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.