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.