You don't say...

The experiences of the last few weeks, tumultuous to say the least, have led me to ponder on the question of gossip. On reflection, however, I think the word gossip is too harsh a word. After all, essentially it is just a human desire to share stories. Storytelling, not the existence of it but the methods that are socially ordered, is a deep part of our culture psyche (whatever culture you belong to).

The idea of others talking about us can hold us back, or push us forward. It it easy to fall prey to concerns about what will be said as a reason for action that is not true to yourself or others. Or inaction. Worrying what others will think. Will they think badly of me? Will they change their opinion of me for the worse? And so on.

Clear lines of sight, near Blackstone

In the end, however, the only source of worry about whether I have acted well comes from those questions I ask of myself. Did I act with integrity? With honesty? What could I have done differently and at what point would it have helped to avoid harm? I am however, always responsible only for my actions.

One of the challenging aspects of living in a remote area is that, despite the enormous geographic distance that makes up the region of interest, it is still just like living in a little country town. Things change. People know (something). People, naturally, talk. There is no privacy. I have often reflected that this is the case for 'clients' in my work, but it is also true for those of us non-permanent residents.

What is a little different however is that, unlike in other small towns or big cities, you can't just leave your house without leaving your job, or visa versa. Staff housing is too tight. The job and the house are one. That adds an interesting layer of complication to sorting out personal issues. After all, it is not just a personal decision anymore, it's a total life decision. Am I happy? How can we best share care of the kids? Do I like my job? Do I want to keep on living here? How much needs to change? Those questions cannot be separated simply or easily.

In the end, early last year, I chose to leave my relationship but eventually not to leave my house or my job. An unconventional decision (but not necessarily an uncommon one... sometimes it is a matter of degrees). I also chose to keep my privacy as much as I could. Those who I am close to, knew. Those who I am not, made their own assumptions. I didn't feel the need to explain my personal situation at every juncture, but I was happy for the truth to be out there and told. I just didn't feel the need to do all the telling.

Now that there has been another shift in my personal situation, a wonderful man, I again feel the beginning of that niggling worry... what will they think? In the end, talk will happen. Some of it will be malicious, some of it will be kind. What people hear and think may well be based on assumptions they or others have made. There may even be deliberate untruths told, borne of the worry about 'what others will think'.

None of it matters. This small world shifts and re-settles, and inexorably moves on.

Openly, slowly, as humanly as possible

I was enormously privileged recently to win the WA Social Worker of the Year 2012, Rural & Remote Practitioner. On the night, as advised, I had a speech prepared 'just in case'. After winning the award I nervously pulled it out, realising I just might need to actually deliver it.

On the Award night, with Professor Susan Young (nominator)

Although I didn't win the overall award (and warm congratulations to Michelle Charlton who did!), I nevertheless felt a pang of disappointment that I had not had the chance to say what was so important to me about the work I do.

A few days later, I was due to deliver a short talk about my work at the Signs of Safety Gathering 2012, which draws together child protection practitioners from Australia and internationally to discuss this practice framework. With some modifications hastily prepared, I incorporated my main points from the undelivered speech. Here is the speech which I delivered at the conference:

Yuwa, yini Sophie-nga. My name is Sophie Staughton. I am a community child protection worker based in the remote Aboriginal community of Blackstone. The community I live in is just over 120 kilometres west of the border between Western Australia, South Australia and the Northern Territory. Truly, the heart of the central desert of Australia. 

I live and work in the Ngaanyatjarra communities, where there is a very strong connection to country. Similarly, there is a very strong value on keeping kids safe and 'growing them up' well. 

One of the key lessons I have learned in the six years I have lived and work in this region, which is particularly true for child protection context, is that unless there is a genuine closeness and friendliness established between the department and community members, it can be impossible to leap the cultural divide between us. Aboriginal, non-Aboriginal. 

The Department for Child Protection is a Western institution, and we work in a Western legal and organisational context. In order to do our work well, therefore, we need to build relationships with community members and remain open to constantly challenging our own cultural worldviews. Self-reflection is absolutely critical to good practice. 

What does this mean, however? 'Building relationships'. At the heart, it is our ability to connect on a human level. This is not 'engagement'; it's more real than that. 

While you will all be familiar with what we do in child protection, I'd like to tell you the more important story about how we do the work.

The Department has four community child protection workers based in the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, one youth and family support worker, a field officer and a recently created project officer position. For the Ngaanyatjarra people of the central desert, these positions are relatively new. The first two workers to permanently live in the region only came in the last seven years. 

Our work has a strong focus on developmental ways of working to build community safety. This is not a common approach in child protection, but critical to effective work with Aboriginal communities. The core of developmental approaches is working with community strengths, where families and communities are at, and on their initiatives to improve child safety and wellbeing. 

Like any community, Aboriginal or non-Aboriginal, it isn't always easy to know what will work. We are all feeling our way, together. 

This developmental framework sits very well with the Signs of Safety approach used in the Department, which is also strengths-based but operates more on an individual and family basis in mainstream child protection work. When we do need to work intensively with particular families and children on the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, we have been creative in adapting the Signs of Safety framework to our practice. 

One of the main things we do in our work, however, is invest time in getting to know the families. It will take many visits for family members to feel that we have a genuine interest in them and their family. 

Essentially, it requires that we drop the 'professional veneer' and be you, me, us, together trying to sort through the challenges we see before us. Sometimes, often, we see different things, and this needs time to work out too. 

Time is of the essence, but it is time slowed down 

Too often, community members have seen the 'passing parade' of service providers drive in, talk briefly (often making little sense in their need to be heard) and then drive off. Never to be seen again. 

We turn up, again and again. We also sometimes have to come with a hard message, explaining where we might need to act if there are not changes. Explaining 'whitefella' law, if that is what is needed. It is about being honest, straight up, plain and direct in our language. No high English, no assumptions. 

Signs of Safety meetings happen wherever they need to, wherever the families are. Most often, it is on the verandah of a community house. Sometimes it is on the side of the road in the middle of the vast outback. Sometimes it is on neutral territory, like the front lawn of our office. In my experience, the meetings are least effective when they happen in a room with a whiteboard.

One of the challenges I have found in talking about Signs of Safety is that some of the tools do not resonate culturally. Out of the experience of trying to use 'Three Houses', which did not help the conversations, I created a new tool. {And Andrew [Turnell], I saw you looking at this earlier... it's copyright!}

This tool uses a road, with a fire in the centre. The road metaphor resonates with remote community life and traditional planning of the yiwarra (road) ahead. It also enables a discussion about what is 'behind' the family, as Aboriginal families in the central desert are reluctant to talk about the past. It's finished. 

Unlike the Western tradition, where fire is associated with passion, lack of control or even fear, in remote Aboriginal communities, the fire is a traditional symbol of strength and security. Talking around the fire is a positive experience, often associated with food and nurturing. It is a symbol of family life, and as such it helps us to draw out family strengths and focus on the positives that are in the life of every family. 

The use of this new tool is very much in its early stages, but it has been helpful to date as another way to help families, us, to talk about what happened, what is good now and what needs to happen next.

The more we invest in these ways of engaging with Aboriginal community members, as slowly and openly as possible, on their own terms as much as possible, as human-ly as possible (moving past our fear in how to start that conversation), the greater the chance we have of doing justice to the children of these families.

Imagine

Imagine a world where the one place you can buy diesel within 100 kilometres is open for only 2 - 4 hours a day. If you miss it, you miss it. No emergencies or last minute decisions out of hours please.

Where a roadside breakdown could mean your only method of communication is to activate an emergency beacon or to wait until someone comes along.

Or if the tyre is shredded, there is no means to fix it for 200 kilometres. And a replacement one will take 3 weeks to arrive and at least 3 phone calls to organise. Best to carry a spare, and a spare spare. And for some trips, just another to avoid the possibility of day's wait by the vehicle waiting for a tow.

If you're away from the office and want to make a phone call, you have to beg or ask a favour of another worker while standing on the other side of the counter.

Where every time you visit a service provider, you  have to meet someone new and introduce yourself (all over again). Even though you were just there last week...

Where getting payment for one essential item requires at least three phone calls (and that's the uncomplicated transactions).

And if you run out of black pens (oddly mandatory for certain forms), it is a two week wait to get some more unless you beg, borrow or steal from others!

Where the photocopier repair man refuses to come and service the machine, as he doesn't have a spare week for the journey (and his contract makes no provision for your machine, specifically). So the machine limps along for years on end because it's too hard to get a new one and too hard to fix the old one.

Sending a letter and getting a reply takes a minimum of at least two weeks, up to three.

Where you have to guess the weight of your article and construct an estimated postage value using stamps in standard envelope denominations of the past 3 years.

... I'm not complaining. I'm just explaining.

There are some frustrations, limitations and necessities that cannot be avoided living remote. It's not 'special treatment' that's required, just commonsense.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The people you meet

I've been thinking recently about the 'type' of people that come to work in remote communities (or, more specifically, in the central desert - perhaps they're different, who knows?). I think I've identified the following:

The Idealist - an alternate name might be The True Believer. A truly admirable individual. I admire a pure form of idealism in anyone. For all its character flaws, this person is driven by social justice, a desire to help make the world a better place, and a sense of agency. Unfortunately, the Idealist often suffers with trying to reconcile how things should be with how they are - their choice is to ignore contrary evidence, or to quickly burn out with the failure of achieve that oh so nearly tangible sense of change (within their desired timeframe).

The Pragmatist - A close cousin of The Cynic, this poor soul has the invidious task of reconciling the reality of life with their internal self (whatever that may be). The Pragmatist senses all the different states of play, and attempts to steer their little boat through the treacherous waters (government policy, rules and regulations, cultural life, misunderstandings and miscommunication, difficult personalities, you name it!)

The Careerist - It helps to have remote Indigenous affairs experience on your CV. Sometimes. In some industries (especially government or human services). Can't beat that experience. And the extra salary dollars, or free rent, for the troubles of remote living don't go astray either. Buckle down, get some good mileage out of the job, help pay the mortgage off or build savings, and on your way. 2-3 years max. 1 year will do, if necessary.

The Hungry Beast - Some positions in the communities offer extraordinary tentacles of power over the lives of individuals. The community office in particular has extrarordinary access to and influence over other people's money (communal and individual), often with little effort or oversight. This offers extraordinary opportunities for the morally bankrupt to flourish. And sadly they do. This is by no means to say that all office staff fall into this category. There are some great government jobs that hold bucket loads of power over people in a world of systemic discrimination.

The Adventurer - Curiousity, a desire to do something out of the box, freedom to pick up sticks - all these things bring us the adventurer. He, or she, turns up in every field. I like the adventurer. There is a freshness to their demeanour, a sparky willingness to do anything that makes their company refreshing. I just keep my fingers crossed (behind my back) that they remember they have cultural values too. Once 'the mob' start to confuse or confound them, some turn into the cynic and back out of the experience, looking around for where else to go next that is a little less unsettling.

The Cynic - This poor fellow has given up trying to be any of the above (or perhaps never was, having always preferred this way of being). It is what it is. The mob will fleece you if you let them. The system's fucked. The whole thing is steadily going to pot. But what can you do?

The Recluse - A good way to absent oneself from the mainstream - go remote, go very very remote. Learn to love it, or just love it. Either way, it's better than being out there. Better than having those demons knock on your door daily. I like the Recluse. If they don't enjoy living out here, they find somewhere else to go to, so generally they're happy souls who participate in the community they've chosen to retreat to.

And where do I fit on this schema? Well, with the exception of The Hungry Beast, I think I've got a little of them all. I try to quash the Cynic whenever he rears his ugly head (and yes, it is a 'he'). I try to feed the Idealist some oxygen, but she's sorely starved of that at the moment. I am most aligned with the Pragmatist, but it's a hard path to tread (often it feels like treading water). The Careerist in me reminds me that my CV on the Lands has been a moving feast, and even though I'm not sure what it's morphing into a state of flux isn't a bad thing per se. The Adventurer and the Recluse just plain love being out here. Perhaps this is why I struggle so much with 'how' I am out here (rather than who) - I can't find a simple fit. Most of the time, I'm okay with that. But sometimes I look at the work of a rare few, and think that perhaps the Idealist can do the most, so long as they have a good solid dose of the Pragmatist to help them navigate.

Sophie Staughton
Blackstone, Ngaanyatjarra Lands