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.

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.

Verdant in deed (yirtangu)

It may be the desert but it's not brown. It's not that sandy. It's not that hot.

Coming in to Blackstone today from Warburton

Now, with unseasonal rains, it's verdant, lush, luminous, cool and somewhat muddy. A green so vibrant as to knock you into submission.

Yirtangu. In 2007, I once travelled a delightful trip with an Aboriginal colleague from Wanarn to Warburton. With us, an experienced woman who understood a lot of language and even more of its contemporary complexity in the Lands.

The countryside was as green then as now. It sparked an unusual conversation amongst us. We exchanged words. Verdant. A particular word in English, evoking the landscape around us. Not well known, but perfectly suited to our time.

Yirtangu. The Ngaanyatjarra equivalent, given in response after a moment's thoughtful contemplation. Language rich with its knowledge of seasons, rich with its reckoning of daily life. Rich with the lives of  ancestors before him.

Later that weekend, a woman came to sell me a painting. I had tired then of buying small canvases, rough, crafted for a box of groceries. As soon as it was unrolled, however, the woman in the car and I both smiled. Yirtangu. For a $100, a box in deed, memories of the lush green desert then and now.

For Inge and Robin

Sunday, lovely Sunday

Weekends in Warburton. Some things haven't changed. There's still takeaway night at the roadhouse on Friday nights (not a favourite of mine) and takeaway pizza on Saturdays (pretty good). Now, however, by the various forces of serendipidity and opportunity, there is Sunday morning cafe at the Shire.

Edge of the Shire, overlooking meeting room
(one of the first photos I took in Warburton, 2006)

The Shire building is one of those unusual features of Warburton. It's architecturally quite interesting, but sadly showing its weather-beaten cracks and crevices after a decade or so hard yakka in the summer sun. There are interesting sweeps and shadows, paths and taps, all suggesting a past and a vision that is mostly unrealised today.

I hear that the space had its heyday, soon after it was built, when community members worked and painted in the different spaces. The cafe at the end was staffed by community young people learning the tourist business (a laminated poster I found today evidence of what was once on offer). One community member used to welcome tourists and give them a tour of the exhibition and a window into the Mission history.

As with all things remote, key people with the right personality move on. The essential challenges of the place assert - the main one being distance. A vehicle is needed to get there, even though it's only a few kilometres out of town. It feels like a long long 20 minutes walking in the heat and dust and flies. No shoes. Other commitments and interests more pressing.

Today, the cafe comes to life just once a week. The industrial-strength expresso machine cranks up and churns out cappuccinos like it were Lygon St. Apprentice MasterChefs sharpen their knives and practice their arts. Those less inspired or inclined donate to keep the club stocked with essentials. Offerings today included white chocolate cheesecake, banana and blueberry pikelets, date slice, and chocolate cake with lemon icing. Warburton Food Crisis - I don't think so!

It is a shame to see the vision of the building mostly absent now. Like all spaces, however, they flex and transform. While it's only for a few hours, the space is lightly spun with the webs of social contact, fragile but enduring. A space perhaps encouraging more to stay, morphing work into play, and spurring new ideas for a better place and a better way.

Onions and apples for dinner

It's raining again. A bad sign. Scroll down a little in February posts and you'll see the photos of recent deluge in Warburton. While I'm not particularly concerned that this will happen again, the main concern is the truck.

Eleanor was (usefully) advising the shop assistant today: "It's stuck. The truck's stuck in the mud!" But he would know that only too well. The fruit and veg section of Warburton store has been decommissioned for the past 10 days or so, as there is no need to refrigerate an empty space. Instead, the apples and dates were stored in one of the emerging gaps up in the cheese and milk section. Yes, apples and dates. That's fresh fruit and veg for you.

Let's not forget the onions. I think they are probably classed as a vegetable. Root vegetable? (anyone know...) Having been parted not so long ago from the company of the potatos - now all sold - they sit forlornly in the dry goods section near the increasingly empty bread racks.

Eggs are gone. I bought my dozen a few days ago when one of the shop assistants kindly pointed out to me that while it looked like there were heaps of eggs, in fact they go through a whole fridge every four days. And that was the last of them. No truck.

I wondered if it was mostly the non-Indigneous staff who were hoarding the fruit and veg, which led to their sudden decline. I'm not sure. I find it odd that all the skim milk sold out pretty quickly too. And the canned apricots. But I noticed today that the chips have now entered an extremely bare patch. No more Smiths crisps. We're down to Burger Rings and a few corn chips. Perhaps fear of a chip shortage has led to hoarding too?

Notwithstanding the slim pickings on offer, I calculated that with the one potato, two slices of pumpkin, 4 apples, frozen peas and frozen spinach in my fridge, combined with some staples (like pasta, canned toms, fetta, and beans) I have enough well balanced and reasonably healthy meals to see us through to the weekend.

But it's raining. And the truck is stuck. Stuck in the mud maybe not, but definitely stuck. And so are we.