It starts with today

Today is day one of week 1. The fitness blitz 2011. Since coming out to the Lands, as can so easily happen when no longer able to access a good gym with a great program, I've steadily put on those few pesky kilos that are hard to shift without consistent exercise. The regular travel also plays havoc with good intentions. So part of the many purchases last week was a blitz program of fitness, good eating, and crystal clear guidelines premised on the simple notion: eat less, exercise more.

The result is that I'm tired and grumpy. Moody as all get out really. But I did get through day one, program intact. And this little post is all part of my strategy - publicise my intent, then work on following through! So for those of you pursuing your New Year's Resolutions with vigour and vim, I'm right there with you. No luck needed, it's all done to consistency and planning. February 2011 is the month of hard work and rewards. Watch this space.

See her while she's hot

Alice Springs' old tourism motto - see her while she's hot - and sure enough we were lucky to do that this week. Well, I say lucky a little tongue-in-cheek. This week has been hot. Very hot. More so than usual. Not just on the temperature gauge, either.

With a sense of foreboding, I remarked to Fred on Saturday that the air conditioning in the car didn't seem to be working. Fred tried to work some magic on the weekend but to no avail. When we set out on Monday for a planned overnight trip to Warakurna via Wanarn (a 270k journey), we had a lot of water in the car. Within about 10 minutes, Eleanor was red in the head, and I was wondering what the hell I was thinking in following through with the trip. It was hot. Damn hot. Hot air blowing through the vents. Hot air blowing through the windows. Hot seats. Hot floor. Hot roof. Hot.

We gasped into Jameson en route and made a beeline for the store. Icecreams all round (Eleanor thought it was great... briefly). Icy cold cans of Coke Zero, more water, and we were off again. As luck would have it, one of the clients we were searching for waved us down on the Great Central Road. We crossed her off the list before we got to Wanarn - five minutes of luck sparing us the disappointment of just missing her. And this on a day when going to Wanarn was like a marathon effort. The store manager of Wanarn took pity on us and let us into the store, even though it was closed for lunch. Bliss. More cold water, another icecream, some fresh green grapes from their orchard for $2. And on we ploughed on to Warakurna.

That last 90 k was the hardest journey I've had on the Lands. About half way, I leaned over to Fred and beseechingly implored "are we nearly there?" He was kind enough to say "almost". By this time, we had moved on from reminding Eleanor to drink her water to playing games that consisted of spitting water onto each other and drenching her in the process. We then backed this up by, rather out of character, handing her precarious small tubs of water that she could try to drink from (and, as intended, accidentally spill all over herself). We collapsed into Warakurna and went straight to the roadhouse. In a random act of kindness, the staff had put the airconditioner on for us and we walked into a cool room that felt like a fridge (to our poor unaccustomed pores).

The last ten minutes of the journey was spent with me fixated on how we could get to Alice Springs and get the car fixed. Pronto. No return trip to Blackstone. "We could buy some clothes in Alice." "If it's the short trip on the mail plane, Eleanor and I could catch that while you drive". "It's worth paying for the flight ourselves - imagine this for 7 hours!" As luck would have it, there was a seat on the mail plane. It was the short route (the plane alternates which route it takes each week, giving each community a short and long flight once a fortnight). The car could be booked in. The boss said yes. Poor Fred. He definitely drew the short straw having to drive to Alice.

Breathing easy in Alice

So, Tuesday in Alice Springs, Wednesday buying new clothes and swimmers and catching up with a good friend, Thursday relaxing by the pool as the car was fixed, Friday doing a little shopping and waiting for the car to really get fixed. Saturday at Ayers Rock relaxing by the pool. Sunday, home at last. She's hot, but we can hardly feel it in the car. It's like a different world with cold air blowing on your toes.

That's my naapa (thing)

The house was starting to overflow with Eleanor's toys. With Christmas, a recent birthday and bursts of unnecessary purchasing on my part, new areas of the house were being colonised by multi-coloured plastic and wood in various permutations. I'm a bit of a neat freak. I also remember the 'pre-kid' days, entering houses of people with young toddlers and making slow work picking a safe path along the floor. As a result, I tend to spend a little time every day doing a small clean and organise. The toys, however, had got beyond that level of organisation. I did a big pack up and removed half of them from the living areas. They are now precariously perched on the top shelf of the study cupboard.

This constant need to manage our ever burgeoning pile of possessions has prompted a few thoughts of contrast with the toddler-life of the locals. Just yesterday I was struck yet again by a common response to possessive behaviour by Eleanor. While in the clinic at Pipalyatjara, visiting some clients, Eleanor saw their niece playing with her 'black baby' doll (a 2009 Christmas present from Blackstone Community). "Miiiiine, my black baby!!" she cried, immediately rushing to get it. The father present replied in an instant, "it's mine, my baby", smiling in claim. Eleanor looked taken aback, worried, clutching the doll closer. "Mine". "My baby", he replied, gesturing to hand it over, smiling still. Eleanor took the baby away for safe keeping. The irony of Eleanor taking a little black baby away didn't escape me.

This response is very common. Whereas we tend to rush in and reassure Eleanor that something is indeed hers, or negotiate with diplomatic tact of international quality when fights break out between cousins and (Western) friends, I have never heard local community members say anything close to the following: "How about you let Eleanor play with it for a little bit, then we'll play with it after... don't worry, it's yours, it lives here". There is one community member who calls out to Eleanor everytime she sees her at the shop, "my car Eleanor, my car." Eleanor will fall for it everytime. "No, Marcia, that's your car there." "My car, give me the keys", gently chiding her possessiveness. "No, it's oooour white car, ours". Then she'll turn tail and head into the shop, every step a righteous one.

I do not claim to know much about Aboriginal parenting styles and cultural values, but these little exchanges do regularly remind me of the constant value placed on sharing and common ownership. From the earliest attempts to assert individuality, little kids are encouraged to think about others around them. Our family - without even a thought to what we are doing - reinforce our possessive, accumulative inclinations. Without a thought too, no doubt, the community members reinforce common wealth in the family. Neither is better, just different. Deeply embedded in our world view, lasting well beyond the period of childhood amnesia. Mine. No, mine.

In hot water

The cold tap refuses to run cold. No matter how long I let it run. Usually, it takes a while for the water in the pipes to flush through the 200 metres or so from the water tanks, handily positioned just at the end of our street. But in the summer months, no amount of waiting makes a discernible difference. I've gone to drinking water that is beyond tepid, beyond lukewarm, and definitely verging on what I would ordinarily describe as 'hot'. An interesting experience. Fred tells me that room temperature water is actually more quickly absorbed by the body. He says drinking cold water slows down hydration because the body has to warm the water up first. No problem in that department right now. Come on down, ready for you.

Shimmering does not adequately describe the heat of the days here during January and February. Yes, I know it's the desert. I should expect a little heat. The biting quality of this heat though, which continues well towards sunset, is extreme. Yesterday I made the mistake of deciding to go for a jog at 5.30pm. A short half hour down the bore road, up to the airstrip and back home. With the sun not yet at the horizon, but I thought close enough, I was only 5 minutes into my jog (plastered with sunscreen) when I knew it'd been a bad decision. Exposed areas of skin were tingly from the heat in the ground, the air, the sun, the shrubs. I could feel my skin burning. A radiating heat that saps all energy and makes a short jog like this seem like an event worthy of a number pinned on my back. Only freshly back to the sport after a 6 week break, I unfortunately had to slow my progress home by slipping back to walking. There wasn't much option though. In this heat, even at my fittest, I don't think I could have run the whole way.

Days like this remind me of my first summer in Warburton, in 2006. I was sharing an old staff house (one of the first built), and as is usually the case with staff houses of a certain vintage, the airconditioners were both insufficient and prone to failure. I recall melting butter to make a cake by taking it out of the fridge and putting it in the mixing bowl. Presto. The fruit was hot. The chairs were hot. The cutlery was hot. The room took on a sauna-like quality, our sweat adding the necessary water. At the time, in my early adventurous days, it was all part of the experience. I think I would be less patient now. It's enough to have the moment of stepping outside hit you with a whoosh, expelling the air from your lungs, and replying, as if to the forebearing earth itself, 'phew, it's a hot one today'.

Comments enabled

After reading my latest post, Fred tells me that I have forgotton to include a few of his produce. Cauliflower, swiss chard, oregano, bok choy, mint and silverbeet. You'll appreciate now why it's been hard to keep up with production. He also wants more current photos of the backyard, featuring his ingenious shade cover. "You should have mentioned it was 44 degrees in the shade this weekend". 

So, on a related point, comments on this blog are now enabled. They always have been, but some followers were experiencing problems. I drew on the resources of the world wide web, casting my problem out to users more experienced than I. DarkStar answered the call, gave me some handy tips and did a test run. And, just to prove it, I had my first comment from a stranger, who I think is based in the Netherlands.

This little post is a call for feedback - if you like what you're reading, let me know and let others know too! I'm planning to go viral... (just like the garden).

Verdant times

This weekend was a lovely typical example of the quiet life on the Lands. Saturday was so hot we filled the little wading pool to capacity, and all squeezed in for a very short dip. Archimedes' principle came to life as Fred hopped in and Eleanor watched astonished as magical bucketloads of water overflowed around us. Out came the bubbles, almost blowing themselves in the hot gusts of wind. We spent a lot of the time pottering in the garden, long overdue tasks finally completed. Weeded the front yard and, with Fred's ingenuity, erecting a shade for the bulk of the long suffering vegie patch out the back.

Eleanor in front of the 'vege patch' (Aug 10)

I'm reminded of the TV series 'The Good Life', mostly because of the spirit of the couple who were trying to live off the land and get back to basics. Fred's vegie garden has started to boom, and we are beyond keeping up with production. Too many things are going to seed. The amazing fertility of the soil (when a little water is kept up to it) is the dominant theme. From its humble beginnings mid last year as a wide patch of rocky brown dirt, the vegie garden has sprouted into a well maintained hub of activity.

Initially, I thought Fred had overestimated the size of our vege garden needs. Worrying that we'd be looking at this patch of earth for the rest of the year and well into this one, I'd dropped a few hints that the whole space was somewhat unsightly. Within a few weeks, however, Fred had dragged over some leftover wire from a 'sorry camp', and an old unused gate from next door, and the space started to take shape. Next came the dripper systems, and with a steady stream of water and judicious planting, the place started to come alive.

Garden starts to take shape, and first batch of rocket
already gone to seed (Oct 10)

Before long, we had an explosion of rocket and more broccoli and spinach than we could keep up with. Strawberries, followed by broad beans, parsley, and then the emergence of cherry tomatoes with a well timed basil flourishing. At last, zucchinis popped out from their enormous leaf shades, and the heirloom tomatoes plumped up, dripping with succulent sweetness next to the fragile capsicums. Beetroot made a brief appearance, but sadly the purple carrots never emerged.

The next stage is watching rockmelon and 'moon and stars' watermelon (each patterned with tiny yellow dots, and one larger white round blemish) fatten up. Space has come at such a premium that the melon patches are scattered throughout the garden beds, nestled next to the odd cucumber. Pumpkins steadily march along, like the tortoise of the garden race, acquiring girth with a measured pace not seen in other parts of the garden.

Rusting, faded dreams

The wear and tear of travel if wreaking as much havoc on my lower back as it is on the tyres of the car. We seem to have put a lot of miles in lately. With annual holidays (3 weeks), returning home (2 days) and now an overnight trip to Warburton for a birthday party, it's been a long time sitting contemplating. A few blog posts have come to mind over that time, but the most prominent has been the cars.

Blackstone dump

Quite frankly, they're everywhere. Burnt out or rusting wrecks, strewn by the side of the road, marking significant points in the lives of people we mostly do not know. The longer I live out here, the more the wrecks take on a significance in my journey. An old truck just before the Patjarr turnoff, on the road to Warburton, always reminds me of an early Council meeting I attended, where I sat puzzled, listening to 'other business'. At the time, I thought 'other business' would be the usual stuff associated with governance meetings, perhaps requests to use a small portion of profits for a community enterprise or to raise a concern about infrastructure. In fact, this section of the meeting is for anyone to say anything that needs to be said publicly. The 'other business' agenda item provides the whitefella pass to allow this to happen. In this case, a Warburton man stood up and talked passionately about the significance of this truck in their history and the vital importance of retrieving it from an ignominious resting place. The Council coordinator managed to deflect the passion by saying he'd look into it. This truck conjures up for me a multitude of thoughts - my naivety, the untold story of the truck, the logistics of moving it, possibilities of doing this without outside support, and the ways of Council staff to evade and deflect.

The car heading east

Camel shooter's truck

A more recent marker is a double prang, 35 k west of Blackstone. This one marks our return home, heading east, sighing as we go past 'nearly there'. So close to town that, on the day after if happened, we hopped in our car and went out for a look-see. The full story of the prang was told and retold, all drama, by the camel shooter and his family. The broken-down truck loaded with dead camels, station wagon sailing through the night sky loaded with groceries from Warburton, the children lucky to survive. One broken leg, two medivacs to Alice Springs. We made macaroni and cheese for the kids, still shaken and at home with an injured father who refused to leave the community. Every time we pass, I notice how quickly the cars have turned from smashed to ruins. Just over one year on, rust seems to have colonised all of the truck. The station wagon is now burnt out, its wheels long gone. Picked over by passing travellers. Spare parts are always in demand.

On the road to Linton Bore Community (now abandoned)

Other wrecks, on back tracks less travelled, remind me that once there were thriving oustations in empty communities. The age of the cars tell a story of hope, generations past, of establishing a little community for tiny number of families. Significant sites too small to sustain a shop or live beyond the few years it took to establish them. Without a reliable shop, without a good road, the risk and problems of living off the main road start to creep in and crowd out. Family members come back to larger communities. Roads don't get graded. Houses empty. And the wrecks stand like sentinels to faded dreams.

Wide open spaces

Whenever I return to the Lands from holidays or work trips, I rarely enjoy a trouble-free trip. It's not the long hours in the car. I have always liked the timeless quality of passenger travel, moving steadily from one world to another, briefly without obligation or commitment beyond the hours of the journey itself. I let myself loose on an orgy of daydreaming, allowing extended role plays that are impossible on short trips or in snatched moments throughout the day. Although, I must admit that with Eleanor in the car, my opportunities for daytime reverie are now regularly interrupted by demands to send over snacks, pick up her water bottle or sing repeats of her favourite Playschool tunes. Nevertheless, hours spent driving are not a problem for me. Coupled with dramatic scenery that fills my daydreams with imagined lives of people only recently gone and rock formations that beg for their story to be told, I should be floating back home when I return.

This is not the case. My dreams are typically interspersed with lingering concerns about choices. Choices I've made that have set my life on certain directions. I linger over which choices, which directions, were pivotal or consequential. Choices about when to leave and how long to stay. A deep and undeniable yearning for a green base - as if all my Anglo-Saxon heritage compels me to own a little piece of earth. A yen in direct contradiction to my current life choices. Life in an arid zone Aboriginal-owned far flung place that I could never call my own.

While I am deeply drawn to the landscape here, I am also daily conscious of the transitory nature of my time here. Few people stay for long, and I know of only one non-Aboriginal person who ever retired here. A unique constellation of circumstances meant he had a little corner of the Warakurna roadhouse to call his own, complete with its own postbox (a salutary tip of the hat to retired life off the Lands, there being no postal service that calls for a box by the door). As we came through Warakurna today, I see that even his postbox has gone, six months after he lost his battle with cancer. I felt sad to see the shallow quality of corporate memory (meaning the memory of staff who are in charge of things like removing or keeping odd things like a postbox outside a hotel room). His small but solid footprint on the Lands wiped away, as if he never existed. Except in the memory of the locals and a few old-timers, which I seem to have become.

I wonder also if the turmoil in my thoughts as I drive back 'home' (can you call it home if it really isn't, if it is always a staff house?) is related to the constant challenge of the daily life I am heading back into. The more I know the less I know what to do. I recall clearly the day I set off to live in the Lands for the first time. My car loaded to the gunnels, a bike strapped to the front bullbar with nowhere else to hide, and a heart filled with adventurous confidence. I felt blessed to be travelling in convoy with two women who know the Lands well, having come out to be linguists in the Warburton mission in the late 60s. Blessed indeed, as they asked me to join hands with them in prayer to start the journey. While not a believer, it seemed to herald the new world I was going into, requiring extra assistance to secure our safety and guide our way.

Eleanor returning home to Blackstone

As chance would have it, the car I drove had no CD player, and being in a radio-free zone, I purchased the first faintly interesting cassette tape I could at the Erldunda Roadhouse, two hours south of Alice Springs. Wide open spaces, by the Dixie Chicks. Not only did this start a love affair with the Dixie Chicks, in some ways this song remains the anthem for my life on the Lands. And while I'm not the wide-eyed girl of the song, I am the wide-eyed woman for whom the lyrics resonate in different ways. Struggling as I do with the substance of my life choices and the possibilities of all that could have been and is yet to come.

Who doesn't know what I'm talking about
Who's never left home, who's never struck out
To find a dream and a life of their own
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone

Many precede and many will follow
A young girl's dream no longer hollow
It takes the shape of a place out west
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed

Follow your nose, Sophie

I am troubled tonight by the death of man I did not know very well but who had a significant impact on my life. This happens rarely. Someone comes into your life, and says or does a few things that shift, in some subtle way, your sense of self or your own deeply ingrained take on the world. John van Geldermalsen was one of those men.

John and I first met in Warburton. A guest of the Ngaanyatjarra Council CEO of the time, John had quickly endeared himself to the Warburton community development adviser by tracking down a cabling fault in the Warburton office. With a little practical detective work, John effected a significantly useful task for the day which lasted long after he left. He recounted the story to me with an ironic laugh, knowing that he'd won his brownie points by being practical and logical, a skill much valued in the bush, not by being a good bloke with more than his fair share of charm and brains.

And he was a good man. I say this because I feel it to be so. In his typical style, he once challenged me to stop wrestling with the definition of what is ethical. "Well, you simply know, don't you, if it feels right or wrong. Isn't that enough?" As with all John's answers, it typically arrested me with its simplicity while  prompting me to continue thinking. Intentional, I am sure. A skill I valued in him, where conversations left me feeling in equal parts enlightened and confused.

I was lucky enough to meet John when I was selected for an ethical leadership program. With his characteristic humour and honesty, he told me that we'd all been selected not because we were outstanding but because we all had flaws. Looking somewhat astonished (especially after the competitive interview process and elation at being selected), he elaborated. "We didn't pick people who were leaders without need for development - we picked people who we saw had potential and could benefit from the program."

Benefit I did. I benefited most of all from the contact I had with John. While many of the things I experienced have been important chapters of my history, it has been the few conversations I had with John that encouraged me to develop a new acquaintance with myself. In one extended role play, he asked me why I had left the table. I replied that I had wanted to be useful to the group. He said simply "but you  missed what was going on". With that one comment, I knew immediately what he meant. Wanting to please others or be useful is not a reason for making decisions about what to do next.

John had a knack for challenging others. Observing, reflecting, commenting. Simple unchallenged faiths that we all hold to be self-evident. He left you wondering whether something you had never seen but immediately recognised was indeed something to trust or believe in. Where did it come from? How was it holding me or us back?

Most of all I remember his ironic, playful smile, his generous spirit, and kind heart. A man who loved to give people the rope he knew that they were already holding, and a few words of advice to help them make their own choices about how to use it. I feel immensely sad at the thought of him drowning in an ocean far away, but I also sense that he would have seen the moment for what it was and accepted it, even while he strove to stay alive. For John had a deep capacity to be in the moment, and to accept it for all its foibles and fears. And likely a deep faith too.

I do not intend to romanticise him, just honour the impact he has had on me. I am left with the challenges he gave me, the doors he opened, and reminded of the advice he gave me in my last assignment.

Even though it is too late to say it, I nevertheless want to acknowledge it: thank you, John.