understood. To feel powerless to right wrongs. To be without hope.

Abuse does occur. But so does injustice, and perhaps more frequently so.

So, I have this to guide my daily actions: the more I know, the less I know. The more I need to trust others who know more than I. The more humble I need to be.

Perhaps humility is the antidote to injustice? Complacency is not an option.

Unfolding days

I have been quiet on the blog the past week. While it's my aim to write something every few days, it has been a busy week past.

One very very long day on Tuesday travelling from Warburton to Perth. We arrived at the airstrip at 11am to discover that the fuel pump was broken. Rosalie commented that whenever it seems like all is going to plan, something (small but significant) goes awry and the day is thrown. A commentary on life in general in remote communities. That day, it was the fuel pump. Eventually, two planes were refuelled by makeshift means and on their separate ways.

As luck would have it, we arrived in Kalgoorlie just in time to check in for our flight to Perth. All seemed good. We'd made our connecting flight... or so it seemed. The brakes on our connecting plane had failed on landing. Men swirled like ants around the wheels. Eventually, a new plane was brought in and we boarded. It was 11pm when a reasonably bright and perky Eleanor arrived in the hotel room ready for bed.

As always happens when transposed from life remote to life in the city, the differences are stark. Maybe it's fashion this season, but why this sea of grey and black? As fashionable as the cut may be, the colours are dull, despondent, trapped. Is that what people are feeling, in this concrete place, or are these my thoughts transferred? My eyes are drawn to any tiny burst of colour. I'm conscious of the muted tones of my own city clothing. I'm determined to wear bright pink tomorrow.

The pace is frenetic. No space for the unfolding of the day. Measured from breakfast, morning shop hours, lunch, the return of activity, school bell, dinner and then evening calm. Perhaps a church service or community event. The pool closes. A few kids out and about, making their fun. Here, step out any time and activity surges forward. Undaunted by the changing seasons of the day, unaffected by the passing hours, the city continues to move and hum. Dragging you along in its unceasing pace. Urging you to consume, aspire, envy.

Every place has its pace. This is not mine. I enjoy the unfolding days, the ebb and flow of daily life at its essence, the unhurried energy of time spent present. Guided by shared community markers of the day's passing. Unbidden by the need to achieve, produce, present, impress. Just me... and you. Here and now.

Long days at work

One of the challenges of the job is the long hours travel.

This week, we unexpectedly had to go to Blackstone from Warburton, twice. In two days. After driving 5 and a half hours return on Thursday, I couldn't face another long drive again on Friday. Thankfully, my boss agreed to us chartering the plane (this being one of the rare times when capitalising on the moment was best).

When we went by car, we could only spend 3 hours with clients and even then got back well after dark. Two thirds of the time spent travelling. By plane, it was only 1 and half hours, with 4 hours client time. The cost difference was enormous, $1150 for the 6 hour charter. $140 diesel for the car trip. It's hard to weigh up the relative benefits. Time in the car is a much better space for preparation, and sharing with colleagues (an indispensable part of the job). On the other hand, it exerts considerable wear and tear on you and car. The flight was quick, efficient and got the job done in a classic 'fly in, fly out' approach. Not the best look, and we have no idea what happened in the community after we left. But we were home for tea, and I guess that counts for something.

Courtesy of my new Flip videocam, we now have some footage of the two trips for your viewing pleasure. No pictures of communities or community members, as it wasn't appropriate. There will be some in the future no doubt. Enjoy the scenery.

Verdant in deed (yirtangu)

It may be the desert but it's not brown. It's not that sandy. It's not that hot.

Coming in to Blackstone today from Warburton

Now, with unseasonal rains, it's verdant, lush, luminous, cool and somewhat muddy. A green so vibrant as to knock you into submission.

Yirtangu. In 2007, I once travelled a delightful trip with an Aboriginal colleague from Wanarn to Warburton. With us, an experienced woman who understood a lot of language and even more of its contemporary complexity in the Lands.

The countryside was as green then as now. It sparked an unusual conversation amongst us. We exchanged words. Verdant. A particular word in English, evoking the landscape around us. Not well known, but perfectly suited to our time.

Yirtangu. The Ngaanyatjarra equivalent, given in response after a moment's thoughtful contemplation. Language rich with its knowledge of seasons, rich with its reckoning of daily life. Rich with the lives of  ancestors before him.

Later that weekend, a woman came to sell me a painting. I had tired then of buying small canvases, rough, crafted for a box of groceries. As soon as it was unrolled, however, the woman in the car and I both smiled. Yirtangu. For a $100, a box in deed, memories of the lush green desert then and now.

For Inge and Robin