Published: Tuesday, 2 December 2003
One
of the things that I love about my friends is the fact all of them
absolutely inspire me to live. What a wonderful gift from the people
who I have met through the years. Here is a great example of a piece of
writing about one such friends experience which make me almost praise
novelty and praise BOB.
This is story by Ken about his experience in Borroloola in the
Northern Territory. He is installing Solar systems up there for the
Aboriginal Land Council thingy, department, Institution.
Reproduced without his permission, but then I don’t like secrets too much anyway! : ) …
Borroloologue (or, a Bipolar Exposition)……… to Turnerphrase
I’m feeling edgy tonight.
As well as experiencing a good bout of melancoholism, being as horny
as a pedestrian in Pamplona and person non-gratifis, I’m going stir
crazy. Waiting for things to happen here is like waiting, the Book of
Revelations in one hand and a six-pack in the other, for Armageddon to
come, which must be like waiting for correspondence from me. Well, I
hope you enjoy the fireworks.
Nothing’s stirring – not the heat, not the dire straightjacket
potato on my plate, not my dismay at the ‘Loo’s endemic case of Green
Can Blues (and the black and blues which follow suit), and not the
oscillating rage and numbness that besets me for being part of the
dys-system. My sense of dislocation doesn’t stem from dis location,
only here it’s out on a very bent limb.
If suburbanality is a mockery of sustainable society, the Borroloola
is a mockery of a mockery – louder, patchier and more raw than its’
civil civic cousin, but it still tips a battered hat to the hollow gods
of 1950’s town planning. Selective pragmatism is the order of the day
here. In “The New Subdivision” (which puts the “sub” back into
Subdivision), each dusty 400-square metre yard is dutifully guarded by
a knee-high fence and communally-disowned “camp dogs” with names like
Red Dog. Except for, of course, the few houses ringed by fences 2
metres high, garnished with barbed wire – expecting rough times or a
remake of The Great Escape, I guess. The whitefella camp I live in over
near Mabunji HQ falls into Category Number Two, though it’s less
suburban and more Somalian (some alien?).
In the town’s camps, each specific to an Aboriginal cultural group,
the streetscape is more scarred. These clusters of homes range from
brand new homes, to dilapidated one-room shelters which were slated as
short-term back in the post-cyclone devastated eighties, sweltering
through twenty-plus temporary summers and countless finite days since
both the government’s imperative and their sense of relativity took a
temporary leave of nonsense. Politics wears many skins, though – some
camps are better looked after than others.
If you want a further dose of ad-hoc shellshock, take a trip to the
outstations, where Aboriginal people live on the traditional lands of
their particular family groups. Some are exemplary models of living
“out bush”, and have been shimmering highlights of my time here, like
Uguie outstation at the stunning Clarkson’s Point on Vanderlin Island -
this place is unassuming but obviously well-loved by more than just
mortals and mortals who are more than just. Coming back from there,
motoring into the mouth of the Crooked Riveron sunset, metallic ripples
on multi-hued water and eager-to-please skies, feeling fully charged by
nature, I could only gibber and launch into one-man Mexican waves.
Amazingly, my fellow boaties were pretty offhand about their surrounds.
Seems they’ve eaten so many times at the visual banquet table, it’s
taken for granted. Some other outstations, on the other hand, are
models like the ones Godzilla used to trash – pre-consumer landscape
meets post-consumer waste of all shapes and sorts. If it’s been made in
an industrial country, you can find what remains of it, and what it was
packaged in, here. The main difference between this approach and the
one back home is honesty – European culture pretends that if it’s
flushed into the waterways or buried in landfill, it’s no longer there.
Back in town, the same handful of hard-loved cards trawl listlessly
up and down the blistering bitumen, their occupants looking for
something to occupy them, amybe, if a reason were even needed. Very few
things seem to require a reason around here, and good reasons aren’t
thrown around without a very good reason. With a casual air of purpose,
people hose the unbroken skirt of red-rubble dirt outside their houses
with kilolitres of bore water. It keeps the dust down.
There’s a laconic sense of humour inherent in this place. Take BBD,
a paid-up member of the ‘Loo’s closed-grocershop oligarchy, which
amusingly stands for Borroloola Bulk Discounts. Look no further for
service – you won’t find it; the staff are as happy as herpes and
beleaguered to please. The retro-futurist theme is easy to see; the
gross-eries’ use-by-date is 6 weeks ago, but with prices from 2023. The
fresh vegies, um, vegies that aren’t tinned, wear unwritten signs like
“Once Were Mushrooms”, “Escaped from Alfalfatraz”, “Straight from
Bananatanamo Bay”, “97% Flavour Free”, “I Can’t Believe It’s Not
Butternut Pumpkin”, “Artichoked” and “the Parsley Formerly Known As…”
- but I jest. Just try finding parsley or artichokes here, or anything
other than the same dozen dodgy contenders for the crown of culinary
cornucopia (AKA the Usually Suspect), I’m sure Doctor Seuss shopped
here before writing “Green Eggs and Ham”. Unsurprisingly, the worst of
Western diets, malnutrition and related disease are all the go round
these parts. Cheap nutritious food only comes if you catch, shoot or
bullbar it yourself, and people with enough money and command of
technology (mainly whitefellas) order their supplies from Katherine or
Mt Isa.
Before I left Nimbin, one of my worthy neighbours warned me that I’d
encounter “nigger farmers” – whitefellas who prosper on perpetuating
the generally poor living standards of blackfellas, sometimes with a
little window-dressing. (Editor’s note: “whitefella” and “blackfella”
are terms used very widely up here by people of all descents; context
is king). My neighbour was right; some are clear-cut, like the
publican, who has been known to state his priorities plainly – “duty of
care” has been reinterpreted as “shameless and unprincipled
profiteering”. Others are less obvious, and the line blurs at times.
Some think that they’re acting in the long-term better interest of
Aboriginal people, or at least say so. One’s deeds say a lot, but there
are BIIIG questions to be answered about what constitutes genuine
progress, which certainly isn’t just a race towards more / bigger/
newer / fancier. One of my workmates agely says, “Don’t confuse
activity with achievement”. He’s spot on.
There’s even several different broad combinations of activity &
achievement to be seen – some people make no pretense of doing anything
at all.
I’ve met some very engaging Aboriginal people while working here.
Jimmy Morrison, one of the mechanics at Mabunji, is one of the most
consistently, inspirationally genuine, gentle and light-hearted people
I’ve met in a long time – he laughs easily and has a sense of humour
that leaves no casualties. Come to think of it, a liking for a laugh is
a common trait of many of the people I’ve come to know here, especially
as I’ve begun to get into the culture. I’ve also come across plenty of
local folks I haven’t engaged with, fpr a number of reasons, some
complex. Just being white and schooled can be enough of a barrier,
especially when (for example) past schoolteachers have systematically
drummed into kids that they should be ASHAMED of their Aboriginality.
Then there’s the dominant culture issue, and even pronounced age and
gender issues – as if the ongoing fallout of radioactive racism isn’t
enough to contend with, with its’ own downstream mutations and a
helluva half-life.
Distended pale green apostrophes hang from the mango trees like
words impatient to be written. I may leave before they’ve told me their
story, to follow the yellow brick roadhouses through the scattered
somewhere elses that lie between home and me, arriving back home in
early January at present estimations – after 3 months here, we’re just
about to install the second (!!!) of the three remote area solar
systems I came up here to help with. And to think I used to joke about
Nimbin operating on Twilight Zone time! Keep your eyes peeled and your
pantries open.
Photos and more raves to follow soon.
Yours, phonetically modified and frenetically mollified,
Ken Turner
Gypsy King.
