Camping

The gear was packed into the 4WDs and off we set in our three piece convoy.

We made it 20km.

Flat tyre.

Imagine the scene. 10 bush newbies just out of their respective offices, have their first flat tyre, at 9am. In the Kimbly. In 30degree sun.

The convoy pulls over. The people in the affected vehicle all hop out to kick the tire as part of the universal tyre changing ritual.

-Right, where’s the jack.

-In the back under all the food.

-Ah.

The car jack was procured and the great elevation began. At this stage, there had developed a bit of a crowd .The other two cars were bored so everybody came to Supervise.

The need to call the AA was avoided and we continued on to a community called Beagle Bay. 

Beagle Bay was the home of a Christian Mission back in the day. It was here some of the stolen generation children were sent. The church which was the central focus of the mission still remains. Coming from Ireland, I was used to visiting churches that were dark, damp, almost oppressive. This church was different. The smell was the same but this church was warm. It was also brighter. And this is the best bit. The altar was inlaid with oyster shell. Upon setting eyes on this altar I was heard to exclaim, Mother of God, look at all that Mother of Pearl.

Now I didn’t really say that but I thought it sounded pretty funny. That smell brought me back to rural churches in Ireland.

Beagle Bay is now home to a community of aboriginal families. These are Nyul Nyul people. The term community is used to describe the living arrangements of a family or a few families in aboriginal Australia. They can range from 5-6 people to a couple of hundred. In the case of Beagle Bay, think of it as a little village.

This was to be the site of one of the projects for the Jawun programme. One of our flock was to stay here and work with the local town council. Well kind of.

They don’t have a town council. That ability was taken away from them in the past by the state government because the town councillors got a bit funny with the town’s money. The town went into receivership and here we are, The wounds have healed and the plan for Beagle Bay is simple. Self-autonomy. They want a direct say in how the town/community is run. Currently it is administered by the state government in Perth.

The road to autonomy is long but it has been set out and it is progressing according to plan. This is just one community. At least these guys have the benefit of having Jawun secondees. There are many other communities who are not so fortunate. Now, I may have made light of the explanation however the process involved with bringing about this autonomy is lengthy and bureaucratic. As with anyone on the planet, you don’t know what you don’t know. The residents of Beagle Bay are unfamiliar with Australian bureaucratic processes and the steps required to bring about self –governance. That is where the advisors come in.

As part of out tour of the town, we were also split up into gender diverse groups. It was explained to us that the ladies of our band were to spend the night with the local rangers, the custodians of the preservation of the flora and fauna on country as well as te conservation of the local Nyul Nyul language. There are male and female rangers and they also carry out reef conservation, controlled burns of the scrubland as well as cultural and natural resource projects to improve and enhance the unique biodiversity and cultural values of the region. The work for this night was to sit, in enclave, with the local elder women and record the language and the way in which they spoke. And, this, in line with the local traditions, was strictly women’s business.

This pissed me off. A lot. This is one of the things I wanted to learn in my time here. I wanted to know about the plants, the wildlife, the birds. I wanted to eat witchetty grubs. I wanted to experience how to live off the land. I wanted to throw a real boomerang, not the cheap knockoff in tourist shops, most likely made in China. And I was to miss out because of my obvious masculinity. (I was sporting a killer goatee at the time)

I am glad however that I didn’t express my displeasure. (Know when to hold ‘em and know when to fold ‘em.)

It was almost as if there was telepathy at play. The other half of the gender specific allocation of experiences for the day was being called out.

-       Tomorrow Gentlemen, some of you are going to the school to meet the children. Owen, you’re going out with the male rangers to go baiting the croc traps.

Excellent.

Following the tour of the community, we all headed out to an even smaller community. It revolved around one matriarch and her extended family. There were about four buildings and another beautiful, secluded, Australian beach. Following the camp cook-up we, the men, headed back to town. We left the girls behind to their women’s business which was due to consist of recording the elders speaking in Nyul Nyul.

Now, having already been introduced to the Australian “Swag” and it’s anticipated use with a mozzie net to gaze at the stars all night, we, the gentlemen, spent our first night camping in a “Donga”. The ladies camped under the stars.

For those of you from Australia, please bear with me. For those outside the Antipodes, a donga is a portable studio apartment, with terrible decor. It is a metal box with a bit of cladding, an air conditioner and a bed wedged in there. The high end ones have an en-suite. All of them have terrible phone reception. (Something to do with a Gaussian cage. Please contact me if your nerdiness equals mine and you want to know more), They also have a fridge. Which is for stubbies. (Again, message me if you want a translation)

I still got to lay out the swag however it was inside the donga. I toyed with the idea of camping outside, in the back yard, but two minutes into my walk to find a good spot, I was subjected to the concerto a la copulating donkey. There are wild donkeys that live in the nearby bush and two of them just so happened to bump into each other on the other side of the fence around the yard.

I went inside.

By the time I got back in from my reconnaissance mission, the only space left was under the air conditioner. And my sleeping bag was thin cotton liner. No insulation. Oh and I had no pillow.

Just my arm.