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| Greetings from Central Western Queensland |
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Post 24 - Greetings From Outback QLD - Part 2 : Central Western QLD - Journal
Waking up in the morning with an eagle overhead
Makes me long to fly away before my time.
And I think God must have been a cowboy at heart
He made wide open spaces from the start
He made grass, the trees and mountains
And a horse to be your friend
And trails to lead old cowboys home again!
(“God Must be Have Been a Cowboy” – D. Seals)
As we described in our last blog, we had made an initial, conscious decision that our visit to Outback Queensland would steer away from having such a strong “theme” if you will, of us simply being at one with the land around us – and that instead it would be more about us engaging with the region’s history, its towns and pubs, festivals and people. This in part was decided upon because initially for us, the landscape of Queensland’s Outback seemed to lack the stunning qualities of the Kimberley and, to our eyes, couldn’t compare or compete. In the end though, what we came to experience and appreciate was that in Outback Queensland, you cannot separate engaging with the land from engaging with what it has given rise to – namely its towns, people, heritage and festivals. This interconnection may seem obvious to the reader but our experience in W.A had been somehow different to that. Here in Queensland, the land and landscape is the actual foundation and underlying thread that has created, weaved and - even today - still holds together the very fabric of that which we had said we would “focus” on. So, what happened for us, was that as a result of focusing our energies on Outback Queensland’s people, towns, history and festivals, we slowly came to truly “see”, feel and appreciate the stark beauty of her landscapes too. Our journey to falling in love with the land had us venturing en-route into friendly heritage towns and iconic outback pubs – meeting the locals and learning more about the pioneering history and legendary characters that have made most of what Queensland (and Australia) is today. It has had us joining in more fully with all the belts, buckles, boots and Akubra hats to be seen everywhere and continuing to enjoy immersing ourselves in “old-time” Australian bush-ballad music. It has also had us continuing to be ringside spectators at thrilling, adrenalin-packed rodeos as we watched men and women taking part in professional sports such as bucking horses and bulls as well as competition events that showcased the everyday horsemanship skills used today out on the land. And, somewhere along the way, as we celebrated these aspects of her, Outback QLD and her beautifully stark landscape DID end up slyly slipping into our hearts and finding a place to reside there, alongside the spots reserved for W.A and The Kimberley! This whole QLD part of our trip has been heaps of so much unexpected fun. It’s been an interesting journey and has served to remind us once again of “staying open” to “what is” and embracing that fully too – and of not being too quick to pre-judge! It has also added to our growing dilemma of what sort of life we may end up creating for ourselves after this trip comes to an end! Thankfully though it will be a while before any definitive decision is made on that score – so in the meantime, just sit back, enjoy our musings and photos and take a journey with us into our little slice of Outback QLD
Makeover Magic – from man….into S.T.O.C.K.M.A.N!
For a little while now, Gordon has wanted to replace the outback hat he bought when in the Flinders, South Australia. In short, he felt that it was too similar to ex-prime minister John Howard’s hat - and that this was not a good thing both in and of itself nor for Gordon’s image! He has also been expressing a desire to get a couple of Outback shirts instead of wearing T-shirts all the time. And I have supported him in this bid for a new hat and a shirt or two because, for a while now, I have also secretly nursed an innocent enough fantasy of wanting to see my man have a complete Outback Makeover and turn into the burly Aussie Stockman I know he could be!!
Now, any true and self-respecting Aussie Stockman will tell you there is only one brand of hat you should be wearing – the Akubra - and only one place to buy your clothes, namely RM Williams, “the bush outfitter”. Put simply, RM Williams clothes are the Holy Grail for high quality, Aussie-made boots, shirts, hats, buckles and jeans/trousers. They are made for real Outback guys and gals who need comfortable, hardwearing and practical gear whilst horseriding and working on their stations. The gear looks very COOL! Given my secret fantasy then, I was very excited to be in Longreach, QLD - not only for the RM Williams Annual Muster and Rodeo - but also for the opportunity it afforded us to go shopping in the RM Williams store and for me to execute my secret mission! Yeeeharrr!
So, after a morning of watching horsemanship and campdrafting at the show, it was time to get a coffee and try on some hats. Gordy did his usual and decided he wasn’t “in the mood” for “trying on a hat today” but I was not to be deterred and so in to the RM Williams store we went! Our very helpful assistant found him a hat straightaway and it looked great. “Fabulous!” I said, “But…. I think it would look better with a SHIRT rather than the T-shirts you have, don’t you think? Look, there are some nice ones here that are in the sale….” And with that Gordy was dragged off to the rail of shirts like a lamb to the slaughter. “Let’s just PLAY” I enthused but his look told me he didn’t want to! Nevertheless he picked out a blue and white striped shirt that took his fancy and agreed to try it on, (naively) figuring that if he did that we could then be done and get out of there. A minute later he came out of the dressing room and both me and our lovely assistant cooed around him, admiring the shirt with the hat – and, I might add, Gordon liked them both too. “That shirt looks FAB on you and with the hat even better” I said, “but…. those jeans are all wrong! They’re a baggy style and OK for the beach but they aren’t the straight, boot cut, Outback jeans that go with a shirt like that. I think you should get some jeans to match!” Gordon made to protest but the assistant heartily agreed which was just as well because I was already asking her what jeans she would suggest dressing him in!
Knowing it would be useless to fight us both, Gordon took the dark blue and the sandstone jeans that the assistant, in the flash of a lambstail, had gathered for him. Garments in hand, he retreated back into the changing rooms to see out the rest of his fate! Within a couple of minutes, the changing room door reopened and out he walked in hat, shirt and jeans and to many “oohs” and “ahhs” from me and the assistant! In truth, he looked fantastic! “Wow!” I said, “What a man! Try the sandstone pair on too!” And so Gordon returned to the magic changing room, appearing seconds later, dressed in the sandstone jeans. They also looked great on him but….I HAD to say it - ”Hey, if you’re going to get both jeans – and I think you should – then you’re going to need another shirt to mix and match, maybe something with a bit of red in it”. Poor Gordy! By this stage there were a couple of people wanting to try things on in this one and only tiny changing room and so, naturally, I encouraged them to go in, using them as a reason to get Gordon out and looking for some more shirts! But I felt sure that he was starting to get into the swing of things and he easily accepted the shirt I’d had my eye on all this time! And the whole time, he had the assistant and her colleague telling him how great he looked, how smart, how manly, how handsome!
I guess it’s fair to say that Gordy wasn’t doesn’t enjoy the spotlight being on him. So he was only too relieved when the changing room became free again and he could hide away in there - albeit to change into something else that undoubtedly was going to set us women off all over again! Sure enough, when the door reopened and he stepped out, we LOVED this outfit too! And if truth be told, so does Gordon. You can bet your bottom dollar too, that I made sure I got his agreement on this fact before I ventured to say: “Trouble is, you can’t get the jeans, the hat and the shirt without getting the belt….I mean, it’s not OUTBACK without the belt!!” There was this flicker of a look that went across his face in that moment, as if somewhere in his brain he was figuring out that something was going on here. Quite sweet really! Yet there was no time for him to really process that thought because I was already asking our very helpful and lovely assistant as to what sort of belt he should be going for. Her reply? “Well, that all depends,” she said - “what colour boots will he mainly be wearing?” “Ah,” I say, a smile spreading across my cheeky chops - “that’s something ELSE that has been on our list to get. He doesn’t have any boots, only trainers”.
At this point, Gordon was probably no fool at all and the thought that had “sort of” flickered across his face before, had enough time now to be sharply understood in his mind. His wife was conniving and manipulating him – tusk, tusk! In an instant, he could finally see where all this was going and immediately interjected by saying: “well, I am not sure we came here to buy boots today or can afford them, but as for my trainers, well, they are brown”. What followed next was me rushing in to do my version of damage limitation, in other words, saying: “You can’t possibly get the hat, shirt, jeans and belt and not get the boots! There’s no way you can wear all that with TRAINERS! If you are going to spend on the hat, shirt, belt and jeans, you may as well finish the outfit and get some boots. And you KNOW that RM Williams boots are comfy and last forever, so you might as well – and we are here now so there’s no point in coming back another time......” And without really pausing to draw breath, I asked the assistant what she would be recommending for Gordon and she, in turn, made a suggestion for his “first pair”. Gordon was beat now and he knew it! Hilarious! As he threaded the belt through and eased on the boots, his lame attempt at asserting some kind of power (refusing to go for a bigger buckle) was fine by me, because what now stood before me was my Outback man and I was a very, very happy woman! My secret mission was accomplished!
They say that “clothes maketh the man” and I would have to say there is something in that because Gordon appeared transformed before my eyes, every inch the man that he always has been - only now I saw him stand with more poise, more “manliness” and more confidence. And all that was left of “Old” Gordy was the pile of shabby, dirty and dusty gear that he had been wearing when he came into the shop, complete with his worn, old, brown trainers and sweat-stained scruffy hat, all sitting on top of the lot! Priceless!
Now, at this stage I must confess to not having told you the whole story…..for while Gordon was busy transforming his look, I too, was having a bit of a play with dressing up and stretching my comfort zones (and no, they weren’t my thighs and bum!). Not normally a wearer of shirts, I nevertheless tried on a couple, along with some RM Williams jeans and a skirt. And lo and behold, in that changing room I was met with my own surprised reflection in the mirror. I liked my gear too, even though I wasn’t used to it! And so there we BOTH were, all dressed up and stood next to one another with the assistant proclaiming that we look like a couple of locals, a couple of proper outback farmers or station owners! It was a good feeling!
And so after what must have been two hours of “playing” in that shop the time came for us to pay our rather large bill. We ended up walking out of the shop with one of our outfits on, just in time to walk down to the main event of the afternoon - the RM Williams Rodeo. As we passed the entry ticket gate, who should be there but the two attendants whom we had been chatting to earlier in the day, when we were wearing our other gear. You should have seen their faces when they clocked a look at us! They cheered and clapped us, shouted after Gordon “you look great mate, you look the part, you really do!” and to us both “You really ARE loving the Outback aren’t you!” It was good feeling. And they were right of course, we both looked a right pair of bushies or outback farmers and like we had always been that. Even our friend Lindy walked straight past us at the rodeo, not even noticing us in our new look!!
And so here endeth the tale of the Outback Makeover – all that remains to be said, of course, is that if any of you are ever stuck on what to get us for Xmas and birthdays, well, RM Williams vouchers will do us just fine!!!
Pure Bull – one sporting night in Outback QLD
My song is dedicated to a man I’m proud to know
He left his mark in one respect, in big time rodeo
His battle scars and bandy legs are trademarks of the game
And could he live it over, there’s nothing he would change.
He got his special training, out on the big stock routes
At twelve years old he wore his jeans and R. M Williams boots
In 1958 young Coley made his first debut
With a different style of riding from what he used to do
The saddle and the rules were different but it wasn’t long
Till he was up amongst the best determination strong
Yeah, “rake him, Coley, rake him” you’d hear the people yell
“Charge him Coley, charge him”, from mark out to the bell
Spectators they all loved him, he was the people’s pride
And many of them only went to see Ken Coleman ride
(Adapted from “Coley”, S. Coster)
During our time in the Outback we had the opportunity to experience the 5th Round of Bundaberg Rum’s “PBR Challenger Series Touring Pro”, which had come to the small town of Hughenden, in Central-Western Queensland. For those in UK who don’t know, PBR stands for Professional Bull Riding. It is the fastest-growing extreme sport in the world, has huge prize money up for grabs not to mention the coveted Buckle. It also comes with a warning of being the toughest sport on dirt. So, armed with credentials like these and a desire to experience both something we have never experienced before and a slice of Outback Queensland “sport”, we paid our small entry fee and joined in with the 1000-strong spectator crowd of belts, buckles, boots and hats for a night of sporting prowess! Mind you, we were also soon to discover that a PBR event is not just a sporting event but a “rock-concert-meets-bull-riding” affair - a true “show-time” extravaganza that would have us tapping our feet to the beats of the music whilst at the same time being on the edge of our seat (or should I say, the little patch of ground our bums were sitting on!) with hearts pounding and breath held!
Before us, where all the action was to take place, was a circular, floodlit rodeo ring enclosed by railings and surrounded by spectators on three sides. Opposite, on the far side of this ring and behind those rails were the steel pens and chutes that were to contain the bulls before their release – and the area where the riders were getting dressed and ready. To the left and right of the rodeo ring were the big music speakers and the two huge, high TV screens that were going to be responsible for showing the playbacks during the evening. If truth be told, there was something of it that for me smacked of the Romans and the Gladiators – where we, the audience, were here because we wanted to see either a rider stay on…or a rider come off and if so, what would happen to them and the bull in that instance. Perhaps civilization hasn’t evolved much since then really but I don’t wish to get into a debate right here in the blog as to the ethics and morality of whether it’s wrong to go and see events like these. Just to say that for us, it was more a case of “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” – that is to say, we were in Outback Queensland to sample life there….and this is what many Outback Queenslanders enjoy as sporting entertainment.
Above this whole rodeo-ring spectacle and stretching out in all directions into the vastness of the landscape, was the wonderful inky-black Outback sky we have come to love so much on our travels, with a very white full moon rising up to throw the darkness into even greater contrast! All around us the air was chilly yet rife with anticipation and excitement – not to mention the wafting aroma of hotdogs, chips and burgers.
Suddenly (and catching us all off guard), the commentator boomed into his microphone and announced the 5th Round as being officially open. With that the TV screens sprang to life with a slick PBR promotional video showing fast, close-up and adrenalin-packed images set to awesome, pumping music and with a thrilling voice-over commentary! There was to be no doubt we were in for a night like no other! I was really excited and, I have to confess, a little irrationally nervous!
As the promotional video finished and the screens went off, the riders for the night were introduced one by one and invited into the ring while the commentator celebrated the “hero accolades” of each one and we, as the crowd, applauded and whooped. I had to pinch myself to believe I was here watching all this – for this was authentic PBR and not just something for the tourists!
It was quite a sight to see so many of them standing there, in full costume, with hats and protective leather chaps over their jeans – let alone just a few minutes later when the first of them prepared themselves and their bulls in the pens and chutes. It was only later on that I was to read that the chute is the most dangerous place for the rider, where legs have been crushed between steel and hide in what is a very small and confined space. Yet already I could see just how scary a place it was to be, as each rider tried to prepare his bull while said bull was already trying to buck him off, slamming itself (and the rider’s legs) into the steel sides of the pen as it tried to do so! Meanwhile, the music was blasting – from hip hop, to pop, to rock and roll - and each song seemed to be deliberately chosen to fit in with the theme of the night.
The first bull of the night was called “Kung Fu Juice”. The minute his rider was ready to go, the door to the chute was flung open and the music instantly switched to the 70’s tune of “Kung Fu Fighting”. In a flash this huge beast literally EXPLODED out onto the dirt of the arena, trying hard to buck and kick himself around in a bid to remove the rope tied around his loins, while the song played out and the rider did all he could to sit deep and hang tight - keeping one hand on the reins and the other arm and hand firmly in the air and not touching the bull at any time (as the rules dictated). It was a thrilling spectacle that was supposed to go for 8 seconds in order for the rider to qualify, though in this case (and in many other cases that night) lasted only 3 or 4 seconds – such was the feistiness of the bulls involved! After the ride, the big screens whirred into action as an exciting action reply was shown for our viewing pleasure.
And so the rounds unfolded, each bull and rider being introduced before the chutes flew open. We didn’t fancy one rider’s chances who was introduced as “the smallest rider on the biggest bull of the competition”…..yep, you guessed it, he was flung off in seconds! I was also guessing that for the bull called “Arachnophobia” you wouldn’t want to be riding him if there was a spider on the loose!
All the bulls had stage-names and music to match them. When a bull called “Cowboy” came out of the chute, they played ZZ Top’s “She’s got legs”, which was hilarious as these words were sung just as the bull started bucking its back legs high into the air! For the bull called “Prison Break” who was already trying to buck the rider off whilst still in the chute, they played George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” and for the bull “Rawhide” they played…..yes, you guessed it, “Rawhide”! Using the music in this way, it was as if each bull had its own character, especially too, when the words of the music seemed to coincide with what the bull happened to be doing. So when one bull came out to “You Spin me Right Round, Baby, Right Round” and proceeded to do just that – spin and spin and spin – it was just too slick to be true! Amongst other songs that seemed to match what the character of the bull and/or what the bull was doing, were “Round, Round I get Around” by the Beach Boys, Steppenwolf’s “Wild Thing”; Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back”; and Kenny Loggins ‘Footloose”. Music to get “thrown off to” fittingly included Van Halen’s “Jump” (and the rider did jump too – before the 8 seconds were up!!); ACDC’S ‘Dirty Deeds” and Le Chic’s “Freak Out”.
All the while we were in awe of the sheer might and power of the bulls, quite honestly the biggest and most fearsome looking beasts we have ever seen in our life (much bigger than at the R.M. Williams event we were to attend just weeks later). Yet there was much to be in awe of regards the rider’s prowess too – their talent, strength and heart showing through even if their hats bit the dust within nano-seconds of coming out of the chute. On the occasions when there was a win, Queen’s “We are the Champions” or “We Will Rock You” would pump out of the loudspeakers and, if the rider was still wearing his hat (a remarkable achievement in itself), he would throw it high into the air in elation. But win or lose, the rider always left the stadium with a limp – testament to the brute force of the sport! Often, when there was a fall, one or the other of the Clowns would rush in – their job to distract the bull away from the fallen rider and shoo him out of the ring and back in the pens with the other bulls. These moments provided on more than one occasion for a sharp intake of breath as the fate of the rider’s life quite literally hung in the hands of the Clowns expertise. How, at times, the bulls hooves did not come down on the riders head, I’ll never know. Sometimes, after the bull had tossed its encumbrance (the rider!), it strutted around the arena, almost as if to do a victory lap of honour. Once in a while one would dare someone too close to the other side of the ring and many of the bulls liked to refuse to “go home” through the gate to the pen – this would give rise to songs immediately being played such as Run DMC’s “Walk this Way” and Reel 2’s “I like to Move it” – hilarious! And if all that wasn’t enough music to tap our toes to, there was plenty more played to simply add ambience to the whole night – from ACDC’s “Thunder” to Rednex’s “Cotton Eye Joe”, Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell”; Pulp Fiction’s “Pump It” and not to mention heaps of stuff by the Rolling Stones. Awesome!
So my friends, for two people who came to this night’s entertainment with a mission to do as the locals do, we certainly succeeded and had some unforgettable experiences of a certain slice of Outback Queensland’s sporting life! Wow! If only Bono had come on at the end to do a song……..(sigh!)
Bush Poetry Corner
Yes, back by popular demand, Cobber Cumming has penned another musing, inspired by an enforced stay in Cairns, where we went to get our fridge repaired under warranty. We have been to Cairns years ago and this time around had no desire to go back. To have our hand forced in this way then, was quite the culture shock! Enjoy the poem – he just keeps getting better and better, I am so proud of him!
Gone to Town
We came to town to get a few things fixed
On the way here, feelings were very mixed
Back to the cars and the noise and the lights
And away from the clear blue skies and starlit nights.
Now here in the city I feel the odd one out
Sound and movement and stimulation is all about
What I crave is peace and quiet
But the city is all around me – like some noisy riot
People always moving at such a pace
Like they’re all a part of some big race
Not sure why they’re all heading there oh so fast
And I don’t know where “there” is, but I reckon I’ll be there last!
Around the city smiles are rarely seen
Not like out west where we have just been
Here, if you walk around carrying a big, broad smile
People take one look at ya and run a country mile.
It seems here that many aspire to have more and more things
Like boats and cars and flashy diamond rings
A vicious cycle of buying the whole damn shopping mall
Then having to work longer and longer to pay for it all
So when do they get time to enjoy all they have gained
For, to that office desk they are inexorably chained!
While just sitting here and watching I can’t help but feel
That, to themselves, few of these folk are being truly real
Where is their connection with this incredible land?
Does any of her soil ever touch their manicured hand?
Do they ever just stop and listen to the breeze
As it rustles its way through those magnificent trees?
No doubt these folk are good and true of heart
But are no longer connected with their nature part
It seems to me that we don’t know who to be
When removed from the earth and from the country.
It’s true these verses could paint quite a lament
But they’re a reflection on how I feel life could be better spent
By being connected with each other and with the earth
And honouring what is naturally a part of us from birth
Within all of us there is a carefree nature child
Within all of us the need to be just a little bit wild
When we start to connect with our natural world
We are like giant petals being slowly unfurled
The truth is the city was also once my home
But now its way outback where I love to roam
(Gordon “Cobber” Cumming, 2009)
Outback Funnies – quirky towns, even quirkier festivals and mad, mad pubs!
One of my self-assigned jobs on this trip is that of researcher, planner and organizer – oftentimes much to Gordon’s disgust! (“Planning?????” he will say “whaddyawannadothatfor?!”) But to be fair, not only do I love finding out all the stuff there is to find out about – it also allows us to really maximize the time we spend somewhere. And sometimes my research really can cause us quite a few laughs and help us to get a feel for the people of a region so much more! So, when it came to Outback Queensland, my research seemed to point to the fact that towns here seem to pride themselves on anything they CAN pride themselves on - even if they have to scratch the bottom of their own town barrel to find “it” or just decide to invent something to be “famous” for, just for the hell of it!
Allow me to introduce to you then, the town of Charleville and it’s carefully put-together tourism brochure. Can you imagine how hard it was for me to contain my excitement when I read up on what there was for us to do in this fine town? You see as I perused the pages, I was informed that I could “meet the locals” at Bingo on Sunday Afternoons PLUS meet the locals for “fun and games at the senior citizens club”. Well, this had my interest pricked right from the start for sure, as you can well imagine! Then as I read on, alternative suggestions for my entertainment pleasure presented themselves, in a bid to really get my traveler juices flowing - alternatives such as having a “stories and scones tour at a local pub” or “watching the automated process of the weather balloon release (an “exciting event that happens daily!”). “Yeeharr!” I thought to myself. But I think what REALLY had us wanting to visit this fine town in the end, was the “Yabby Races” it holds every Tuesday and Friday night, where apparently the crowd goes wild! (For all the Pommie readers, yabbies are like very small freshwater lobsters). The brochure assured me that it would be the one race meeting where holding my breath could be fatal (after all, lets face it, Yabbies are not sprinters!) and where I would have one of the most exciting times of my life. All I had to do apparently was buy my Yabby (no training required), have a flutter on the Crawlers and then stand back and wait to see if my thoroughbred is the winner! Now, just when I thought the town was stark raving bonkers mad, I then read that is a fundraiser which helps the Royal Flying Doctor Service! Phew! Well that’s all right then! Sadly though, as can sometimes be the nature of “going-with-the-flow-travel”, we didn’t get to partake in this event as our travel plans ended up changing and so we were not in town on the right day. Bummer.
And so then, to the town of Quilpie. This town wins an award from us in terms of how it chooses to set itself apart and recruit would-be settlers to come and live there – namely by welcoming you to a “lifestyle where, in summer, golf is played at night with an esky at every hole”! Needless to say, the promise of free beer on ice on every hole of an 18-hole golf course had Gordon seriously considering moving there and taking up the sport!
One of the ways towns here really try to distinguish themselves is through their rodeos but they also do it through other festivals and competitions. This is how Camel Races can thus sit side by side with Outback Poetry Festivals and no-one bats an eyelid. It is clear therefore that any excuse to bring the community together is a good one. Yet it seems to us that these events also afford fantastic opportunities for one town to “outdo” another town’s festival…either via legitimate means or absurd! Windorah, for example, have secured their significantly more elevated “yabby” status over Charleville, by hosting the INTERNATIONAL Yabby Racing CARNIVAL, no less! It’s all in the name, so it would seem. Mind you, perhaps size really does matter….along with the appetite of a town towards the absurd. Cue (and not to be outdone by ANYONE), Winton’s 4 day, 2009 Outback Festival which promised to be a corker with over 40 events. Many of these had my mind working overtime to try and figure out what might be involved. I mean to say horse racing and crayfish racing are pretty self-explanatory, as are the competitions called Outback Whipcracking Championships, the Truck Pull and the Outback Iron Man and Outback Iron Woman (though the latter gave rise to a very scary vision which gave Gordon nightmares for a week!). But PEOPLE racing? What a strange way to put it – the mind boggles! Do they just mean people running the 100m against one another – or is there some more absurd way I haven’t even thought of, in which to race people? I mean does one person sit in a shopping trolley while another pushes it? Or is one person on all fours being “ridden” by someone with a bloody great whip??! And now, as far as the Australian Dunny Derby is concerned, the meaning is clearer, thanks to Gordon’s excellent description – but the race is still absurd if you ask me. How else can you feel about a race that has dunny shacks (for the Poms, that’s a tin shack that houses the outdoor loo) – dunny shacks on wheels, with someone inside and also someone outside who is pushing the thing to the finish line??! What’s all that about??! It almost makes the Bushman’s Egg Throwing competition a completely sane and normal event – and similarly so the Wool-Bale Rolling, the Swag Toss or the Broom Throwing segments! Ah Winton, we salute you! The town of Julia Creek and it’s “Dirt and Dust Festival” may well include the Annual Bog Snorkelling Championships and Best Butt Competiton, but it can’t hold a candle to you Winton and your 4 days of insane absurdity and madness! We were only sorry that we could not wait two months for your festival to take place so we could witness everything first hand!
Now of course these Outback towns don’t solely rely on rodeos, festivals, competitions and other “attractions” in order to create their identity and sense of pride, to bring community together or to attract travelers! They also make good use of the humble, quirky or iconic Outback Pub. Yay! It is fair to say at this point, that in the “interests of research” we managed to sample a few, if not all, of these establishments (well, it simply would have been rude and unfriendly NOT to) and had to smile at how each one manages to set itself apart from another. “Quirky” is one way that they seem to do it – and one of the ways this quirkiness can come from, seems to be in how a pub gets its name….as seen in the example of the Fox Trap Cooladdi Roadhouse. (The story goes something along the lines of travelers pulling up in the old days to fuel up, maybe throw a line in the creek and take a break from driving. Mr Fox, the then owner of the RoadHouse, would welcome visitors with open arms and convince them to have a cooling ale. One ale followed another and before too long a day or two had passed. Travellers nicknamed the road the Fox Trap alluding to the ability of Mr Fox to trap travelers with a beer or five!). Indeed, history is always a big pull and is sure to be a magnet for the tourists – whether the history is about the pub being an original stopover for the carriages in the olden days or whether it’s more to do with being the pub that had had the most brawls in days gone by! Some of these types of pubs even choose to bring that history inside the pub in wacky ways, as we were to enjoy in the Prairie Hotel, where someone had the rather wonderful idea of hanging a rather impressive number of old and worn out stockman’s hats from the ceiling, not to mention a whole host of memorabilia “from the land” – splayed all over the walls and everywhere else! At times, when it comes to naming these pubs and the issue of how to stand out, it makes you wonder what the hell the other suggestions must have been if the only one that they all could agree on was to “paint your pub a ridiculous colour and name it after the colour!” (hello to The Purple Pub!). Indeed, being the focal point in a town - for whatever reason - can be all that a pub needs to achieve in order to achieve notoriety in the Outback. In the case of The Nocundra Pub, the focal point for the town is that it happens to be the town’s only occupied building! You would think that you kind of can’t beat that, wouldn’t you – but Toompine has managed to go even further by being known both for the fact that it is “the pub with NO town (population of 2) and for the startling blue tractor up a tall pole that apparently comes with it! And, I guess when you are a pub with seating capacity for only six drinkers you too can hold your head high like the Adavale Pub!
But we have to say, we won’t just remember the pubs for their quirkiness and history - we will also remember them for their people. From the barman in Winton (who, from behind the pumps, was too gripped by the ending of a crappy “afternoon movie” and then by “Murder She Wrote”, as to even notice that we were fading away from thirst) to the staff at Tattersalls (also in Winton), who in the broad light of day all seemed to be helping themselves to beers whenever they wanted, making it a place that Gordon was quite keen to submit his resume to! And, yes, we did meet some interesting folk on OUR side of the bar too. Not least amongst these, was the wonderful Old Man Emu, a fascinating old Aboriginal whom we came across in Normanton’s Purple Pub. He chatted to us over beers about his two “arranged wives” waiting for him in Torres Strait Island, “promised” to him by both his clan and their clans – and how uncomfortable he is about this and cannot take part in it. His was a story of being an Aboriginal man with one foot solidly in the white fella’s world he has been living in since a teenager – and the other foot still in the traditional world of his clan on Torres Strait Island. He carried with him a mixed bag of guilty feelings towards what he knows does actually work in Aboriginal culture (arranged marriages) versus what he feels is “right” in his “white-fella” heart (young girls should not be married off to old men). It was a humbling experience to glean these insights from him and to learn about other parts of his life, including his childhood memories of working for the white fella as a sugar-cane cutter. A connection was forged between the three of us over those couple of beers and Old Man Emu even gave Gordon the name of “Old Man Traveller” - priceless!
Well my friends, as you can see, Outback QLD is a quirky place indeed – AND WE LOVED IT! The question is: Who wants to join us for some more fun when we go back – and help us get a team together for dunny racing?!!!
Makes me long to fly away before my time.
And I think God must have been a cowboy at heart
He made wide open spaces from the start
He made grass, the trees and mountains
And a horse to be your friend
And trails to lead old cowboys home again!
(“God Must be Have Been a Cowboy” – D. Seals)
As we described in our last blog, we had made an initial, conscious decision that our visit to Outback Queensland would steer away from having such a strong “theme” if you will, of us simply being at one with the land around us – and that instead it would be more about us engaging with the region’s history, its towns and pubs, festivals and people. This in part was decided upon because initially for us, the landscape of Queensland’s Outback seemed to lack the stunning qualities of the Kimberley and, to our eyes, couldn’t compare or compete. In the end though, what we came to experience and appreciate was that in Outback Queensland, you cannot separate engaging with the land from engaging with what it has given rise to – namely its towns, people, heritage and festivals. This interconnection may seem obvious to the reader but our experience in W.A had been somehow different to that. Here in Queensland, the land and landscape is the actual foundation and underlying thread that has created, weaved and - even today - still holds together the very fabric of that which we had said we would “focus” on. So, what happened for us, was that as a result of focusing our energies on Outback Queensland’s people, towns, history and festivals, we slowly came to truly “see”, feel and appreciate the stark beauty of her landscapes too. Our journey to falling in love with the land had us venturing en-route into friendly heritage towns and iconic outback pubs – meeting the locals and learning more about the pioneering history and legendary characters that have made most of what Queensland (and Australia) is today. It has had us joining in more fully with all the belts, buckles, boots and Akubra hats to be seen everywhere and continuing to enjoy immersing ourselves in “old-time” Australian bush-ballad music. It has also had us continuing to be ringside spectators at thrilling, adrenalin-packed rodeos as we watched men and women taking part in professional sports such as bucking horses and bulls as well as competition events that showcased the everyday horsemanship skills used today out on the land. And, somewhere along the way, as we celebrated these aspects of her, Outback QLD and her beautifully stark landscape DID end up slyly slipping into our hearts and finding a place to reside there, alongside the spots reserved for W.A and The Kimberley! This whole QLD part of our trip has been heaps of so much unexpected fun. It’s been an interesting journey and has served to remind us once again of “staying open” to “what is” and embracing that fully too – and of not being too quick to pre-judge! It has also added to our growing dilemma of what sort of life we may end up creating for ourselves after this trip comes to an end! Thankfully though it will be a while before any definitive decision is made on that score – so in the meantime, just sit back, enjoy our musings and photos and take a journey with us into our little slice of Outback QLD
Makeover Magic – from man….into S.T.O.C.K.M.A.N!
For a little while now, Gordon has wanted to replace the outback hat he bought when in the Flinders, South Australia. In short, he felt that it was too similar to ex-prime minister John Howard’s hat - and that this was not a good thing both in and of itself nor for Gordon’s image! He has also been expressing a desire to get a couple of Outback shirts instead of wearing T-shirts all the time. And I have supported him in this bid for a new hat and a shirt or two because, for a while now, I have also secretly nursed an innocent enough fantasy of wanting to see my man have a complete Outback Makeover and turn into the burly Aussie Stockman I know he could be!!
Now, any true and self-respecting Aussie Stockman will tell you there is only one brand of hat you should be wearing – the Akubra - and only one place to buy your clothes, namely RM Williams, “the bush outfitter”. Put simply, RM Williams clothes are the Holy Grail for high quality, Aussie-made boots, shirts, hats, buckles and jeans/trousers. They are made for real Outback guys and gals who need comfortable, hardwearing and practical gear whilst horseriding and working on their stations. The gear looks very COOL! Given my secret fantasy then, I was very excited to be in Longreach, QLD - not only for the RM Williams Annual Muster and Rodeo - but also for the opportunity it afforded us to go shopping in the RM Williams store and for me to execute my secret mission! Yeeeharrr!
So, after a morning of watching horsemanship and campdrafting at the show, it was time to get a coffee and try on some hats. Gordy did his usual and decided he wasn’t “in the mood” for “trying on a hat today” but I was not to be deterred and so in to the RM Williams store we went! Our very helpful assistant found him a hat straightaway and it looked great. “Fabulous!” I said, “But…. I think it would look better with a SHIRT rather than the T-shirts you have, don’t you think? Look, there are some nice ones here that are in the sale….” And with that Gordy was dragged off to the rail of shirts like a lamb to the slaughter. “Let’s just PLAY” I enthused but his look told me he didn’t want to! Nevertheless he picked out a blue and white striped shirt that took his fancy and agreed to try it on, (naively) figuring that if he did that we could then be done and get out of there. A minute later he came out of the dressing room and both me and our lovely assistant cooed around him, admiring the shirt with the hat – and, I might add, Gordon liked them both too. “That shirt looks FAB on you and with the hat even better” I said, “but…. those jeans are all wrong! They’re a baggy style and OK for the beach but they aren’t the straight, boot cut, Outback jeans that go with a shirt like that. I think you should get some jeans to match!” Gordon made to protest but the assistant heartily agreed which was just as well because I was already asking her what jeans she would suggest dressing him in!
Knowing it would be useless to fight us both, Gordon took the dark blue and the sandstone jeans that the assistant, in the flash of a lambstail, had gathered for him. Garments in hand, he retreated back into the changing rooms to see out the rest of his fate! Within a couple of minutes, the changing room door reopened and out he walked in hat, shirt and jeans and to many “oohs” and “ahhs” from me and the assistant! In truth, he looked fantastic! “Wow!” I said, “What a man! Try the sandstone pair on too!” And so Gordon returned to the magic changing room, appearing seconds later, dressed in the sandstone jeans. They also looked great on him but….I HAD to say it - ”Hey, if you’re going to get both jeans – and I think you should – then you’re going to need another shirt to mix and match, maybe something with a bit of red in it”. Poor Gordy! By this stage there were a couple of people wanting to try things on in this one and only tiny changing room and so, naturally, I encouraged them to go in, using them as a reason to get Gordon out and looking for some more shirts! But I felt sure that he was starting to get into the swing of things and he easily accepted the shirt I’d had my eye on all this time! And the whole time, he had the assistant and her colleague telling him how great he looked, how smart, how manly, how handsome!
I guess it’s fair to say that Gordy wasn’t doesn’t enjoy the spotlight being on him. So he was only too relieved when the changing room became free again and he could hide away in there - albeit to change into something else that undoubtedly was going to set us women off all over again! Sure enough, when the door reopened and he stepped out, we LOVED this outfit too! And if truth be told, so does Gordon. You can bet your bottom dollar too, that I made sure I got his agreement on this fact before I ventured to say: “Trouble is, you can’t get the jeans, the hat and the shirt without getting the belt….I mean, it’s not OUTBACK without the belt!!” There was this flicker of a look that went across his face in that moment, as if somewhere in his brain he was figuring out that something was going on here. Quite sweet really! Yet there was no time for him to really process that thought because I was already asking our very helpful and lovely assistant as to what sort of belt he should be going for. Her reply? “Well, that all depends,” she said - “what colour boots will he mainly be wearing?” “Ah,” I say, a smile spreading across my cheeky chops - “that’s something ELSE that has been on our list to get. He doesn’t have any boots, only trainers”.
At this point, Gordon was probably no fool at all and the thought that had “sort of” flickered across his face before, had enough time now to be sharply understood in his mind. His wife was conniving and manipulating him – tusk, tusk! In an instant, he could finally see where all this was going and immediately interjected by saying: “well, I am not sure we came here to buy boots today or can afford them, but as for my trainers, well, they are brown”. What followed next was me rushing in to do my version of damage limitation, in other words, saying: “You can’t possibly get the hat, shirt, jeans and belt and not get the boots! There’s no way you can wear all that with TRAINERS! If you are going to spend on the hat, shirt, belt and jeans, you may as well finish the outfit and get some boots. And you KNOW that RM Williams boots are comfy and last forever, so you might as well – and we are here now so there’s no point in coming back another time......” And without really pausing to draw breath, I asked the assistant what she would be recommending for Gordon and she, in turn, made a suggestion for his “first pair”. Gordon was beat now and he knew it! Hilarious! As he threaded the belt through and eased on the boots, his lame attempt at asserting some kind of power (refusing to go for a bigger buckle) was fine by me, because what now stood before me was my Outback man and I was a very, very happy woman! My secret mission was accomplished!
They say that “clothes maketh the man” and I would have to say there is something in that because Gordon appeared transformed before my eyes, every inch the man that he always has been - only now I saw him stand with more poise, more “manliness” and more confidence. And all that was left of “Old” Gordy was the pile of shabby, dirty and dusty gear that he had been wearing when he came into the shop, complete with his worn, old, brown trainers and sweat-stained scruffy hat, all sitting on top of the lot! Priceless!
Now, at this stage I must confess to not having told you the whole story…..for while Gordon was busy transforming his look, I too, was having a bit of a play with dressing up and stretching my comfort zones (and no, they weren’t my thighs and bum!). Not normally a wearer of shirts, I nevertheless tried on a couple, along with some RM Williams jeans and a skirt. And lo and behold, in that changing room I was met with my own surprised reflection in the mirror. I liked my gear too, even though I wasn’t used to it! And so there we BOTH were, all dressed up and stood next to one another with the assistant proclaiming that we look like a couple of locals, a couple of proper outback farmers or station owners! It was a good feeling!
And so after what must have been two hours of “playing” in that shop the time came for us to pay our rather large bill. We ended up walking out of the shop with one of our outfits on, just in time to walk down to the main event of the afternoon - the RM Williams Rodeo. As we passed the entry ticket gate, who should be there but the two attendants whom we had been chatting to earlier in the day, when we were wearing our other gear. You should have seen their faces when they clocked a look at us! They cheered and clapped us, shouted after Gordon “you look great mate, you look the part, you really do!” and to us both “You really ARE loving the Outback aren’t you!” It was good feeling. And they were right of course, we both looked a right pair of bushies or outback farmers and like we had always been that. Even our friend Lindy walked straight past us at the rodeo, not even noticing us in our new look!!
And so here endeth the tale of the Outback Makeover – all that remains to be said, of course, is that if any of you are ever stuck on what to get us for Xmas and birthdays, well, RM Williams vouchers will do us just fine!!!
Pure Bull – one sporting night in Outback QLD
My song is dedicated to a man I’m proud to know
He left his mark in one respect, in big time rodeo
His battle scars and bandy legs are trademarks of the game
And could he live it over, there’s nothing he would change.
He got his special training, out on the big stock routes
At twelve years old he wore his jeans and R. M Williams boots
In 1958 young Coley made his first debut
With a different style of riding from what he used to do
The saddle and the rules were different but it wasn’t long
Till he was up amongst the best determination strong
Yeah, “rake him, Coley, rake him” you’d hear the people yell
“Charge him Coley, charge him”, from mark out to the bell
Spectators they all loved him, he was the people’s pride
And many of them only went to see Ken Coleman ride
(Adapted from “Coley”, S. Coster)
During our time in the Outback we had the opportunity to experience the 5th Round of Bundaberg Rum’s “PBR Challenger Series Touring Pro”, which had come to the small town of Hughenden, in Central-Western Queensland. For those in UK who don’t know, PBR stands for Professional Bull Riding. It is the fastest-growing extreme sport in the world, has huge prize money up for grabs not to mention the coveted Buckle. It also comes with a warning of being the toughest sport on dirt. So, armed with credentials like these and a desire to experience both something we have never experienced before and a slice of Outback Queensland “sport”, we paid our small entry fee and joined in with the 1000-strong spectator crowd of belts, buckles, boots and hats for a night of sporting prowess! Mind you, we were also soon to discover that a PBR event is not just a sporting event but a “rock-concert-meets-bull-riding” affair - a true “show-time” extravaganza that would have us tapping our feet to the beats of the music whilst at the same time being on the edge of our seat (or should I say, the little patch of ground our bums were sitting on!) with hearts pounding and breath held!
Before us, where all the action was to take place, was a circular, floodlit rodeo ring enclosed by railings and surrounded by spectators on three sides. Opposite, on the far side of this ring and behind those rails were the steel pens and chutes that were to contain the bulls before their release – and the area where the riders were getting dressed and ready. To the left and right of the rodeo ring were the big music speakers and the two huge, high TV screens that were going to be responsible for showing the playbacks during the evening. If truth be told, there was something of it that for me smacked of the Romans and the Gladiators – where we, the audience, were here because we wanted to see either a rider stay on…or a rider come off and if so, what would happen to them and the bull in that instance. Perhaps civilization hasn’t evolved much since then really but I don’t wish to get into a debate right here in the blog as to the ethics and morality of whether it’s wrong to go and see events like these. Just to say that for us, it was more a case of “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” – that is to say, we were in Outback Queensland to sample life there….and this is what many Outback Queenslanders enjoy as sporting entertainment.
Above this whole rodeo-ring spectacle and stretching out in all directions into the vastness of the landscape, was the wonderful inky-black Outback sky we have come to love so much on our travels, with a very white full moon rising up to throw the darkness into even greater contrast! All around us the air was chilly yet rife with anticipation and excitement – not to mention the wafting aroma of hotdogs, chips and burgers.
Suddenly (and catching us all off guard), the commentator boomed into his microphone and announced the 5th Round as being officially open. With that the TV screens sprang to life with a slick PBR promotional video showing fast, close-up and adrenalin-packed images set to awesome, pumping music and with a thrilling voice-over commentary! There was to be no doubt we were in for a night like no other! I was really excited and, I have to confess, a little irrationally nervous!
As the promotional video finished and the screens went off, the riders for the night were introduced one by one and invited into the ring while the commentator celebrated the “hero accolades” of each one and we, as the crowd, applauded and whooped. I had to pinch myself to believe I was here watching all this – for this was authentic PBR and not just something for the tourists!
It was quite a sight to see so many of them standing there, in full costume, with hats and protective leather chaps over their jeans – let alone just a few minutes later when the first of them prepared themselves and their bulls in the pens and chutes. It was only later on that I was to read that the chute is the most dangerous place for the rider, where legs have been crushed between steel and hide in what is a very small and confined space. Yet already I could see just how scary a place it was to be, as each rider tried to prepare his bull while said bull was already trying to buck him off, slamming itself (and the rider’s legs) into the steel sides of the pen as it tried to do so! Meanwhile, the music was blasting – from hip hop, to pop, to rock and roll - and each song seemed to be deliberately chosen to fit in with the theme of the night.
The first bull of the night was called “Kung Fu Juice”. The minute his rider was ready to go, the door to the chute was flung open and the music instantly switched to the 70’s tune of “Kung Fu Fighting”. In a flash this huge beast literally EXPLODED out onto the dirt of the arena, trying hard to buck and kick himself around in a bid to remove the rope tied around his loins, while the song played out and the rider did all he could to sit deep and hang tight - keeping one hand on the reins and the other arm and hand firmly in the air and not touching the bull at any time (as the rules dictated). It was a thrilling spectacle that was supposed to go for 8 seconds in order for the rider to qualify, though in this case (and in many other cases that night) lasted only 3 or 4 seconds – such was the feistiness of the bulls involved! After the ride, the big screens whirred into action as an exciting action reply was shown for our viewing pleasure.
And so the rounds unfolded, each bull and rider being introduced before the chutes flew open. We didn’t fancy one rider’s chances who was introduced as “the smallest rider on the biggest bull of the competition”…..yep, you guessed it, he was flung off in seconds! I was also guessing that for the bull called “Arachnophobia” you wouldn’t want to be riding him if there was a spider on the loose!
All the bulls had stage-names and music to match them. When a bull called “Cowboy” came out of the chute, they played ZZ Top’s “She’s got legs”, which was hilarious as these words were sung just as the bull started bucking its back legs high into the air! For the bull called “Prison Break” who was already trying to buck the rider off whilst still in the chute, they played George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” and for the bull “Rawhide” they played…..yes, you guessed it, “Rawhide”! Using the music in this way, it was as if each bull had its own character, especially too, when the words of the music seemed to coincide with what the bull happened to be doing. So when one bull came out to “You Spin me Right Round, Baby, Right Round” and proceeded to do just that – spin and spin and spin – it was just too slick to be true! Amongst other songs that seemed to match what the character of the bull and/or what the bull was doing, were “Round, Round I get Around” by the Beach Boys, Steppenwolf’s “Wild Thing”; Justin Timberlake’s “Sexy Back”; and Kenny Loggins ‘Footloose”. Music to get “thrown off to” fittingly included Van Halen’s “Jump” (and the rider did jump too – before the 8 seconds were up!!); ACDC’S ‘Dirty Deeds” and Le Chic’s “Freak Out”.
All the while we were in awe of the sheer might and power of the bulls, quite honestly the biggest and most fearsome looking beasts we have ever seen in our life (much bigger than at the R.M. Williams event we were to attend just weeks later). Yet there was much to be in awe of regards the rider’s prowess too – their talent, strength and heart showing through even if their hats bit the dust within nano-seconds of coming out of the chute. On the occasions when there was a win, Queen’s “We are the Champions” or “We Will Rock You” would pump out of the loudspeakers and, if the rider was still wearing his hat (a remarkable achievement in itself), he would throw it high into the air in elation. But win or lose, the rider always left the stadium with a limp – testament to the brute force of the sport! Often, when there was a fall, one or the other of the Clowns would rush in – their job to distract the bull away from the fallen rider and shoo him out of the ring and back in the pens with the other bulls. These moments provided on more than one occasion for a sharp intake of breath as the fate of the rider’s life quite literally hung in the hands of the Clowns expertise. How, at times, the bulls hooves did not come down on the riders head, I’ll never know. Sometimes, after the bull had tossed its encumbrance (the rider!), it strutted around the arena, almost as if to do a victory lap of honour. Once in a while one would dare someone too close to the other side of the ring and many of the bulls liked to refuse to “go home” through the gate to the pen – this would give rise to songs immediately being played such as Run DMC’s “Walk this Way” and Reel 2’s “I like to Move it” – hilarious! And if all that wasn’t enough music to tap our toes to, there was plenty more played to simply add ambience to the whole night – from ACDC’s “Thunder” to Rednex’s “Cotton Eye Joe”, Billy Idol’s “Rebel Yell”; Pulp Fiction’s “Pump It” and not to mention heaps of stuff by the Rolling Stones. Awesome!
So my friends, for two people who came to this night’s entertainment with a mission to do as the locals do, we certainly succeeded and had some unforgettable experiences of a certain slice of Outback Queensland’s sporting life! Wow! If only Bono had come on at the end to do a song……..(sigh!)
Bush Poetry Corner
Yes, back by popular demand, Cobber Cumming has penned another musing, inspired by an enforced stay in Cairns, where we went to get our fridge repaired under warranty. We have been to Cairns years ago and this time around had no desire to go back. To have our hand forced in this way then, was quite the culture shock! Enjoy the poem – he just keeps getting better and better, I am so proud of him!
Gone to Town
We came to town to get a few things fixed
On the way here, feelings were very mixed
Back to the cars and the noise and the lights
And away from the clear blue skies and starlit nights.
Now here in the city I feel the odd one out
Sound and movement and stimulation is all about
What I crave is peace and quiet
But the city is all around me – like some noisy riot
People always moving at such a pace
Like they’re all a part of some big race
Not sure why they’re all heading there oh so fast
And I don’t know where “there” is, but I reckon I’ll be there last!
Around the city smiles are rarely seen
Not like out west where we have just been
Here, if you walk around carrying a big, broad smile
People take one look at ya and run a country mile.
It seems here that many aspire to have more and more things
Like boats and cars and flashy diamond rings
A vicious cycle of buying the whole damn shopping mall
Then having to work longer and longer to pay for it all
So when do they get time to enjoy all they have gained
For, to that office desk they are inexorably chained!
While just sitting here and watching I can’t help but feel
That, to themselves, few of these folk are being truly real
Where is their connection with this incredible land?
Does any of her soil ever touch their manicured hand?
Do they ever just stop and listen to the breeze
As it rustles its way through those magnificent trees?
No doubt these folk are good and true of heart
But are no longer connected with their nature part
It seems to me that we don’t know who to be
When removed from the earth and from the country.
It’s true these verses could paint quite a lament
But they’re a reflection on how I feel life could be better spent
By being connected with each other and with the earth
And honouring what is naturally a part of us from birth
Within all of us there is a carefree nature child
Within all of us the need to be just a little bit wild
When we start to connect with our natural world
We are like giant petals being slowly unfurled
The truth is the city was also once my home
But now its way outback where I love to roam
(Gordon “Cobber” Cumming, 2009)
Outback Funnies – quirky towns, even quirkier festivals and mad, mad pubs!
One of my self-assigned jobs on this trip is that of researcher, planner and organizer – oftentimes much to Gordon’s disgust! (“Planning?????” he will say “whaddyawannadothatfor?!”) But to be fair, not only do I love finding out all the stuff there is to find out about – it also allows us to really maximize the time we spend somewhere. And sometimes my research really can cause us quite a few laughs and help us to get a feel for the people of a region so much more! So, when it came to Outback Queensland, my research seemed to point to the fact that towns here seem to pride themselves on anything they CAN pride themselves on - even if they have to scratch the bottom of their own town barrel to find “it” or just decide to invent something to be “famous” for, just for the hell of it!
Allow me to introduce to you then, the town of Charleville and it’s carefully put-together tourism brochure. Can you imagine how hard it was for me to contain my excitement when I read up on what there was for us to do in this fine town? You see as I perused the pages, I was informed that I could “meet the locals” at Bingo on Sunday Afternoons PLUS meet the locals for “fun and games at the senior citizens club”. Well, this had my interest pricked right from the start for sure, as you can well imagine! Then as I read on, alternative suggestions for my entertainment pleasure presented themselves, in a bid to really get my traveler juices flowing - alternatives such as having a “stories and scones tour at a local pub” or “watching the automated process of the weather balloon release (an “exciting event that happens daily!”). “Yeeharr!” I thought to myself. But I think what REALLY had us wanting to visit this fine town in the end, was the “Yabby Races” it holds every Tuesday and Friday night, where apparently the crowd goes wild! (For all the Pommie readers, yabbies are like very small freshwater lobsters). The brochure assured me that it would be the one race meeting where holding my breath could be fatal (after all, lets face it, Yabbies are not sprinters!) and where I would have one of the most exciting times of my life. All I had to do apparently was buy my Yabby (no training required), have a flutter on the Crawlers and then stand back and wait to see if my thoroughbred is the winner! Now, just when I thought the town was stark raving bonkers mad, I then read that is a fundraiser which helps the Royal Flying Doctor Service! Phew! Well that’s all right then! Sadly though, as can sometimes be the nature of “going-with-the-flow-travel”, we didn’t get to partake in this event as our travel plans ended up changing and so we were not in town on the right day. Bummer.
And so then, to the town of Quilpie. This town wins an award from us in terms of how it chooses to set itself apart and recruit would-be settlers to come and live there – namely by welcoming you to a “lifestyle where, in summer, golf is played at night with an esky at every hole”! Needless to say, the promise of free beer on ice on every hole of an 18-hole golf course had Gordon seriously considering moving there and taking up the sport!
One of the ways towns here really try to distinguish themselves is through their rodeos but they also do it through other festivals and competitions. This is how Camel Races can thus sit side by side with Outback Poetry Festivals and no-one bats an eyelid. It is clear therefore that any excuse to bring the community together is a good one. Yet it seems to us that these events also afford fantastic opportunities for one town to “outdo” another town’s festival…either via legitimate means or absurd! Windorah, for example, have secured their significantly more elevated “yabby” status over Charleville, by hosting the INTERNATIONAL Yabby Racing CARNIVAL, no less! It’s all in the name, so it would seem. Mind you, perhaps size really does matter….along with the appetite of a town towards the absurd. Cue (and not to be outdone by ANYONE), Winton’s 4 day, 2009 Outback Festival which promised to be a corker with over 40 events. Many of these had my mind working overtime to try and figure out what might be involved. I mean to say horse racing and crayfish racing are pretty self-explanatory, as are the competitions called Outback Whipcracking Championships, the Truck Pull and the Outback Iron Man and Outback Iron Woman (though the latter gave rise to a very scary vision which gave Gordon nightmares for a week!). But PEOPLE racing? What a strange way to put it – the mind boggles! Do they just mean people running the 100m against one another – or is there some more absurd way I haven’t even thought of, in which to race people? I mean does one person sit in a shopping trolley while another pushes it? Or is one person on all fours being “ridden” by someone with a bloody great whip??! And now, as far as the Australian Dunny Derby is concerned, the meaning is clearer, thanks to Gordon’s excellent description – but the race is still absurd if you ask me. How else can you feel about a race that has dunny shacks (for the Poms, that’s a tin shack that houses the outdoor loo) – dunny shacks on wheels, with someone inside and also someone outside who is pushing the thing to the finish line??! What’s all that about??! It almost makes the Bushman’s Egg Throwing competition a completely sane and normal event – and similarly so the Wool-Bale Rolling, the Swag Toss or the Broom Throwing segments! Ah Winton, we salute you! The town of Julia Creek and it’s “Dirt and Dust Festival” may well include the Annual Bog Snorkelling Championships and Best Butt Competiton, but it can’t hold a candle to you Winton and your 4 days of insane absurdity and madness! We were only sorry that we could not wait two months for your festival to take place so we could witness everything first hand!
Now of course these Outback towns don’t solely rely on rodeos, festivals, competitions and other “attractions” in order to create their identity and sense of pride, to bring community together or to attract travelers! They also make good use of the humble, quirky or iconic Outback Pub. Yay! It is fair to say at this point, that in the “interests of research” we managed to sample a few, if not all, of these establishments (well, it simply would have been rude and unfriendly NOT to) and had to smile at how each one manages to set itself apart from another. “Quirky” is one way that they seem to do it – and one of the ways this quirkiness can come from, seems to be in how a pub gets its name….as seen in the example of the Fox Trap Cooladdi Roadhouse. (The story goes something along the lines of travelers pulling up in the old days to fuel up, maybe throw a line in the creek and take a break from driving. Mr Fox, the then owner of the RoadHouse, would welcome visitors with open arms and convince them to have a cooling ale. One ale followed another and before too long a day or two had passed. Travellers nicknamed the road the Fox Trap alluding to the ability of Mr Fox to trap travelers with a beer or five!). Indeed, history is always a big pull and is sure to be a magnet for the tourists – whether the history is about the pub being an original stopover for the carriages in the olden days or whether it’s more to do with being the pub that had had the most brawls in days gone by! Some of these types of pubs even choose to bring that history inside the pub in wacky ways, as we were to enjoy in the Prairie Hotel, where someone had the rather wonderful idea of hanging a rather impressive number of old and worn out stockman’s hats from the ceiling, not to mention a whole host of memorabilia “from the land” – splayed all over the walls and everywhere else! At times, when it comes to naming these pubs and the issue of how to stand out, it makes you wonder what the hell the other suggestions must have been if the only one that they all could agree on was to “paint your pub a ridiculous colour and name it after the colour!” (hello to The Purple Pub!). Indeed, being the focal point in a town - for whatever reason - can be all that a pub needs to achieve in order to achieve notoriety in the Outback. In the case of The Nocundra Pub, the focal point for the town is that it happens to be the town’s only occupied building! You would think that you kind of can’t beat that, wouldn’t you – but Toompine has managed to go even further by being known both for the fact that it is “the pub with NO town (population of 2) and for the startling blue tractor up a tall pole that apparently comes with it! And, I guess when you are a pub with seating capacity for only six drinkers you too can hold your head high like the Adavale Pub!
But we have to say, we won’t just remember the pubs for their quirkiness and history - we will also remember them for their people. From the barman in Winton (who, from behind the pumps, was too gripped by the ending of a crappy “afternoon movie” and then by “Murder She Wrote”, as to even notice that we were fading away from thirst) to the staff at Tattersalls (also in Winton), who in the broad light of day all seemed to be helping themselves to beers whenever they wanted, making it a place that Gordon was quite keen to submit his resume to! And, yes, we did meet some interesting folk on OUR side of the bar too. Not least amongst these, was the wonderful Old Man Emu, a fascinating old Aboriginal whom we came across in Normanton’s Purple Pub. He chatted to us over beers about his two “arranged wives” waiting for him in Torres Strait Island, “promised” to him by both his clan and their clans – and how uncomfortable he is about this and cannot take part in it. His was a story of being an Aboriginal man with one foot solidly in the white fella’s world he has been living in since a teenager – and the other foot still in the traditional world of his clan on Torres Strait Island. He carried with him a mixed bag of guilty feelings towards what he knows does actually work in Aboriginal culture (arranged marriages) versus what he feels is “right” in his “white-fella” heart (young girls should not be married off to old men). It was a humbling experience to glean these insights from him and to learn about other parts of his life, including his childhood memories of working for the white fella as a sugar-cane cutter. A connection was forged between the three of us over those couple of beers and Old Man Emu even gave Gordon the name of “Old Man Traveller” - priceless!
Well my friends, as you can see, Outback QLD is a quirky place indeed – AND WE LOVED IT! The question is: Who wants to join us for some more fun when we go back – and help us get a team together for dunny racing?!!!
Friday, November 6, 2009
Post 23 - Greetings From Outback QLD - Part 1 : Far Western QLD - Journal
Yes, we have been spending more time in big, open spaces – being more energetically drawn to here rather than to QLD’s coastline. After all the big open spaces we have been spending time in these past few months, the coast just felt way too populated for us to cope with right now! In any case, we have already been to some of QLD’s iconic coastal destinations a few years ago - and are saving the Whitsundays for a big holiday in its own right when we can jet off on our private yacht for a couple of weeks without having to wonder where to stick the camper-trailer during that time!
So, Outback QLD has been an interesting one for us. When we crossed the border we didn’t even really want to be here – our hearts and souls were still deeply entrenched in our love for W.A and The Kimberley. It’s hard for the scenery of any place to compete with the sheer stunning beauty of the landscapes we found in The Kimberley and its relatively unpopulated remoteness! Sure, QLD’s Outback is remote, has its own beauty (albeit stark) and also has the big open spaces like W.A - but there is a lot more population living in these spaces and in far more towns of varying sizes, many of which are not too much of a distance from the other. So we knew as soon as we crossed the border, that if we were to give this place any kind of chance, we would need to find a new way to engage with it – a way that would be totally different from how we interacted with W.A! So my friends, we decided on this occasion to steer away from spending time in National Parks and instead to choose to experience and celebrate some of the other things Outback QLD is famous for – its pioneering history, its festivals, its friendly heritage-towns and its people. Our first real port of call was Camooweal, where we went to watch some Bronco Branding - as well as see what on earth happens in a tiny, outback QLD town when the ‘Annual Drovers Camp Festival” is being held! Now I agree, it was an interesting choice of celebration and venue for my birthday, that’s for sure, but I am pleased to report, it was a surprisingly very entertaining one nonetheless! I am guessing that if you drove into Camooweal on any other day or weekend of the year, you would probably want to just keep going and shoot straight through! Indeed, our first impression of it as we pulled in ahead of the festival, was that it was a rather drab, boring and very dusty, godforsaken “dot” of a town clustering itself tightly along a road that that seemed a few sizes too big for its needs (at 200km long, it is known to be the longest main road in the world!). However, once upon a time, Camooweal was the heart and soul of QLD’s droving heritage and a colourful droving centre for some of the largest cattle drivers in the world. So, to visit the town at the time when it hosts its annual salute to the deeds, lives and memory of the Australian Drover of old, was to see the place awash with some of its former colour and vibrancy - and, of course, to see history come alive once again! By the time the weekend kicked off with the lively street parade, we were ready to hit a festival of meeting drovers, watching bronco branding and crazy mail races, viewing art, hearing poetry and music and of course….eating! We hope then that you enjoy this first of our 2-part Outback Queensland series, focusing for the moment on all the rather excellent adventures we found to be had in little Camooweal!
Australia’s Last Legends of the Outback
Down the stockroute in the cold and rain, the heat, dust and the sand
Us old drovers don’t exist no more and it’s hard to understand
Hear the heavy roar of diesel of the roadtrains where we rode
There’s no stockroute where it used to be – just a winding black topped road
I’d give a lot to see and hear the old bush sounds again
But I’ve left it all behind me like a lot have done before
Our way of life is not good enough in this age of needing more
But the trusting and the friendship in the old days was so real
I was always proud of who I was and it’s still the way I feel
(“Still The Way I Feel”- Ray Rose)
Whether it was at the pub, at the Bronco Branding, the Drovers Ball or just while sitting down to eat at the Drovers Camp, we had an absolute blast hanging out with some of these 70 ex-drovers and ringers of yesteryear – even if many of them were nearing or over 80 years old! (For the Poms who don’t know - a drover was like a horse-mounted shepherd of cattle and sometimes of sheep). They truly are Australia’s last legends of the Outback and, as we listened to their yarns of how it used to be for them on horseback, leading the rather solitary and hard life they did and driving their huge mobs of cattle across vast and often treacherous distances of land, we couldn’t feel anything less than privileged to have met them and be humbled by their amazing achievements – achievements which not only included having survived such trips but that also extended to the successful setting up and stocking of those huge remote stations, on behalf of the owners of the cattle. Surprisingly, a lot of these now retired drovers are still as fit as fiddle and with huge hands too – testament to just how physically tough they had to be back then and something that has obviously stayed with them ever since (even if many of them are so bow-legged they look like they still live, eat, and sleep on a horse!).
Of the ones we got to know, there were of course different personalities we saw emerging and we were able to get a glimpse of what it might have been like to have known them in their hey-day! Sporting his flashy big belt-buckle won at a rodeo championship back in the sixties, Euguene was the most colourful character we found amongst them all. Walking and looking a lot like the unshaven British ‘Steptoe”, he referred to nearly everyone as a “bastard”, which I learnt in the end was either the literal meaning or his way of saying “a bloke” – though it was never clear to me which time was which one! Feisty, cranky Euguene! He was one of the last 6 remaining drovers of Camooweal who had higher opinion of himself than he did most other men and wasn’t afraid to share those opinions either – usually via praising himself and denouncing everyone and everything else as “bullshit”! In fairness though, even if you only believed half his yarns, he had probably indeed been a very skilful bushman, effective organizer and daring leader in his time. He could talk for ages and ages about it all from under his big brown drovers hat and not even notice if you turned away to speak to someone else! It was clear that he must have been quite the ladies man in his day as it was hilarious to watch the way he would only address me and our 60 year-old friend Lindy with all his yarns ….but not Gordon! In fact, he had quite the hots for Lindy and spent most of the weekend chasing her about! But say what you like about him, when you could get the mouth to stop flapping, we got to see that he really was a very generous man in many ways and really all heart underneath!
Another wonderful, generous man we got to know a little, was Ben, an ex-stockman and rather fabulous dancer! His face reminded me of a lovely turtle (!) and we were told by his mates that every wrinkle on his face was a laughter line – and that must have been so because all we ever saw and heard him do was smile or let out loud guffaws of mirthful chuckles. He had the most beautiful soul energy - a gentle man and a true gentleman, with an arm always lovingly placed around his wife. Both he and his wife were such an inspiration to us – they were such a beautiful and clearly-still-in-love couple that just radiated that energy the minute they got onto the dance floor at the Drovers Ball and wherever they walked together during the weekend. And again, in Ben we found another wonderfully generous man – gifting us his stainless steel, drovers quart-pot as a thank you for us agreeing to on-send some photos we had taken of him and his wife at the Ball. A lovely memento of a gorgeous soul!
With such colourful characters as these, how sad it is then, that droving no longer exists in Australia the way that these men used to know and uphold it – but how great that festivals like these still exist to commemorate them!
Singing and Dancing - the Outback QLD way!
Let your song take me back to the musters
And the horses a man used to ride
Let me feel the handshake of a bushman
See a bushwoman’s eyes shine with pride
Take me back to the glow of a campfire
And the yarns that the old timers told
So sing me another bush ballad
Relive a life that will never grow old
(‘Sing Me Another Bush Ballad” – Ray Rose)
Australian bush-ballad songs (and even some good ol’ American Johnny Cash!) were a permanent fixture of this whole festival weekend and I have to say that, whilst initially we were WAY out of our comfort zone with it all (after all, it’s a far cry from Pink or the Chilli Peppers!), Gordon and I ended up surprising ourselves by getting into the whole scene scarily quick! In our defence though, we will simply say that there are some very evocative lines in those songs, and they are not just a toe-tappin’ tune either but also relay wonderfully nostalgic stories of a time long gone. (OK, so the control freak in me loved the fact that each song had a definite start and end….so what?!!) Anyway, whether it was the live country music being played in the front of the pub’s packed verandah and verge during the lively street parade (the guitarist and singer standing on the back of an open ute!), or the bands that kept the atmosphere going throughout the days and evenings – music was a uniting force that kept everything going when the searing 37 degree heat had some of us fading!
But it was perhaps the Drovers Ball itself that was the musical jewel in the crown – a real-deal, 100% genuine, small town, dinky-di Aussie country dance! And a brand new experience for yours truly too! It was held in the Shire Hall, a wooden colonial building hugged on all sides by a lovely old-fashioned wide verandah – a fine example of colonial architecture. I was told that in the past the local copper had had to shut down the pub across the road until midnight, to make sure all of the men went to the dance (it was the only place where grog was being served!) and that it was permitted to reopen after midnight! It would seem the coppers nowadays are more kind-hearted than that and that the men are much better at turning up for the dance!
Inside the hall it was almost austere, save for a line of coloured balloons hanging down the length of the centre of the ceiling, chairs lining each of the three walls that were adorned with black and white photos of early pioneering life, and a colourful stage at the far end for the 3 piece country-music band (who were all hats, buckles, boots, shirts and guitars!). By the time we arrived some couples were already dancing over its wooden floorboards but the two fish out of water (a.k.a. me and Gordon) dived straight for the bar and then a seat against the wall – and in that order!! As the evening “hotted up”, I for one, relaxed a little more in my chair, if only because I was so enthralled with all the people-watching that was to be had! After all, it was quite something to see couples of varying ages twirling around the dance-floor the way that they were - some holding each other close, some of them promenading their steps with arms outstretched and feet light as a feather, some of the men spinning their women around only for those women to effortlessly return back to their partners with a hand barely resting on his back or shoulder! This was good ol’ fashioned dancing at its best and we were getting to watch it in bucket loads!
While most were dressed in smart-casual, there were some flared A-Line skirts that swirled in bold and vivid colours, while the odd ballgown or two elegantly rustled in time to the music too. Some of the dancers looked serious, keen to execute their steps perfectly as they travelled across the floor - while others just couldn’t stop smiling at their partner and laughing. It was fascinating to see all the different steps and dances there were for all the different songs - and that these people knew when to change those steps and dances! It really was like looking in on another world for us – especially when some of the men, dressed in their shirts and trousers or jeans, would go around the chairs lining the walls, asking women for the next dance! It reminded me of the school disco when you were either mortified that the person who had come to you had asked you – or thrilled because you secretly fancy him! (and, yes, right there at the Drovers Ball, it happened to me and all Gordon could do was secretly laugh his head off! I mean to say though - the man had a very dodgy pair of socks on with his shoes, was even older than Gordon (!) and didn’t have the grace to take “no” for an answer, begging me – most unattractively I might add – to reconsider! Oh my God!)
At 10pm supper was served – an abundance of home-made sandwiches cut into small triangles, heaps of homemade cakes, and all served with tea or coffee! Watching all this dancing had been very exhausting indeed and so naturally Gordon and I lined up with our plates for a small “partaking” of all that very tasty fare! Shortly after supper the band started up again, and Gordon finally plucked up the courage to ask me to dance! To quote Gordon: “I discovered that dancing with my gorgeous wife was to be something akin to the sport of Bronco Branding which we were here in Camooweal to see. Bronco Branding involves grappling with a ‘beast’ and trying to get it to go somewhere where it doesn’t want to go - but the advantage the Bronco Branders had was that they could use ropes!!!! The truth is, while Caroline struggled just a little with the idea of “ being led” by the man on the dance floor she is a wonderful partner, and we had a ‘ball” and a great laugh!” Hmmm. No comment!
Not long after our own toe-tapping venture, the band started up with a classic boot-scooting song drawing a young lad to the dance floor and everyone soon cleared the way for him to strut his stuff and entertain us. He must have only been about 12 years old and yet on this dancefloor, he was the King….. with zero inhibitions and all the requisite moves and grooves! It was fantastic to see him all dressed up in his hat, boots and buckle, going for it, while we all enthusiastically clapped and whooped him on. You could see he had the stockman in his blood, even at that young age - and that he had a very clear idea of who he is or who he is meant to be in this life!
As I looked around at everyone, I realized they were having the most fantastic time at this Ball! And that’s when I think I finally “got it” – that these people actually have something here! They have togetherness, touching/physical contact and something simple and honest and wholesome and good. And as I left them still dancing merrily past midnight, it certainly wasn’t them who were the boring ones! In fact, they continued to party right into the very wee small hours, raising the Camooweal roof with all their noise and keeping us lame campers awake with all their racket! Now THAT’s living!
Bronco Branding – or: Lessons in How To Thoroughly Annoy A Cow!
So, just how much fun can you have with a camera sticking through a railing, a pile of dust, a mob of cattle and some red-blooded Aussie stockmen either on horseback with lassoos or getting down and dirty on the ground? Well, after a weekend of Bronco Branding, I discovered that the answer is: a LOT! Furthermore, I would probably go as far as to say that after watching so much of it, I have probably newly joined the ranks of those who love this sport and who keep it alive. (Now all I have to do is to remember NOT to keep calling it BrAnco BOnding, which is what I inadvertently DID keep referring to it and which only served to attract to me many laughs and strange looks from people. But who knows, I may well have inspired someone to organize a brand new and entirely different, X-rated sort of man and horse event in the future!)
For the readers in Blighty, who are in the dark about what I am going on about, let me briefly explain Bronco Branding. In a nutshell, it was the method that stockmen traditionally used on most of the large stations in Australia up until the late 60’s, to brand mobs of young cattle out in the bush when these cattle weren’t able to be held in the more ordered confines of a stockyard. It involved mounted stockmen mustering the mob and holding them together on the “camp” (an open stretch of land). Meanwhile the “catcher” - usually the head stockman or an experienced ringer - would ride into the mob and rope or lassoo a “cleanskin” (unbranded) calf from where the stockmen was mounted on his horse. The roped calf would be hauled to the bronco ramp or a tree and leg ropes would then be applied and used to secure the beast to the ground. From this position, the calf would be earmarked, branded, and, if male, cut (castrated) and let up. Remarkably, the whole process took less than a minute and huge mobs of cattle would be mustered and branded in just one day using this method!
Now, I always get sad when old traditions die out or are replaced by “advanced technologies”, so it cheers me up considerably to understand that the new “sporting tradition” of Bronco Branding Championships that I am about to watch, has been set up to keep the skills of the great Australian Stockman alive and well! And indeed, it truly is fantastic to see a whole new generation of white Australian and Aboriginal stockmen – and yes, stockwomen! – all learning the ways of old, even right down to the art of greenhide rope-making. And it’s fantastic to know I am going to be seeing all ages competing – from young to 86 years old!
It’s 7a.m and the competition begins. With it’s opening, my initiation into this strange new world commences.
About an hour into watching the teams do their rounds from my vantage point of the back bench of the spectator stand, I can contain myself there no longer! I want to get closer to all the action! So I move right down to ground level and to the side of the fence - on my own save for the two female judges and the commentator. There, with arms leaning on one of the rails and camera shoved right through the gap, I get all and at times more than what I bargain for! You see, nothing can quite prepare you for your first encounter with action of this kind – or for all the noises that accompany it. The whole thing is quite a sight and it’s a privilege to be watching such skilled men and women on horseback - their thick and hard, raw-greenhide lassoos held high and always about to swing in perfected motion. Right now, here, in Camooweal, I know that what I am watching is the real deal – it’s not put on for any tourists…..and I am hooked to be a part of it all! I am as close to the action as I can legitimately get – where I can hear the snorts of the cattle, the thud of their hooves in stampede, the strangled and angry bellows of the calf that’s been captured as it fights against the rope. This is where I can witness up-close-and-personal the cow yanking and tugging at the rope around its neck, stamping his hoof in defiance, angrily swishing and flicking of his tail, eyes blazing mad, tongue lolling out of his mouth. The bellows are hard for me to listen to at first but I soon get used to them – once I realize the cow is not really in distress – just very, very pissed off!!! (It also helps having it explained to me that the competition rules and penalty systems are created in order to ensure humane treatment of the beast.).
By now, after an hour or so into the competition, the commentator is really on fire. A dinky-di Aussie, he sounds like a cross between a racing commentator, a football commentator and an auctioneer, whipping everyone into even more of a frenzy. So far, at times, I haven’t got a clue what he is actually saying - it’s just a loud “noise” from his mouth, a mass of joined together sounds. Other times though, like now, I can’t miss the jokes he’s cracking and his laughter – he’s having a ball and the two women judges are in stitches listening to him…as am I!
Depending on where he has been caught within the herd, I breathlessly watch the latest calf barging into and onto his fellow calves in a bid to escape the rope around him. He is trying as hard as he can to not be pulled by the mounted stockman. This even includes kicking his back legs up in the air and bucking in a final but always thwarted bid to break loose. It’s a flurry of movement and the dust is getting kicked up everywhere. This results in a huge “white-out” at times, with seconds of complete confusion for not only the spectator but also the judges. There is so much dust flying everywhere that I even have to quickly cover my camera lens to protect it from damage! The commentator notices, and makes yet another remark (there have been many) about me being the Official Photographer for “Outback Magazine” – I wish!!!
Soon enough though, the dust settles enough for everyone to come back on board with the action and to just catch the ground crew rushing in around the cow trying to contain him. The men keep a healthy distance for a few seconds but then rapidly close in on the calf - trying to “round him up” into the bit of fence they have to secure him to. By now the cow is giving it all that he’s got on the noise front, its bellows at times coming distorted out of its belly and throat, as they coincide with one or other member of the ground-crew lunging onto him. Above all these strained and not so strained bellows, I hear the sounds of the ground crew, shouting to each other in communication as to how best to trap this beast as the “clock” continues to tick away their competing seconds! Then, just as the commentator is entertaining himself by joking with them as they try to do their job, they manage to finally slam the calf against the iron railings. On this occasion the calf even practically head-butts the railing! There’s not even enough time for me to fully wonder how the hell this animal didn’t knock himself out. In an instant all three ground-crew firstly lunge their full body weight onto him and then alternate between one or two of them pitching their bodies against his – forcing him tighter and tighter up against the railing. Before the cow realizes it, they have got him right where they want him and he is in place! I watch excitedly as events unfold – no matter how many times I see them do this, I still marvel at the skill and speed and dexterity of these stockmen. With no seconds to waste, one of the ground-crew furiously ties the back leg of the cow to the rail and is followed by his teammate tying the cow’s front leg to the rail. Only now are this team permitted to fling this cow to the ground to fully contain him once and for all. On this occasion the calf goes down with a sickening thud though I have watched others get there all by themselves through wrestling with the men and getting off balance. With the calf down on the ground now, the team mates can remove the lasso from around its neck and keep a booted foot or two on him to make sure he goes nowhere. The two teammates catch their own breath – using the small window of time afforded to them as the third teammate, the “brander”, rushes off to get the “irons” (which, for humane reasons, is a paintbrush!). What an unbelievably physical contact sport this is! I see the heaving chests and panting breaths of both man and beast and then realize that even my own heart has been pounding away and my own breath has been held in the suspense and drama of it all!
In the shake of a tail the “brander” has returned, his paintbrush dripping with coloured paint. All that remains is for this teammate to daub a mark on the calf’s rear as well as a big fat stripe from the cow’s forehead to the back of its neck. By now the cow is so hemmed in that it just lays there, resigned to and accepting of its fate. But all changes the minute they take their booted feet off him and release his ropes – then he’s up onto his feet in a flash and away, giving one last indignant bellow as he goes! (Earlier before in this competition one cow was actually so mad that he turned on one of the ground crew and started to give chase – it was a thrilling few seconds to watch that happen!). Absorbed back into the fold, the calf seems to find solace and almost instantly recovers from his experience. In the ensuing little window of no-action, I can suddenly hear the strains of laid-back crooning and guitar strumming from the country music band on stage across the park – music that has been playing all the time but that has been obscured by all the action of this competition arena. It’s an oddly surreal moment and for some strange reason I feel like I am completely at home.
As the various rounds progress and each team has their go at competing, things hot up with the arrival of the “doubles” part of the competition. This involves more action and more quickly too, as two men on horseback may now catch calves at the same time, rather than one man on horseback. With the two men now in the fold throwing their lassoos around there is even more flurry and confusion and it becomes even harder to see which cow has become the latest victim to the rope. Sometimes - as happens now - while I am watching the teammates dealing with a cow at the railing, my attention is completely distracted away by the commentator shouting something like “Woah! Manny just caught another one!” For an agonizing second I can’t decide where to watch - the calf and teammates at the railing and all the action happening here - or Manny amidst the mob of remaining cattle and all the drama playing out there! Then there are the times when the commentator starts hollering enthusiastically because each mounted stockmen has managed to lassoo himself or herself a calf within seconds of each other! Initially all I can see are both of them astride their horses in the throng of cattle, their lines of rope extending from their arms and ending somewhere amongst the thick of the mob. Each stockman drives their horse forward and the cattle start moving quickly and in different directions, rapidly dispersing and tripping over each other in the scuffle that now ensues. As the cows move to get out of the way, it’s hard to know which stockman to watch and I flick my eyes from one to the other as if watching a tennis match! Always though, one stockman and his calf are the first to emerge from the confusion, so I try to keep track by noting the direction the mob are moving and by following both the bellows of the annoyed calf and the line of rope as it gets tauter. Sure enough, before long, the mystery is solved!
Just as the “doubles” competition is reaching its end something happens that has the commentator so excitedly whooping into his microphone that he practically launches himself into his space! One of the mounted stockmen has (inadvertently) lassooed TWO calves at the same time with just the one rope – something that the commentator has apparently never seen before! I excitedly thrust my camera through the railing in a bid to capture this moment in Bronco Branding history but only manage a couple of shots before all the dust beats me back. As the teammates try to deal with these two calves, seconds later the other mounted stockmen lassoos HIS calf – causing the commentator to wheeze with laughter as the groundcrew try to deal with it all in the seconds that remain!
At this point, the noise from THREE very annoyed cows is deafening to my ear. The body of my camera and the body of ME are covered in reddish-brown dust from top to toe. I even have a “tide-mark” where my sunglasses have been and I have grit in my mouth! But the smile on my face is bigger than anything and says it all – “THIS is Outback Queensland….and what a blast it has been!”
Before we leave this blog………
We could not go without sharing the lyrics to one particular bush ballad we love and whose lyrics are some of the most beautiful we have heard. The lines are so evocative of the land and the simple nature of the humble drovers of old, many of whom were never married and had no family. Their love was the land, being at one with the country and their simple way of life. Many of them had a wish to be returned back to that land in the same simple way in which they had lived with it when alive. (For the Poms, a quick translation – a ringer is a stockman, the Cooper is a QLD river, a gidgee is a hardwood bush tree that makes great firewood, the camp refers to a drovers overnight camp, and a cleanskin is an unbranded cow!)
Enjoy and see you next blog!
Axemark on a Gidgee
With horsebells to keep me company
And the waters to flow near me
Just an axemark on a gidgee
I don’t want no fancy grave
Somewhere out there on the Cooper
There’s a quiet spot near the nine-mile
Where the ringers go each muster
When the gidgee blossoms sway.
Let the wild horse and the cleanskin
And the brown bee in the clover
Let the wood duck and the emu
Hold their witness to my tomb
Near that quiet spot at the nine-mile
Make an axemark on the gidgee
Let my shrine be always centred
By the western gidgee blue
Just an axemark on a gidgee
I don’t wish for marble headstone
I’ve no kin in distant places
Who may shed a tear in vain
Just an axemark on a gidgee
And initials for my name.
And in the middle of each muster
When the camp is by the nine mile
And the steers are being ridden
And those sandhill flowers wave
Try to find the time one evening
To come by where I’ll be sleeping
Where an axemark on a gidgee
By the Cooper marks my grave
So, Outback QLD has been an interesting one for us. When we crossed the border we didn’t even really want to be here – our hearts and souls were still deeply entrenched in our love for W.A and The Kimberley. It’s hard for the scenery of any place to compete with the sheer stunning beauty of the landscapes we found in The Kimberley and its relatively unpopulated remoteness! Sure, QLD’s Outback is remote, has its own beauty (albeit stark) and also has the big open spaces like W.A - but there is a lot more population living in these spaces and in far more towns of varying sizes, many of which are not too much of a distance from the other. So we knew as soon as we crossed the border, that if we were to give this place any kind of chance, we would need to find a new way to engage with it – a way that would be totally different from how we interacted with W.A! So my friends, we decided on this occasion to steer away from spending time in National Parks and instead to choose to experience and celebrate some of the other things Outback QLD is famous for – its pioneering history, its festivals, its friendly heritage-towns and its people. Our first real port of call was Camooweal, where we went to watch some Bronco Branding - as well as see what on earth happens in a tiny, outback QLD town when the ‘Annual Drovers Camp Festival” is being held! Now I agree, it was an interesting choice of celebration and venue for my birthday, that’s for sure, but I am pleased to report, it was a surprisingly very entertaining one nonetheless! I am guessing that if you drove into Camooweal on any other day or weekend of the year, you would probably want to just keep going and shoot straight through! Indeed, our first impression of it as we pulled in ahead of the festival, was that it was a rather drab, boring and very dusty, godforsaken “dot” of a town clustering itself tightly along a road that that seemed a few sizes too big for its needs (at 200km long, it is known to be the longest main road in the world!). However, once upon a time, Camooweal was the heart and soul of QLD’s droving heritage and a colourful droving centre for some of the largest cattle drivers in the world. So, to visit the town at the time when it hosts its annual salute to the deeds, lives and memory of the Australian Drover of old, was to see the place awash with some of its former colour and vibrancy - and, of course, to see history come alive once again! By the time the weekend kicked off with the lively street parade, we were ready to hit a festival of meeting drovers, watching bronco branding and crazy mail races, viewing art, hearing poetry and music and of course….eating! We hope then that you enjoy this first of our 2-part Outback Queensland series, focusing for the moment on all the rather excellent adventures we found to be had in little Camooweal!
Australia’s Last Legends of the Outback
Down the stockroute in the cold and rain, the heat, dust and the sand
Us old drovers don’t exist no more and it’s hard to understand
Hear the heavy roar of diesel of the roadtrains where we rode
There’s no stockroute where it used to be – just a winding black topped road
I’d give a lot to see and hear the old bush sounds again
But I’ve left it all behind me like a lot have done before
Our way of life is not good enough in this age of needing more
But the trusting and the friendship in the old days was so real
I was always proud of who I was and it’s still the way I feel
(“Still The Way I Feel”- Ray Rose)
Whether it was at the pub, at the Bronco Branding, the Drovers Ball or just while sitting down to eat at the Drovers Camp, we had an absolute blast hanging out with some of these 70 ex-drovers and ringers of yesteryear – even if many of them were nearing or over 80 years old! (For the Poms who don’t know - a drover was like a horse-mounted shepherd of cattle and sometimes of sheep). They truly are Australia’s last legends of the Outback and, as we listened to their yarns of how it used to be for them on horseback, leading the rather solitary and hard life they did and driving their huge mobs of cattle across vast and often treacherous distances of land, we couldn’t feel anything less than privileged to have met them and be humbled by their amazing achievements – achievements which not only included having survived such trips but that also extended to the successful setting up and stocking of those huge remote stations, on behalf of the owners of the cattle. Surprisingly, a lot of these now retired drovers are still as fit as fiddle and with huge hands too – testament to just how physically tough they had to be back then and something that has obviously stayed with them ever since (even if many of them are so bow-legged they look like they still live, eat, and sleep on a horse!).
Of the ones we got to know, there were of course different personalities we saw emerging and we were able to get a glimpse of what it might have been like to have known them in their hey-day! Sporting his flashy big belt-buckle won at a rodeo championship back in the sixties, Euguene was the most colourful character we found amongst them all. Walking and looking a lot like the unshaven British ‘Steptoe”, he referred to nearly everyone as a “bastard”, which I learnt in the end was either the literal meaning or his way of saying “a bloke” – though it was never clear to me which time was which one! Feisty, cranky Euguene! He was one of the last 6 remaining drovers of Camooweal who had higher opinion of himself than he did most other men and wasn’t afraid to share those opinions either – usually via praising himself and denouncing everyone and everything else as “bullshit”! In fairness though, even if you only believed half his yarns, he had probably indeed been a very skilful bushman, effective organizer and daring leader in his time. He could talk for ages and ages about it all from under his big brown drovers hat and not even notice if you turned away to speak to someone else! It was clear that he must have been quite the ladies man in his day as it was hilarious to watch the way he would only address me and our 60 year-old friend Lindy with all his yarns ….but not Gordon! In fact, he had quite the hots for Lindy and spent most of the weekend chasing her about! But say what you like about him, when you could get the mouth to stop flapping, we got to see that he really was a very generous man in many ways and really all heart underneath!
Another wonderful, generous man we got to know a little, was Ben, an ex-stockman and rather fabulous dancer! His face reminded me of a lovely turtle (!) and we were told by his mates that every wrinkle on his face was a laughter line – and that must have been so because all we ever saw and heard him do was smile or let out loud guffaws of mirthful chuckles. He had the most beautiful soul energy - a gentle man and a true gentleman, with an arm always lovingly placed around his wife. Both he and his wife were such an inspiration to us – they were such a beautiful and clearly-still-in-love couple that just radiated that energy the minute they got onto the dance floor at the Drovers Ball and wherever they walked together during the weekend. And again, in Ben we found another wonderfully generous man – gifting us his stainless steel, drovers quart-pot as a thank you for us agreeing to on-send some photos we had taken of him and his wife at the Ball. A lovely memento of a gorgeous soul!
With such colourful characters as these, how sad it is then, that droving no longer exists in Australia the way that these men used to know and uphold it – but how great that festivals like these still exist to commemorate them!
Singing and Dancing - the Outback QLD way!
Let your song take me back to the musters
And the horses a man used to ride
Let me feel the handshake of a bushman
See a bushwoman’s eyes shine with pride
Take me back to the glow of a campfire
And the yarns that the old timers told
So sing me another bush ballad
Relive a life that will never grow old
(‘Sing Me Another Bush Ballad” – Ray Rose)
Australian bush-ballad songs (and even some good ol’ American Johnny Cash!) were a permanent fixture of this whole festival weekend and I have to say that, whilst initially we were WAY out of our comfort zone with it all (after all, it’s a far cry from Pink or the Chilli Peppers!), Gordon and I ended up surprising ourselves by getting into the whole scene scarily quick! In our defence though, we will simply say that there are some very evocative lines in those songs, and they are not just a toe-tappin’ tune either but also relay wonderfully nostalgic stories of a time long gone. (OK, so the control freak in me loved the fact that each song had a definite start and end….so what?!!) Anyway, whether it was the live country music being played in the front of the pub’s packed verandah and verge during the lively street parade (the guitarist and singer standing on the back of an open ute!), or the bands that kept the atmosphere going throughout the days and evenings – music was a uniting force that kept everything going when the searing 37 degree heat had some of us fading!
But it was perhaps the Drovers Ball itself that was the musical jewel in the crown – a real-deal, 100% genuine, small town, dinky-di Aussie country dance! And a brand new experience for yours truly too! It was held in the Shire Hall, a wooden colonial building hugged on all sides by a lovely old-fashioned wide verandah – a fine example of colonial architecture. I was told that in the past the local copper had had to shut down the pub across the road until midnight, to make sure all of the men went to the dance (it was the only place where grog was being served!) and that it was permitted to reopen after midnight! It would seem the coppers nowadays are more kind-hearted than that and that the men are much better at turning up for the dance!
Inside the hall it was almost austere, save for a line of coloured balloons hanging down the length of the centre of the ceiling, chairs lining each of the three walls that were adorned with black and white photos of early pioneering life, and a colourful stage at the far end for the 3 piece country-music band (who were all hats, buckles, boots, shirts and guitars!). By the time we arrived some couples were already dancing over its wooden floorboards but the two fish out of water (a.k.a. me and Gordon) dived straight for the bar and then a seat against the wall – and in that order!! As the evening “hotted up”, I for one, relaxed a little more in my chair, if only because I was so enthralled with all the people-watching that was to be had! After all, it was quite something to see couples of varying ages twirling around the dance-floor the way that they were - some holding each other close, some of them promenading their steps with arms outstretched and feet light as a feather, some of the men spinning their women around only for those women to effortlessly return back to their partners with a hand barely resting on his back or shoulder! This was good ol’ fashioned dancing at its best and we were getting to watch it in bucket loads!
While most were dressed in smart-casual, there were some flared A-Line skirts that swirled in bold and vivid colours, while the odd ballgown or two elegantly rustled in time to the music too. Some of the dancers looked serious, keen to execute their steps perfectly as they travelled across the floor - while others just couldn’t stop smiling at their partner and laughing. It was fascinating to see all the different steps and dances there were for all the different songs - and that these people knew when to change those steps and dances! It really was like looking in on another world for us – especially when some of the men, dressed in their shirts and trousers or jeans, would go around the chairs lining the walls, asking women for the next dance! It reminded me of the school disco when you were either mortified that the person who had come to you had asked you – or thrilled because you secretly fancy him! (and, yes, right there at the Drovers Ball, it happened to me and all Gordon could do was secretly laugh his head off! I mean to say though - the man had a very dodgy pair of socks on with his shoes, was even older than Gordon (!) and didn’t have the grace to take “no” for an answer, begging me – most unattractively I might add – to reconsider! Oh my God!)
At 10pm supper was served – an abundance of home-made sandwiches cut into small triangles, heaps of homemade cakes, and all served with tea or coffee! Watching all this dancing had been very exhausting indeed and so naturally Gordon and I lined up with our plates for a small “partaking” of all that very tasty fare! Shortly after supper the band started up again, and Gordon finally plucked up the courage to ask me to dance! To quote Gordon: “I discovered that dancing with my gorgeous wife was to be something akin to the sport of Bronco Branding which we were here in Camooweal to see. Bronco Branding involves grappling with a ‘beast’ and trying to get it to go somewhere where it doesn’t want to go - but the advantage the Bronco Branders had was that they could use ropes!!!! The truth is, while Caroline struggled just a little with the idea of “ being led” by the man on the dance floor she is a wonderful partner, and we had a ‘ball” and a great laugh!” Hmmm. No comment!
Not long after our own toe-tapping venture, the band started up with a classic boot-scooting song drawing a young lad to the dance floor and everyone soon cleared the way for him to strut his stuff and entertain us. He must have only been about 12 years old and yet on this dancefloor, he was the King….. with zero inhibitions and all the requisite moves and grooves! It was fantastic to see him all dressed up in his hat, boots and buckle, going for it, while we all enthusiastically clapped and whooped him on. You could see he had the stockman in his blood, even at that young age - and that he had a very clear idea of who he is or who he is meant to be in this life!
As I looked around at everyone, I realized they were having the most fantastic time at this Ball! And that’s when I think I finally “got it” – that these people actually have something here! They have togetherness, touching/physical contact and something simple and honest and wholesome and good. And as I left them still dancing merrily past midnight, it certainly wasn’t them who were the boring ones! In fact, they continued to party right into the very wee small hours, raising the Camooweal roof with all their noise and keeping us lame campers awake with all their racket! Now THAT’s living!
Bronco Branding – or: Lessons in How To Thoroughly Annoy A Cow!
So, just how much fun can you have with a camera sticking through a railing, a pile of dust, a mob of cattle and some red-blooded Aussie stockmen either on horseback with lassoos or getting down and dirty on the ground? Well, after a weekend of Bronco Branding, I discovered that the answer is: a LOT! Furthermore, I would probably go as far as to say that after watching so much of it, I have probably newly joined the ranks of those who love this sport and who keep it alive. (Now all I have to do is to remember NOT to keep calling it BrAnco BOnding, which is what I inadvertently DID keep referring to it and which only served to attract to me many laughs and strange looks from people. But who knows, I may well have inspired someone to organize a brand new and entirely different, X-rated sort of man and horse event in the future!)
For the readers in Blighty, who are in the dark about what I am going on about, let me briefly explain Bronco Branding. In a nutshell, it was the method that stockmen traditionally used on most of the large stations in Australia up until the late 60’s, to brand mobs of young cattle out in the bush when these cattle weren’t able to be held in the more ordered confines of a stockyard. It involved mounted stockmen mustering the mob and holding them together on the “camp” (an open stretch of land). Meanwhile the “catcher” - usually the head stockman or an experienced ringer - would ride into the mob and rope or lassoo a “cleanskin” (unbranded) calf from where the stockmen was mounted on his horse. The roped calf would be hauled to the bronco ramp or a tree and leg ropes would then be applied and used to secure the beast to the ground. From this position, the calf would be earmarked, branded, and, if male, cut (castrated) and let up. Remarkably, the whole process took less than a minute and huge mobs of cattle would be mustered and branded in just one day using this method!
Now, I always get sad when old traditions die out or are replaced by “advanced technologies”, so it cheers me up considerably to understand that the new “sporting tradition” of Bronco Branding Championships that I am about to watch, has been set up to keep the skills of the great Australian Stockman alive and well! And indeed, it truly is fantastic to see a whole new generation of white Australian and Aboriginal stockmen – and yes, stockwomen! – all learning the ways of old, even right down to the art of greenhide rope-making. And it’s fantastic to know I am going to be seeing all ages competing – from young to 86 years old!
It’s 7a.m and the competition begins. With it’s opening, my initiation into this strange new world commences.
About an hour into watching the teams do their rounds from my vantage point of the back bench of the spectator stand, I can contain myself there no longer! I want to get closer to all the action! So I move right down to ground level and to the side of the fence - on my own save for the two female judges and the commentator. There, with arms leaning on one of the rails and camera shoved right through the gap, I get all and at times more than what I bargain for! You see, nothing can quite prepare you for your first encounter with action of this kind – or for all the noises that accompany it. The whole thing is quite a sight and it’s a privilege to be watching such skilled men and women on horseback - their thick and hard, raw-greenhide lassoos held high and always about to swing in perfected motion. Right now, here, in Camooweal, I know that what I am watching is the real deal – it’s not put on for any tourists…..and I am hooked to be a part of it all! I am as close to the action as I can legitimately get – where I can hear the snorts of the cattle, the thud of their hooves in stampede, the strangled and angry bellows of the calf that’s been captured as it fights against the rope. This is where I can witness up-close-and-personal the cow yanking and tugging at the rope around its neck, stamping his hoof in defiance, angrily swishing and flicking of his tail, eyes blazing mad, tongue lolling out of his mouth. The bellows are hard for me to listen to at first but I soon get used to them – once I realize the cow is not really in distress – just very, very pissed off!!! (It also helps having it explained to me that the competition rules and penalty systems are created in order to ensure humane treatment of the beast.).
By now, after an hour or so into the competition, the commentator is really on fire. A dinky-di Aussie, he sounds like a cross between a racing commentator, a football commentator and an auctioneer, whipping everyone into even more of a frenzy. So far, at times, I haven’t got a clue what he is actually saying - it’s just a loud “noise” from his mouth, a mass of joined together sounds. Other times though, like now, I can’t miss the jokes he’s cracking and his laughter – he’s having a ball and the two women judges are in stitches listening to him…as am I!
Depending on where he has been caught within the herd, I breathlessly watch the latest calf barging into and onto his fellow calves in a bid to escape the rope around him. He is trying as hard as he can to not be pulled by the mounted stockman. This even includes kicking his back legs up in the air and bucking in a final but always thwarted bid to break loose. It’s a flurry of movement and the dust is getting kicked up everywhere. This results in a huge “white-out” at times, with seconds of complete confusion for not only the spectator but also the judges. There is so much dust flying everywhere that I even have to quickly cover my camera lens to protect it from damage! The commentator notices, and makes yet another remark (there have been many) about me being the Official Photographer for “Outback Magazine” – I wish!!!
Soon enough though, the dust settles enough for everyone to come back on board with the action and to just catch the ground crew rushing in around the cow trying to contain him. The men keep a healthy distance for a few seconds but then rapidly close in on the calf - trying to “round him up” into the bit of fence they have to secure him to. By now the cow is giving it all that he’s got on the noise front, its bellows at times coming distorted out of its belly and throat, as they coincide with one or other member of the ground-crew lunging onto him. Above all these strained and not so strained bellows, I hear the sounds of the ground crew, shouting to each other in communication as to how best to trap this beast as the “clock” continues to tick away their competing seconds! Then, just as the commentator is entertaining himself by joking with them as they try to do their job, they manage to finally slam the calf against the iron railings. On this occasion the calf even practically head-butts the railing! There’s not even enough time for me to fully wonder how the hell this animal didn’t knock himself out. In an instant all three ground-crew firstly lunge their full body weight onto him and then alternate between one or two of them pitching their bodies against his – forcing him tighter and tighter up against the railing. Before the cow realizes it, they have got him right where they want him and he is in place! I watch excitedly as events unfold – no matter how many times I see them do this, I still marvel at the skill and speed and dexterity of these stockmen. With no seconds to waste, one of the ground-crew furiously ties the back leg of the cow to the rail and is followed by his teammate tying the cow’s front leg to the rail. Only now are this team permitted to fling this cow to the ground to fully contain him once and for all. On this occasion the calf goes down with a sickening thud though I have watched others get there all by themselves through wrestling with the men and getting off balance. With the calf down on the ground now, the team mates can remove the lasso from around its neck and keep a booted foot or two on him to make sure he goes nowhere. The two teammates catch their own breath – using the small window of time afforded to them as the third teammate, the “brander”, rushes off to get the “irons” (which, for humane reasons, is a paintbrush!). What an unbelievably physical contact sport this is! I see the heaving chests and panting breaths of both man and beast and then realize that even my own heart has been pounding away and my own breath has been held in the suspense and drama of it all!
In the shake of a tail the “brander” has returned, his paintbrush dripping with coloured paint. All that remains is for this teammate to daub a mark on the calf’s rear as well as a big fat stripe from the cow’s forehead to the back of its neck. By now the cow is so hemmed in that it just lays there, resigned to and accepting of its fate. But all changes the minute they take their booted feet off him and release his ropes – then he’s up onto his feet in a flash and away, giving one last indignant bellow as he goes! (Earlier before in this competition one cow was actually so mad that he turned on one of the ground crew and started to give chase – it was a thrilling few seconds to watch that happen!). Absorbed back into the fold, the calf seems to find solace and almost instantly recovers from his experience. In the ensuing little window of no-action, I can suddenly hear the strains of laid-back crooning and guitar strumming from the country music band on stage across the park – music that has been playing all the time but that has been obscured by all the action of this competition arena. It’s an oddly surreal moment and for some strange reason I feel like I am completely at home.
As the various rounds progress and each team has their go at competing, things hot up with the arrival of the “doubles” part of the competition. This involves more action and more quickly too, as two men on horseback may now catch calves at the same time, rather than one man on horseback. With the two men now in the fold throwing their lassoos around there is even more flurry and confusion and it becomes even harder to see which cow has become the latest victim to the rope. Sometimes - as happens now - while I am watching the teammates dealing with a cow at the railing, my attention is completely distracted away by the commentator shouting something like “Woah! Manny just caught another one!” For an agonizing second I can’t decide where to watch - the calf and teammates at the railing and all the action happening here - or Manny amidst the mob of remaining cattle and all the drama playing out there! Then there are the times when the commentator starts hollering enthusiastically because each mounted stockmen has managed to lassoo himself or herself a calf within seconds of each other! Initially all I can see are both of them astride their horses in the throng of cattle, their lines of rope extending from their arms and ending somewhere amongst the thick of the mob. Each stockman drives their horse forward and the cattle start moving quickly and in different directions, rapidly dispersing and tripping over each other in the scuffle that now ensues. As the cows move to get out of the way, it’s hard to know which stockman to watch and I flick my eyes from one to the other as if watching a tennis match! Always though, one stockman and his calf are the first to emerge from the confusion, so I try to keep track by noting the direction the mob are moving and by following both the bellows of the annoyed calf and the line of rope as it gets tauter. Sure enough, before long, the mystery is solved!
Just as the “doubles” competition is reaching its end something happens that has the commentator so excitedly whooping into his microphone that he practically launches himself into his space! One of the mounted stockmen has (inadvertently) lassooed TWO calves at the same time with just the one rope – something that the commentator has apparently never seen before! I excitedly thrust my camera through the railing in a bid to capture this moment in Bronco Branding history but only manage a couple of shots before all the dust beats me back. As the teammates try to deal with these two calves, seconds later the other mounted stockmen lassoos HIS calf – causing the commentator to wheeze with laughter as the groundcrew try to deal with it all in the seconds that remain!
At this point, the noise from THREE very annoyed cows is deafening to my ear. The body of my camera and the body of ME are covered in reddish-brown dust from top to toe. I even have a “tide-mark” where my sunglasses have been and I have grit in my mouth! But the smile on my face is bigger than anything and says it all – “THIS is Outback Queensland….and what a blast it has been!”
Before we leave this blog………
We could not go without sharing the lyrics to one particular bush ballad we love and whose lyrics are some of the most beautiful we have heard. The lines are so evocative of the land and the simple nature of the humble drovers of old, many of whom were never married and had no family. Their love was the land, being at one with the country and their simple way of life. Many of them had a wish to be returned back to that land in the same simple way in which they had lived with it when alive. (For the Poms, a quick translation – a ringer is a stockman, the Cooper is a QLD river, a gidgee is a hardwood bush tree that makes great firewood, the camp refers to a drovers overnight camp, and a cleanskin is an unbranded cow!)
Enjoy and see you next blog!
Axemark on a Gidgee
With horsebells to keep me company
And the waters to flow near me
Just an axemark on a gidgee
I don’t want no fancy grave
Somewhere out there on the Cooper
There’s a quiet spot near the nine-mile
Where the ringers go each muster
When the gidgee blossoms sway.
Let the wild horse and the cleanskin
And the brown bee in the clover
Let the wood duck and the emu
Hold their witness to my tomb
Near that quiet spot at the nine-mile
Make an axemark on the gidgee
Let my shrine be always centred
By the western gidgee blue
Just an axemark on a gidgee
I don’t wish for marble headstone
I’ve no kin in distant places
Who may shed a tear in vain
Just an axemark on a gidgee
And initials for my name.
And in the middle of each muster
When the camp is by the nine mile
And the steers are being ridden
And those sandhill flowers wave
Try to find the time one evening
To come by where I’ll be sleeping
Where an axemark on a gidgee
By the Cooper marks my grave
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Post 22 - Greetings From Northern Territory's (NT) Top End - Part 2 : Kakadu & Arnhem Land - Journal
Greetings from Kakadu and Arnhem Land in NT’s Top End!! We have loved Kakadu so much that we extended our stay! Overall we were here for 6 nights which means we have absolutely broken the statistics for how long people usually stay here! Of the 220,000 that visit Kakadu each year, the average length of stay for everybody is just 1.5 days! Staggeringly though, more than half of this number don’t even stay overnight - they are just on a day trip out of Darwin! For us that beggars belief - for how on earth can you really start to FEEL all of what Kakadu is, is if you are only on a day trip??! Even in our 6 days here we didn’t get to see it all - but then we had made a conscious decision about that. Our aim in visiting the Top End was never to “see it all” and so our agenda has definitely been to try and avoid the crowds as much as possible and to have as much of a wildlife and cultural experience as we could. This has meant avoiding some of the touristy gorges and swimming holes not only in southern Kakadu but also in the much touted Litchfield Park near Darwin, and Katherine Gorge further south of Darwin. Aside from wanting to avoid all the tourists though, our decision was also due to the fact we were feeling a bit “gorge-d” and “rockpool-ed” out. We also knew that, it being the Dry season, all the numerous waterfalls that the whole Top End is famous for, would not be running anyway. So, as well as continuing to explore and experience northern/central Kakadu, we were also thrilled to visit some of the Mary River region west of Kakadu, and some of the amazing western Arnhem Land over to its east. Mary River region is similar to Kakadu, with all its wetlands and billabongs – it’s just not as populated with tourists. As for Arnhem Land, well, that takes up the entire eastern half of the Top End and is about the size of Portugal! Like Kakadu, Arnhem Land is a place of breathtaking beauty and prehistoric landscapes, these being untouched for over 40,000 years. In many ways we found it to be much more beautiful – which is saying something as we found Kakadu to be stunning! Arnhem Land is aboriginal land where a fascinating mixture of traditional and living culture exists today amongst its 12000 aboriginal inhabitants. Like Kakadu, the aboriginal rock art forms some of the richest sources of it in the whole of Australia and the arts and crafts for sale amongst the most authentic and quality you can buy anywhere. Unlike Kakadu though, you can’t just simply visit here. The whole country is something of a “forbidden land” to the “white fella” and permits are required to travel anywhere inside of its border. (We got our permit via visiting with an aboriginal-owned and-operated day tour but we are most definitely planning to save up and do a much longer visit with guides again at another date. This will enable us to visit exclusive areas not permissible with just an individual permit to travel. Even in one day though, due to the excellent nature of that tour, we were really able to come away with a very good feel for Arnhem Land, and to appreciate some of what it is to be an aboriginal there.) All in all then and as you can imagine, we have had a blast once again in true Flash and Caz stylie and unique cultural and wildlife experiences have continued to abound, providing us with memories to last us a lifetime. The cultural experiences here have been a heady mix of fascinating, and at different times challenging, confronting, humbling and very thought provoking. Overall, we are thrilled to say this entire area of the Top End more than exceeded our expectations, being for us the complete jewels in the crown in terms of NT as a whole. We hope once again that through our stories and photographs, you will be able to understand why we fell in love with the region!
Animal Tracks Safari – a day in the life of two hunter-gatherers
“Hunting is a part of our lives. In Balanda* society instead of hunting you go shopping. We hunt for wildlife, our food, to keep the tradition going. Hunting is used as a calendar – fish time, file snakes time, lots of fruit coming up like yams, mussels. It’s a good feeling to go out and hunt because when you are out there and you get something, after you have eaten it you feel so happy that you worked for it. Hunting is hard work.”
Aboriginal Clan member – name not permitted (*Balanda means white man)
Well, what a rather unique and authentic experience this one was to add to the bag! Travelling in an open-sided safari vehicle, we once again avoided the crowds and joined a few other people on the only day tour that went to an exclusive-access and wildlife-rich 170km square area of land, right in the heart of Kakadu National Park. The day was to be about searching for wildlife and discovering things to do with aboriginal bush life - including bush foods, bush medicine, and fibres used for arts and crafts. We were lucky enough to be joined by two female aboriginal bush guides, Doreen and Sandra, both born in Kakadu and both not that used to being with the “white fella”. The day began by making our way to the Buffalo Farm “homestead”. (This farm was set up over 20 years ago, at a time when all the wild buffalo were culled in the park – the idea was for the farm to provide a local source of bushmeat for the aboriginal communities around Kakadu. It is able to still exist as a result of the sale of our tour tickets). En-route to the “homestead” we were able to spot some of these mighty black beasts, albeit from a distance – but judging by their size and their horns, the distance thing was a very good thing indeed! In the billabongs they were not always easy to spot in and of themselves but their giveaway were often the small white cattle-egret that perched on their backs or heads, a rather strange dual relationship to see!
The “homestead” was typical of other aboriginal stations that we have seen – dust everywhere, junk and debris piled all around the yard and buildings that looked like they fell into disrepair a lifetime ago. We were here to pick up the aboriginal ladies, to get a look at Kenny (a very ferocious 3.5m croc that had to be caught and penned up here in case it did any more killing!) and to grab a quick pose on a real-deal old “bull-dozer” – a mustering vehicle used to drive into wild bulls and buffalo in order to knock them down so that their legs can be tied and they can be caught for branding or loading onto a truck to be transported. The bull-dozer was a particular highlight for me as I have been itching to go bull-dozing for a while now. It didn’t matter that the vehicle was stationary as just sitting in its clapped out seats more than gave me a feel for just how nerve-wrecking it would have been, to have been sat in one of these with a wild horned-buffalo or bull directly in front of you as you push down on the accelerator and drive right into it! (by the way, it doesn’t hurt them, as their weight is the same weight as the car – it just stuns them off balance).
The ladies came on board in much the same fashion as they were to be with us all day – very quietly and with averted eyes. It was interesting how I felt we almost needed to establish eye contact as a way of trying to gain rapport with them but that in fact this was not the aboriginal way at all. As a “white fella” we have no “skin name” (e.g. “brother”, “uncle”, “aunt”) and without that, an aboriginal does not know how they should relate to us, for there are different rules on how to interact depending on your relationship to the other person’s skin name. Our white tour guide for example, has been given the name of “younger brother” and that is the only way that these women could then come on the bus with him. With that skin name in place, Doreen for example, knows that she can boss him around if she wants to as she has the name “older sister”. And with that skin name, our white tour guide knows what the rules are for how he has to interact with Doreen. If he wants to look at her, he cannot do that full on frontal but must stand a bit to the side and look at her from over his shoulder. It was one of many fascinating differences we were to experience between our cultures that day.
Our safari took us past billabongs, open plains and savannah woodlands that contained all sorts of trees and bushes used by the ladies for various things. It was intriguing to watch them, sitting as they were at the front of the bus looking out of the windows with a very keen and trained eye – spotting for anything that looked to be good tucker. They were literally “going to the supermarket” in a way that we have completely lost touch with! What they didn’t know about bushtucker and bush medicines wasn’t worth knowing. Doreen alone, has been walking the bush scouring for tucker for over 40 years now and, this, together with the fact that the first white fella she saw was just 30 years ago, made us feel quite humbled in their presence.
One stop at a particular apple tree literally proved “fruitless” as this “supermarket shelf” had literally “sold out” - other aboriginals had already been by before us to collect! As there were no more apples lying on the ground we had to move on – because as every aborigine will know, the ripest ones are the ones that have fallen and you don’t pick anything else off the tree. In this way the harvesting is sustainable and still leaves the unripened apples for others to collect in due course. Again it was another eye-opener for us to see how our own mass consumerism and lack of harmony with nature and each other, plays out from very different rules. Other stops proved equally intriguing. There was the one where we got to eat green tree ants, skillfully collected from the tree by Sandra and squashed between leaves to kill them – I say “skillfully” because they were climbing all up her hands and arms and trying to bite her! They were surprisingly sweet-tasting though I certainly didn’t feel the need to get addicted to them! Another stop had us searching for sugarbag – a wild and very sweet honey made by the small black native bees here. Doreen and Sandra were able to take us right up to the nest, located inside an open tree branch. Hilariously, all that was there to see was the honeycomb and all the bees, since both ladies had been by only yesterday, coming “shopping” to scrape out all the delicious honey for themselves! Even something as simple as sugarbag became for us a window into the complex world of aboriginal groups and laws. It was really interesting therefore to learn that the two main groups that all aboriginals are split into has very different rules about where it may “shop” for sugarbag – one group can come to the open tree branches like Doreen and Sandra and the other must only collect it from the base of termite nests and trees! It was a surreal thought to imagine this rule transposed onto “white fella” living – imagine a group of us only permitted by law to shop at Coles and a group solely at Woolworths! Another stop had us all bundling out of our safari vehicle onto a terrain of hard, cracked mud replete with big holes where vicious wild pigs had previously been turning up the soil, digging for the water chestnuts we were also about to dig for! I reckon it was harder work for us than it was for the pigs! Everyone was given a very heavy hammer and had to set to, bashing up the hard lumps of caked earth – the Holy Grail being a red water chestnut about the size of a pea located anywhere in amongst any one of those mud cakes. It must have taken us about 15 minutes to collect about 10 of them between us – which was pitiful when you consider our arms were aching and yet Sandra and Doreen will do this for a couple of hours or more to get what they need for their meal! Again, another huge eye-opener into the differences between our cultures!
Boarding the bus once again, we made our way on to our camp for the early evening, stopping en-route to watch Sandra and Doreen collecting the pandanus leaves used for their basketwork and to collect some pungent leaves that would add flavour to our food that night. Even though up until now we had experienced the most amazing afternoon, nothing was quite to prepare us for the sheer stunning location of our dinner camp – the amazing Gindjala wetland (Goose Camp). From late June-September you can witness a spectacular gathering of wetland birds and in particular, thousands of magpie geese. Kakadu is the main stronghold for magpie geese in Australia and indeed this gathering of birds in and of itself formed one of the largest bird gatherings in Australia as a whole. As we arrived at Goose Camp we could honestly say that we have never seen so many birds in one spot! THIS was the Kakadu we had imagined and seen on TV and we were so thrilled to be there! The sights and sounds of this massive gathering were absolutely unbelievable, magical and completely unforgettable. As far as the eye could see were birds on the water and birds flying over the water and the volume of honking was insane! As I stood still, completely marveling at the spectacle of Nature before me, I could absolutely feel the pulse and throb of the mob pulsing and throbbing right through my core and it felt like I was completely connected to it all! It was hard to tear myself away but I wanted to help out with getting dinner ready, so it was all hands on deck to offload the firewood and make the fire. While we and others were doing that, our ladies were busy digging out a ground oven (a hole in the ground) where we would cook our food for the night.
With the fire built and oven dug, Gordon and I put our hands up with a couple of others to get involved with the plucking and preparing of the magpie geese, which had been shot just the day before in readiness for our feast. What an experience that was! I haven’t plucked anything before and I have to say it’s one thing to handle a frozen packaged chicken out of the freezer in Coles – and another entirely to have to handle a frozen big bird with his neck, head, feet and feathers all still intact and just the vaguest or aromas! Urggggh! It was hard work ripping the feathers from its belly and not so nice having to handle the bird’s feet as you did so. It was even worse to be plucking the feathers of an initially fairly frozen bird only to find as you went on, that this bird’s body was softening as it “defrosted”! What feathers weren’t up my nose were littering the ground like confetti! By now Sandra and Doreen were feeling a tad more relaxed with us all and were having quite a giggle at how clumsy our plucks were and how long it was taking us versus them. I was glad that albeit through our rather dismal plucking efforts we were nevertheless connecting with these women in some way. Watching them both take the geese onto the fire to burn off the remaining soft down, then bring them back to their places so they could cut them up for cooking, was quite something. Finally, magpie geese, buffalo meat and a couple of big, fresh barramundi were all placed down in the camp oven, with the pungent leaves placed on them, stones put on top of that, followed by big sheets of paperbark placed over the whole (like a fully fitting lid) and dirt shoveled on top of the bark in order to prevent any air getting in.
By now the sun was beginning its setting and the honking geese had turned up the decibels rather incredibly! At one point something disturbed them and you have never seen so many birds leap out of the water and flap into flight – it was the most magnificent thing to see and hear! Also magnificent though, was just sitting there and, with the setting sun as a backdrop, watching numerous whistling kites circling and swooping down in front of us, to pick on the discarded raw goose meat and bones. Soon, fresh damper was brought up from the coals and we ate it before dinner, smeared with butter and drizzled with golden syrup – it was the best appetizer we think we have ever had! Some of us watched how Sandra made bush string from the fibres of the pandanus and how Doreen made a bush bracelet from those same leaves – I had a go but I was all fingers and thumbs and lacked the millennia of “bracelet-making-from-pandanus” expertise in my “white fella” DNA! Dinner was then served and we tucked in to more damper with wonderfully cooked barramundi, and chunks of tender goose and juicy buffalo meat. And, as the darkness began to set in, Gordon and I just had to duck out of clearing up duties and simply stand there arm in arm, looking out at the fading billabong scene and the expansive Kakadu starry sky.
As we finally drove out of Goose Camp the headlights from our bus lit up a hungry dingo which had moved in for our scraps and I was reminded of the wonderful symbiotic nature that living in this way allows. On the way home, as a red moon slowly rose, Sandra plucked up the courage to do her first ever speaking on a tour or in a microphone and it was to tell us all the names of her family. Shy and quietly spoken we all strained earnestly to hear her tiny words. It took her about 5 minutes to name them all! The vast list of members and how they all inter-relate, was a fascinating insight into the complex nature of aboriginal tribes and clans. It was indeed a fitting end to what had been an amazing and unforgettable journey of experiential discovery into aboriginal ways, culture and life!
Before this blog entry regarding our safari day can receive its final “full stop” however, there just remains for me to include below a poem, written by bush-poet Gordon and inspired by one very annoying woman on this trip – annoying because of her lack of photography etiquette, especially around aboriginals! We hope you enjoy!
The First Shot
The Bum waddles forth – gunna beat that lot
Arms thrust out to get the first shot
To be the first one there – that’s the game
Got the prey in sight – ready, steady, aim
Lens poked anywhere without a single thought
No bloody clue about permission sought
Not a single thought that they may intrude
Bloody camera hog, just plain bloody rude.
Western Arnhem Land – tasting the fruits of a “forbidden country”
Today, too many Balanda*. Some alright maybe, whitepella, whitepella, more and more, pushing blackfella out, maybe push him on the rock. It was blackfella country before. You cannot push him out with money, or bulldozer. This is Bininj** country. We have to stay here forever
Worgol Clan (* means white man/whitepella ; **means aboriginal)
As we reach the first lookout of our climb up Injalak Hill, the absolutely breathtaking vista of western Arnhem Land spreads out before us, quite different to anything we have seen in Kakadu. Dominating the skyline are two large sandstone monoliths. One of these is the hill that we are forbidden to photograph today. The reason for this is that there is an important and sacred initiation ceremony taking place there – “secret young-man’s business”. Of course, now we are here, we comply with this earlier request out of respect. In any case, no-one is interested in testing any bad karma that may come their way for flouting sacred business! We have only been stood here seconds - before Gary, our aboriginal guide for the day, sits himself down ahead of us all on the huge ledge of rock that looks as if it is precariously perched off all the others around. For a good few minutes he has his back to us and is silent, jutting out into the ancient landscape that he is immediately at one with. There is something about the silence and about the way that he sits, that humbles us and makes us all feel like we shouldn’t move or talk either. He is commanding the most amazing presence and the hairs on my arm are tingling with his energy. And then he speaks. His voice is so quiet and we have to strain in order to understand the pigeon Aboriginal-English that he uses. He talks about the white fella and how he came barging in on the black fella, not wanting to listen to what the black fella knew or had to say. About the white fella stealing the land, stealing a generation, wanting to dominate and to conquer, to impose white fella values and strip the black fella of his. There is no malice or attack in his voice - just a simple statement of the wrongs we have done. It is a powerful moment and I am humbled further.
I look back out across the landscape, to the small aboriginal township of Gunbalanya (Oenpelli) that lies close to the border of Kakadu and the mighty East Alligator River. About 12,000 aboriginal people live in this town and its outstations - including skilled traditional painters, bark painters, basket weavers, and screen printers. They are surrounded by the vast floodplain and permanent billabong full of wildlife that I am gazing upon now. Most of these aboriginals combine traditional practices with modern ones – this means that they might go out for a hunt but be back to watch the 6pm news! What I am looking out onto is an entire area not openly available to the white fella. You need a permit to come here at all, unless like us, you are on an authentic, cultural tour owned and run by the Traditional Owners. It really is like a mystical “forbidden” land that has been little disturbed for over 40,000 years.
All of a sudden Gary gets up and says we have to leave this lookout now. He tells me as we make to go, that he has just seen a sign coming from across the sacred hill forbidden to our cameras – a mirror being reflected off the sun to alert him to move us on. It is incredible to think that while we were all there looking out at the scene unawares, that this exchange was taking place between him and other aborigines. I don’t know it yet but it’s just one of the episodes today where, in the midst of another culture, I am in the “not knowing”. We continue on with our climb up Injalak.
Injalak is famous for some of the best rock art examples in Western Arnhem Land and maybe even in Australia. Being on the tour we get to visit and experience sites such as this one that are usually off limits to others. In just a few minutes of walking we arrive at a large rock shelter with a big overhanging “ceiling”. On that ceiling is rock art even more amazing than what I have been seeing at Kakadu. Unlike Kakadu though, I am allowed to get up close to the paintings by lying down on my back on the cool, raised, stone floor and gazing up at the gallery of art laid out for me, while Gary starts to explain some if what we are seeing. I am compelled to be still within myself as I feel the energy of this place and, as I rest here, different layers of paintings from over the centuries start to emerge from out of the stone.
We continue clambering up, across and over the rocks, narrow chasms and shelters of Injalak Hill. There is a coolness bouncing off the sheltered stone that is a welcome reprieve from the hot sun. As we stoop down, squeeze through and generally rock hop I know I am walking and treading paths that aborigines have used here for hundreds of thousands of years before I even existed. Here, walls keep in secrets that rock art does not reveal and for me, the energy of ancestors is all around - in the breeze that cuts through a chasm, in the paintings, in a burial cave, or on a dimpled rock once used for grinding seeds or ochre for painting. At one point it is amazing to actually see a shelter that up until about ten years ago, Gary and his own family had been using in the Wet season for sleeping, cooking, and teaching. As I stand there and look at it, I am struck by how sad it is that Aboriginals don’t paint on actual rocks anymore, now that they rarely live in rock shelters like these now. That, whether it’s a good thing or bad thing, after more than 20 or 30,000 years of rock shelter living, it’s been the contact with the white fella that has resulted in rock art falling by the wayside.
Gary leads us on, stopping now and again to explain rock art. He smells of sweat and yet it’s a good smell, almost earthy. He speaks in a soft voice most of the time, using words sparingly. I have noticed this before with aboriginals and I think they are just more comfortable than us, with saying less. Sometimes there is humour and enthusiastic encouragement – “Did you make the photo? Please, make the photo!” Even though I have taken enough photos, I don’t wish to offend so I duly click the camera at paintings so high up on a ceiling or rock face, that I am more than inclined to believe Gary’s adamant story that they were painted by the first spirit beings before the creation of man. After all, how on earth could any human have got up that high to do it?!
It is striking to me how Gary knows his way around intimately and yet to me it all appears as a maze! I watch him as he walks ahead of us, nimble and sure footed, a well-worn plastic drink bottle hanging off the back of his head, secured at his forehead by some bush string. He is gently singing something to himself and it sounds like all the songs of all his ancestors before him. I feel the singing has some significance, that it means something - but I cannot understand the words and again I am forced to “not know”.
After about two fantastic hours on Injalak Hill, we climb back down, say goodbye to Gary and make our way across to the Injalak Arts and Crafts Centre. Here displays of some obviously top quality, beautiful and authentic aboriginal artworks are available for us to buy and it kills me that I have no house to put anything in – I love everything I am seeing! Still, I buy a necklace that doesn’t take up any space in our already crammed 4WD and feel good that at least the sale of this goes towards directly benefiting the community. (unbeknownst to me, Gordon has bought a beautiful piece of sculpture for my birthday, and instructed them to post to his mum for safekeeping in Sydney. It is a piece I was particulary in love with - a carved and painted wooden Magpie Goose! Stunning!)
Lunch for the day takes place on an exclusive boat cruise on Inkiju billabong, a billabong more beautiful than anything else I have seen in Kakadu - even Yellow Waters! It is a completely idyllic scene, serene and lush, the waters liberally covered with pale lilies and lined on one side with rocky, low escarpments. As we eat our lunch watching the crocs lazily half submerged and lurking, an interesting and thought provoking discussion starts up between us and our guide, about the destructive things happening in aboriginal communities both here in Arnhem Land today and elsewhere – about the problems with alcohol and easy welfare money that continue to contribute to the potential future demise of these people and their culture – and in short, how the white fella has kind of stuffed it all up. It is a sad situation with no clear-cut solution and we talk it through some more later on as we access Hawk Dreaming back in Kakadu, another restricted and exclusive area with more wonderful views.
As we get dropped off back at our car, there is much food for thought from yet another unforgettable experience in the NT and we have been touched by it all forever.
(Note: For any of you interested in reading a current book on the plight of aboriginals, I can thoroughly recommend “Balanda – My year in Arnhem Land” by Mary Ellen Jordan. It is described as “a quietly gripping, very personal take on Australia’s deepest dilemma” and is one of several books on the subject that I have devoured since being in the NT. For anyone with more of a mind for historical perspectives,, then also the brilliant book “An Intruders Guide to East Arnhem Land” by Andrew McMillan, comes with the thumbs up from me!)
Animal Tracks Safari – a day in the life of two hunter-gatherers
“Hunting is a part of our lives. In Balanda* society instead of hunting you go shopping. We hunt for wildlife, our food, to keep the tradition going. Hunting is used as a calendar – fish time, file snakes time, lots of fruit coming up like yams, mussels. It’s a good feeling to go out and hunt because when you are out there and you get something, after you have eaten it you feel so happy that you worked for it. Hunting is hard work.”
Aboriginal Clan member – name not permitted (*Balanda means white man)
Well, what a rather unique and authentic experience this one was to add to the bag! Travelling in an open-sided safari vehicle, we once again avoided the crowds and joined a few other people on the only day tour that went to an exclusive-access and wildlife-rich 170km square area of land, right in the heart of Kakadu National Park. The day was to be about searching for wildlife and discovering things to do with aboriginal bush life - including bush foods, bush medicine, and fibres used for arts and crafts. We were lucky enough to be joined by two female aboriginal bush guides, Doreen and Sandra, both born in Kakadu and both not that used to being with the “white fella”. The day began by making our way to the Buffalo Farm “homestead”. (This farm was set up over 20 years ago, at a time when all the wild buffalo were culled in the park – the idea was for the farm to provide a local source of bushmeat for the aboriginal communities around Kakadu. It is able to still exist as a result of the sale of our tour tickets). En-route to the “homestead” we were able to spot some of these mighty black beasts, albeit from a distance – but judging by their size and their horns, the distance thing was a very good thing indeed! In the billabongs they were not always easy to spot in and of themselves but their giveaway were often the small white cattle-egret that perched on their backs or heads, a rather strange dual relationship to see!
The “homestead” was typical of other aboriginal stations that we have seen – dust everywhere, junk and debris piled all around the yard and buildings that looked like they fell into disrepair a lifetime ago. We were here to pick up the aboriginal ladies, to get a look at Kenny (a very ferocious 3.5m croc that had to be caught and penned up here in case it did any more killing!) and to grab a quick pose on a real-deal old “bull-dozer” – a mustering vehicle used to drive into wild bulls and buffalo in order to knock them down so that their legs can be tied and they can be caught for branding or loading onto a truck to be transported. The bull-dozer was a particular highlight for me as I have been itching to go bull-dozing for a while now. It didn’t matter that the vehicle was stationary as just sitting in its clapped out seats more than gave me a feel for just how nerve-wrecking it would have been, to have been sat in one of these with a wild horned-buffalo or bull directly in front of you as you push down on the accelerator and drive right into it! (by the way, it doesn’t hurt them, as their weight is the same weight as the car – it just stuns them off balance).
The ladies came on board in much the same fashion as they were to be with us all day – very quietly and with averted eyes. It was interesting how I felt we almost needed to establish eye contact as a way of trying to gain rapport with them but that in fact this was not the aboriginal way at all. As a “white fella” we have no “skin name” (e.g. “brother”, “uncle”, “aunt”) and without that, an aboriginal does not know how they should relate to us, for there are different rules on how to interact depending on your relationship to the other person’s skin name. Our white tour guide for example, has been given the name of “younger brother” and that is the only way that these women could then come on the bus with him. With that skin name in place, Doreen for example, knows that she can boss him around if she wants to as she has the name “older sister”. And with that skin name, our white tour guide knows what the rules are for how he has to interact with Doreen. If he wants to look at her, he cannot do that full on frontal but must stand a bit to the side and look at her from over his shoulder. It was one of many fascinating differences we were to experience between our cultures that day.
Our safari took us past billabongs, open plains and savannah woodlands that contained all sorts of trees and bushes used by the ladies for various things. It was intriguing to watch them, sitting as they were at the front of the bus looking out of the windows with a very keen and trained eye – spotting for anything that looked to be good tucker. They were literally “going to the supermarket” in a way that we have completely lost touch with! What they didn’t know about bushtucker and bush medicines wasn’t worth knowing. Doreen alone, has been walking the bush scouring for tucker for over 40 years now and, this, together with the fact that the first white fella she saw was just 30 years ago, made us feel quite humbled in their presence.
One stop at a particular apple tree literally proved “fruitless” as this “supermarket shelf” had literally “sold out” - other aboriginals had already been by before us to collect! As there were no more apples lying on the ground we had to move on – because as every aborigine will know, the ripest ones are the ones that have fallen and you don’t pick anything else off the tree. In this way the harvesting is sustainable and still leaves the unripened apples for others to collect in due course. Again it was another eye-opener for us to see how our own mass consumerism and lack of harmony with nature and each other, plays out from very different rules. Other stops proved equally intriguing. There was the one where we got to eat green tree ants, skillfully collected from the tree by Sandra and squashed between leaves to kill them – I say “skillfully” because they were climbing all up her hands and arms and trying to bite her! They were surprisingly sweet-tasting though I certainly didn’t feel the need to get addicted to them! Another stop had us searching for sugarbag – a wild and very sweet honey made by the small black native bees here. Doreen and Sandra were able to take us right up to the nest, located inside an open tree branch. Hilariously, all that was there to see was the honeycomb and all the bees, since both ladies had been by only yesterday, coming “shopping” to scrape out all the delicious honey for themselves! Even something as simple as sugarbag became for us a window into the complex world of aboriginal groups and laws. It was really interesting therefore to learn that the two main groups that all aboriginals are split into has very different rules about where it may “shop” for sugarbag – one group can come to the open tree branches like Doreen and Sandra and the other must only collect it from the base of termite nests and trees! It was a surreal thought to imagine this rule transposed onto “white fella” living – imagine a group of us only permitted by law to shop at Coles and a group solely at Woolworths! Another stop had us all bundling out of our safari vehicle onto a terrain of hard, cracked mud replete with big holes where vicious wild pigs had previously been turning up the soil, digging for the water chestnuts we were also about to dig for! I reckon it was harder work for us than it was for the pigs! Everyone was given a very heavy hammer and had to set to, bashing up the hard lumps of caked earth – the Holy Grail being a red water chestnut about the size of a pea located anywhere in amongst any one of those mud cakes. It must have taken us about 15 minutes to collect about 10 of them between us – which was pitiful when you consider our arms were aching and yet Sandra and Doreen will do this for a couple of hours or more to get what they need for their meal! Again, another huge eye-opener into the differences between our cultures!
Boarding the bus once again, we made our way on to our camp for the early evening, stopping en-route to watch Sandra and Doreen collecting the pandanus leaves used for their basketwork and to collect some pungent leaves that would add flavour to our food that night. Even though up until now we had experienced the most amazing afternoon, nothing was quite to prepare us for the sheer stunning location of our dinner camp – the amazing Gindjala wetland (Goose Camp). From late June-September you can witness a spectacular gathering of wetland birds and in particular, thousands of magpie geese. Kakadu is the main stronghold for magpie geese in Australia and indeed this gathering of birds in and of itself formed one of the largest bird gatherings in Australia as a whole. As we arrived at Goose Camp we could honestly say that we have never seen so many birds in one spot! THIS was the Kakadu we had imagined and seen on TV and we were so thrilled to be there! The sights and sounds of this massive gathering were absolutely unbelievable, magical and completely unforgettable. As far as the eye could see were birds on the water and birds flying over the water and the volume of honking was insane! As I stood still, completely marveling at the spectacle of Nature before me, I could absolutely feel the pulse and throb of the mob pulsing and throbbing right through my core and it felt like I was completely connected to it all! It was hard to tear myself away but I wanted to help out with getting dinner ready, so it was all hands on deck to offload the firewood and make the fire. While we and others were doing that, our ladies were busy digging out a ground oven (a hole in the ground) where we would cook our food for the night.
With the fire built and oven dug, Gordon and I put our hands up with a couple of others to get involved with the plucking and preparing of the magpie geese, which had been shot just the day before in readiness for our feast. What an experience that was! I haven’t plucked anything before and I have to say it’s one thing to handle a frozen packaged chicken out of the freezer in Coles – and another entirely to have to handle a frozen big bird with his neck, head, feet and feathers all still intact and just the vaguest or aromas! Urggggh! It was hard work ripping the feathers from its belly and not so nice having to handle the bird’s feet as you did so. It was even worse to be plucking the feathers of an initially fairly frozen bird only to find as you went on, that this bird’s body was softening as it “defrosted”! What feathers weren’t up my nose were littering the ground like confetti! By now Sandra and Doreen were feeling a tad more relaxed with us all and were having quite a giggle at how clumsy our plucks were and how long it was taking us versus them. I was glad that albeit through our rather dismal plucking efforts we were nevertheless connecting with these women in some way. Watching them both take the geese onto the fire to burn off the remaining soft down, then bring them back to their places so they could cut them up for cooking, was quite something. Finally, magpie geese, buffalo meat and a couple of big, fresh barramundi were all placed down in the camp oven, with the pungent leaves placed on them, stones put on top of that, followed by big sheets of paperbark placed over the whole (like a fully fitting lid) and dirt shoveled on top of the bark in order to prevent any air getting in.
By now the sun was beginning its setting and the honking geese had turned up the decibels rather incredibly! At one point something disturbed them and you have never seen so many birds leap out of the water and flap into flight – it was the most magnificent thing to see and hear! Also magnificent though, was just sitting there and, with the setting sun as a backdrop, watching numerous whistling kites circling and swooping down in front of us, to pick on the discarded raw goose meat and bones. Soon, fresh damper was brought up from the coals and we ate it before dinner, smeared with butter and drizzled with golden syrup – it was the best appetizer we think we have ever had! Some of us watched how Sandra made bush string from the fibres of the pandanus and how Doreen made a bush bracelet from those same leaves – I had a go but I was all fingers and thumbs and lacked the millennia of “bracelet-making-from-pandanus” expertise in my “white fella” DNA! Dinner was then served and we tucked in to more damper with wonderfully cooked barramundi, and chunks of tender goose and juicy buffalo meat. And, as the darkness began to set in, Gordon and I just had to duck out of clearing up duties and simply stand there arm in arm, looking out at the fading billabong scene and the expansive Kakadu starry sky.
As we finally drove out of Goose Camp the headlights from our bus lit up a hungry dingo which had moved in for our scraps and I was reminded of the wonderful symbiotic nature that living in this way allows. On the way home, as a red moon slowly rose, Sandra plucked up the courage to do her first ever speaking on a tour or in a microphone and it was to tell us all the names of her family. Shy and quietly spoken we all strained earnestly to hear her tiny words. It took her about 5 minutes to name them all! The vast list of members and how they all inter-relate, was a fascinating insight into the complex nature of aboriginal tribes and clans. It was indeed a fitting end to what had been an amazing and unforgettable journey of experiential discovery into aboriginal ways, culture and life!
Before this blog entry regarding our safari day can receive its final “full stop” however, there just remains for me to include below a poem, written by bush-poet Gordon and inspired by one very annoying woman on this trip – annoying because of her lack of photography etiquette, especially around aboriginals! We hope you enjoy!
The First Shot
The Bum waddles forth – gunna beat that lot
Arms thrust out to get the first shot
To be the first one there – that’s the game
Got the prey in sight – ready, steady, aim
Lens poked anywhere without a single thought
No bloody clue about permission sought
Not a single thought that they may intrude
Bloody camera hog, just plain bloody rude.
Western Arnhem Land – tasting the fruits of a “forbidden country”
Today, too many Balanda*. Some alright maybe, whitepella, whitepella, more and more, pushing blackfella out, maybe push him on the rock. It was blackfella country before. You cannot push him out with money, or bulldozer. This is Bininj** country. We have to stay here forever
Worgol Clan (* means white man/whitepella ; **means aboriginal)
As we reach the first lookout of our climb up Injalak Hill, the absolutely breathtaking vista of western Arnhem Land spreads out before us, quite different to anything we have seen in Kakadu. Dominating the skyline are two large sandstone monoliths. One of these is the hill that we are forbidden to photograph today. The reason for this is that there is an important and sacred initiation ceremony taking place there – “secret young-man’s business”. Of course, now we are here, we comply with this earlier request out of respect. In any case, no-one is interested in testing any bad karma that may come their way for flouting sacred business! We have only been stood here seconds - before Gary, our aboriginal guide for the day, sits himself down ahead of us all on the huge ledge of rock that looks as if it is precariously perched off all the others around. For a good few minutes he has his back to us and is silent, jutting out into the ancient landscape that he is immediately at one with. There is something about the silence and about the way that he sits, that humbles us and makes us all feel like we shouldn’t move or talk either. He is commanding the most amazing presence and the hairs on my arm are tingling with his energy. And then he speaks. His voice is so quiet and we have to strain in order to understand the pigeon Aboriginal-English that he uses. He talks about the white fella and how he came barging in on the black fella, not wanting to listen to what the black fella knew or had to say. About the white fella stealing the land, stealing a generation, wanting to dominate and to conquer, to impose white fella values and strip the black fella of his. There is no malice or attack in his voice - just a simple statement of the wrongs we have done. It is a powerful moment and I am humbled further.
I look back out across the landscape, to the small aboriginal township of Gunbalanya (Oenpelli) that lies close to the border of Kakadu and the mighty East Alligator River. About 12,000 aboriginal people live in this town and its outstations - including skilled traditional painters, bark painters, basket weavers, and screen printers. They are surrounded by the vast floodplain and permanent billabong full of wildlife that I am gazing upon now. Most of these aboriginals combine traditional practices with modern ones – this means that they might go out for a hunt but be back to watch the 6pm news! What I am looking out onto is an entire area not openly available to the white fella. You need a permit to come here at all, unless like us, you are on an authentic, cultural tour owned and run by the Traditional Owners. It really is like a mystical “forbidden” land that has been little disturbed for over 40,000 years.
All of a sudden Gary gets up and says we have to leave this lookout now. He tells me as we make to go, that he has just seen a sign coming from across the sacred hill forbidden to our cameras – a mirror being reflected off the sun to alert him to move us on. It is incredible to think that while we were all there looking out at the scene unawares, that this exchange was taking place between him and other aborigines. I don’t know it yet but it’s just one of the episodes today where, in the midst of another culture, I am in the “not knowing”. We continue on with our climb up Injalak.
Injalak is famous for some of the best rock art examples in Western Arnhem Land and maybe even in Australia. Being on the tour we get to visit and experience sites such as this one that are usually off limits to others. In just a few minutes of walking we arrive at a large rock shelter with a big overhanging “ceiling”. On that ceiling is rock art even more amazing than what I have been seeing at Kakadu. Unlike Kakadu though, I am allowed to get up close to the paintings by lying down on my back on the cool, raised, stone floor and gazing up at the gallery of art laid out for me, while Gary starts to explain some if what we are seeing. I am compelled to be still within myself as I feel the energy of this place and, as I rest here, different layers of paintings from over the centuries start to emerge from out of the stone.
We continue clambering up, across and over the rocks, narrow chasms and shelters of Injalak Hill. There is a coolness bouncing off the sheltered stone that is a welcome reprieve from the hot sun. As we stoop down, squeeze through and generally rock hop I know I am walking and treading paths that aborigines have used here for hundreds of thousands of years before I even existed. Here, walls keep in secrets that rock art does not reveal and for me, the energy of ancestors is all around - in the breeze that cuts through a chasm, in the paintings, in a burial cave, or on a dimpled rock once used for grinding seeds or ochre for painting. At one point it is amazing to actually see a shelter that up until about ten years ago, Gary and his own family had been using in the Wet season for sleeping, cooking, and teaching. As I stand there and look at it, I am struck by how sad it is that Aboriginals don’t paint on actual rocks anymore, now that they rarely live in rock shelters like these now. That, whether it’s a good thing or bad thing, after more than 20 or 30,000 years of rock shelter living, it’s been the contact with the white fella that has resulted in rock art falling by the wayside.
Gary leads us on, stopping now and again to explain rock art. He smells of sweat and yet it’s a good smell, almost earthy. He speaks in a soft voice most of the time, using words sparingly. I have noticed this before with aboriginals and I think they are just more comfortable than us, with saying less. Sometimes there is humour and enthusiastic encouragement – “Did you make the photo? Please, make the photo!” Even though I have taken enough photos, I don’t wish to offend so I duly click the camera at paintings so high up on a ceiling or rock face, that I am more than inclined to believe Gary’s adamant story that they were painted by the first spirit beings before the creation of man. After all, how on earth could any human have got up that high to do it?!
It is striking to me how Gary knows his way around intimately and yet to me it all appears as a maze! I watch him as he walks ahead of us, nimble and sure footed, a well-worn plastic drink bottle hanging off the back of his head, secured at his forehead by some bush string. He is gently singing something to himself and it sounds like all the songs of all his ancestors before him. I feel the singing has some significance, that it means something - but I cannot understand the words and again I am forced to “not know”.
After about two fantastic hours on Injalak Hill, we climb back down, say goodbye to Gary and make our way across to the Injalak Arts and Crafts Centre. Here displays of some obviously top quality, beautiful and authentic aboriginal artworks are available for us to buy and it kills me that I have no house to put anything in – I love everything I am seeing! Still, I buy a necklace that doesn’t take up any space in our already crammed 4WD and feel good that at least the sale of this goes towards directly benefiting the community. (unbeknownst to me, Gordon has bought a beautiful piece of sculpture for my birthday, and instructed them to post to his mum for safekeeping in Sydney. It is a piece I was particulary in love with - a carved and painted wooden Magpie Goose! Stunning!)
Lunch for the day takes place on an exclusive boat cruise on Inkiju billabong, a billabong more beautiful than anything else I have seen in Kakadu - even Yellow Waters! It is a completely idyllic scene, serene and lush, the waters liberally covered with pale lilies and lined on one side with rocky, low escarpments. As we eat our lunch watching the crocs lazily half submerged and lurking, an interesting and thought provoking discussion starts up between us and our guide, about the destructive things happening in aboriginal communities both here in Arnhem Land today and elsewhere – about the problems with alcohol and easy welfare money that continue to contribute to the potential future demise of these people and their culture – and in short, how the white fella has kind of stuffed it all up. It is a sad situation with no clear-cut solution and we talk it through some more later on as we access Hawk Dreaming back in Kakadu, another restricted and exclusive area with more wonderful views.
As we get dropped off back at our car, there is much food for thought from yet another unforgettable experience in the NT and we have been touched by it all forever.
(Note: For any of you interested in reading a current book on the plight of aboriginals, I can thoroughly recommend “Balanda – My year in Arnhem Land” by Mary Ellen Jordan. It is described as “a quietly gripping, very personal take on Australia’s deepest dilemma” and is one of several books on the subject that I have devoured since being in the NT. For anyone with more of a mind for historical perspectives,, then also the brilliant book “An Intruders Guide to East Arnhem Land” by Andrew McMillan, comes with the thumbs up from me!)
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