by Di Morrissey
Inside the shop Jacqui could see there were shelves stacked with cans and packets of food. Boxes near the counter contained dying fruit and lifeless vegetables.
Phillip picked up a limp lettuce. ‘This is old, inedible, really.’
‘Comes up from Perth, via Broome,’ said Chester. ‘But they got frozen meat pies and sausage rolls or they can heat up some other food if you want.’ He pointed to ready-made food, including frozen French fries ready to go into the electric fryer behind the counter near the microwave. ‘Or they can make youse a hamburger.’
‘I’ll have a packet of crisps. Do you do coffee?’ Jacqui asked the woman behind the counter.
The woman lifted a large tin of instant coffee from under the counter and pointed to some long-life milk.
‘Oh, that’s okay, thanks, I’ve changed my mind. Could I have a bottle of cold water, please?’
After paying for the items, Jacqui went back outside, where Sheila was watching Damien as he walked along the dirt road, through the centre of the settlement. A boy whooshed by on an old bike, spraying them with dust.
‘I suppose there’s no play area or skate ramp. Nothing,’ she commented to Jacqui.
Damien came over to join them.
‘While you were in the shop, I spoke to an old woman. She told me that there’s a river tributary out of town a bit. The kids hang out down there. It’s also the place where the men drink and the kids sniff whatever they can get their hands on. Petrol, glue, dope.’
‘I bet domestic violence is an issue here too,’ said Sheila grimly, and pointed to the empty beer cartons and wine casks in a pile of rubbish by an overflowing bin. ‘And this is supposed to be a dry community.’
Damien shrugged and lifted his camera to continue filming.
‘This place should be closed down,’ said Sheila as Phillip and Richie joined them.
‘And send them where?’ asked Phillip. ‘They could be better off here, believe it or not. They’d probably get into more trouble in a bigger town, where the girls, some younger than teenagers, sell sex for cigarettes and young boys try to steal whatever isn’t tied down.’
‘But this is truly horrible,’ said Sheila as she pulled out her own camera. ‘I’m going to write about this. Where’s the government support? The funding? The programs for these people?’
‘There’ve been endless plans thrown at them. None have worked,’ said Phillip despondently.
Damien turned off his camera. ‘It’s going to take more than money,’ he said, dipping his hand into Jacqui’s packet of crisps.
‘Money is always the bottom line,’ snorted Sheila. ‘Throw enough at something and there’s got to be some improvements. A school, a clinic, a teacher, a nurse. Everyone here appears so unhealthy and no wonder, looking at the food that’s on offer.’
‘Do the men still hunt? Maybe they find their own food, like they always have,’ said Jacqui.
‘What about money from the proposed mining investment? It should be made a condition of their mining lease that mining companies donate to and support the communities in their area of exploration,’ said Sheila.
‘Good luck getting it to work out here,’ said Phillip. ‘That sort of money tends to go to the established big organisations, like the Aboriginal Development Organisation or the New Country Leadership Trust, and seems to get absorbed into general revenue and administration rather than being spent where it’s really needed.’
‘We met that fellow Harley, the boss of the Trust, the other day, didn’t we, Damien?’ said Jacqui. ‘He was having breakfast with Colin and Daryl Johnson.’
‘Yes,’ said Damien. ‘And that old friend of yours, Cameron.’
‘Well, I think that someone should bring Daryl Johnson out here and show him this squalor,’ declared Sheila. ‘If those mining companies he runs want to profit from the resources of this country, then the indigenous people in the area need to be compensated. A couple of million bucks spent out here would make a huge difference.’
‘Well, you take them on, Sheila,’ said Damien.
‘But hasn’t all that been tried before?’ asked Jacqui tentatively, glancing at Phillip.
‘Endlessly,’ replied Phillip flatly. ‘I hate to think how many plans and ideas, how many dollars have been squandered on yet another scheme to pull our first Australians out of squalor and poverty. Yet it always seems that people in places like this are told what to do, rather than being asked what they want, which is one reason why things don’t improve.’
‘You can’t walk out of a place like this and get a job, not without an education,’ said Damien.
‘Of course not,’ said Jacqui. ‘But what chance have they got without even the basics! It has to be a two-way street.’
At last Chester came out of the store, carrying a hamburger and talking with an older Aboriginal man.
‘This is Geoffrey, he’s the boss man here,’ said Chester with a smile.
‘You could do with a bit of help out here,’ said Sheila bluntly. ‘You need amenities. Doesn’t the government look after you?’
‘Gov’nment people come sometimes. Them the boss,’ said Geoffrey resignedly. ‘These fellas,’ he waved a hand to indicate the community around them, ‘they just been put here. Only got fishin’ and huntin’ rights. Don’t own the land, so have no say,’ he explained.
There was a moment’s silence, then Phillip said dispiritedly, ‘Guess in that case they could be sitting ducks for a resource corporation to walk in and take over.’
‘If they do, then you fellows have to demand a lot of money from them!’ declared Sheila.
‘Bet them other fellas keep all that money for theirselves. Build a big office place, ’spensive cars and fat pay packets. We won’t see that money,’ said Geoffrey.
Jacqui frowned. ‘It’s not all about the money. Think about the damage that could be done to the land and the environment. They’re talking about trashing the coast close to Broome, and mining could destroy some of the heritage sites in this area,’ she said, thinking of the wonderful snake cave she’d seen that morning. ‘It would be awful if the same sort of thing happened here.’
‘That mining, it’s no good out here.’ Chester paused, then finished the last bite of his hamburger, before saying, ‘Time we move, eh?’
When they’d all climbed back into the four-wheel drive, Chester nodded goodbye to Geoffrey and then turned the vehicle around and headed out to the dirt road.
They drove back the way they’d come for about an hour-and-a-half, and then turned down another dusty track. Not far along there was a neat sign pointing to an art centre, and Chester followed it onto a bush side track.
The first thing Jacqui saw as they came into the little outstation were two huge oil drums used as garbage bins, and no sign of rubbish. They passed a scattering of neat, prefabricated houses. One building had a sign saying Office, and another, Supervisor. On the other side of the road, just past the little school, was a large canteen and cookout, an amenities shed and an airy building with a sign announcing it to be the gallery. There were a lot of scattered trees nearby, where several artists were sitting on the ground, bending over large canvases spread out in front of them.
As Chester pulled up, dogs, which had been lying in the shade, rose, curious to see who the visitors were while scratching lazily.
‘This place certainly looks a lot better than where we’ve just come from,’ commented Sheila.
They filed out of the car as a smiling young Aboriginal woman came towards them.
‘Welcome. I’m Wendy Cardwell. Have you come to see the gallery? Hi, Chester.’ She gave Chester a friendly smile. ‘Haven’t seen you in a while. Come on in. Can we get anyone a cool drink? Tea?’
‘This mob are coffee drinkers,’ said Chester with a grin.
‘Come on over to the cafeteria. You must have had a long drive from Broome
?’
‘Been staying out at the Kunaan camp,’ said Chester as they filed across the road.
‘Did they see the new site, the serpent cave?’ Wendy asked Chester quietly.
‘Oh yeah. These people are okay to take there.’
Wendy pushed open the flyscreen door and said, ‘That cave is something else, huh?’
‘Is anyone here painting snakes?’ asked Sheila.
Wendy shook her head. ‘No, our artists are concentrating on local stories and their country. Mr Babcock, the director of a gallery in Sydney, knows what buyers want, so he tells us what they’re interested in when he comes up here.’
She led them to a clean Laminex table. ‘Would anyone like a toasted cheese and ham sandwich or some biscuits?’
There was immediate agreement.
‘Oh lordy, smell that! Real coffee,’ sighed Sheila appreciatively.
Wendy nodded to the teenage girl who was behind the counter. She came forward with a shy smile.
‘This is Charlene,’ said Wendy. ‘Her mother is one of our painters. You can give her your orders.’
‘Then this is all privately run?’ Damien asked Wendy once they’d placed their orders. ‘Whitefellas doing it all?’
‘That’s how it started. Visitors, mainly tourists, come here to buy paintings during the season. Agents and gallery people from overseas visit, too. We close up during the wet; too hard to get here. Everyone goes back to their own communities.’
‘Could we have one of the women tell us the story of what she’s painting?’ asked Damien. ‘I could film it.’
‘Of course. Ruby’s English is pretty good, I’ll speak to her.’
The women smilingly made space for Jacqui and Sheila as the two guests sat down on the ground beside them. Wendy explained to the artists that the visitors wanted to hear about the stories the four painters were jointly putting onto the large canvas in front of them.
Shyly, Ruby started speaking, turning the daub stick she was using for the endless rows of tiny dots upside down and pointing to the different features of the picture.
‘This, here, big dreaming place where spirit babies come. An’ this waterhole’s where we do special women’s business.’ Slowly she pointed, reciting the different places and events which were represented by circles, lines and dots. The other women took turns to prompt her, mentioning a special place, rattling off names in language that to Jacqui’s ears sounded musical and rhythmic.
Damien quietly circled the group with his handheld camera, linked to Richie by the audio cable as Richie followed close behind. Damien filmed the women’s faces, or zoomed in over their heads, capturing the canvas on the ground from an aerial perspective as Ruby’s daub stick moved across the painted landscape of their dreaming country.
Walking back to the canteen to have a cup of tea, Phillip told Jacqui quietly, ‘I hope Sheila does write something about what she’s seen today. We want to see Aboriginal people educated, living in good homes, raising their kids, getting good jobs so they can make decent money, but how this can be achieved is such a complex issue. Out here, Aboriginal clans are still so connected to their heritage, their country, their stories, their culture. You know what they say? “The country owns us.” That’s something of an alien concept to most white folk, who think they own the land. Perhaps Sheila’s voice can help bring more understanding.’
Jacqui nodded and they walked on in silence for a moment until Sheila came across to join them.
‘I’m really impressed by this art program,’ Sheila said. ‘Shame that it’s taken some white initiative to make it happen. But I can see what a difference proper funding makes to lives out here. This gas mining proposal could be a godsend if it means more money to create settlements like this. I say they should grab it while they can,’ she added.
Jacqui was surprised. From her time listening to Lydia, she’d thought the gas project sounded a terrible idea. But Sheila was one of her heroines, a smart, intelligent woman; maybe Lydia’s view had been too one-sided?
After thanking Wendy for her hospitality, the group settled back into the little bus and Chester drove the long bush track back to the road.
Jacqui turned and looked out the window as the day faded to dusk, lost in thought.
*
It had been a huge day and everyone was tired. Chester produced kangaroo steaks which they quickly barbequed with potatoes, onions and some tomatoes from Wendy’s garden. Jacqui politely declined the dessert of tinned peaches or Anzac biscuits.
She warmed her hands on her mug of tea as the others talked with Sheila, who suddenly seemed to be an expert on the Aboriginal condition. She had asked a lot of questions, but also produced her own answers, which she elaborated on eloquently and forcefully, with no room for argument.
‘Are you going to write a book or a news article?’ asked Phillip.
‘I don’t want to be accused of cultural appropriation, but my readers wouldn’t be interested in the political or cultural ramifications of what’s going on out here. Let’s face it, most people in cities and towns have little idea of all this.’ She waved her arm around as she warmed to her subject. ‘The immensity, the disconnection from the modern world, the beauty, the history, the whole mystique of the place and the tragedy of its unrequited opportunities . . . it really is the forgotten continent.’
‘Maybe the people who live here prefer it that way,’ ventured Phillip.
‘Nonsense. Preserving the environment doesn’t mean keeping the people embalmed in their lost history. You can’t have one foot in today’s world with its technology and social media and such, and keep the other foot in the Stone Age,’ said Sheila confidently.
Philip gave a small smile and shrugged. ‘A difficult choice, sometimes.’ He yawned. ‘It’s been a terrific day. Thank you, Chester, for your safe driving, your patience and your culinary skills.’
Chester smiled, giving a small salute. ‘That’s my job, boss.’
Jacqui threw the dregs of her tea onto the ground. ‘I’m heading for bed. A wonderful day, thanks, everyone. I assume we’ll have an early start, Chester?’
He nodded. ‘As soon after breakfast as we can do.’
‘G’night everyone.’ She looked at Damien, who winked at her.
Jacqui went to the tent, brushing her teeth in a mug of water, then wriggled into her sleeping bag. She was almost asleep when she heard Damien fumbling in the dark as he pulled off his clothes.
‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ he whispered.
‘Hmmm,’ she mumbled, turning on her side to get comfortable.
‘I’m buggered. Big bloody day.’
Jacqui opened her eyes. ‘Yes. You got some good video footage, though?’
‘Yes, I did. That Sheila is a force, isn’t she?’
‘I suppose so, but I’m not sure I entirely agree with her. Lydia says that money alone won’t solve all the problems associated with Aboriginal disadvantage.’
‘Aw, c’mon, Jacqui. You’ve got to be practical. How else are you going to make things happen? Money talks, it’s power, you know that.’
‘Some things mean more than money. Phillip had some interesting things to say . . .’
‘Oh, he’s a nice fellow, but you need someone like Sheila with a big profile to get involved.’ He slipped into his swag. ‘People will listen to what she has to say. She’ll get it out there.’
Jacqui was wide awake now. ‘Get what out there? Her opinions are based on a quick trip to the north-west, whereas someone like Phillip has devoted years to researching and studying this part of the country.’
Damien came back immediately. ‘Phillip strikes me as a bit naïve, a bit of an idealist. I think Sheila is right – money talks.’
‘Lydia thinks that there are other issues which are even more important. Why do city people think they know best?’
‘
Don’t get cranky, but be realistic. If mining companies come and offer money, people are going to jump at it.’
‘I think you’re wrong. I think a lot of people will object when they realise more will be lost than gained by the introduction of mining.’
‘What makes you think a small town with a sleepy population is going to stand up to a big international company? And why would they? If there’s any fight, it will be for a bigger slice of the pie.’
Jacqui was a bit taken aback. ‘I can’t believe you’re being so cynical. You’re here, you’ve seen how special, how spectacular, this part of the country is!’
‘I’m just saying it’s complicated,’ Damien said. ‘I can see how you might find it confusing, not being an academic like Sheila. So don’t worry about it.’ He rolled over towards her in his swag, kissing her playfully. ‘G’night, sweetheart.’
‘Night, Damien.’ Jacqui snuggled unhappily into her sleeping bag. Why was it that some men just seemed to dismiss her opinions as though they were of no value? She had thought that Damien was different, but perhaps he wasn’t.
*
The serenity and mystique of the Kimberley landscape was shattered even before they hit Broome. Richie drove in the four-wheel drive rental along with all the film equipment, while Damien was keeping Jacqui company in her car. She was still a bit miffed about the condescending way he’d spoken to her the previous night and didn’t feel like talking, so she put on CDs to fill the silence. Damien didn’t seem to notice and happily sang along to the music.
As they drove, Jacqui couldn’t help but reflect on the conversation she’d had with Damien the night before. Perhaps he and Sheila were right. Maybe cultural concerns should be put to one side because the money that mining brought would fix so many other problems. Suddenly she felt confused.
Then, as they came into mobile reception, their phones began to ping. Jacqui quickly glanced at hers in case there was a message from Jean-Luc, but there wasn’t. There was a text from her mother, though, telling her that they were all having a wonderful time in Sydney. She also saw that there were a couple of voice-mail messages from Lydia.
