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.