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Desert Feet Tour October 2011. 'Return to the Kimberley's'
3 November 2011
Tuesday Day 1
Saturday
1/10/11
Today was about
getting ready to go bush for a week. We fuelled the vehicles, readied the truck
and gave her the big once over for the next long run. Emily and Candice bought four
shopping trolleys full of food; Candice has made a meal plan and organised
dinners for every night of the trip. Ewan mixed down the songs from the Prison
gig to give to the boys and I picked up Richard from the airport. We went
straight home and had a bit of a rehearsal as we have not played together since
Richard was on tour with us last year. However, he is a musical virtuoso, Ewan
and I both marvelled at his skill on the ‘cello. It was like he had never left
and we had a great jam in the hotel apartment at the Grand Mercure. Richard is
something of a mastermind. I have met people that are musical virtuoso’s before
and they always astound me, but Richard is also mechanically minded, which is
very rare. In fact I have never seen that combination before. His back ground
is electrical engineering, but he has had training in both classical and jazz
music. He can play any instrument on Earth with fluent ease, and build you a
website at the same time. He loves gadgets and travels with a giant suitcase,
which, upon opening, reveals a mass of half-built mechanisms, loose wires,
transistors and various electrical equipment but no clothes. Ewan and I had a
good laugh about that, until he proved himself to be the saviour of any
situation again by producing a battery powered, shoulder mounted guitar
amplifier when I complained that I couldn’t hear my guitar over his ‘cello?! I
mean, who even knew one of those existed, let alone has one in his bag? He’s
not even the guitarist! And so he has regained his title as the walking kitchen
sink, once again this year.
Day 6
Sun, 2/10/11
The Diabetes WA girls arrived this
afternoon in time for our concert tonight at The Divers Tavern. I might take a
moment to introduce them; Helen Mitchell is a nurse and well, everyone loves a
Nurse, say no more. She has worked for Diabetes WA for 10 years now, and we met
through my long term friend Ross. Ross had plans to join us on this inaugural
partnership that he helped develop, but being diagnosed with cancer shortly
after, now fights for his life back in Perth, his two young boys and wife are
there for him and his time with them now more precious than ever, however it is
with great regret that I left him this trip. It’s a fact that only strengthens
my resolve to create a successful association with such an awesome
organisation. Not only is it an amazing Not-For-Profit, its crew are
inspirational people. I have had the good pleasure over the preceding months to
get to know them, as we developed the funding applications, budget and
itinerary towards developing healthy messages in our workshop to form this
relationship with the health organisation. Helen saw it straight away, and of
course Ross’ foresight and his master networking skill was the amalgam for such
a great synergy.
Helens co-worker Asha Singh is not to
be judged by her size. She is the tiniest and sweetest little lady I have ever
met and she never stops smiling. Her CV is very impressive including a degree
in Heath Science at UWA and between the two of them they have more Degrees than
a thermometer.
Their arrival completes our tour
ensemble now, and so tomorrow we shall head into the red earth of the Western
Kimberley. However, one last event needs transpire first. That being a little,
under the radar, show that I organised for the guys. My tour team are the
nicest people you could wish to meet! They are multi-skilled and talented, but
at the end of the day they are musicians. They can do workshops, facilitate
learning and teach. They can write songs and record other artists, they are
sound engineers, teachers and veteran performers, however, they just want to
play music too. The gig tonight is not officially part of the Desert Feet Tour.
It’s just a chance for these guys to let off some steam and get some exposure
in front of a crowd as performers.
Fortunately, the venue was packed; a
hens night and a birthday party filled most of the garden bar, but we are very
close to the end of the Tourist season so this is a big crowd for this time of
year. The venue really looked after us and laid on a huge feed. Having all the
equipment set up was like being in heaven. All we had to do was show up and
play. What a night; Resident audience, 1 kilo T-bone steaks and good friends.
It was the ideal way for everyone to meet and get to know one another. Being a
Sunday, the venue closed at 10pm and so it was not a late night either. Em and
I left early and packed the truck ready for an early start.
Day 7
Mon 3/10/11
The Cape Leveque road would be one of
the most dangerous 4 wheel drive tracks I have ever been on. I have seen more
rolled cars on that roadside in the 16 years that I have been travelling the
peninsular, than in a Blues Brothers movie. I have seen trucks, not bogged, but
more like sunk. During the wet, this road is a lake for months. It is old and
mean. It’s been graded for years without back fill so parts of the it are so
deep they look like they are below sea level. More like a river than a road.
The real danger is the rifts; long shallow dips that fill with fine red drift
sand. Once you hit them, the car can get airborne. It’s when you get three in a
row that people flip their cars; trying to brake coming down out of a bounce
leaves the driver with no steering. But these days it only lasts for a few
hours. This is also the only dirt roads you will drive on that ends in bitumen,
because the back half is sealed. How or why someone drove graders, rollers,
bulldozers and bitumen over two hundred kilometres of some of the worst road on
Earth to seal the back half is anyone’s guess.
The peninsular is a hive of controversy
at the moment, as anyone with a TV or reading glasses would know. James Price
Point, the site for the Woodside gas hub, has created a storm amongst the
locals, the T.O’s, and greenies. It’s an unusual and complicated protest this
time. Not a clear cut ‘good guys versus the corporate machine.’ In this case
there are those that ‘have’ and those
that ‘have not.’ Fighting each other to. Then there are those that are ‘already
there’ and they are wondering why everyone else has an opinion in their future
and land all the sudden. As my interest is working towards reconciliation, it’s
a debate that I’m going to stay neutral in, but I see that there are internal
fractures between many of the once very strong groups, which is a shame. We
will work with four communities up here, Djaridjin, Lombadina, One Arm Point
and Beagle Bay. Our job is to record music with local bands and run workshops
with the kids with a healthy lifestyle focus. We don’t live here, and we don’t
need to be involved in or take sides in that debate. However it’s not quite
that simple and so one must tread lightly at times.
Day 8
Tues, 4/10/11
I have sold the idea that the Desert
Feet Tour musicians can improvise and incorporate any message into the songs we
write. Thus, Diabetes WA’s very generous involvement. However, as yet we have
never actually done that. Upon arriving here yesterday, for the first time this
trip, I started to wonder if I had finally bitten off more than I could chew.
There were very few kids around at all, and when I called up Djaridjin and
Lombadina, neither communities had managed to organise any sort of coordination
with One Arm Point about bringing kids across for the DFT workshops. With school
holidays on, lots of the kids would be out camping or away on other communities
and of course there would be no teachers or support from the school. Going
directly into the school is, of course, the best way to reach the bulk of the
kids, but that was not an option for us and so I had to try to coordinate
things with the community.
In a remote community things run in
their own time and you can make plans, but it pays to be open to possibilities.
It is also a good idea to be pretty versatile. Delivery of the workshops and
what type we do depends on the size of the turnout, the interest we have, and
how they respond. All of which can vary greatly. After we set up the truck on
the basketball court, it became obvious that it was going to be far too hot to do
anything at all up there until after 6pm. The set-up nearly killed Ewan and I,
coming from winter in Perth, and Emily, already a bit rundown, got heat stroke
and went down entirely. With a man down and a short crew as it was, I had a few
little voices in the back of my head starting to tell me I had stuffed up.
Candice was a bit concerned about how to deliver the content of Diabetes into
our workshops and where to do them.
So last night at dinner we brian
stormed some ideas for a few hours. I am really, really anxious to deliver some
good outcomes for the Diabetes team and so we worked on some song ideas around
their core messages. Choose Water, Eat Healthy, Stay Fit. We had made
announcements about the workshops last night and put up posters advertising workshops
at 12pm today. Cris the CEO gave us the keys to the hall and told us to work in
there out of the sun where the ladies paint. The local artists where happy for
us to work in with them and so we had some cool space for starters.
At about 9am, Arlene from Broome Health
Service, whom I had met at Millya Rumarra, showed up on the community with some
of her co-workers and a carload of kids,
and by 11am we had about 20 more in the hall. All my fears soon vanished. The
kids here are super, super cool. Polite, well mannered and actually
extraordinarily accommodating. Some of them were so keen to be involved that
they asked us how they could help! Their participation made it breezy and we
made some lifelong friends, I do imagine. Bryte MC came good once again with
his magical powers to create enthusiasm, and produced a fantastic hip hop song,
got the kids rapping, beat boxing and writing cool lyrics.
For the song writing, I wanted to try
something a bit different. Instead of trying to get the kids to write the
lyrics, I wrote open ended verses like;
“If you need to take a drink, choose
drinks that don’t make you sick”
Then we got them to list what sort of
drinks make them sick. The first boy called out from the back of the room,
“Coke!” And from then on, it was all smooth sailing. We had no problems getting
them to sing it, and we recorded their little voices yelling to the music. All
in all, a great day with some great outcomes for Diabetes WA to report with!
And so a great feeling of satisfaction replaced any concerns I might have had.
These kids are something else, I don’t
think I have ever met such generous and well mannered kids anywhere in the
world. They helped us pack up and clean up the hall and the boys insisted that
we go for a “men only” swim, and so our newly made friends took us to their
favourite swimming spot. The King Sound is full of islands. Just off the shore
of One Arm Point is the group of Sunday Islands. Not more than 500m of water
separates the two shores. But they would be 500 of the most dangerous metres I
have ever seen. 9m tides will travel in and out between these two shores every
day, twice. The sheer volume of water over the centuries has cut a cliff face
into the sedimentary foreshore. The current moves so ferociously it had churned
itself into whirlpools, the riptides carried chunks of foam, spat out from some
vicious confrontation further up stream. The stretch of water ran past like a
river. We swam in the pristine green waters around the edges of the cliff,
where a small outcrop protected us from her torrent. Imitating their
forefathers pearl diving prowess, The boys played diving games, throwing large
rocks into the deeper water then swimming down to find it. The bigger the rock
and the further out you threw it the greater the reward.
When Bryte MC tried to sneak a
cigarette in, thinking himself alone under the rock ledge, several of the boys
came around the corner and caught him.
one of the boys declared in a loud voice, “You shouldn’t smoke!” Thinking
quick Bryte proclaimed, “This is my last one, then I’m giving up”, to which the
boy replied, “Why don’t you throw them in the water then?” Bryte feeling caught
out agreed that he should and I saw him eye the full packet mournfully, then
after a moment he returned with authority, “I can’t, that would be polluting”
with an obvious relief in his voice. Till the boy rejoined without a seconds
hesitation, “so put it in the bin!” Before Bryte had time to reply again, one
of the other boys came up with a novel concept, “you throw it in the water and
I will swim out and get it.” Bryte was cornered by logic as and the realisation
grew on his face, I could almost hear him thinking, “I’m a role model, these
kids look up to me, I’m out here doing health workshops and they have caught me
smoking! I have to do it.” He carefully pulled the plastic wrapper off the
outside and threw the pack into the ocean from the ledge, but before any of the
kids could splash into the water below, Bella the super dog was off to the
rescue, and with loud applause she returned to the water’s edge with a soggy
pack of cigarettes. Not long afterwards, when a plastic bag floated past out in
the current, one of the boys called out, “Hey, rubbish in the water will kill
the turtles, if the turtle dies, we die.” I jokingly pointed to it and told
Bella, “Go Fetch!” Next thing we know, Bella the super dog is doing her part to
save the environment, much to the kids delight. There was loud applause and if
I didn’t know that dogs can’t talk, I would have been sure Bella was showing
off in response to all the encouragement. A veritable furore of whoops and
laughter emerged as it became apparent that Bella had undertaken to protect
native wild life from harm by swimming into the dangerous current, when she
returned to the rocks with the recovered plastic bag hanging from her mouth,
she became the star of the day. One of the kids asked me later how I had
trained her to swim out and get stuff. “It’s just all part of the Desert Feet
services” I explained. So Bella gained great respect amongst the kids, who all
paid her much attention, and fought to sit with her in the back of the car on
the way home.
The coastline here is pristine, in fact
the Kimberley coast is one on the three last pristine wilderness’ in the world,
including Antarctica and the Arctic. There is about 1200km of shoreline like
this between Broome and the NT. The people here are Bardi, they are the salt
water people. The desert mob call them “fish eaters,” because they don’t eat
much roo or goanna at all. They love their turtle, dugong and fish and still
hunt in traditional manner, with spear. As a result they look very healthy. The
Bardi name for white man is Wharbal and this community is one of the few
communities that has capitalised on the Wharbal’s visits, it survives on
tourism and some of the locals hire out as cultural guides. One in particular,
Bruce Wigger is famous the world over (you can Google him) for his advice to
anthologists, scientists and wilderness tours, he has a strong connection to
the spirit world and is a well known and celebrated healer, people come from
far and wide to have his hands laid upon their head. He has been carving pearl
shell and painting for tourists here for nearly 50 years. He is a beautiful
looking old man with rich deep lines in his face and long straight white hair
which he adorns with a huge bell tower black cowboy hat. I’d say he was a
stockman or a drover, as his legs are bowed and he walks with the pendulum
swing of a horseman. When he talks, you want to bottle his words, his voice is
soft and calm but a storm of energy lives in every word. He did some healing on
Emily, which we were very grateful for too, I’ll tell you if it worked
tomorrow.
One Arm Point is known as ‘the model
community” right now. It has made an incredible transition and with great
foresight, into the business of tourism, as I mentioned above, yet maintained a
strong connection to land and culture. It is not a dry community (and I had my
fears about that before we came, especially with our concerts, which can be a
cause for celebration), but they have strong control and respect. The native
title here extends up to the peninsular and it is the One Arm Point or
Ardyaloon council that owns the Cape Leveque Resort. They even have their own
air strip to fly tourists in and out.
This peninsular is a spectacular land
mass, as is proven by the demand now placed upon it by visitors. But it was not
always like that. The
world left this continent alone for centuries after it was discovered simply because
it was considered barren. When William Dampier landed in this very area of the
King Sound in 1688, he said in his journals “The land is of a dry sandy soil,
destitute of water.” He, like the Dutch about a hundred years before him,
reported to his King that the country was useless. How wrong they where!
Our concert was well attended because
the community put on a beautiful feed for the BBQ; huge beef skewers, crumbed
sausages and gourmet style marinated meats! Also, after spending so much time
with the kids, the concert was well advertised. The real highlight was when the
Seaside Drifters, from One Mile, near Broome, showed up. Arleen and Jules had
told us about them and then took us out to meet the guys before we left. I
asked if they would play for us and paid for their fuel to come up. They were
really keen and so when they showed up it created a bit of a buzz all ‘round.
They call themselves the Seaside Drifters, but most of them are Shoveller
brothers. The Shovellers are traditionally from Bidyadanga, and Frank Shoveller
is pretty famous in these parts for his Family Band, which features 3 of his
young kids. (The CD is in every store up here, but keep an eye out for these
guys as they will be the next Pigram Brothers, I predict). As usual, the local
band ripped it up all night, with copious amounts of raw skill, unparalleled
improvisations of various radio classics, infused with their original Desert
Reggae feel, and (as always) culminating in a 20 minute version of Wipeout,
performed with a magic finger-tapping version of the guitar solo.
Day 9
Wed, 5/10/11.
Today’s workshops would be Candice’s
domain, we have 2 guitars to give to the community, thanks to donations from
our Sponsors. We set up ours as well, along with the bass, and so several of the
kids learnt some basic guitar skills at the workshop. It was a very satisfying
session, which Candice managed with competent mastery. The group of about 20
children sight-read the 6 bars of music that Candice had prepared for the
various instruments. She broke them into relevant groups then had them all come
back and perform the piece as an ensemble. I have seen this workshop several
times, and I am still always impressed. If you told me you could have a group
of kids reading sheet music and then performing the piece inside an hour I would not have believed you.
We made bit of a ceremony by presenting
the guitars to Jackie from the One Arm Point Council in front of the class, and
then sent them all home with a promise of a concert and free BBQ again tonight.
This time, almost all the kids stayed back and so we followed them down to the
Round Rocks for a swim, but this time we all went down together, girls and
boys, and we rested in the shade under the cliffs while the tide crept up the
rocks. Soon enough it was so high the kids jumped from the top ledge, and in
this manner the whole afternoon evaporated into the Kimberley sun faster than a
water drop on a hot rock. Before we knew it, Ewan was saying, “Hey, c’mon let’s
go set up the stage, we’re running late!” and I was roused from a delicious
siesta, in the afternoon breeze by an emerald sea, on a smooth rock with cries
of laughter and sounds of splashing water that had lulled me to sleep.
At about 12pm Ewan, Richard and I sat
down to dinner. The concert finished, the truck packed down and ready to leave
in the morning and the others all fast asleep, preparing to make for an early
departure. I had a coffee and wanted to do some writing but then Ewan said
“Let’s drive down to the hatchery, put the headlights on the water, and catch
some squid!” I said “Yeh, let’s do that!” Then Richard said “Ok, let’s do it!”
Then we sat motionless for a minute, no one spoke. Then I said, “Well, let’s go
then!” and Ewan said, “Ok let’s go!” then Richard said “I’ll go, but I have to
brush my teeth.” No one said anything for a while or moved, then my head nodded
forward, I crawled into bed and dreamed that huge squid were jumping into the
car.
Day 10
Thurs, 6/10/11
At 5am I woke the guys up to come
fishing. Unfortunately, the fish in my dreams remained there and we came home
and ate porridge instead.
Leaving One Arm Point was a bit
emotional, it has only been four days but we have made some great friends and
some especially strong connections. I was presented with a beautiful Turtle
shell by one of the guys and Cris the CEO of the community presented us with a
hard cover book about the community, written by the kids and published by the
school. She was quite teary as she sung our praises and we were all a bit lost for
words. Apparently the Elders had informed her that the Desert Feet Tour was
welcome any time, and I always say a return invitation is the best sign of
success. A few of the teenage girls had taken a real shine to Asha, she seemed
to hit it off, especially with one young girl called Bonny. Candice had spent
every spare second over the last two days recording a song with one of the
students, Breanna. We left Cris with a CD full of songs the kids had written
and we had recorded, and about 4 Gig of photos. Richard had pretty much left
his camera with some of the kids for days on end and they had snapped some
absolute gems, especially the stuff jumping off the rock at Round Stone. The
only other thing to report is the mysterious
reappearance of Emily. This morning during our departure ceremonies, she just
walked into the camp like a resurrected ghost. Her absence has been a handicap
on every level for all of us. We have had to rearrange the music we played at
the concerts, set up and pack down shorthanded and run the workshops without
her familiar input. Not to mention the strangeness of her absence, and the
concern we have all had for her. After the nurse at the clinic had diagnosed
her with a virus, I was preparing myself mentally to send her home with Helen
and Asha. If it was anything like the one I’d just got over, she would be
bedridden for a week and ill for months. I have had 4 lots of antibiotics and
only just recovered from bronchitis. But alas, I have never seen anyone fall so
sick, so suddenly and absolutely, then recover so instantaneously?! She slept
continuously for 3 days and 3 nights then emerged this morning as if she had
never been gone. Her quiet manner, oblivious of the miraculous resurrection she
had surprised us with, with blasé indifference she only replied to all our
enquires in her calm, unexcited, low monotone that she “felt fine”. I don’t
think any of us quite believed her at first. It wasn’t till later that I
remembered the healing session that Bruce Wigger had performed on her?! I’m not
implying anything..............I’m just saying, is all. You can make your own
mind up.
However, Emily was not to be entirely
free of pain, within an hour of leaving One Arm Point a phone call came from
Perth, but this pain was not a virus or a bruise it was worse, it was the call
no one wants to get. The call that says one of your family is sick, and so
Emily’s time on the tour once again seemed in jeopardy as she considered the
situation. Helen was a big support and I don’t think Emily would mind me saying
but she would have been lost without her this last week.
But for now we had to concentrate on
the task at hand. Our rendezvous at Beagle Bay, an impromptu arrangement
organised by Ewan, looked interesting. Thee ‘Kerri-Anne Cox’, had invited the
DFT to perform at her inaugural launch of the Beagle Bay Chronicles. An event
she had managed to attract much attention to. NITV were there to film it, and
everyone from miles around, was there to see it.
Kerri-Anne Cox is a legend in these
parts. The Cox family are massive in the Kimberley. The first son of the Welsh
drover who married a full blood Aboriginal lady, was Kerri-Anne’s Great
Grandfather. He died recently, but was the very Senior men for the Nyul Nyul
people and well respected right across these lands.
Kerri-Anne has eyes that pinch a nerve
in your spine, they are beautiful but full of fire, the most remarkable colour,
like a hazel ember, like Tigerseye-stone in a furnace. She is both charismatic
and enchanting, and once she speaks, you are transfixed. What transpires is the
transferral of a profound realisation, “This is a women that will change the
world” and all who spoke with her unanimously concurred. The realisation is
borne on the strength of the fact that next month she will state her case before
the Queen of England, her people’s right to sovereignty and a release from
colonial repression. Treaty?! Kerri-Anne Cox, it seems, has done some serious
research. Keep an eye out for this little bomb shell. Any Bills at parliament
for compulsory Indigenous History in schools, or political movements that
finally create a Treaty, might very well have her name written all over it.
The event was the culmination of 3
years of planning and incorporated a Melbourne Youth Theatre group who had
travelled all the way over to stage and perform at the event, an eclectic group
of thespians, is not what one would expect to find in a remote community, but
none the less, so it was. ‘The Chronicles’ so named by Kerri-Anne, documented
the first contact with missionaries in the peninsular, and was a artistic
mixture of recorded dialogue of the Elders’ personal accounts, Kerri-Anne Cox’s
original songs, and the dramatic re-enactment of the religious conversion of
the local Indigenous people, by the God-fearing monks. It was performed by a
mixture of Asian, Aboriginal and Caucasians actors. After this, we performed a
full concert and hosted 3 of the local bands. One of which, ‘The Beagle Bay
Band’ featured none other than Francis Cox the legendary country singer of his
day. Meeting him was like meeting Royalty and I would never have known who he
was if it hadn’t been for the conversation that sprung up over his guitar which
he opened in front of me like a Christmas gift! It was a wood finished
Telecaster and obviously very old! When I began to drool he proudly lifted his
prize into my hands to ease my obvious guitar envy, enjoying my palpable
appreciation and with a smile, he informed me that it was an original ’82
Fender and he had had it since new, that guitar was worth well of $20,000 and
we both knew it. Watching him play it was even more rewarding, with that Tele
in his hand, there was no tomorrow and Frances reminisced us with the spiritual
union of a man lost in the moment. In his heyday he preformed all over the world
and alongside the greats of County Rock like Willy Nelson and Cash.
The community had been out hunting for
the occasion and so we were treated to a massive traditional smorgasbord of
turtle, dugong and mud crabs. Two huge barra’ came out of the fire wrapped in
alfoil of which I eat a whole wing and other than a few fellows that had had a
bit too much to drink, the night was an awesome experience. Unfortunately Ewan
copped the brunt of the bad behaviour being out front of the stage all night
and so his role as sound guy double as diplomatic domestic disruption avoidance
councillor too. The poor guy was exhausted by the nights end and after a full
pull down to boot he was looking a bit worse for wear.
Day 11
Friday, 7/10/11
Ewan was not able to be roused for an
early morning fishing trip this morning so I took the girls out to Middle
Lagoon for a looksee at 6 am instead. The beach was beautiful and worth the off
road trip, However it was full of tourist. It’s sort of wired but once you spend
time in remote community’s with the mob one can feel a little protective?! And
seeing a bunch of sunburnt tourists in their flash Landcruisers is almost
repulsive. Feeling a little superior, as if we are locals not tourists, is an
irony of the highest order, yet I must admit a tinge of judgement crept upon
me. However that is ridiculous because this lagoon is managed by the local
community that have made a great location for tourism by creating little open
chalet’s on the beach front. It is a beautiful location and worth visiting, the
mere $8 a night goes to running the
generator and fuel for the school bus of the resident community.
The workshops today were the most fun I
have ever had. As school is out, we had no teachers to assist us, so it was a bit
of an unknown quantity. I drove around the block a few times and told any kids
I saw to come down to the basketball court if they wanted to learn music or do
some song writing. By the time I got back, several kids had arrived and several
more had jumped in the car. I feel a bit conspicuous in this Prado, I don’t
like driving round in a flash new car its sort of a bit arrogant and
insensitive in a remote and overcrowded Indigenous community where services are
limited and commodities are in demand. I think communities have just had enough
of Whities showing up in their big expensive cars telling them how they should
live, and this thing is a mine spec’ vehicle too, so I must look like a mining
company official or something. However, kids don’t see disparity, nor is their
happiness contingent on their conditions. One can only describe it as a child
like state, because that’s what it is. That is why working with kids is
empowering, it’s the indestructibility of the human spirit that is so obvious
and always a reminder that we all had and have that quality, it’s a reminder
for me that I can be happy with what I have if I focus on the present, not
caught in the suffering of need. In this, service is its own reward, the
greatest reward, it’s a freedom really. However, It’s a fine line between
support and intervention, and it is a question I must always ask of myself. I’m
a guest here, a student. I have come here to learn and I am only allowed to
offer what I am asked for, any more than that would be patronising. I think
that is the difference between good intentions, which can have bad outcomes,
and good results which requires acceptance not knowledge.
I was a bit worried how the kids would
behave with no teachers or community members present, but it was really relaxed,
having Helen and Asha helps too, with their motherly strength and all. I really
wanted some outcomes from the workshops that the girls could take home with
them, as this was their last day. I wanted the best outcomes I could get for
their efforts, and so I hope I haven’t pushed the crew to hard. I know I felt
it last night, I had to push myself, doing a set up, concert and pull down in
the same night, its hard yakka for anyone. Performing is emotionally draining,
setting up is physically hard, the combination is exhausting. It takes a
special type of person to be out here, and I am encouraged by the calibre of
these guys. Both Ewan and Richard are people that could name their own price in
the corporate world. They are both highly intelligent and well educated men, I
am, in fact the least qualified of the lot, and funnily enough the least
musically talented, too. I am very grateful for their dedication, I can tell
you now they are not doing it for the money.
Bryte killed it as usual, his workshop
never fails but the interesting occurrence was Richard, conjuring up a little
workshop on the spot. After we had made a Healthy Lyric Song and recorded it,
he took the lead and started doing demos with all the “other” instruments. Soon
he had an orchestra of students playing the percussion, ukulele and harmonica.
I sat with the kids and just laced up some of the football boots we had given
out, and so I watched Richard, Candice
and Emily get creative and spontaneous. It was a great change and really worked
well, but overall it showed the diversity of outcomes available and the value
of spontaneity. Some good ideas came out of it for future workshops too and
Richard suggested he could run workshops on the ukulele and harmonica,
instruments that we could buy cheaply, and supply to each of the kids so they
all got left with an instrument and some material to develop on it. It’s an
idea we are keen to develop, and we’ll have to see if we can source a bulk
order of the instruments. ukuleles would be ideal because they are basically a
small guitar; the chords can be transposed and it can be a introduction to
guitar playing. Blues harps would be great too, because most of the community’s
bands construct their song structure around the 12 bar blues, it’s an
instrument that doesn’t go out of tune, and it can be bought pretty cheaply.
One of the mothers came down to the
basketball court to pick up her kids for a fishing trip, and so the workshop
came to an end. Helen and Asha had to head back to Broome early to meet with the
Health Services and so our first leg of the tour was coming to a close. It has
been 2 years since we visited the Cape because of funding shortages, and it’s
the first time we have visited outside of school term, so it was great to build
that rapport with the community and council members instead of the teachers,
which can be more transient. As soon as the girls left, a sense of loss hit us
all, I’m not sure if I’m a bit biased because my own mother was a nurse, but I
have never met a nurse I didn’t like. I once saw a sticker that said, “nurses
make the world better” and that’s a fact. There was always something comforting
about having a nurse/mother, sort of like double the maternal security. Helen
has been no exception to the rule. Nurses are built to care and Helen has “I
care” written in her eyes. The reason she is so senior in her position, is
because she deserves it. She has a strength of character made impressive by her
intelligence. I can’t help feeling like she brought a maternal quality to this
trip that I didn’t know we didn’t have till she was here. But now that it’s
gone, I miss it. She had never been on tour with us before, but she was an
instantly the missing matriarch we never had. In hindsight, I realised that
it’s the first time in 4 years I have had another organisation invest their
personnel into our project, her input had created a sense of shared
responsibility that gave me immeasurable support.
In four years of running this project,
I have had all sorts of promises thrown at me, for funding, for support and of
course those interested in coming along. However not much of it ever
eventuates. Everything that Helen and I discussed, at the first meeting over 6
months ago, she has made happen. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I
don’t think we would be on this tour without Diabetes WA. They helped us write
the grant, they supplied all the merch’, they contributed to the funding and
they paid their own way. It’s just been such a pleasure and a privilege. We
were not scheduled to be back in Broome tonight, we had the option of staying
out bush and some invitations to go hunting that afternoon, but knowing that
the girls had the night in Broome and wanting to give the guys a night off in
town with a hot shower and a cooked meal seemed like a good option. It meant we
could go out for a farewell dinner, do some much needed washing and maybe catch
up on some rest.
Our farewell dinner was a celebration
of friendships. It was the night when everyone realised that we had shared
something together that gives an unspeakable quality of understanding to a
relationship. One that can’t be found in an office, one that can’t be arranged
or planned. It’s the sort of feeling you have when you know that your life has
just changed a bit. That your course has altered slightly, like you just had
another piece of the jigsaw popped into place. In a world that often seems to
make no sense, there’s a sense of relief in a realization that overrides
intellect and can’t be intellectualised, because its prior to all those
faculties. It’s a direct injection of intuition on a vertical line. That’s how
I feel about Diabetes WA. It was just there waiting to be awakened, and it
messengers were two of the finest people I have met. I don’t know how I did it
without them and I almost don’t want to do it without them now, such is my
grief at their departure. Our last supper was a relaxed night of honest
conversation. The type you have when you realise you really trust someone.
(thank you Ross M)
Day 12
Saturday, 8/10/11
As we drive out of Broome and into the
second leg of our journey, I reflect on the trials ahead. The next week will be
spent in the Fitzroy River Valley, the edge of the Gibson Desert and out of
range of mobile and internet. The Valley is a predator that can swallow you
whole, without a trace, or nurture you in her bosom of eternity, it can be the
mother of awakening or the father of harsh discipline. It is a land that is
older than time, it transforms lives, it holds secrets more valuable than gems and
is the home to the greatest jewel of all, an ancient and profoundly beautiful
people.
Day
13
He
explained to us how these ridges formed, 350 million years ago, the Devonian
Reef holds fossils and mysteries that unlock the past and all this land was
then under water. With ease he articulated how his dreaming explained the
formation long before science existed. He expounded the similarities between
law and evolution like a college professor. He pointed out the mudlark nest
dreaming, and followed the song lines with his fingers across the vast ranges
to our left. Ewan, Emily and I held our breath to hear his words over the purr
of the engine and the crunching of Spinifex grass, as he guided us through the
open plains with casual indifference, fearless of the country and sure of its
every undulation. The massive range, like in a prehistoric movie, running
against the screen of a bleached blue sky. Still, ancient, watching and
waiting; a silent tower of infinite knowledge. We could feel the life he spoke
of in them, that breathed us out into existence.
Day 18
Thursday 13/10/11
Djugerari
I
have been told that anyone can learn to sing, the throat is an instrument like
any other and it can be trained. However it can be a bit like learning the
violin, I guess there is a period of ambiguity that must require a certain
faith or belief that at some point it will be better. Richard is the most
talented musician I have ever met in my life. But even he will admit, he is no
Tom Jones. However, you have to admire someone that just has a go at
everything, and Richard is not one to let such a trivial fact prevent him
writing or singing songs. He came up with the idea that we could do a workshop
based on the concept that most songs can be played with 4 chords, to give kids
an example of how simple music really is. He then proceeded to download, work
out, write and learn the Four Chord Medley by Axis of Awesome. In this song,
the artists perform about 30 different radio hits with the same 4 chords
repeated over and over, played at different tempos and feels with the changing
melodies and lines from each different song. If you have not seen the Youtube
clip of this song, take a look. It is cool, however those guys can really sing.
Richard has a incredible mind, able to grasp things out of most people’s
ability, but learning this song became a sort of musical challenge or mild
obsession for him and so the camp had to endure the repetitions of his practice
several times last night at the quarters. The shear fact that he could even
work it out was impressive however no one else could perform it, which meant
that Richard was our Huckleberry. But when he got up at 5am this morning and
started practicing it again, we had to draw the line. I thought he might be
sleep practicing, but he informed me he just thought it was much later?! He is a
one of a kind is our beloved Richard. He also doubles as a breakfast bell.
The
old dirt track out to Djugerari was a red snake winding through the black ashes
of a smouldering country. Distant fire crawled across the dry spinifex, fuelled
by the suns intensity. Columns of smoke in the distance, contributed to a hazy
canopy. The end of the dry season is a vast extreme of conditions about to
collide. The build up cracks the sky in half with flashes of lightening while
the bone dry land bursts into flames at the mention of fire. Dust devils form
as a swirling updraft of black columns, dancing in the burnt ashes like the
massive legs of Gods walking through the clouds, their vertical piers, reaching
into the heavens of the sky above. Teasing us with the hope that one may come
close enough for a good photo but they are like a timid animal hovering ever at
our horizons.
We
rolled into Djugerari in a cloud of dust. Tumbleweeds the size of cars bounced
across the burnt and cindered plains in a scorching dry wind coming off the
desert. The distant horizon was a melting inferno of shimmering heat, like the
steam coming off a kettle. Djugerari is on high ground in a valley of open
plains and the edge of our vision, looked like it danced to an invisible fire.
The community was lifeless, every living thing intoxicated by the sleeping pill
of heat. Except for six kids we found swimming in an old storage bin filled
with water. They informed me they were the only kids on the community except
one other, who was asleep. So it looked like the workshops here would be
easy.
We
bumped into our quarters that looked out across the deserts edge towards the
Millyit Range. Behind that ridge lies the Great Sandy Desert and rolling sand
dunes. It was 42 degrees’ in the shade, I found Candice sitting on a bench with
her head down, unable to move, or even talk. We were all a bit exhausted and
dragging our feet with lethargic effort.
At
about 4pm, I was roused by the noise at the door. The little posse of Djugerari
kids had discovered us and pleaded with us to take them to the local dam. Dug
into the barren countryside by the station owner, the dam's massive walls cut
straight down into the earth, showing the layers of sedimentary soil; dark and
clay like, thousands of years of flooding then drying out, making a layer cake
richer than double chocolate. Situated in a low point of the basin, the dam
held water all year, cool and deep. We sprung off the black overflow pipe like
a diving board, the kids did back flips and bombies with practiced ease.
The
concert tonight would be very small, but we had a big load of meat for the BBQ,
fresh steak and bangers, a small host of very keen kids, and the Dry Metal Band
arriving at some stage. It was just too hot to set up even in the afternoon sun
and it was nearly 6pm before we could make the effort. But it seems that the
best laid plans of men and mice, are often just a trivial price, for when I
went to start the big White Rhino, she would not be moved. After some time in
diagnosis, we established the problem to be at the starter motor. From where we
worked, we could see the BBQ fire and the awaiting crowd under the lights at
the basketball court. It was dark now, so we needed to just get the truck
started then make a decision about what to do. Luckily, she had come to rest on
a small hill, and with minimal effort we gave her a push in reverse and she
jump-started into life with ease! Unfortunately, as all of us where pushing
there was no one to take a photo, because I think that is by far the funniest thing
I have seen, four out-of-towners trying to push start an 8ton truck! Djugerari
must have been wondering what the cat dragged in?!
The
crew are tired, the truck has mechanical problems, it's hot, and the community is
mostly deserted. With the old girl running, I was loathed to turn it off again,
and I suggested to the guys what seemed the most sensible thing to do, run the
truck back into Fitzroy and have it waiting at the mechanics at daybreak, but
Ewan, Em, and Richard felt certain we could start her again now we knew what
the problem was, and insisted that we go on with the show! “The guys are coming
all the way from Wangkatjungka” Ewan persisted, and so I was guided by the
group conscience, impressed with their commitment and inspired by their
determination. Tonight it was a small concert, but a big victory. It’s not just
about playing music in the desert, sometimes the effort it takes to make it
happen is a song in its self. It’s a song of true grit. It was a good call to
go on with the show because no sooner had we set up than the Dry Metal Band
rolled into town.
Ewan
spent most of the night trying to get better takes of a few songs for them. I
spent most of the night tinkering with the truck, Brian and Candice sat in the
Prado with air-con running trying to breathe, and Emily and Richard cooked up a
storm on a half 44 gallon drum over a stinking hot fire. By 11pm, I was almost
falling over myself, and by the time we had packed up, there were some haggard
looking faces. Then, when I backed the car into an ant hill, to complete my
hat-trick of car wrecking for the Desert Feet Tour, I realised we all needed a
few days off. We jump started the truck by towing her in reverse with the
Prado, but it was too late and too dangerous to drive in to town now. With all
the cattle on the road and the state of the track out here, it just didn’t make
sense. I don’t even remember my head touching the pillow.
Day
19
Friday
14/10/11
Break
down
At
6am we jump started the truck again and Em and I made an early dash back into
Fitzroy Crossing, but my heart sank when the only mechanic in 500 kilometres
told me he could not look at the truck 'til next week! In desperation, I
offered him $500 cash above whatever he billed us, if he looked at it now. But
he was an oak and not to be budged.
By
2pm I had taken the starter motor off and put it back on 3 times, cleaning the
terminals, filing the brushes, re-assembling the spring loaded bushes several
times all to no avail. I had a new solenoid on order from Hino spare parts in
Perth, due to arrive at midday tomorrow. I was not convinced that was the
issue, then, by accident, I shorted the positive terminal across the ignition
line with ring spanner while tightening a bolt; the truck jolted into life!
Turns out it's a wiring problem and worst case, I can jump start her with a
piece of wire. I would wait for Richard to arrive with his multi meter and see
if he could locate the electrical problem. The show would go on!
In
the meantime, the guys had stayed back to run the workshops. A big ask, under
manned and out of energy, and in the heat of the day. With no teachers to
supervise and no adults to help, they did a great job to bring home the
results. Workshop songs are a huge part of our reporting and important to our
outcomes. So their determination once again, meant a hell of a lot to the
overall result.
We
checked into the Lodge. I had a look at the schedule and realised we are still
on track. I could push Yakanarra back by a day, shorten Nookanbah by a day and
still come out of the Valley from Jarlmadangah in time to drop Brian back in
Broome on the 21st! So, seeing as we had come all the way back to
town, I decided to give the team a much needed break, and take 2 days off. This
meant that Brian would have his birthday in town, and so I had a very happy
crew when I told them all at dinner that night! They deserve it, and are a
great team.
Day
20
Saturday
15/10/11
Fitzroy
Crossing
In
the morning, Richard and I set out to work out this wiring problem, but the
truck started first pop, and continue to start without fault again?! It’s the
luck of the Irish?! Someone must have some Irish in them 'cause I don’t!
That
left us with one other very important task to perform without delay; load the
Prado up with fishing gear and head down the Fitzroy River for the afternoon,
that elusive Desert Feet Barramundi is still waiting for me.
Day
21
Sunday
16/10/11
Day
off
Brian's
birthday today was appropriately timed with the big Wallabies vs NZ rugby game.
While the crew celebrated with two good excuses, I took the chance to finish
off the blog and upload the next instalment. My view out of the lodge window
shows the build-up that keeps threatening the first rains, and by nightfall we
had one of nature’s fireworks shows that makes Australia Day look like a waste
of gunpowder.
This
was spectacular, except it casts as certain dubious element upon the rest of
our plans in the Valley. A good two hour downpour out here can turn a track to
marsh. A good two days of downpour can cut you off for weeks. If the rain is
inland, it will make the rivers run at astounding speed. You can cross a dry
river bed on the way in, and find it a raging torrent on the way out, as we
discovered last year in Nookanbah!
We
will head back into the Valley now, without our much loved Candice. It with
great regret that we dropped her at the bus early this morning, but
unfortunately she has to start teaching again. We will see here again for the
festivals at Tom Price and Paraburdoo at the end of October, however that does
little to console us now, as Candice has been our cook as well as workshop
facilitator. Without her, we will be terribly handicapped, we are running short
handed as it is, and so I feel a tinge of concern as to how we will manage this
next week of intense travel, concerts and workshops.
Day
22
Monday
17/10/11
Yakanarra
It's
two years since we visited Yakanarra in a comedy of commotion under less than enviable
circumstances. Patrick (our tour guide and fellow performer) had his car
‘borrowed’ from the service station just as we were about to leave! Instead of
calling off the tour 'til his car reappeared, we had done what could only be
described as a pursuit tour, and in this manner, Patrick and our convoy of
vehicles followed his stolen Prado through the deserts edge, deep into the
Fitzroy River Valley over tiny dirt tracks with no name.
Helen,
the principal here, and all the teachers, remain the same. They all remembered
us with fondness, despite the swift visit that ensued as a result of the
urgency created by our dilemma. We had stayed only as long as it took to run
the workshop.
This
time however, I had time to go meet the Elder. The first question I always ask
is, “Is it ok for us to stay here?” The next one is, “ Would it be OK to
perform a concert for the community?” The third is, “When I recognise the
Traditional Owners here, how should I acknowledge them? Most of the people here
are Walmanjarri, and this community, like most in the Valley, is surrounded by
some of the most fertile plains on Earth, along with the cattle they attract.
Yakanarra is a sleepy community tucked away amongst the ridges of obscurity,
and mostly forgotten by the world. Most people know about Nookanbah, and any
Grey Nomad might know some of the colourful names signposted along the Highway,
but Yakanarra is off the beaten track, an un-posted, forgotten world that most
of Australia would never know even existed.
Even
after all these years, I can’t prevent a touch of concern that precedes my
arrival in a remote community. A little voice of self doubt that judges me like
a QC on a bench. "What are you doing out here Damien?" "Do you
have the right to come out here with your big ideas, and are they of any value
anyway?"
But
no matter where we go, it’s the same thing. Friendly faces greet us at the
office, we are billeted and accommodated with generous enthusiasm, and every
effort is made to contribute to the concert. Communities are always short of
housing, overcrowded and poor, so showing up with 8 people and expecting to
just have somewhere to stay is not as simple as it sounds. It usually means a
lot of rearranging, and a lot of the time there is just none available, so we
will swag it in a school classroom. Most communities will put food towards the
BBQ, and even come down and cook it. Some will send guys out hunting, and there
is always musicians. They are always keen to play, and there is never a moment
to lose. I have had the same experience in lower economic areas all around the
world. The less people have the more generous they seem to be. The truth is,
communities like Yakanarra are living in third world conditions. Sometimes less
than. But like every community I have visited, we are welcomed by the cries of
happy kids and smiling locals. I have never had a greeting rebuffed or felt
uncomfortable. Quite the contrary, I often feel overwhelmed by the fact that
after 200 years of oppression, displacement, political mistreatment, and
cultural ignorance, there is not a hard feeling out here, which only compounds
my scene of injustice. Not only were the people out here mistreated, they were
badly misjudged too. Two generations of men gave their lives to the Kimberley’s
as Drovers and Cattlemen, mostly unrecognised, without thanks or reward, in an
effort now forgotten. Australia was built on the backbone of its fruits. The
evidence is a flourishing economy, which like the Pyramids of Egypt, it’s all
that remains of the efforts of the nameless multitudes that made it
happen.
Yakanarra
has a pretty strong Council and they have somehow raised the funds for a little
telecentre. In this little transportable, plunked in the middle of a deserted
field with a lonely power line running to its roof, I found Shannon. He, along
with several kids, was checking their Facebook?! (That’s a first.) But he told
us of a few acoustic songs he wanted to record, and had several mates that
could play with him tonight too. I knew we would have a good turn out now, as
word travels pretty fast in a remote community. I told him to spread the word
that there would be a big BBQ with loads of free meat too. We are expecting the
Bayulu Hillside Band to come, and the Dry Metal Band if they can make it. It
would be a mini Indigenous festival if they all show up, and that could be
really cool.
That
night Shannon’s band stole the show before they even began, an eager audience
of 30 or so kids sat pensively cross legged, jammed against the edge of the
stage, necks straining upwards in anticipation. The boys had some really cool
original songs which we recorded for them. Some of the lyrics where in English
and I loved one song with the line “When the rain wakes up the country.” Very
appropriate as the first of the Wet Season's rains threaten to come down.
We
did a power pull-down tonight. The team is becoming so familiar with the
process, that we had the truck in the driveway not more that 45 minutes after
the lights went out. It was about 11:30 when we walked into the shack. It was
about 11:35pm that a boom of thunder and a crack of lighting scared the dog
under the bed, followed by a vicious downpour that lasted about half an hour!
Hmm that makes things interesting. Last year, after about 2 days of rain, Helen
spent four hours trying to make it out of here, just to make it Turkey Creek,
then turned around and came home. No one could cross the Fitzroy and so she was
stranded in the Community over the holidays. The road into Nookanbah is very
old and hard, it would make more sense to push deeper into the Valley from
here; get over the Fitzroy and into Nookanbah as soon as possible!
Day
23
Tuesday
18/10/11
Nookanbah
The
leg between Yakanarra and Nookanbah is a mesmerising trip. Although the road
was in bad condition, the slow pace was well appreciate to soak up the vast
visual experience, and the Prado constantly overtook us and then fell back with
Richards various photographic endeavours. To the south, a line of ridges
followed us the whole trip, carved from the earth by Orion’s chisel, hammered
into ridges by Thor’s Hammer, stacked like discarded dinner plates, uneven and
high, defying gravity, oblivious of time, impervious to change, and guiding us
up the valley. To our right, the lands grew denser with lush green foliage. The
many arteries from the overlooking ridges flow into the great Fitzroy River
somewhere to our North, her presence growing obvious by all nature of things
that come here for the life her water brings. This Valley is alive.
Some
parts of the road were lined by washouts deeper than a creek, some parts had
washouts on both sides leaving a small ridge of road. I have never seen
anything like it, and it's disconcerting to say the least. We made too many
floodway crossings to count, and it is obvious how treacherous this road could
be after the smallest of rains. On the high sections, the border of deep green
trees to our right indicated the rivers closeness and as Nookanbah is right
against the mighty Fitzroy River, once the road and River join we will be there.
Soon
we were enshrined in the foliage. The sky above, and the suns intensity, washed
out by the shady pastures, made cool grassy banks on the many little dry creeks
that networked the undergrowth awaiting the next rains. A great variety of
different plants and trees could survive here feeding on the ground water
below. Then, after a large stretch of boggy river sand, cut deep with tyre
tracks, it appeared. The Crossing itself was only just over knee deep and so
our escape out of the Valley was pretty much assured. From here, we would
continue west along the northern side of the Fitzroy River, across the barrage,
through Camballin, and out to Mt Anderson Station, on which lies the sleepy
community of Jarlmadangah Burru. Then we'll come out on Great Northern Highway
around Saturday or Sunday, all thing being equal.
In
the meantime, we return to Nookanbah with much anticipation. We have built up a
great rapport with some of the communities we have been fortunate enough to
keep revisiting. Nookanbah is one that we have not missed for 4 years. At the
Crossing, we joined a bunch of kids swimming and found Fernie from Djugerari
among them. I joked with him that every time we see him, he is in water! He was
very proud to introduce us to the other kids.
At
the community, I checked in with Dickie Cox first, the elder for the Nyikina
language group. His welcoming smile creased a well weathered old face into
shapes of happiness. His rusty legs hindered his procession to the door. Once a
tall and powerful man, in an age of cattlemen and drovers. Dickie is now
stooped and tired, he came to the door buttoning up brown cowboy shirt across
his sinewy frame, smiling in a toothless grin, warm and quiet. Recently retired
after 20 years of service as the Chairman for Yungngora Council, Dickie will
see out the twilight of his years in peace on the community he helped to
reclaim from the pastoralists, and forge into one of the first Aboriginal run
and owned cattle stations. His generosity is ‘the shirt off ya back’ type, and
at his command a few of the younger guys organised a hunting party to take out
us out country to shoot some game for dinner. He lent Bubbly the gun, the car
and the bullets, then sent him out with his nephew. I piled into the old Patrol
with the boys, and the Prado followed at a distance with the rest of our crew.
Bubbly (or Bubbles) was the man for hunting, and Dickie gave us the right guy,
he found fields of wild Bush Turkey. Their long white necks strained in the
evening sun. Bush Turkeys are a docile and slow moving bird, beautiful both
visually and taste-wise, unfortunately for them. They are a favourite amongst
the mob, especially in winter when their bellies are full of fat and juice.
Bubbles told me he had been working as the groundsman for the school for 12
years. I wouldn’t have guessed he was old enough to have worked that long, his
youthful face and smooth baby skin could be used for an Oil of Ulan advert. His
confident manner and pleasant smile was infectious, he is the owner of a unique
little characteristic which I just have to mention. During any discussion, he
would emit a sharp and heavily accented “Yerp” as a response to all manner of
questions. It served as an answer, a comment and a conversation additive.
Bubbly was a man you could not help but like. Nookanbah is a hard working
community. One would be forgiven for mistaking it for a mining camp, the guys
are all dressed in high vis’ clothing. Old Troopies with the tops cut off
ferried hay bales like makeshift tractors, and cowboys in big hats whirred back
and forth across the community, going about the business of Nookanbah's Cattle
station.
Out
on country, Bubbly showed us how to dress down a bush turkey in true countryman
style, plucked warm on the spot, he lit a fire and singed the fuzz off, then
gutted it and checked in its stomach for the white pearly stone that brings
good luck. The stomach bag, heart and most the organs are all considered the
best part, but at this time of year, the birds are not fat enough, he informed
us.
Back
at the camp, he invited us to stay, and introduced us to his wife and sister.
They prepared a huge fire, Devina cooked up some damper for a starter, and we
roasted that turkey in the hot coals with fresh vegetables. We contributed some
steak, but none of us were even remotely interested in cow with that fresh bird
in the camp oven. Bubbly's house sits on the high watermark and he showed us
the spot where people were catching Barra from his back yard, during the flood
earlier this year . “Were you worried the house would go under?” Emily asked
with concern. “Yerp” he replied in his single syllable that seems to represent
a vast range of emotions. And that is what life is like for men like Bubbly,
there is nothing really worth getting too upset about, nothing worth getting
too uppity about either. There’s just an even stability in Bubbly reflected in
that catch phrase of his. It's the motto of a man who can withstand adversity
without self doubt or morbidity, and can accept good luck without ego or the
need for acknowledgement. He sails his ship with a wind called acceptance, he
knows you sail close to that wind, because soon it might be storm time, then
again it might become becalmed.
Nookanbah
is cut off in every direction for at least a minimum of three months every wet
season. The world outside, just an idea across a flooded plain and boggy marsh,
and so with a billy brewed tea in a tin cup, I contemplated being stuck out
here with envy, and somewhere on the edge of Fitzroy River we faded into
blissful obscurity with compete satisfaction, licking the oil of fresh turkey
off our fingers. I could disappear from this world like a blink of an eye in
the remoteness that is Nookanbah, and be content for the rest of my life. “It
sure is beautiful out here Bubbly” I
said with sincerity and a hint of jealousy. “Yerp” confirmed Bubbly, with his
economic discourse, full of certainty. “How often do you eat bush turkey
Bubbly?” I asked. “Yerp” he confirmed.
Day
24
Wednesday
19/10/11w
Nookanbah
A big
day lay ahead for us, there is at least 2 bands here that want to perform at
the concert tonight, The Rock Eagles (a great name for a band, I thought) and
Broken Hero (another great name for a band (I thought anyway).
But
in the meantime we have the workshops to do. The School here is the biggest of
any remote community I have ever been to. They have upwards of 100 kids at
peak, today however we are informed we would be dealing with about 70. We
decided to break them into two groups and do two workshops simultaneously then
swap groups. Doing one lot of workshops is usually pretty tiring, but two in a
row will be full on, and with a full set up, concert, and pack down tonight, we
earned our keep in Nookanbah.
The
concert was by the far the biggest we have ever done. Shannon’s band from
Yakanarra showed up as well as The Yakanarra Band, and then the No Name Band
wanted to play, which seemed to form out of nowhere? Previously unknown to us,
and instantaneously appearing, perhaps inspired by the musical smorgasbord, I
don’t know, but they were pretty good. The bass musician is a Western Bulldogs
rookie, a huge fit-looking specimen he was! However, the real show stopper was
the much anticipated Rock Eagle, these guys were a bunch of veteran muso's,
older guys and obviously seasoned performers, seven of them in all! Poor Ewan
nearly had a heart attack trying to record them. They had a keyboard, a
multitude of vocals, bass, drums, and 3 guitars! They were really tight and it
was pleasure to watch them, however I don’t think Ewan will be getting much
rest over the next few days, having to mix down four bands (All hungry for a
CD), and four lots of workshops from today! I will bet my last dollar these
guys will be waiting at our door at daybreak, looking for the recorded track.
They have had no concert or entertainment out here since we came last year!
Day
25
Thursday
20/10/11
Back
to Jarlmadangah
In
the morning, before anyone could get up, the first knock came. “Is that CD
ready yet?” I was keen to get the truck
over to Jarlmadangah as soon as possible, the back road was an unknown quantity
and we had to be there in time to set up and play tonight. So the truck left
early, Ewan informed me later that night there was a few emotional moments when
he gave the CD's to the bands. Gideon from the Broken Hero was so grateful he
was nearly in tears, and so we left Nookanbah regretfully, but with many new
friends.
Malcolm
Skinner is one of the senior men around here. He knows every nook and cranny of
this land better than anyone. I ran into him at the office, just before I was
about to leave, and asked him if the back road to Jarlmadangah was passable in
the truck. He looked it up and down, took of his sweat stained, felt cowboy
hat, thought about it for a second, then ushered a calm “I reckon.” He drew me a mud map, then offered to escort us
to the first gate. “After that, you be right.” He pointed across the valley and
into the wilderness with a casual hand, as if driving across the valley was all
in a days work.
Once
we left Malcolm, the Valley’s landscape changed dramatically and opened into
rolling plains, I could have sworn I was in the Wheat Belt; as far as the eye
could see, the brown stubble of cropped stems, like a harvested field,
stretched before us. The earth here is a deep rich brown soil, the sun has
baked these paddocks like an urn fires pottery, and the ground is a cracked
pattern of hexagon shapes. Just before Camballin we drove across the Barrage,
constructed on the Moola Bulla Station in the early Twentieth Century, John
Watson has memories of labouring there. It was built mostly by Indigenous
labour force and is the only weir or dam constructed in the Valley in spite of
the many plans and ideas to dam the Fitzroy that have been proposed over the
years.
The road
wound over far reaching plains taking the high ground by default. Obviously,
most of these tracks have been pushed through in urgency or out of necessity,
and one would not know how uneven this land is 'til it is flooded. Anything with a bit of height
becomes a road, and thus sometimes the track seems ridiculously serpentinous
and meandering.
At
Camballin, the road turned to bitumen and a row of massive double story houses
lined a one sided street like West Coast Drive overlooking the ocean. However, they
looked at nothing but dry dirt and scrub. Conspicuously positioned in the
middle of nowhere they looked like a row of houses transported by an alien
tractor beam from Malabo CA. Then just as suddenly, the road tuned back to dirt
and we were lost in the vast remote Valley once again, as if Camballin was just
a dream I had at the steering wheel.
Jarlmadangah
was like a home coming. Nabaru welcomed us like old family and we drove the
truck straight to the basketball court for setup, where a bunch of highly
energetic kids dripping with anticipation bombarded us with questions, requests
and demands, climbed all over Emily as if she had ‘I’m a swing set’ written on
her forehead, until the teachers showed up like the cavalry, with a BBQ and
some cutlery, and soon we had a show on our hands.
Sean
the headmaster rang the school siren, and a sound like a 19th century air-raid
warning filled the sleepy hollow of Jarlmadangah. The smell of BBQ steak, the
sound of music, and the promises of entertainment filled our little open air
amphitheatre with a willing audience, and for an intimate gathering we poured
out our souls, vibrating the ether between us with stories of love, loss and
hope, plucked out upon wood and string, a symphony of empathy, injected into
the sweating Kimberley night and just as quickly, absorbed by an open sky, lost
forever in the vastness of our surrounds, like a shooting star, our music was a
flash against the night, ephemeral, like a spider web cast upon transient
points, its gossamer threads just a brief connection across a world of vast
cultures.
The
highlight of the night for me was Laurie and Rosetta’s performance, Laurie
works as the FaHCSIA agent out here, they have six girls and one boy! The boy
all of 6 or 8 years old climbed up and clung to his mother while she and his
elder sister harmonised. Laurie strummed my old Cole Clark with country rhythm
and their bare and dusty feet spoke of an insoluble connection to the earth.
This most beautiful couple chilled our bones, their songs full of stories of
drovers and horse breakers, about his father and grandfather, cattlemen. The
words painted illustrations on our minds like a Banjo Paterson poem, and spun
up images of dusty scenarios full of life, death and toil on Kimberley soil.
Laurie's heavily accented voice was the Aboriginal version of John Williamson
and held us like a vice clamp, glued us to his every word, and lulled us into
an age now past, like a romantic dream. His most unassuming manner and the
honesty of his lyrics brought a tear to a few eyes, one of which I’m not
ashamed to tell you was mine.
Day
26
Friday
21/10/11
Jarlmadangah
This
morning we conducted the last lot of workshops for the Kimberley’s. I'm now
confident to tell you that we can turn a sceptic into a believer, an ignoramus
into a scholar, and a blind man into a seer (well maybe thats going to far),
but our workshops are really good now. Not that we had any resistance from the
teachers here at all, they bent over backwards to help us and then participated
in everything we did. The best thing was that these kids sat with open jaws,
absolutely intrigued with everything, which meant the scope of the information
we can deliver was further increased.
Richard's
musical skills and Ewan's production capabilities have created a perfect team.
Richard has created a sort of template for the songs, so the content can be
filled with words very quickly, and Ewan wrote click tracks for Richard to
perform them to. It means the songs are fuller with a drum beat, and we can
explain the components of a song, and show how easy it is to build a song track
by track; chorus, verse, lead break, intro, vocals harmonies and break out etc.
till we can play them back the full song with their little voices singing out!!
Richard can then lay the lead breaks on ukulele, guitar or harmonica live,
while Ewan multi tracks it all instantly. This is impressive for the audience
and effective aurally. It means the kids get a CD with really good production
quality that they are singing on, with a song they have written the words to,
and chosen the feel and subject matter (with a little bit of guidance from us,
to deliver some messages into the song). Next thing you know, you have kids
running around singing stuff like “drink water, it's good for you, fruit and veg
is healthy too” without realising they are doing it.
I
know I am bragging now, but I have to tell you, the teachers at Nookanbah and
here were really impressed with what we did. It has not always been this way,
and we have developed the content by trial and error. One thing out here, is
the open learning format, it means the age groups are always very broad. Older
kids can take in more of the theory and information, but younger kids respond
better to prizes and have a limited attention span, so we have had to learn to
be flexible and versatile.
Day 27
The mighty Fitzroy River never fails to impress me, but out
here it is a forgotten paradise under a burning sun. The banks, steep and wide,
are lined with majestic, ancient trees. Their huge and old trunks horizontally
reaching out over the water as if they are bowing to an unseen King, are draped
with a velvety type growth fit for the Royal courting it anticipates. Like
platforms, they offered access out over the water’s edge at great heights,
complete with shady canopy and soft foliage, each one like a tree house with
built in furniture, designed by the environment, nailed together by evolution
and arranged my mother nature. The banks of the Fitzroy here are like the cubby
house of your dreams, a child’s paradise regained. Out here the fish roam with
impunity; their sides glimmer with silver flashes in the broad stream, while
more ominous dark shapes speak of other creatures, and the Fitzroy is an
intricately balanced world of life and death, not to be treated with contempt. thanks for reading join us on Face book and twitter.
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Desert Feet July 2011
16 July 2011
Saturday 25th July Sunday 26th July And what do you want Damien? Why are you driving into the central desert again with a convoy of vagabonds and excited misfits? For who else would be willing to accompany me on a mission of outrageous propositions. While my relatives applaud with amused scepticism and my sponsors write the cheques with hopeful indifference. Once again we have a program of seemingly impossible distances and once again I ask myself how I ended up with a schedule that looks more like Around The World In 80 Days and reflects a need for super human effort, after all my promises to make it easier next time. I guess that is the nature of the beast. Or perhaps it’s just this beast in particular (time will tell I guess). Dinner in Leonora was bleak after a call from the convoy car saying they had a fuel problem and they would have to stay in Kalgoorlie to have it looked at in the morning. A mechanic and accommodation for 4 people are extra costs we don’t need now, especially as the funding hasn’t cleared yet and Tony only had about $600 in cash when we left which was the last of my saving that I had pulled out of an ATM as we drove out of town, not to mention the uncertainly that this throws over the itinerary at such an early stage. It was agreed that we would push on without them, in hope that they will catch up and stay on time, and so, after an anxious bistro meal of dry roast pork and undercooked potatoes, we set off in silence. One good thing so far has been the phone range. I think it is the longest I have ever driven in the Australia outback and maintained coverage, which has kept us off the expensive satellite phone so far. Monday 25th July By the time we reached Warakurna roadhouse I had a splitting headache from coffee withdrawals. I hadn’t even had a cup of tea or anything to eat since last night. I was so desperate for coffee that I indulged in some roadhouse instant Nescafe Blend 43 from the little straw satchels, the type you get on planes. It was black, stale, bitter and tasted like corrugated iron but I drank three of them, 4 hard boiled eggs, 5 cheese sticks and an apple, it might as well been a seafood smorgasbord, I was so hungry it didn’t matter. It cost me $600 for some fuel and a feed! $2.50 a litre for the diesel, but that is half of what we’ll pay out in Telfer. Anyway, the bitumen is within cooee now and we turned back east for the final hike into the Olgas and Ayers Rock. The road became bad pretty quickly out of Warakurna and stayed that way, but some of the scenery was impressive. Warakurna sits at the foot of the Rawlinson Ranges a beautiful and strangely very green outcrop of hills in stark contrast to the desert below. If you could climb to the top of them, behind and to the north you would see the endless sand dunes of the Gibson Desert. For now we took the Sandy Bright Junction Road and cut between the end of the Rawlinson Ranges and the Kathleen Ranges. Along this part of the road the trees and the land reminded me very much of the Martu region around Cotton Creek. But most impressive was the bird life; a huge flocks of bright green tiny finch-looking arthropods did impressive acrobatics in the turbulence of the truck. Several times I thought we would collide with the manoeuvring flock only to see them dart collectively out of the way. It reminded me of a school of fish, how they all seem to move unanimously, as if it was all intricately choreographed in pre flight acrobatics. Their brilliant green feathers glinted like fish scales, and if I didn’t know I was in a truck travelling across the Central Desert I could just as well been in Aqua World as I watched them. After nearly 24 hours straight, of driving over corrugated gravel roads, just when I was sure I could not take another bump; the Olgas loomed through the bush into view ahead. After being rattled like a can of marbles for so long, they where a site for sore eyes. According to the map, the sealed road starts ahead and thus we would finally be back on bitumen. The Olgas seem out of place, at first I thought they were giant low lying clouds. They are like an alien backdrop to an endless landscape of vast flat and empty scrub. The only thing native about them is the colour. They are the same earth red of the Kimberley’s, the Western Desert and Central Australia, its western face aglow in the afternoon sun like a vast anthill skyscraper. Its ridges on fire in the setting sun amongst a dreary landscape of endless desert. We pulled off the gravel at 4pm and took the road back south to watch the setting sun fall across Uluru arriving just in time for the glorious rock to explode with deep reds under a falling sun. Like a frozen sand dune of cinnamon powder, if you didn’t know it was a rock you would swear it was a dune, etched with silky groves like a colossal bowl of ice cream, smooth scoops missing at its edges as if attached by hungry children with giant spoons from above.
Day 3 There was some delays in getting ready due to the complications of having to get fuel orders and credit authorities to do the shopping. But we needed a good rest after such an arduous trip and BHP organised us a hotel for the night. In the morning we would only have to pick Simon Phillips and head into the desert. Day 4 We saw last of the bitumen about an hour out of Alice and a wide open road of deep mineral red sand yawned before us like a crimson river as we turned West and drove into the falling sun. 6 hours tuned into 9 on the road before the White Rhino pulled into Kiwirrkurra, and although we still haven’t actually played a gig or done a single workshop, a feeling of relief was written on the signpost of Kiwirrkurra, a weight fell from me, out here on the most remote Aboriginal community on earth. Having got this far meant something, and now worst case scenario I would get at least one community workshops and concerts done. But it was more than just that, it’s being back on country. There’s something addictive about the emptiness and space here. Its screaming silence calls you back. It’s the brilliance of the stars, it’s the lethargy of the heat, it’s the honesty of the environment unwilling to lie to you about its brutality yet challenging you to discover her secrets. Our quarters in the home economics room at the school were really nice, with full cooking facilities and even a heater, yes! It’s cold out here this time of year but we didn’t have much time for celebration, it was 1:30am and we were all shot. Day 5 Well this was a cool welcome! As is tradition they came in and ate porridge with us. (Not sure why the kids here like porridge, I’m pretty sure they don’t ever get it.) I met the headmaster and his 3 teachers. Catherine and I had already met by email in a quirky fortuitous introduction some time earlier this year. It happen when we had planned to come out here last time. I had trouble finding a contact for the place and tried all day to reach the community. In the afternoon I gave up. In the morning I had an email from Catherine stating she had heard about the Desert Feet Tour from a friend in Perth and wanted to know if we would be able to come?! When I told her we were planning to that very moment and that I had been trying to reach the community, she nearly fell over dead with her leg in the air, “What? Nobody comes out here.” She sounded confused. Bobby West is the elder on Kiwirrkurra but he is much more than just that, he is the senior law man for this language group and as such he holds the most political power in the area. Hi is also the son of Jimmy West, the man that brought in the Pintubi 9. Pintubi is the name of the language group here, they are often referred to as the lizard eaters, which was made famous by the book of the same name. The Pitubi 9 where the last Nomadic Aboriginal Australians living in the desert in their traditional way (One of them walked back out there in 2001 never to be seen again). They walked into camp here in 1984. Four of the nine are still alive; 3 women that still live here in Kiwirrkurra, and the elder who is in jail. You may be as amazed as me to discover that in Australia we store our invaluable anthropological wealth in prisons. Have you seen the scene from “The Gods Must Be Crazy”, when they put the Kalahari Bushman in a prison cell? (don’t bother going to the movies, this is the real deal right here in Australia). Can you imagine spending half your life living off the land; the desert, the law, and the dreaming all you ever knew existed; then the other half in a prison cell for crimes you don’t understand? In traditional culture there is no written record. All Law is passed down by the elders during ceremony. The boys only become privy to much of the Law after and during ceremony and many of the language groups out here had several levels of initiation. Our Pintubi Elder locked in a cell would hold information no other man on earth knows. Secrets passed down from thousands of generations, it can never be regained or rediscovered, dug up or found in a cave, it is in his head only and it is soon to be gone. Its existence is like mist of intuition, intangible intelligence, blowing towards the hot coals of capitalisation to be vaporised before our very eyes. Stand ready Australia! for we will be called to accountability, our children will ask us what we did to save an anthological haven while it was right before us. When I told Tony the story of the Pitubi 9, he was so upset that he wanted to go bust him out of jail. Just as well we were not in Alice, he’s the type that would have done it too and being prone to compulsiveness as I am, I might have even joined him. Bobby was really good to us, it has been the highlight of all the tours for me so far. His knowledge of the dreaming was profound he knew the story for every ridge, hill and plain. The Hugging Owl rock of Ngaami the ‘cooking women boulders’, a ridge of stones that looked like just that. He told us the story of Walla Walla and how the water came to be. He showed us where his parents lived on the land before they came in, and took us to the very place they camped during the wet, under a rock ledge full of carvings. He performed a welcomed to country ritual using gum leaves. We paid respect to his forefathers under a hill and he stopped to show us some wild tobacco which he had spotted on a ledge with his keen eye. (He then made his nephew Eric climb the ridge to get it which was pretty funny because later I would learn he gave it to his wife as a present. Seems our traditional Elder is also a bit of a sweet heart too.) Lorna, his wife, is also an amazing artist and is never seen without a wad of this dried tobacco in her mouth. I tried it too, as you would, and was particularly taken by it. I ate it green which bobby told me was not the best, but it gave me a warm sensation all over and made my skin feel like a pin cushion for a while. So I ate some more. Later we met up with the school out on country. They had been hunting and had several Goanna by the time we got there, which they proceeded to put on the fire and so I got to eat Goanna at long last. Of course, it tastes just like chicken, only much better, gamey and full of flavour. There is a strip of fat on the belly at this time of year, which is the most sought after bit, it is yellow and very rich.
The only dampener on the whole show so far is the funding. Emily got access to the Internet at the office and checked the bank account. We had been categorical promised that the funds would be in there today and that a critical payment had been authorised, but still nothing. This was a real drama now. Even if it went in on Friday like they promised we could not access the money. I would have to transfer it over to my account so I could use my Visa card, which would take another day or two to clear. That would be too late and we needed fuel now, and at $2.50 a litre I was not going to get any change out of $1000. It is getting ludicrous now and I am really desperate. I checked my personal accounts and I have about $200 in my savings. Emily and I counted up our loose change and that was about $100. I found another $300 in my credit card that I thought was gone already so that would get us a bit of fuel which would get us to Kunawarritji and we have enough food to get to Port Hedland. As always the Kiwirrkurra boys played till late; they never get tired of performing, they absolutely love it. Ewan has become really close with the Kiwirrkurra boys and seems to have an inexhaustible enthusiasm for recording and working on their music. It is like a dream come true for the guys, he has recorded and mixed over 15 hours of live music for them and every spare second he gets he is locked in a room with them or bent over that big orange road case pressing his magic dials and mixing his musical potions of engineered ear food. I think he is the only person I have met that has more energy than me, and he is definitely drawing on a different source than others. His belief in the Desert Feet Tour and our project, his unquenchable thirst for culture and country and his obvious love of the people out here inspires me. He is really marching to the beat of an unheard drum. Day 9 Kerwin is also super football player. He has played two seasons with the colts and is seriously being looked at for league selection. I watched him play at the Western Derby earlier this season at the Subiaco grounds. But he is also next in line for the Law. He is torn between two worlds. The call of professional football career and his place as the next Elder for Punmu. His English is exceptionally good and he is the perfect gentleman. When he speaks his eyes are always cast downwards but his manner is never submissive, just respectful. He has a wiry little frame but takes a wide stance with his hands crossed behind his back, he looks like the quintessential footballer but he is a true Martu man, from a long line of desert People, his ancestry is old and strong. As he speaks, Ryder listens intently. Ryder was in the same position as Kerwin about 3 years ago, but a tragic car accident stole his fine motor skills. Kerwin spoke briefly of this incident. It was a family member that was driving drunk while Ryder was in the back. The uncle was punished by law for causing the accident. They both called it ‘pay back’ as if it was the obvious, but neither of them could be drawn into the discussion on how it is executed, no matter how hard we pressed for an answer. The subject was taboo and both the boys looked blankly out across the lake. The conversation was finished. As was the incident, done and forgotten, resolved without regret, blame or resentment. That’s just how it is. That’s the law. The incident, the punishment, then its finished with and life goes on. Day 10 Six hours later when we pulled into Marble Bar, the boys were there, waiting for us at the roadhouse, their beat up 60 Series looking worse for wear. “God, I hope that thing keeps going” I thought to myself. All smiles and waving furiously the guys greeted us excitedly. The tour had begun in earnest. They followed us down to Chinaman’s Pool and we pulled out the guitars, threw two huge roasts into a camp oven and filled the billy with coffee. The rainbow serpent lives here and if the wind changes the snake would smell them and take them while they slept. So they refused to stay, but they agreed to rest a while. (the roast had some influence in the decisions) Ryder had an uncle here and two of the boys disappeared for a while to seek accommodation. I unpacked the guitars from the cases and song burst out like fire. Soon the flames danced in time to our joviality and as I searched the fire lit faces, framed against the blackness of the night, I realised we had stumbled into a situation of great significance, we were not just on tour with a bunch of able musicians, we were the participants to the birth of something else. A friendship built on a common interest; music and discovery; culture and respect. I asked myself where this little impromptu journey would lead. What would this spontaneous association and quirk of fate result in for each of us around this fire? Where would we all be, five years from now, this group of eclectics that providence has cast together? Each of my crew here on the Desert Feet Tour has a different reason to be here, some of us are seeking adventure, some a lucky break, for some it is just about healing, for me its reconciliation. But for the Kiwirrkurra boys it’s about music. After all is done and said, when the curtain comes down and the ashes of this fire grow cold and blow away, it is only the friendships we have built that will remain, that are of any value. To form long-lasting and meaningful relationships; is that not what life is for? It is a path that can be veiled, obstructed and hindered but never broken, like a bridge that passes over our limited and finite humanness, a bridge across worlds. The bridge of love. When the roast was retrieved from the hot coals and the cast iron oven was opened, a feast fit for Kings was dished out on paper plates, a shortage of cups filled jam jars and plastic containers with tea from the black charred billy and in the flickering light, the 13 of us shared the hungry complement of silent mastication while the cows called out somewhere beyond the shadows and the cold night closed in on our circle of warmth. Day 11 This weather is hurting us a bit, my lips are chapped and the cold has exacerbated the flu that a few of the guys have picked up. There are a few rattly chests and all of us have sniffily noses now. Still it was nice to camp out last night and have a night off from setting up the truck or having to perform. The excitement of the Kiwirrkurra boys and their obvious enjoyment of being on tour is all the payment I need now and ever so slowly as they let their inhibitions fall away, we get to know them a little more each day. We headed for Port Hedland in a relaxed manner. I’m in no particular rush to get there because I still have a fear (seeded by the conversation with Newcrest earlier) that I might lose the boys to the big smoke, the pull of the city lights and the availability of grog, is playing on my mind a bit. I feel a huge inner conflict over these feeling as I am aware they are adults with their own car and can do what they want, and as Tony has pointed out to me, there is no changing what the outcome is going to be, there is just a willingness to see it through. “You’ve given them a great opportunity Damien, and they realise it.” But I can’t help feeling like it is ‘them’ giving ‘me’ the opportunity. I feel grateful to be on tour with these countrymen, to be around their unassuming and reserved disposition, their inhibited glances and calm stillness. I feel privileged to hear their quiet discussions in their ancient language and I can’t help but wonder what is lost in translation between us. I would like for the Kiwirrkurra Band to know that I am in awe of their ancestry, their heritage, their ability to speak their own language and their lack of material desire. I love how they stick together and the strength of the family bond that ties them to each other. Their lack of worldly concern and their intrigue with the natural world around them and the way they relate to it and talk about. I hate how our world has affected them, how the grog has been a scourge and capitalisation has forced them out of a once forgotten land, a once utterly isolated world. I did not do that and I cannot change it but I can refuse to be a part of it. I have no idea why I told the guys to get here early. I realised when they pulled up at 7 am that I had jumped the gun. I figured if I said 830 they would come at 930 but I misjudged them and once again and I see how fear is enemy of the peace. I want the tour to be a success and I have a vision of them standing up there on the stage in Port Hedland in front of hundreds of people getting their shot in the limelight. However, those are my desires and might not be the best outcomes. I still struggle with just being accepting, after all, the good is sometimes the enemy of the best. In Port Hedland we met up with Ben Lanzon (drummer) Rob Findlay (guitars) Candice and Brian (Indigenous performers) at the shopping centre. They had arrived literally 20 minutes earlier by plan and so all of us had lunch at a cafe there, my full contingent now at 17! It cost me $150 just for coffee and the question of the budget was still a huge concern. Em and I need to sit down and balance the books, add up our receipts and make a few projections. But the first thing to do was pay everyone! The accommodation in Port Hedland was luxurious (thanks to BHP). A huge double story set of rooms with shared ablutions blocks right on the waterfront overlooking the ships at sea. There was much for Em and I to do; pick up the keys for the venue on Saturday, load the music equipment on to the truck for the next three communities, go to the bank, organise the shopping for the next three days, fuel up the three vehicles, refill the jerry cans and pay a truckload of bills off. That was a big weight of my mind and it felt good to finally refund Ewan and Tony. I was personally in debt for nearly $10,000 by the time we reached Port Hedland. It was great to see Ben and Rob again and I’m looking forward to being able to play as band for the next three concerts. These guys will have their work cut out for them as they both have to play for me and Candice. Also on Saturday night, they will have to play with Mary G too. That will be 3 hours of gigging, which is a lot of work if you add set-up and pull-down on top of it. We got back to the rooms by nightfall, and Tony had a huge feed of curry chicken and rice made up. Rob, Ben and Ewan have set up the band equipment in the kitchen and had been practicing, the Kiwirrkurra boys where still hard at it when we walked in. Tristan had his electric key board on the ironing stand and Ewan had a clip board and was making notes on their set list, making them play the intro over and over again till they had it tight. The place looked like a recording studio. I slept in the back of the truck as all the rooms were full, but I had been too tired to take a moment to cover the plastic seat with a blanket and I woke in a cold sweat. Sticking to the bench. Milton was standing at the end of my bed. He had a spear held high and was about to launch it into my thigh, Ryder was in the room but it was his ghost. The ghost was covered in blood and broken glass from a shattered windscreen, he was saying, “See Damien you let us down, now you get payback” I had failed, and Newcrest was there, shaking their heads at me. The tour was over and my luck had finally come to an end. I jumped out of bed. It was 130am. I walked down the corridor to Tony’s room and shone the light in. He turned over and squinted into my torch. “You’re back?” I asked, sounding surprised. He got up and fetched me a cup of water, watched me drink it then forced me to drink two more in a row. “Have you slept?” he asked. “Not much.” I answered, “I mean this whole trip?” He asked again. “Not much.” I answered again. “Damien, the boys are fine! They just wanted to tell their friends they are playing on Saturday. We did a big poster run and we were all home by midnight. It was fun.” Day 12 Yandeyarra is not far off the Newman road and so is mostly sealed bitumen. It’s absolutely luxurious after what we’ve come from. The last 50 km was into the Pilbara cattle country and back onto the dusty gravel. We crossed the Yule River and pulled into what is quite a big community, Yandeyarra. It was great to have my full team back again. I had forgotten how much I missed Bryte, and his new Hip Hop workshop was so cool. He got the kids to write a rap song then recorded it. He had prearranged a funky beat and some hooks for the kids to call out then he dubbed them into the song and mixed them up like a master DJ. The result was a catchy song that was as good as any. He is such a pro that guy! Unfortunately, the community did not have a local band, but with Candice and Bryte both here now, there are five acts, that it’s just about enough for a festival, let alone a small concert. We got a very nice response to our work here and the principal was so happy with us I found a glowing report Cc’d to BHP and several other agencies in my inbox the following morning! I was pretty blown away by that. Day 13 At Warralong we set up on the open basketball court as we had done last time we were here and once again not having anywhere to stay caused issues for us. We had nowhere to rest in-between the workshops and the concert and Tony had to make lunch at the back of the truck, which was not ideal as it meant all 50 of the kids running around wanted to eat too. In the end, after much pleading, the Principal offered us one of the school rooms to make a cup of tea. When asked if we needed help with the BBQ that night we meet with some strange resistance and then it seemed there was an issue over who was supplying the food, utensils and so on. By the time we had started to play we were all pretty stuffed and then Bobby showed up in his Troopy with Eric, Morris and Adam but the 60 Series and the other boys were nowhere to be seen. Bobby had no idea where they were either and thought they were here already. Day 14 This year we outsourced the publicity and promotion of our major concert to another company. Amber from White Room is a force to be reckoned with. A small petite, blond haired, blue eyed bombshell, she has had to excel above the norm to overcome the stereotype of the beauty that might misrepresent her. A lawyer by trade, she drove the Haulpacks for BHP for years before setting up her own business. A business that has accommodated some world class acts. The association came about by chance. We saw the promotional work they had done for a previous concert as we left Newman last Tour and we were impressed by the work. The relationship is a blessing and the effort tripled our attendance. Day 15 Reflection is my only companion now as I try to understand what happened. What really transpired. And how my life came to look like this, driving a dirty, red mud caked truck down an endless open road. Ambitious and determined for a result that I cannot even visualise. All I know is it is not a material result. The white line of the highway is flashing below me like a story-less movie screen, my headlights show the road and its verge which form a tunnel in the night, the extent of my visual world. The darkness ahead is a void, drawing me in like a black hole. The purring diesel motor and the vibrating steel chariot put me into a trance, and then I had a moment of clarity. It’s not what I thought it was going to be. The Desert Feet Tour. Its has turned a corner and from this day, it will never look the same again. The real outcome was so near I had missed seeing it. It was not the music or the recording, or the concerts, or the workshops, or the lessons or the experience. Most importantly, it was the friendships. I guess I have fallen in love with this land and with the salt of the earth, its people. I have fallen because that is my purpose. The purpose of my life. I used to believe life was for living, to live life to the max! But now I doubt that. Living is the state that occurs, like a present. Life is for loving. Love is our choice; to give it or not to give, to know it or not to allow it, to own it or fear it. To be without love is worse than to be without life, for life will end but love never will, and the measure of your life will be the quantity of your gift.
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Desert Feet Tour 2011 Pilbara
13 July 2011
Begining of Blog from previous Tour in April 2011
DAILY BLOG Departure day Day 1 Day 2
For those of you that have read my previous blogs on the tour, you will be familiar with our workshop program, and needless to say that out here nothing ever goes to plan. Jigalong has a large population for a remote community and might have up to 100 kids at the local school on any given day, but that can change radically depending on circumstances . The big one is sorry business. If someone has died in any of the communities, the whole place can become virtually empty in moments, especially if an Elder passes away. Sorry business is very serious business out here and can last for weeks. Local football carnivals can fill or empty a community as everyone out here plays or at least watches footy. But for now it is just the holiday break, a lot of adults had gone into town for the school holidays that will begin tomorrow. In fact, today was the last day of school and just before we set up on the assembly area the teachers had given out the prizes for attendance for the last term. DAY 4 Unfortunately, this is where Ben and the Desert Feet Tour must part. Tony will take Ben into Newman to fly home, pick up some shopping and the rest of the PA equipment which we stored with BHP. There’s been no more rain so far and the Police seem to think there’s a fair chance we will make it to Punmu so we’ll need the rest of the gear in case we get through from the Parnngurr side. If we do, we won’t be seeing civilisation now till the 2nd May. The road through to Punmu from Cotton Creek will take us out to Kunawarritji and Kiwirrkurra, if we can get through from this side, but the most likely scenario is that we’ll have to go the long way around, through Marble Bar. Leaving tomorrow means we need to repack the sea container. 2 days of pulling stuff in and out had made a mess of it so Emily and I took the opportunity to strip it right out and start again. We left the guys at the school to jam with the remaining students that just wanted to play free style and as we walked back to the sea container the sounds of desert Reggae filled the hot and dusty afternoon air. It took us over an hour to get ready and when we came back the kids along with Ewan and Candice were still jamming! They even had a few songs down pat! I have never seen kids learn so fast anywhere! Day 5 One thing that struck me about the country out here is the incredible diversity and absolute abundance of insects and creatures. The bathroom is full of the cutest little frogs, a python hung off our back fence when we walked out to the veranda and as the sun set, a veritable cascade of many legged things flocked to the lights in our abode. I found one bug a lot like a Rhino beetle, but when I went to pick it up it let off a sound like a boiling kettle. Much to everyone’s delight (but probably not the poor little bugs’) we poked at it for some time, encouraging the intriguing sound. There is a bird here I have no idea what sort, that sounds like a delicate sound on a little plastic recorder that we used to be given in school. There must be 20 or 30 variations of size shape and length of the praying mantis. Some so thin they look praying mantis from a POW camp, one that Ewan found looked like it had an alfoil jacket on and another had eyes that glowed, fluoro!! Then there are the crickets! One that I found looked like he had been on steroids, with big bulging cricket muscles, another looked like the Rambo of the cricket kingdom! Covered in what looked like a camouflage outfit resembling a solider ready for battle and a cross between the alien out of Predator. Maybe the movie director saw this guy when they designed the predator?! The local coordinator out here is a young bloke called Stretch. He was wearing a Kurrunpa Kunyjunyu shirt, the Healthy Lifestyle program that James Back had set up and we knew a lot of the same people that I had meet through James back in the ‘09 tour. It seems he worked for them for while too and so I got an update of where everyone was, especially X-Man, who had taken us up to the Eagle nest flat top in Punmu, one of the most incredible desert camp sites I have ever seen yet. Stretch’s real name was Nyaparu. In the Martu language, Nyaparu means ‘name that cannot be said’. In traditional Law, once someone passes away that name cannot be spoken for one year. This means anyone else with that name become Nyaparu. Not only a person with that name cannot be spoken but anything with that name. for instance, if someone called Bill died you could no longer call the Billy Can a Billy Can, it would now be the Nyaparu Can. So it can get interesting fast, especially as the punishment for speaking the name of the dead is quite harsh. About 4 people I have met so far have introduced themselves as Nyaparu. Day 6 In the mean time Tony and I took the truck over to the local basketball court and set up for the concert. Emily is a fine crane operator now and I leave all the Hiab driving to her. She is gentle and patient and has never made a mistake yet, so it is better to have someone drive it that is really good at it, than everyone just wanting to have a turn because it’s fun. One wrong move with that sucker and you can be in trouble super fast. 2 and half tonne can render a whole world of damage, fast. The boom, if it’s not lifted out of the cradle in a very specific way, can lock the whole jib in and jam itself shut. Plus, driving with the PTO on or the hydraulic legs still down would render the truck unusable in seconds. One tiny mistake like that out here and the truck is incapacitated and I can tell you there is no heavy duty mechanics around here. I do believe it would be the end of the truck and needless to say the end of the tour. One only needs to look around at the endless graveyards of decommissioned cars tucks and vehicles of all discriptions to see what happens when a car breaks down out here. The concert in Parnngurr was a real buzz, the audience was small but very appreciative! All the resident wadjallas (white fellas) came too, which was really nice and we had a massive cook up! (note to diary, include funding for BBQ and food for each community in all budgets from now on.) Having food at the concerts has really made a huge difference, both in attendance numbers and kudos from the locals. In the end the kids danced like crazy in front of the truck. Maybe the darkness loosened the cultural restrictions, maybe we had just formed a better bond now. Maybe Ewan’s attempts at break dancing to Bryte MC’s hip hop beats lowered the bar so far, or maybe they just were having a fat time? Whatever the reason the point of hilarity was Rob on the truck doing a Wiggles impersonation of the B52’s ‘Love Shack’ song, while a crowd of hysterical kids imitated his contorted dance moves till it seemed we could not laugh another second with our sides splitting. At this point the power tripped out and blackness fell across the court. A silence like only the desert can host, rushed in upon our ears and the magnitude of this great land burst out of the sky in a power point display to surpass the greatest of movies ever projected against a screen. But this movie was free and it was called the star show. I heard Tony awwww at them and then as my night vision adjusted I could see Emily gazing upwards. When the lights finally came back on, the place was vacant. Not a kid was left to be seen, and as we packed the truck away we took turns at spotting shooting stars. You know they are huge when you have time to draw someone else’s attention to them and you both see it together. Going home from these concerts is very satisfying. One can’t help but feel a sense of achievement. Logistically, getting all this equipment out here is no mean task. That is why there’s none out here. The other thing is that bouncing this type of gear around on corrugated roads and subjecting it to all the dust and heat does not make for longevity. So no one wants to bring their equipment out here. I guess if it were easy there would be concerts out here all the time, but some of these communities have never had a live band come to them. Tonight we played without Ben so we had to change the set up a bit. Rob wrote this 12 bar riff that loops around on A minor, E minor, and D minor bar chords in a reggae feel and made it into a little song that we could use to loosen up on and introduce each of the Tour members. Candice told us she could do a good reggae feel on the drums so we kicked it off with her as the drummer. Ewan plugged the bass in and played from where he stands at the mixing desk and Brian got up and freestyle rapped over the top of it. “I’ve been walking all day on my desert feet , trying to get out of this Australian heat”………….. and on and on it goes. What we discovered is that we made a really good band that way! So we played the whole set with Candice and Ewan too. It was a real blast and made for a lot of fun improvising . That is mostly due to the skill of Rob, who can explain any instrument part to the whole band while playing himself. It was really impressive, him calling out chord changes to Ewan over the PA system while I was singing lines. The effect was that the audience thought we were super talented but of course, it was just a bit of mischief really. However the end result was not bad considering we had never played as a band like that before and Candice had only heard some of my songs once or twice. So we decided we would keep it that way and build on it. Day 7 I think Stretch must have seen my despondent look. “You’re welcome to stay here and keep doing workshops.” he offered. Earlier that day the community had taken us out hunting Goanna. 4 Troopy loads of kids, locals and a hand full of wadjallas. We bumped our way over some gravel tracks to a shallow dam used by the graders to fill the water trucks. Lots of creatures came in here to drink and a veritable plethora of tracks littered the banks. The hunting party was lead by women, I watched from one of the dam mounds as two of the more senior women walked off into the desert. Ewan asked if he could follow but was told that they might not be back till tonight. Another party headed inland with a group of kids in tow and this was obviously a less ambitious tour. I followed behind one of the women from a distance for a while trying to work out what signs she was looking for. Once she looked back at me and not knowing whether it was ok to follow a woman into the desert or not, I stopped. She turned back a checked some holes closer to me by a clump of low lying scrub. This time she turned and looked at me again. I called out, asking if it was ok to follow. “What you name” she asked. I offered my name and in return discover that this was Natasha Williams, the daughter of the senior elder here Jimmy Williams. Natasha laughed when I asked again if it was ok to follow. “Why you don’t just come over?” Natasha showed me what to look for, how to find the tracks and then how to follow them. When I ventured to far afield she called me back, pointing out that rocky ground was no good for tracking. At one point we crossed over a washed out clay track which Natasha informed me was the Canning Stock Route. (It looked badly damaged and almost impassable here. Which dampened any ideas I had about a back route to Punmu.) I started to find a few holes after Natasha had pointed some out but my excitement was short-lived when Natasha observed that they were too old to bother digging up. At last I found a fresh one but alas it was too small, much to my guides amusement. One set of tracks that Natasha showed me was like an artist’s impression on canvas! In a area of dirt no more than two foot wide, a Goanna had passed, intersected them at 45 degree angle a set of Bush Turkey tracks, followed by the paw prints of what Natasha informed me was a pursuing Dingo. All conveniently etched onto a red primed canvas. If I could have cut out that bit of earth and glued it into a frame you would have bought it as an Aboriginal painting. After walking around in the scrub out here you can see where the inspiration comes from for the art that we see in galleries now. Day 8 Day 9 Day 10 Day 11 Day 12 Day 13 Day 14 Day 15 Day 16 Send from here Day 18 Back at the community, things were really heating up. A huge 4x4 bus had arrived last night bringing the whole Warralong Football team. Another bus had arrived from Telfer via Newman, a massive drive, with the Kiwirrkurra and Punmu Football teams. Nullagine were still on their way, but the Jigalong team (although the closest community) was missing altogether. Steve had arrived during the night then turned the bus round and driven all the way back into Newman to pick up more people (a huge effort). When we went down to the footy oval it looked like tent city. Swags and cars lined the edge of the field along the far side. Little Parnngurr had gone from a sleeping forgotten community next to a uranium rock, to a thriving metropolis of excitement over night! We sorted the truck out for the concert that night and Stretch put us all in the rec’ hall, where we had done the workshops last time we came. The arrangement was great because it meant we could set up the truck right in front of the veranda, use the shelter of the car ports and the eves in case it rained (which was looking likely) for the punters to gather under and it formed a nice little courtyard that would accommodate at least 200-300 people with ease. There was a good spot in the corner for Tony to set up the BBQ and best of all when we finished each night, all we had to do was wheel the speakers into the rec’ hall along with the sound gear and then throw a tarp over the stage and leave the whole thing set up. It would save us 2 hours a night for the set up and even more when we packed up. After we got ready we headed for the Footy oval. Now I have to digress momentarily to explain, when I say football oval, I mean a strip of red desert cleared of Spinifex and levelled as best as could be expected with limited resources. Really it would be more adequate to call it a rock field, or a dirt patch. What you have to realize when trying to draw the mental picture of a footy field out here is that there is no grass. None! Even if there was there is no water to grow it, there are lots of little rocks and the ground is not soft. It is hard, hard like a gravel dirt track. I recalled a comment from Brian (policeman) earlier he said to me, “you only bounce up.” Not only are these guys pretty serious about their football, they are phenomenally good at it, and that is an understatement. The Royal Flying Doctor Service was on standby, an extra nurse was called out, and the police came up all the way from Jigalong. The next three days will be an event, a spectacle of epic proportions, played out in relative obscurity under the harshest conditions on the earth’s surface. A dusty, stony, red field with a huge mountain of uranium as the back drop. The ‘Carnival’ as they call it, is something you have to see before you die. I hope you get the chance, I hope you are as lucky as me. I have to stop here and give some credit to the Newcrest guys that organised this event, it is a massive effort and they worked hard to make it happen. All the teams here have had coaching instructions from pro footballers and all the players are coached throughout the year for these events. The guys train really hard for their teams and are well inspired by the actions of the Newcrest mob. The logistics of making an event out here happen is incredibly complicated. Not only because of the remoteness of these places and how extreme the conditions get, but you can spend a year organising something then if someone dies, ‘sorry business’ will take priority over everything. Sorry business can last for weeks and is pretty common. Desert people are incredibly shy, they rarely make eye contact and are very reserved (except for kids that will hug you and cling to you anytime), and so the concert started out pretty mellow with Tony’s magical skills on the BBQ attracting a few people. The remainder of our heifer from Marble Bar was polished off real quick and the mob equalled about a hundred strong as we started the show. As the concert progressed we had the kids dancing, as is the norm’, but we were plagued by a constant drizzle. The set up became difficult because to keep every thing dry with tarps it reduced the visibility of the stage. However Ewan’s enthusiasm was the motivation and he insisted the show must go on. I’m glad we did, because later that night I asked if there were any local bands that wanted to get up and we made the offer public to record any artists or bands that wanted to do some studio time. The offer was met with much interest and after the concert we were approached by several of the mob. Rob and Ewan began recording arrangements with one guy straight away and had 3 songs ready for him before we left!
At the days end I looked around me. I had been apart of something much more than I could comprehend. I had just played football with the native tribesmen of the hardest environment on earth. If traditional activities could correlate into a sport then these guys had made some sort of modern adjustment. There was definitely an element of skin group warfare in their tactics and their all out fearless performance. But that night, when the bands played, all that would be forgotten and harmonious collaboration would prevail. Dear reader, before I describe for you the concert on the second night of the carnival, I must first inform you of my gratitude. It is you and those like you that have put me here, and I can honestly say to you that I am fulfilled in every measure of my life’s endeavour. Today I would believe to be one of the best day of my life. What I have seen and been an active part of is an honour and a privilege. And I am saddened to tell you that this privilege escapes us all like sand through an hour glass. Soon we will examine our empty hands and cry, “What have we done? What have we lost? These people are the salt of the earth.” No. They are the earth arisen and alive, and their light is fading, their hour is near. No circumstances could recreate the appearance of such a beautiful people without another 45,000 years of sculpting under the chisel of isolation and at the hand of time. One thing is certain; there is no returning to the desert for them now. The question is how will the next generation carry the law and culture into the cauldron of modern pressure? And what role will we play in assisting it? Will we be the concerned friend that, seeing his mistake can apologise and encourage without interfering or will we continue to be the forceful parent that thinks it knows best? The second night of the concerts was a night that I will have to attempt to give you a written account of with the limitations of words and also the restriction of space here available. It was an event on which I could write a whole book and still not do it justice. It was a transmission of subject matter that could be analysed into scientific data or expounded into a thesis for assessment. It was a phenomenon and all that saw it agreed it was a privilege to have been a part of that night. Day 20 We wanted to put on a BBQ again, as had now become our tradition at concerts. A few of the guys had asked us if we would be doing more meat but we had none left. I asked Newcrest if they felt like chipping in but they had no more resources to offer. After looking in the shop yesterday with Tony I had realised that there was not enough meat in the whole store to feed the amount of people that would be there tonight. Even if there was, the cost of food in the store is so high that very little, except the absolute minimum is brought in, like tea and coffee and flour. At $15 a pack for a kilo of sausage it would have cost a $1000 just to make hot dogs. Milk cost $4 a litre and Emily paid $9 for a pack of crackers once. The community is charged $600 per pallet in freight so with cost like that obviously only essentials get ordered. Realizing that it was not going to happen, I asked Kim if we could take him up on his offer of a hunting trip last time we came. His offsider was very keen when I sprang the idea on them and seemed a good keen man. So the party was organised and we went over to their house at 530am for a coffee before heading off. Back at the field I was amazed to see some of the guys up and about that had taken some big knocks. Roderick had his leg strapped and was busy taking off the bandage the nurse had made for him so he could play again. A few missing players had shown up now and the team coach had even arrived. I was not there more than 3 minutes when an almighty thump brought the game to halt and the stretcher was called again. This time it was a broken wrist and I could almost hear the engines of the Royal Flying Doctors. The lad walked off the field himself, he would have been no older than 16 but he held out his chest and never cried a drop. Being the loose man and sort of obvious (6 foot 2 and white) I was given a jumper and asked to fill for the boy. But there was not much time left on that game and I was soon back on the Kiwirrkurra team without too much incident. My hamstrings not being use to lateral movement had seized up pretty bad and if I never had a chance to catch them yesterday then today was impossible. I took a few possessions in the back pocket and got them away without being killed, but after one pack that had me locked in the bottom, I was pretty much a useless member of the team from then on in. I took a nice mark on a kick in but kicked it out of bounds on the full as my heavily taped knee decided that it could not respond to my commands anymore, and I limped from the ground and retired my boots from the Western Desert League for 2011. I watched from the side line as Tony made some daring play from the centre, his heart was all there and his ball skills terrific but he is a Rugby League man and AFL frustrated him to the core. Three times I saw him get possessions and break free, but not being able to just run with the ball meant he had to attempt the alien Football process called ‘bouncing the ball’, all three times his bounce resulted in a loose ball again. Once, he managed to sort of keep it going in the general direction, kicking and scooping away at it, the opposition hot at his heals. It was comical to watch form the sideline, like a flurry of legs, arms and a yellow ball in a cloud of dust doing 100 kilometres an hour, nearly picking it back up a few times then losing it again, then finally getting possessions again only to be swamped by players in hilarious ensemble from which he emerged again still holding the ball, heading for the goals again and attempting another bounce which failed again, this time leaving him sliding through the dirt on his bum as the play passed him by like a window without opportunity. I saw him punch the sand and swear and when he limped to the side line I couldn’t help but laugh. When he saw me smiling, his face lit up with his beautiful big white teeth all ablaze. Tony is a diamond in the rough for sure. Tough as boot leather, a boxer and rugby player and a painter by trade. He grew up in the bush and so loves it with all his heart. He played a great game and like everything he did, gave it his all. I saw him go up in the pack a few times and he played ruck with courage. One thing is certain is he got some street cred’ from the locals for his efforts. Everyone has their peculiarities but you can always count on Tony to say it how he sees it. He is honest to the point of sensationalism. He would rather hurt your feelings than lie but he would never let you down. I remember arriving in Cotton Creek the first time, Rob and I waving away at the assaulting mass army of flies burrowing into our eyes. Rob looked at me and with great concern and hoping I had a solution said “I can’t handle these flies Damien” Tony standing calm and relaxed said “rub your skin with olive oil it’s working for me.” We both looked at Tony with awe and admiration, his knowledge of the ways of the bush and his secret cure a prize worth respecting. “Is that one of your surreptitious bush remedies? Handed down through the generations?” asked Rob. “Nah, I just had dry skin” answered Tony.
Day 21 Day 22 Day 23 |
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Desert Feet Tour 2009
14 May 2011
Day 1 Desert Feet Tour
But please allow me to thank you for joining me on the second annual Music Workshops Tour into the remote Kimberley’s. My vision for this Tour feels far larger than my ability and this morning I was plagued by doubt. After a 4am start from Perth, in the loneliness of the road my mind had already assassinated my musical ability as ridiculous and boring and declared myself as an over ambitious fool, luckily I know better than to listen to it too much. Every one else seems happy and excited, so I’ll trust to the plan. The first fuel stop cost $450 for the 3 cars; at Paynes Find I saw an article in the paper about some band touring though the remote Kimberly’s, and it was not about us. I must admit after all this work and the second year running I feel a bit neglected by the media. That and lack of sleep all cast aspersions on my already precarious situation. I cheered myself up by eating a can of corned beef with some onion and cheese on crackers (A diet I might have to get used to on this budget). We should be at Newman by night fall so I have some time now to write to you (while Emily takes a turn at the wheel) and allow my mind to wander into the contemplative pastures of the barren, dry, harsh land flashing by my window, occasionally splashed with what can only be described as ‘seemingly inserted wildflower arrangements’. Like the artist dipped his brush in the wrong tube, wild strokes of fluorescent purple, adorn the ground randomly, explosions of yellow flowers, quickly replaced by endless red sand and spindly, malnourished trees. The resilient matriarchs of a parched land, they offer the little shade the ground can enjoy. Cast down in precious little pools, they are the jewels of the oldest standing life this land has known. Something that can stay green after years of drought, fires and scorching heat deserves to be respected. In an age devoid of true heroes, where God is a smorgasbord of choices, I think I will choose tree. Our indigenous brothers understood this for thousands of years, had regarded and connection to a place otherwise deserted. Our only interest in this land coincides with the destruction of it; mine it, milk it, forget it; who would want to live out here anyway? Well someone did, and they did it well and in a sustainable way. In this time when we are all united on environmental issues, we have overlooked a culture with a lot of answers the world could learn from on sustainable commerce, imagine that! Aboriginal Australians taking the forefront of the global warming forum. “So Mr Australian Aboriginal how did you live in an environmentally sustainable culture for 40,000 years?” The answers are always closer than we are prepared to look. Maybe we are afraid to ask in case we have to do something about it. I heard Colin Barnett tell us we had to use it or lose it, referring to the North West, “The development of mining creates jobs for Indigenous people” he said. That’s great, but what if Indigenous people don’t want to work on a mine? I know I bloody well don’t! How we consistently seem to overlook the greatest resource of this land, more precious than gold, our national treasure, the oldest indigenous culture left on earth, some of it still in pristine condition. But not for much longer. The shadows reach across the road as the Pilbara sun falls on our left. Floodway and cattle grid after floodway and cattle grid, miles of flat open road with triple trailer trucks, like ships of the desert, that shake the cars carriage like a passing typhoon. Tearing down the open road hurtling the corpses of animals aside in its wake, the road side is a battle field, the animal battle field. It looks like there was a war of cow’s against Kangaroos’ and there are victims of the holocaust for hour after hour. The putrid stink of decaying flesh wafts through the air-con vents intermittently. Soon the shadows will take over the daylight and then the deadly obstacle course of the Great Northern Highway will begin, where the giant black bulls are like the perfect death trap, invisible against the black bitumen and moonless night, they can end your holiday in an instant, and the roos that can just appear in front of your car from nowhere. Driving after dark up here is life threatening in a car like mine with no bull bar, I have to slow down to 80 to be able to stop in time and then the kilometers’ start to take their toll, eyes straining so hard you start to see things move that aren’t there, little peering eyes glimmer from behind bushes and under trees. It was somewhere south of Newman that I was trying to keep up with James, a roo appeared out of the darkness, jumped behind James and in front of us doing a 110kph, we clipped its tail and all got a nice fright. I realized the fragility of the situation, if I had hit that roo at full speed we would have been going home very early. Its nearly 930pm my poor little car is rattling along in the darkness, covered in a cloud of dust kicked up from the car in front. We are now about 2 hours south of Marble Bar and on a horribly corrugated dirt road, our accommodation is booked at the Marble Bar Motel and against my better judgment the convoy decided to push on in the night. Traveling out here is dangerous in the right type of vehicle, but in a Mitsubishi Outlander with no bull bar it could be deadly. There is absolutely no wind and the dust hangs in the air like an English fog. The car lights just seem to make it glow and visibility shrinks to ten meters on some stretches. I just filled the car from jerry cans and spilt petrol all over my legs and hands. We are covered in red dust and grime and none of us has had a cooked meal since last night in Newman and there is no chance of sleeping in a car constantly coming to a screeching halt to let cows, bulls, roos, and owls the size of emus, go by. Every one seems in good spirits despite the arduous demand on our persons, I think getting our first workshop and community done has given us a sense of achievement but the idea of driving back into Newman on this road again after Punmu Community is not exciting. This is defiantly the last time I allow us to travel at night again. At Newman this morning we prepared to be out for a few days and stocked up on food, I bought 3 days worth of main meals and the guys loaded up on snacks for the trip, but 3 hours out of Newman and I got a flat tyre on the huge sharp stones in the gravel roads, with only the one spare, I limped into Jigalong with my fingers crossed, we unloaded the gear and set up for the workshops, then my ever loyal and trusty old friend Geoff Talbot (our veteran driver from last year) dove the 300 kms back into Newman with my spare to pick up two new tyres for me. The show must go on. Unfortunately when he left he also left the charger for the only camera we hired for the trip. Noone discover it was missing till we met back at the turn off to Marble Bar, it was late, we where tired and no one was going to drive back 200 klms for something that might be gone by then anyway. So our filming for the trip had a very short life. The western desert is an unforgiving land, the flat dry ground is littered with the burnt out shells of cars, some rolled, some striped bare others freshly abandoned. Patches of the land are covered with the rich mineral iron ore, just laying on the surface, glowing in the heat like rusty steel sheets. Jigalong, made famous by the Rabbit Proof Fence is quite a large community, some 500 residents live here and some renowned artists come form the Martu People that are the traditional owners. The community harbors a public swimming pool, sort of like an oasis. It is behind the football oval that is made entirely of red dirt and stones. I would love to see a game of Footy played on that field, it would be interesting to watch, sort of like a mobile dust ball of activity with occasional glimpses of a football flying into the clear air then disappearing back into a red cloud again.
Day 3 Desert Feet Tour
The morning sun was hot by 630am and I vacated my swag by the grassy pool area early and set up the breakfast table for the crew with cereal and some of my auntie’s famous fruit cake. We used the room kettles to make coffee and refilled our thermos for the four hour slog out to our second community Punmu. Geoff hitched the trailer and left early with two of the crew to get a head start while the rest of us took a guided tour of Marble Bar, which took all of 3 minutes. There is the famous Iron Clad pub (more of a tin shack than a pub really) notorious for its wild nights and copious consumption of the golden nectar. Then opposite that on a little hill over-looking the pub is the town church, strategically located for fast access to redemption after well deserved Saturday nights turn into slight over indulgence.
Not far from that is the police station a beautiful old Victorian style rock and lime stone building, right next door is the local gym, not much more than a garden shed, it must only open at night, any other time would be too hot in there. Still, someone must use it, a big sign says “Marble Bar Gym for enquiries call this number”
That night an amazing thing happened, towards the end of the concert a few of Elders got up and joined in too. This was a great privilege for us and later we where told no one had ever had the Elders involved like that before at all. After the kids had dispersed we played some songs together for a while, mixing it up and doing covers and jamming live till late in the night. One of the local boys got up and played bass on a few of the songs and was greatly received. When we had packed up all the stuff and got back to the house, James had T-bone stakes cooked for us and we ate a huge meal. Satisfied, the girls stretched out on the couches and set up for night. James, Nadine, Em, Geoff and I all hopped in our cars and headed over to Punmu hill to camp out.
A long ‘flat top ridge’ lies to the north of Punmu. At the end of the ridge one hill stands separate as if it broke off tried to reach too far north. This hill is a sacred place. James told us stories of the Dreaming told to him by Elders. Dreaming, the stories and song, are told everywhere but the lore behind them can only be taught out in the bush by an Elder. According to the Dreaming a Martu baby was taken by a giant eagle on his way north. He carried that eagle to Punmu Hill and there the spirit of the child was soaked into the earth. It is now a sight of fertility and couples trying to conceive are prayed (or sung over) on the hill.
We woke the next morning with a rising sun that split the world in half horizontally, down below and stretching out before us, hidden in the darkness when we had arrived last night, was revealed a rolling plain of red desert stretching out before us like an endless sea, a perfect line cut with a clear blue line of a cloudless and empty blue sky. One of the harshest environments on Earth, the hot desert, deadly but beautiful. Mesmerizing.
James took us out to the salt lakes, and showed us how the spines of the two giant lizards that came here to drink from he spring in the Deam time can be made out in the sand. They fought such a terrible battle that they both died of their wounds and now their skeletons can bee seen forever in the landscape. Their blood soaked the ground so deep that now all the orca is collected from this area for paint. The salt lake, like a hard baked salt cake, carried our cars across its surface, barren of life and inhospitable, reflecting the suns rays, it is the epitome of anti-life. Moore barren than Mars. But there is life here and at its edge in a small thicket, bubbles a small fresh water spring! Further around, James showed us the salt pools, these springs of fresh water, too brackish to drink, they are used to heal wounds, scabies or sores. The bark from the surrounding shrubs is then burnt and rubbed into the cleaned area, sealing it from infection. This area is sacred, used for longer than anyone can remember by the Martu people. On leaving the community the elder presented me with a traditional hand carved boomerang and Emily with a woven spinifex basket. (apparently for her baby, they told us with much amusement.) the Elders sung us in when we arrived and now as we left they ceremoniously We all leave Punmu with great regret. It is truly Gods country out there and the Martu are just as truly his people. They belong to the earth and the earth belongs to them, without it they have nothing. No dreaming, no lore, no song. And without them this land has no soul.
Day 5 & 6 Desert Feet Tour
The last few days have been so busy, I have not had a chance to get to my laptop and write to you.
I have called Divers Camp in Broome and spoken to Mat Gresham’s manager so every thing is on track for the gig, Mat flies into Broome tonight at 6pm. Candice and I are in the mighty mouse, my little Mitsubishi Outlander (which the Martdu told us wouldn’t make it to Punmu) It is still overheating a bit now, Emily is at the wheel heading for Port Headland while Candice and I get chauffeured up the Great Northern Highway on the second leg of the tour, the Kimberley’s. We will be in Port Headland by lunch to do some shopping for tonight then head out to Barn Hill Station (about 2 hours south of Broome) to camp out the night and try to catch a few Salmon. I’ve been through 3 tyres and just now the air-conditioner stopped working! So its windows open now till Broome and hope it just needs re-gassing.
Geoff showed up at first light with an empty car and then James car rolled into town at about 10 with 5 people and a trailer jammed to the hilt with crap. Then it started all over again. So and so wanted to tell so and so why they shouldn’t have done this or that. This time I intervened, fearing the end of the tour was at hand, I sent all the performers over to stay with friends and talked in depth with each of the begrudged until I could negotiate a truce. It was resolved that we either; pulled our heads in and made our best efforts, or the tour was finished. A satisfying agreement was made. My fears relieved, I turned now to the next job of organising the concert for that night. Dave took me down to see the oval we would play at and we strung a giant tarp up by throwing a rope between the fork of a great old white gum and the side of the amphitheatre to protect us while we set up the stage. We set up and did sound checks, and before we knew it the girls showed up to start the concert.
After I wrote the last entry in this diary, the car overheated on the way to Port Headland. The only way I could keep it from going into the red was to open the heater vents in the car with the fan blasting on full bore. It was 45 degrees outside but with the heater on in the car it felt like 100. Lilly and Candice were in the back with the esky full of ice drinks, rubbing themselves with ice blocks. But even with all the windows down it was so hot in the car that if you touched the dash it actually burnt. Even the CD player flipped out, a little screen came on flashing V HOT! V HOT! V HOT! I ejected the CD and it came out like a banana, warped and melted. And that’s how we pulled into Port Headland, steaming hot chicks in the back and Em and I in the front like cooked prawns, my head aching and clothes soaked through.
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