The LTD04 Tour
In June and July 2004 My friend Brian and I undertook a trip to the Northern Territory through the gulf country and returning via the Simpson Desert. Our wives joined us at Darwin putting an end to what had hitherto been a 4,000 km pub crawl.
This is an account of that trip – the 2004 Lookin’, Talkin’ and Drinkin’ Tour (LTD04)
Nissan GU intercooled 3.00 li turbo deisel. Our home for six weeks. I’m a V8 Discovery fan but must admit the Nissan is a good alternative.
We leave Brisbane at midday on the 20th 0f June. Both eager to get away from the city we push north-west as fast as is legal. For the initial part of the trip we are sans wives (and associated civilzing effect) and look forward to a 4,000 km pubcrawl to Darwin where we are scheduled to collect our wives from the airport.
I’d take the seven day pub-crawl option over a three hour flight anyday.
The tripmeter now reads 888 km from Brisbane and we have just left Tambo heading for Barcaldine. Last night we spent our time and money at the bar at the ‘Blue Pub’ at Mitchell. Our intentions were to throw our swags down at the local camping ground but a minus 2 degree forecast and an $18 bed led us astray.
Jenny, a delightful blonde with a English and Swedish stud line and her husband John were our hosts and Brian and I had to fight for space in front of the open fire with a black labrador, a border collie and an old dog of indeterminate breed but with a hint of labrador and a touch of mongrel. We had friends, acquaintances, and rugby in common so the night passed quickly.
We stayed at the bar till taps and then slept warm and trouble-free in rooms and beds reminiscent of the 1940s.
Passing through Tambo I noticed the Post Office, a well maintained typical government building circa 1920s and was reminded of the last time I had been Tambo.
Warning – old soldier story.
Fuel Truck – 111,ooo li
In the pub there was a photo of a dump truck with a D11 dozer in the back, like a dinky toy. Big machines, big fuel burners.
We travel on and do the sites of Lawn Hill Gorge. I comment on the age of the land, the well eroded hills and Brian tells me these same hills were being eroded before Mount Everest was pushed out of the ground. Looks about right to me.
Ancient land Australia.
Lawn Hill Gorge. Imagine a semi arid landscape – small rocky hills, very sparse vegetation, flat dry and hot. Take a D111 bulldozer, scrape a ditch 100 metres to 500 metres wide, up to 100 metres deep and maybe two or three kilometres long. Fill it with fresh running spring sourced water, all types of fauna and flora that exists only there and has done for millions of years.
Add tourists.
Lawn Hill Gorge
We went for a walk and swam in the ancient river amongst a dozen different species of water life with palms and grasses throwing up a lush backdrop. At night we are visited by a Wallaby. Small and totally unafraid of humans he approaches Brian demanding food. Brian is being polite..nice Skippy, settle down Skippy…stop it…and I interrupt with a tap to his ribs to try and make him let go of the vegetable bag. We’re laughing and trying to pick up spilt potatoes and onions quicker than Skippy. We eventually convince him to stop bludging and go eat leaves or whatever but as he takes off he grabs a bag of sausages and we have to leap double quick to save them.
Skippy the thief
The tourist brochures talk of ancient sands being the base of the sandstone cliffs and rocks. Formed some 1560 million years ago they are in danger of being eroded by the tens of thousands of tourists who visit each dry season.
Well worth it. Go there
Doomadgee, an Aboriginal town – the least said the better. Travel on and camp at Wollogorang, pay $48.00 for six cans of Bundy Coke and a $1.40 per litre for fuel. Talking with other campers makes it worthwhile
Next day head for Daley Waters, some 650 Km away but a pub of such character as to make it all worthwhile. 150 Caravans and associated contents crowd the scene but the eye fillet and barramundi dinner lift the standards of the night. A long conversation with Russell, (I knew his brother Bob in the Army – 6 degrees of separation ) a retired Corrective Services Inspector is based on a lot of preaching to the converted. An associate of Ted Eagan, the current Territory Administrator (read Governor for states) and Shane Stone the Liberal Party Federal President and ex Leader of the NT Country Party he tells us stories of both of them that we should be able to confirm at dinner with Shane and Ted later when get to Darwin.
The Grey Nomads – retired couples travelling the land in $45,000 caravans tend to socialize with other nomads and spend little time talking to the locals. The first night they camp and meet a couple they like and then agree to meet the next night at the next caravan park. That night they meet another couple and they all cluster like Indian Myna birds, sit in their plastic chairs and swap the same stories about kids…our mortgage is paid out…Jayco caravans are best and have you been to Uluru yet?
I’d rather talk to the locals – the truckie, the publican, the Jackeroo, the Ringers and the professional Roo shooter. Different stories…real stories. Why travel a thousand miles to talk to a replica of yourself.
All the bar staff are backpackers with more accents than the UN and they’re selling pots and schooners as ‘a half’ or ‘a pint’. Sacrilege. The other backpackers aren’t looking for a plastic copy of home – they should be told how to order a drink in Australia.
Next morning we start the final leg to Darwin and stop at Katherine for coffee at the Bucking Bull Café. I notice an elderly Aborigine couple dining there and I’m pleasantly surprised. We order coffee and are seduced by the smell of fish and chips. We sit at a table outside and the owner comes out and talks to us.
Ivan, a Croat, had a choice when he left his old home and still chose Australia. With his daughter and son-in-law to help they are all working hard to make a go in the new home and they are exactly the type of new Aussie we need.
He has developed a relationship with the local tribes and encourages them to come and have a proper meal. If they have the money they pay. If not they can tick it up until pension day or sign a chit that the local Government authorities will honour.
Other businesses in town don’t like this approach and are trying to get him out of town. One of the local charities even took him to task for taking away their customers from the soup kitchen line. Ivan counters that they are only feeding them left-overs and the Aborigines know it, while he sells good tucker at fair prices.
A journalist from Darwin phones and accuses Ivan of taking advantage of the disadvantaged by charging them for a meal. Ivan points out that no one accuses the Publicans of taking advantage of people by charging them for beer and wine and no one gets up the local petrol service station owner for charging them for petrol to melt their brains. The Journalist hung up.
Ivan says he loves Australia and generally agrees with the Governments attempts to fix the problem but the debate is hamstrung by bullshit.
One of his indigenous customers stops and asks for a smoke. Ivan is embarrassed but stays cool. It’s midday and the man starts singing at the top of his voice. He has a reasonable voice but teeth like ‘Jaws’ of James Bond fame. The drunken signing continues and conversation is stifled while Ivan tries to move him on. He gives him money for cigarettes out of his own pocket and the drunk quits while he’s ahead. Lectures about lung damage falls on deaf ears but anything for peace and quite
I sneak a look at his tab system and see hundreds of cards with the one card I saw having twenty or so entries. Ivan is carrying a lot of money – I hope it works for him
Just another day at Katherine.
We arrive in Darwin on the 26th of June late in the afternoon. The first obvious point about Darwin is that there is no golden mile of motels. Wary of top prices in the CBD we look at the Stuart Highway and eventually choose one of only two we could find on the road into town.
We watch the football at the local pub and next morning work hard at laundry so when the wives arrived they wouldn’t have to.
The next morning Brian phones Shane Stone to be told we’d made a dubious choice with the motel…’Third country mate!’ and then we remembered a disproportionate number of cabs pulling up with ladies of indeterminate professions, maybe the oldest, but then what would I know?.
Shane offers us his recently vacated house – no furniture but power and tons of room to throw down swags. Shane was at the house when we arrived and amongst other things said.
“If the elections was set for August do you think I’d be here cleaning up my garage?
No. But I’m happy to see the media waste space on guesses.
At dinner that night Shane was very clear in his description of Galarrwuy Yunupingu, the Chairman of the Northern Land Council, and summed it up with…He’s a Black Prince.
I’d followed Galarrwuy in the press and wondered how I would be able to reconcile his rumoured wealth with the poor conditions his people suffer.
I’m beginning to think I won’t be able to.
I do know I can’t agree with his thoughts on the maintenance of tribal law.
You may wonder at the connection between Shane Stone, Galarrwuy Yunupingu and us. Both of them have sons at a GPS Boarding School in Brisbane and my friends run the house where the boys live. Nothing sinister, no insider deals, just a common interest in two boys.
Shane and Josephine are first order hosts and the few days we spend in Darwin are used up with restocking for our sojourn into Arnhem Land, rest and social activities. We watched the fireworks celebrating Territory Day from the balcony of their top floor apartment at Rundle Bay and next night have dinner at Buzzes and the next, at Sicilian.
If you go to Darwin do yourself a favour and visit these two fine restaurants.
Whilst at Buzzes I had occasion to use the bathroom and after establishing correct aim I looked up to see the whole restaurant through a one way mirror. My initial reactions was a mid-stream freeze but resumed business when I noticed no one was looking.
We now head off to Kakadu, or as the Territorians call it, “Kakadont!” and arrive in time to go on the Yellow Waters boat tour. All the boats are skippered by woman and they do an excellent job.
With crocodiles
Birds
and brilliant sunsets
it was money well spent.
Whereas my money was well spent, I’m not sure that royalties given to the local people by ERA have been as well used.
There has been a lot of political bullshit about Kakadu and the debate still rages.
Troppo Armadillo posted a positive piece here and a dated article by David Barnet paints a less happy picture.
Buffalo Hunters
We rest one day and then go for a drive the next. Sand tracks on the beach of a huge crocodile underline the No Swimming rule but old habits die hard and I spend some time in the sea lifting oysters of rocks with my Ka-Bar.
My wife panics and mutters something about no fear but I still keep a sharp look out. I understand her fear – I mean with me eaten how would she pack the tent each day.
Brian joins me and I gather a dozen or so good size rock oysters from their home and we pig out. I’m here to tell you that if you think the oysters you get at the resturant at Double Bay, or wherever, are great then you haven’t taken them off a rock in a pristine bay and eaten them fresh. I mean 5 seconds fresh – that’s fresh!
Tough life but someone has to do it.
Coburg Peninsula is remote – Capital R and underlined. 560 k from Darwin it is also 360 k from the nearest well stocked shop. There are some groceries at Coburg but they are dependant on ‘the barge’ – a remote-area ready-made excuse for no stock. As in ‘Got any milk?’ Nup! Due next Wednesday on the barge’ so go fully stocked yourself should you wish to visit.
Coburg Peninsular
Access to Coburg is restricted to 12 vehicles at any one time and it is pristine country, great for fisherman and people wanting to opt out. No phones, no TV just conversation around the campfire at night. We solved all the problems of the world but I didn’t write them down so the world is left to muddle on without our erudite solutions.
After a rest we leave for what to me is the crux of the tour – Nuhlunbuy. The only town in Arnhem land of significance.
We drive through a couple of hundred kilometres of nothing and then turn south to head towards the main Arnhem Highway. We are all getting tired and look for somewhere to hide for the night. No lovely to-die-for camp sites apparent, nothing attracts our attention so we eventually just turn off the track and find…nothing – just long grass and who knows what type of insects dwelling therein. Never-the-less we beat down the grass and make camp.
Bush Camp
The blonde in the pic is me wondering why I am still camping in hostile territory after having done it for a living for too many years. Some folks never learn – particularly Infantrymen
We are on the edge of an escarpment at the bottom of which runs the Gwydor River. We are hundreds of kilometres from the nearest town or outstation so after dinner we play Eric Bogle on the car stereo confident that we are not going to disturb the neighbours and finished off a nice bottle of red from Margaret River.
Then the fun started. I’ve lived and patrolled in the South East Asian and Australian jungles for a good percentage of my life. I’ve even spent a week or two living in mangroves to hide from the VC and sleeping in the branches to avoid being drowned by the tides, but I’ve never, ever, been attacked by insects like I was that night.
The next morning we travel south for half an hour and then turn east at the Arnhem Highway. A sense of civilization lifts our moral and we drive towards Nuhlunbuy on a well formed gravel road, crossing several delightful creeks on the way.
Delightful creek!
The priorities are; get to Nuhlunbuy, book in a motel, find a doctor, get anti-histamines and calamine lotion, dose up and then try to stop whining. We were all attacked and it took some days to stop scratching.
Welcome to Nuhlunbuy.
A tropical paradise for some, a time warp for others. A contradiction, a fiefdom within a democracy with tribal and national law in conflict – three months suspended sentence or three spear thrusts to the thigh. One drives a 100 series Toyota, the other collects yams.
We spend the first night in the Police compound watching NSW thrash Queensland in the Origin football – the fact that most of the coppers were NSW supporters didn’t help.
As I’m here to learn I question the locals on the town and its problems. I get honest answers from honest men and woman there to help. Not a racist comment to be heard just local problems in a very remote community.
The next morning we are taken in tow by a local senior public servant (who shall remain nameless) and taken on a ‘warts and all’ tour of the town.
We visited YothuYindi’s sound studio overlooking the Arufura Sea and I’m told how the money from the band was used to help the locals. We met one chap who had traveled with the band for 12 years and I quite liked him (no names- no pack drill) but noticed body language that would indicate that he was not a favoured son. Alcohol, drugs and a murder investigation is cramping his style.
Yothu Yindi’s Nuhlunbuy studio.
We visit a crocodile farm that was set up as a tourist enterprise but looking very sad when we were there. One pond, greenish in colour and about 15 foot in diameter erupts when a young fellow throws a stone into the water. A croc as long as the pool was wide leaps out and frightens hell out of me and the others.
No tourists in site.
We spoke of health problems and were told that lower level health problems that can be fixed in the local hospital are well in hand. It’s when the aborigines have to go to Darwin that the problems occur. It is not in their mind to leave kith and kin when sick. They would rather stay at home which is fine and natural except there is no MRI or oncology specialists in town.
Our hostess related a conversation she had with a local elder.
Mr XXX, you have to go to Darwin for treatment (He had cancer)
Eh Missus. You remember old Mrs XXX? She went to Darwin and came back in a box. I’m not going there. Bad place that Darwin.
He died – most probably before his time, making him a part of the statistics that prove aborigines have a shorter life span.
I was witness to this mentality while having a coffee at Katherine. I was talking to an aborigine that had a prosthesis instead of a right leg. A woman went by and ask where he been.
He replied “Darwin and they took my leg – bad place Darwin – not going there again. The conversation then centered on how bad a place Darwin is.
I raised the question of Royalties and was told a horror story of how it used to be given out.
Each year the Northern Land Council allocated royalties. Money allocated to Groote Island tribes-people from the Manganese mine was sent over to the Island from Nuhlunbuy in suitcases – $35,000 cash per family – twice per year! The local Toyota dealer booked the ferry out for two or three days to ship over fleets of new Landcruisers for the cash-rich stone-age tribes-people. The bulk of the money came back with the Toyota salesman and the remainder was spent on grog. After a few days, with the Toyotas all transported, the Police managed to book a berth and go to the island and sort out the problems. Medicos moved in and patched up the tribe and life starts again. Wait around for the suitcases – only six months and a we can get a new Toyota.
The royalties are in addition to Social Security payments.
I have to say I don’t agree with Australians getting royalties from mines. I emphatically agree with disadvantaged Australians getting any help that may be necessary from consolidated revenue but this allocation of royalties stinks and is subject to power games and fraud.
If a community is classified in need of services then I would rather the Government handle the finances in consultation with the elders. I would expect such consultation to cover such points as – you should build schools and medical centers at the outstations before you build a million dollar house with a chopper pad and all weather airstrip.
But then that’s just me.
The chairman of the Northern Land Council Galarrwuy Yunupingu, has the power. He is the man – he allocates the royalties. Some will say he is doing a good job – but I’m not one of them. He has a deliberate program that selects the brighter locals and sends them away to colleges down south. That’s all well and good, but all the others, the vast majority, are encouraged to maintain their old tribal ways.
The ‘old tribal ways’ include ‘promised brides’ of an age that would have us white fellows in goal if we consummated the relationship.
It doesn’t seem to include education. I was told that the heir apparent to Galarrwuy’s Principality has English as his third language. Impressive on the face of it but there is little value in being fluent in two aborigine dialects when neither are useful outside Arnhem Land.
It includes spear thrusts into the thigh for misdemeanors and holding onto the ‘Poison Cousin’ system where for some perceived crime against the clan certain members are ostracized. They’re the ones that you see sleeping in the parks.
Galarrwuy’s detractors call him the Black Prince and believe me he has all the power of a Prince. He certainly runs Arnhem Land as a Principality.
The Jet Ranger chopper flying around Nuhlunbuy attracts my attention
“Who owns it? I ask.
“Well not Galarrwuy. He owns the company that owns the chopper!
They learn – after having such toys taken off them when the auditors were sent in previously, the leaders learned from white fellows and set up limited companies.
We visited Yirrkala, his homeland and saw hope and promise with a school and art gallery but that was the only bright spot on the scene.
We tour and come across a bare patch of gravel in a grasses area near a memorial site. I was told it was where the local clan had scattered Nugget Coombes’ ashes! Apparently, after Nugget had died, his family allowed some of his ashes to be spread at Yirrkala.
I disagree with what Whitlam and Coombes did for the aborigines. Not there compassion – just their lack of practical common sense.
The site of Nugget Coombes ashes
Nuhlunbuy exists because of Bauxite, the raw state of aluminium. The royalties paid by the mine to the Government and then back to the Northern Land Council is the main source of income. The royalties are allocated further down the line by the Land Council and tribal elders, some say cronies of Galarrwuy Yunupingu, get to decide what to do with the money.
We’re talking tens of millions here. When you read of Indigenous leaders screaming about the demise of ATSIC it has nothing to do with what’s perceived as good for the Indigenous people. It is all about losing the power to allocate the millions from royalties and Government coffers.
This note from the Yirrkala web site
Yirrkala baby competition. Cute, but I’d like the one on the left backing me in a fight in a year or two. Couldn’t lose.
We went down to an outstation and witnessed the setting up of a funeral for an elder that had just died. The locals build a new purpose-built village with shade and a centre mourning hut to accommodate the deceased elder. Due to respect for their traditions and customs I decided not to take photos but the expense, effort and time taken to farewell elders is enormous.
Water reticulation and power are supplied. Builders and other tradesmen are busy around the site and all the clans-people are involved in the build-up. The clan is tied up for two weeks. Kids at boarding schools down south (the chosen few) miss school. Commerce normally conducted by the clan ceases to operate (if there is any) and a two-week sit-down phase starts.
We were encouraged to camp at what Galarrwuy called the Spring Camp. We are out of his hair but close enough to visit. Some miles from the main outstation camp and fully served with running water, toilets and showers it was a great camp. In the afternoon woman come by and ask for an empty water bottle so they could fill up to use while hunting yams. Kids are sent up to fetch water and check out our food supplies. They discover biscuits and in the time honoured tradition of kids everywhere in the world, ask for some. I happily oblige but my lasting memory of the camp is that they didn’t have a word of English other than a fractured “biscuit?’
Kids at outstation
We leave Nuhlunbuy and head down the 800 odd kilometres to the Stuart Highway. A reasonable road in most places, albeit a gravel surface.
We make good time and get to Katherine before dark.
Nissan GU intercooled 3.00 li turbo deisel. Our home for six weeks. I’m a V8 Discovery fan but must admit the Nissan is a good alternative.
We leave Brisbane at midday on the 20th 0f June. Both eager to get away from the city we push north-west as fast as is legal. For the initial part of the trip we are sans wives (and associated civilzing effect) and look forward to a 4,000 km pubcrawl to Darwin where we are scheduled to collect our wives from the airport.
I’d take the seven day pub-crawl option over a three hour flight anyday.
The tripmeter now reads 888 km from Brisbane and we have just left Tambo heading for Barcaldine. Last night we spent our time and money at the bar at the ‘Blue Pub’ at Mitchell. Our intentions were to throw our swags down at the local camping ground but a minus 2 degree forecast and an $18 bed led us astray.
Jenny, a delightful blonde with a English and Swedish stud line and her husband John were our hosts and Brian and I had to fight for space in front of the open fire with a black labrador, a border collie and an old dog of indeterminate breed but with a hint of labrador and a touch of mongrel. We had friends, acquaintances, and rugby in common so the night passed quickly.
We stayed at the bar till taps and then slept warm and trouble-free in rooms and beds reminiscent of the 1940s.
Passing through Tambo I noticed the Post Office, a well maintained typical government building circa 1920s and was reminded of the last time I had been Tambo.
Warning – old soldier story.
In 1986 I commanded a 200 man, 100 vehicle convoy from Darwin to Brisbane. The whole trip took 11 days as we could only travel at the speed of the slowest vehicle, a 20 year old fridge trailer. Upon arriving at Tambo I had the guys set up camp just north of town, grabbed a Land Rover and went to town to phone my long suffering wife. I found the Post Office and at about 6:00 pm I duly called home. When finished it became apparent that the Post Office front door had been left opened – the wind was cold and kept banging the door as a reminder of someone’s slackness. The Post Office being a Commonwealth Building and myself a Commonwealth officer I was obliged to do something about it so went in a search of the Sergeant policeman. The search for the local constabulary would have been quicker concluded had I gone straight to the bar of the biggest pub in town but I eventually arrived there and asked him if we could talk outside for a moment. I didn’t want to un-necessarily embarrass the locals and the Sergeant appreciated my tact. He went off to fix that problem and then came back outside.I mentioned that I had a mind to let my 200 man forces loose on the town with a leave pass and would he like to suggest a good pub. I also mentioned I had my own Military Police under command and that he most probably would not have to become to involved in policing.The Sergeant introduced me to the publican who was as keen as mustard to get 200 punters into his pub on a mid week night. He figured the last time that happened was during World War II. During some spirited bargaining he reduced the price of a pot from $1.50 to $1 .00 and agreed to put on a free BBQ for all if my cooks would help. Deal done, the troops got leave, fed and watered. Some fell in love and all were back for first parade.We’re now at Lawn Hill Gorge with 2415 on the trip meter. The day we went through Tambo we ended up at the famous or infamous Kynuna Pub known as the Blue Heeler Pub. For non Aussies, a Blue Heeler is a local cattle dog – Blue because they have red in their coat and Heeler because they influence the cattle’s intended direction of movement by biting one of the beasts heel.. The old Heeler behind the bar was nineteen and was no longer required to mix it with cattle – reduced to mascot. The Publican, a lady, confided in us for some reason and we got the whole saga. ‘Some reason’ might have been associated with the fact that she was consuming copious quantities of Bundy Rum but that’s a bit presumptive of me. Her dishonest male partner left her with nine unpaid tax bills totalling hundreds of thousands of dollars and fled the scene. Negotiations with the Tax Office allowed her to continue trading and pay off the bill. Once this was resolved she started negotiations to buy the pub freehold but was gazumped by the only other trader in town – her 1.2m offer for the pub was not enough – he brought the pub and the service station and now owns the entire town. Sounds like a plot for a B Grade Western Movie but with no John Wayne in town (remember her fellow had walked out) she was beaten. A retired English teacher she had a good turn of phrase and I wish her well in her search for a freehold country pub. The next day we travelled to Gregory River to camp on the banks of the river and soak up the local atmosphere at the pub. Road, bridge and Telstra workers were staying at the pub so lots of stories told by the actual players. On the outskirts of town there is an aborigine mission with kerbing, sewerage and water reticulation which you might correctly state is their right. The white town people think they should have all these services as well, but they don’t. They have to pump water up from the river into tanks and they have to pay for and organize their own sewerage and kerbing is simply out of the question. Mick, (not his real name) the Telstra manager, told us horror stories of dealing with the local indigenous population. Cultural monitors demand $300 per day for their presence at any work site. Once the monitors on any Telstra job exceed 6 then there is a Cultural Monitor Supervisor who gets paid in excess of a $1,000 per day to make sure the monitors are doing their job. Telstra are expected to have an Archeologist on site as well and he is charged with ensuring the Optic Fibre lines are not desecrating culturally significant sites. Stories of the Archeologist picking up a rock and saying…
“This looks like an old axe? or whatever, and the monitor saying “Is it? Oh yeah. You fellows have to go around?Ah, such science. Four D11 dozers are used on an optic fibre line. One to clear the scrub, one to level the path, one to rip the trench and one to fill. These things cost thousands of dollars per day so I would hate to think of the costs associated with rerouting the line a kilometre or two around a culturally significant piece of rock. The fibre optics get to a mission and Mick tells me that Telstra gives all the locals CDMA phones. Do they pay for them? No Do they pay for their calls? No Conferencing Indigenous style. Telstra have to fly the participants, the elders, to the conference site wherever that may be. They refuse to fly commercial thus Telstra are forced to charter aircraft. All well and good except often, on arrival, for some inexplicable reason, the elders decide now is not the time to hold the conference. Stay a while, have a chat, take the plane back home. Nothing achieved. Maybe next time. A word for 4WD enthusiasts. According to Mick Telstra are changing their entire fleet from Codan HF radios to Sat phones. If your looking for a second hand Codan I think there will be thousands on the market very soon. The next morning after a delightful camp on the Gregory River we go back to town in time to see the road train taking fuel out to Century Mine. We spoke to the driver who says he does it daily. 4 dogs (trailers) carrying a total of 111,000 litres goes to the mine everyday and soon, when just three more vehicles are brought on line, the total daily fuel will increase to 150,000 litres.
Fuel Truck – 111,ooo li
In the pub there was a photo of a dump truck with a D11 dozer in the back, like a dinky toy. Big machines, big fuel burners.
We travel on and do the sites of Lawn Hill Gorge. I comment on the age of the land, the well eroded hills and Brian tells me these same hills were being eroded before Mount Everest was pushed out of the ground. Looks about right to me.
Ancient land Australia.
Lawn Hill Gorge. Imagine a semi arid landscape – small rocky hills, very sparse vegetation, flat dry and hot. Take a D111 bulldozer, scrape a ditch 100 metres to 500 metres wide, up to 100 metres deep and maybe two or three kilometres long. Fill it with fresh running spring sourced water, all types of fauna and flora that exists only there and has done for millions of years.
Add tourists.
Lawn Hill Gorge
We went for a walk and swam in the ancient river amongst a dozen different species of water life with palms and grasses throwing up a lush backdrop. At night we are visited by a Wallaby. Small and totally unafraid of humans he approaches Brian demanding food. Brian is being polite..nice Skippy, settle down Skippy…stop it…and I interrupt with a tap to his ribs to try and make him let go of the vegetable bag. We’re laughing and trying to pick up spilt potatoes and onions quicker than Skippy. We eventually convince him to stop bludging and go eat leaves or whatever but as he takes off he grabs a bag of sausages and we have to leap double quick to save them.
Skippy the thief
The tourist brochures talk of ancient sands being the base of the sandstone cliffs and rocks. Formed some 1560 million years ago they are in danger of being eroded by the tens of thousands of tourists who visit each dry season.
Well worth it. Go there
Doomadgee, an Aboriginal town – the least said the better. Travel on and camp at Wollogorang, pay $48.00 for six cans of Bundy Coke and a $1.40 per litre for fuel. Talking with other campers makes it worthwhile
Next day head for Daley Waters, some 650 Km away but a pub of such character as to make it all worthwhile. 150 Caravans and associated contents crowd the scene but the eye fillet and barramundi dinner lift the standards of the night. A long conversation with Russell, (I knew his brother Bob in the Army – 6 degrees of separation ) a retired Corrective Services Inspector is based on a lot of preaching to the converted. An associate of Ted Eagan, the current Territory Administrator (read Governor for states) and Shane Stone the Liberal Party Federal President and ex Leader of the NT Country Party he tells us stories of both of them that we should be able to confirm at dinner with Shane and Ted later when get to Darwin.
The Grey Nomads – retired couples travelling the land in $45,000 caravans tend to socialize with other nomads and spend little time talking to the locals. The first night they camp and meet a couple they like and then agree to meet the next night at the next caravan park. That night they meet another couple and they all cluster like Indian Myna birds, sit in their plastic chairs and swap the same stories about kids…our mortgage is paid out…Jayco caravans are best and have you been to Uluru yet?
I’d rather talk to the locals – the truckie, the publican, the Jackeroo, the Ringers and the professional Roo shooter. Different stories…real stories. Why travel a thousand miles to talk to a replica of yourself.
All the bar staff are backpackers with more accents than the UN and they’re selling pots and schooners as ‘a half’ or ‘a pint’. Sacrilege. The other backpackers aren’t looking for a plastic copy of home – they should be told how to order a drink in Australia.
Next morning we start the final leg to Darwin and stop at Katherine for coffee at the Bucking Bull Café. I notice an elderly Aborigine couple dining there and I’m pleasantly surprised. We order coffee and are seduced by the smell of fish and chips. We sit at a table outside and the owner comes out and talks to us.
Ivan, a Croat, had a choice when he left his old home and still chose Australia. With his daughter and son-in-law to help they are all working hard to make a go in the new home and they are exactly the type of new Aussie we need.
He has developed a relationship with the local tribes and encourages them to come and have a proper meal. If they have the money they pay. If not they can tick it up until pension day or sign a chit that the local Government authorities will honour.
Other businesses in town don’t like this approach and are trying to get him out of town. One of the local charities even took him to task for taking away their customers from the soup kitchen line. Ivan counters that they are only feeding them left-overs and the Aborigines know it, while he sells good tucker at fair prices.
A journalist from Darwin phones and accuses Ivan of taking advantage of the disadvantaged by charging them for a meal. Ivan points out that no one accuses the Publicans of taking advantage of people by charging them for beer and wine and no one gets up the local petrol service station owner for charging them for petrol to melt their brains. The Journalist hung up.
Ivan says he loves Australia and generally agrees with the Governments attempts to fix the problem but the debate is hamstrung by bullshit.
One of his indigenous customers stops and asks for a smoke. Ivan is embarrassed but stays cool. It’s midday and the man starts singing at the top of his voice. He has a reasonable voice but teeth like ‘Jaws’ of James Bond fame. The drunken signing continues and conversation is stifled while Ivan tries to move him on. He gives him money for cigarettes out of his own pocket and the drunk quits while he’s ahead. Lectures about lung damage falls on deaf ears but anything for peace and quite
I sneak a look at his tab system and see hundreds of cards with the one card I saw having twenty or so entries. Ivan is carrying a lot of money – I hope it works for him
Just another day at Katherine.
We arrive in Darwin on the 26th of June late in the afternoon. The first obvious point about Darwin is that there is no golden mile of motels. Wary of top prices in the CBD we look at the Stuart Highway and eventually choose one of only two we could find on the road into town.
We watch the football at the local pub and next morning work hard at laundry so when the wives arrived they wouldn’t have to.
The next morning Brian phones Shane Stone to be told we’d made a dubious choice with the motel…’Third country mate!’ and then we remembered a disproportionate number of cabs pulling up with ladies of indeterminate professions, maybe the oldest, but then what would I know?.
Shane offers us his recently vacated house – no furniture but power and tons of room to throw down swags. Shane was at the house when we arrived and amongst other things said.
“If the elections was set for August do you think I’d be here cleaning up my garage?
No. But I’m happy to see the media waste space on guesses.
At dinner that night Shane was very clear in his description of Galarrwuy Yunupingu, the Chairman of the Northern Land Council, and summed it up with…He’s a Black Prince.
I’d followed Galarrwuy in the press and wondered how I would be able to reconcile his rumoured wealth with the poor conditions his people suffer.
I’m beginning to think I won’t be able to.
I do know I can’t agree with his thoughts on the maintenance of tribal law.
You may wonder at the connection between Shane Stone, Galarrwuy Yunupingu and us. Both of them have sons at a GPS Boarding School in Brisbane and my friends run the house where the boys live. Nothing sinister, no insider deals, just a common interest in two boys.
Shane and Josephine are first order hosts and the few days we spend in Darwin are used up with restocking for our sojourn into Arnhem Land, rest and social activities. We watched the fireworks celebrating Territory Day from the balcony of their top floor apartment at Rundle Bay and next night have dinner at Buzzes and the next, at Sicilian.
If you go to Darwin do yourself a favour and visit these two fine restaurants.
Whilst at Buzzes I had occasion to use the bathroom and after establishing correct aim I looked up to see the whole restaurant through a one way mirror. My initial reactions was a mid-stream freeze but resumed business when I noticed no one was looking.
We now head off to Kakadu, or as the Territorians call it, “Kakadont!” and arrive in time to go on the Yellow Waters boat tour. All the boats are skippered by woman and they do an excellent job.
With crocodiles
Birds
and brilliant sunsets
it was money well spent.
Whereas my money was well spent, I’m not sure that royalties given to the local people by ERA have been as well used.
There has been a lot of political bullshit about Kakadu and the debate still rages.
Troppo Armadillo posted a positive piece here and a dated article by David Barnet paints a less happy picture.
Energy Resources of Australia (ERA), has, for instance, since 1980, paid out more than $132 million in royalties, plus $5.1 million in up-front fees and lease costs, to the Northern Land Council and to local Aborigines. It expects to pay out another $210 million over the next 28 years. The Northern Land Council shares 40 per cent of these royalties among the Territory’s four Land Councils, taking 57 per cent of that share for itself. Another 30 per cent goes as ‘grants’—running costs for the Aboriginal Benefits Trust Account, which is the body set up to receive the royalties after ERA pays them to the Commonwealth—and ‘Land Council top-ups’. Up until 1995, the Gagadju Association got the remaining 30 per cent. There has been a rediscovery of spiritual connections to the land. Since Kakadu was set up, and since the uranium royalties began to flow, the Aboriginal population has risen from 100 to 300.and
There are flaws in this Eden, flaws that afflict Aboriginal Australians more generally. It would seem from various somewhat guarded reports, that there has been no improvement in either health or education. The schools have failed to provide adequate levels of literacy, so that there are training and education problems. Along with the flow of uranium royalties there has been an increase in alcoholism and crime. Northern Land Council distribution of these royalties is very questionable.Later in our trip we visit Nhullunbuy where I witness Black Prince/Northern Land Council excesses and little obvious advancement of life styles of our Indigenous brothers. A society locked in time-warped nomadic lives gathering yams but no English skills, while leaders have degrees and fly around in helicopters. More on that later. After Jabiru and Ubir rock we cross the Alligator River and head to Gurig National Park on the Coburg Peninsular. Located NNE of Darwin and accessible via Arnhem Land the trip covers 560 km of mostly gravel roads and some great land. Shane Stone told me that Arnhem Land never had any leases operating and I wonder why. Seemingly great cattle country with ample feed and water I can only surmise that it was to remote to settle. Permits are required for Australians to drive through Australia when there are Aborigines present and access to the park is also dependant on a $220.00 fee. But hey, who’s complaining. To me, the attraction is the 19th century settlements established by the British pre Darwin days. All attempts failed and the ruins are a emphatic reminder of the difficulties faced by our fathers. Unfortunately the authorities have not allowed for any track to the site forcing tourists to pay $90.00 each to go to the site by tinnie. We opted out of paying $360 for all of us based on priorities that include a lot more country to see yet and after all I’m only an Army pensioner. For others the attraction is hunting
Buffalo Hunters
We rest one day and then go for a drive the next. Sand tracks on the beach of a huge crocodile underline the No Swimming rule but old habits die hard and I spend some time in the sea lifting oysters of rocks with my Ka-Bar.
My wife panics and mutters something about no fear but I still keep a sharp look out. I understand her fear – I mean with me eaten how would she pack the tent each day.
Brian joins me and I gather a dozen or so good size rock oysters from their home and we pig out. I’m here to tell you that if you think the oysters you get at the resturant at Double Bay, or wherever, are great then you haven’t taken them off a rock in a pristine bay and eaten them fresh. I mean 5 seconds fresh – that’s fresh!
Tough life but someone has to do it.
Coburg Peninsula is remote – Capital R and underlined. 560 k from Darwin it is also 360 k from the nearest well stocked shop. There are some groceries at Coburg but they are dependant on ‘the barge’ – a remote-area ready-made excuse for no stock. As in ‘Got any milk?’ Nup! Due next Wednesday on the barge’ so go fully stocked yourself should you wish to visit.
Coburg Peninsular
Access to Coburg is restricted to 12 vehicles at any one time and it is pristine country, great for fisherman and people wanting to opt out. No phones, no TV just conversation around the campfire at night. We solved all the problems of the world but I didn’t write them down so the world is left to muddle on without our erudite solutions.
After a rest we leave for what to me is the crux of the tour – Nuhlunbuy. The only town in Arnhem land of significance.
We drive through a couple of hundred kilometres of nothing and then turn south to head towards the main Arnhem Highway. We are all getting tired and look for somewhere to hide for the night. No lovely to-die-for camp sites apparent, nothing attracts our attention so we eventually just turn off the track and find…nothing – just long grass and who knows what type of insects dwelling therein. Never-the-less we beat down the grass and make camp.
Bush Camp
The blonde in the pic is me wondering why I am still camping in hostile territory after having done it for a living for too many years. Some folks never learn – particularly Infantrymen
We are on the edge of an escarpment at the bottom of which runs the Gwydor River. We are hundreds of kilometres from the nearest town or outstation so after dinner we play Eric Bogle on the car stereo confident that we are not going to disturb the neighbours and finished off a nice bottle of red from Margaret River.
Then the fun started. I’ve lived and patrolled in the South East Asian and Australian jungles for a good percentage of my life. I’ve even spent a week or two living in mangroves to hide from the VC and sleeping in the branches to avoid being drowned by the tides, but I’ve never, ever, been attacked by insects like I was that night.
The next morning we travel south for half an hour and then turn east at the Arnhem Highway. A sense of civilization lifts our moral and we drive towards Nuhlunbuy on a well formed gravel road, crossing several delightful creeks on the way.
Delightful creek!
The priorities are; get to Nuhlunbuy, book in a motel, find a doctor, get anti-histamines and calamine lotion, dose up and then try to stop whining. We were all attacked and it took some days to stop scratching.
Welcome to Nuhlunbuy.
A tropical paradise for some, a time warp for others. A contradiction, a fiefdom within a democracy with tribal and national law in conflict – three months suspended sentence or three spear thrusts to the thigh. One drives a 100 series Toyota, the other collects yams.
We spend the first night in the Police compound watching NSW thrash Queensland in the Origin football – the fact that most of the coppers were NSW supporters didn’t help.
As I’m here to learn I question the locals on the town and its problems. I get honest answers from honest men and woman there to help. Not a racist comment to be heard just local problems in a very remote community.
The next morning we are taken in tow by a local senior public servant (who shall remain nameless) and taken on a ‘warts and all’ tour of the town.
We visited YothuYindi’s sound studio overlooking the Arufura Sea and I’m told how the money from the band was used to help the locals. We met one chap who had traveled with the band for 12 years and I quite liked him (no names- no pack drill) but noticed body language that would indicate that he was not a favoured son. Alcohol, drugs and a murder investigation is cramping his style.
Yothu Yindi’s Nuhlunbuy studio.
We visit a crocodile farm that was set up as a tourist enterprise but looking very sad when we were there. One pond, greenish in colour and about 15 foot in diameter erupts when a young fellow throws a stone into the water. A croc as long as the pool was wide leaps out and frightens hell out of me and the others.
No tourists in site.
We spoke of health problems and were told that lower level health problems that can be fixed in the local hospital are well in hand. It’s when the aborigines have to go to Darwin that the problems occur. It is not in their mind to leave kith and kin when sick. They would rather stay at home which is fine and natural except there is no MRI or oncology specialists in town.
Our hostess related a conversation she had with a local elder.
Mr XXX, you have to go to Darwin for treatment (He had cancer)
Eh Missus. You remember old Mrs XXX? She went to Darwin and came back in a box. I’m not going there. Bad place that Darwin.
He died – most probably before his time, making him a part of the statistics that prove aborigines have a shorter life span.
I was witness to this mentality while having a coffee at Katherine. I was talking to an aborigine that had a prosthesis instead of a right leg. A woman went by and ask where he been.
He replied “Darwin and they took my leg – bad place Darwin – not going there again. The conversation then centered on how bad a place Darwin is.
I raised the question of Royalties and was told a horror story of how it used to be given out.
Each year the Northern Land Council allocated royalties. Money allocated to Groote Island tribes-people from the Manganese mine was sent over to the Island from Nuhlunbuy in suitcases – $35,000 cash per family – twice per year! The local Toyota dealer booked the ferry out for two or three days to ship over fleets of new Landcruisers for the cash-rich stone-age tribes-people. The bulk of the money came back with the Toyota salesman and the remainder was spent on grog. After a few days, with the Toyotas all transported, the Police managed to book a berth and go to the island and sort out the problems. Medicos moved in and patched up the tribe and life starts again. Wait around for the suitcases – only six months and a we can get a new Toyota.
The royalties are in addition to Social Security payments.
I have to say I don’t agree with Australians getting royalties from mines. I emphatically agree with disadvantaged Australians getting any help that may be necessary from consolidated revenue but this allocation of royalties stinks and is subject to power games and fraud.
If a community is classified in need of services then I would rather the Government handle the finances in consultation with the elders. I would expect such consultation to cover such points as – you should build schools and medical centers at the outstations before you build a million dollar house with a chopper pad and all weather airstrip.
But then that’s just me.
The chairman of the Northern Land Council Galarrwuy Yunupingu, has the power. He is the man – he allocates the royalties. Some will say he is doing a good job – but I’m not one of them. He has a deliberate program that selects the brighter locals and sends them away to colleges down south. That’s all well and good, but all the others, the vast majority, are encouraged to maintain their old tribal ways.
The ‘old tribal ways’ include ‘promised brides’ of an age that would have us white fellows in goal if we consummated the relationship.
It doesn’t seem to include education. I was told that the heir apparent to Galarrwuy’s Principality has English as his third language. Impressive on the face of it but there is little value in being fluent in two aborigine dialects when neither are useful outside Arnhem Land.
It includes spear thrusts into the thigh for misdemeanors and holding onto the ‘Poison Cousin’ system where for some perceived crime against the clan certain members are ostracized. They’re the ones that you see sleeping in the parks.
Galarrwuy’s detractors call him the Black Prince and believe me he has all the power of a Prince. He certainly runs Arnhem Land as a Principality.
The Jet Ranger chopper flying around Nuhlunbuy attracts my attention
“Who owns it? I ask.
“Well not Galarrwuy. He owns the company that owns the chopper!
They learn – after having such toys taken off them when the auditors were sent in previously, the leaders learned from white fellows and set up limited companies.
We visited Yirrkala, his homeland and saw hope and promise with a school and art gallery but that was the only bright spot on the scene.
We tour and come across a bare patch of gravel in a grasses area near a memorial site. I was told it was where the local clan had scattered Nugget Coombes’ ashes! Apparently, after Nugget had died, his family allowed some of his ashes to be spread at Yirrkala.
I disagree with what Whitlam and Coombes did for the aborigines. Not there compassion – just their lack of practical common sense.
The site of Nugget Coombes ashes
Nuhlunbuy exists because of Bauxite, the raw state of aluminium. The royalties paid by the mine to the Government and then back to the Northern Land Council is the main source of income. The royalties are allocated further down the line by the Land Council and tribal elders, some say cronies of Galarrwuy Yunupingu, get to decide what to do with the money.
We’re talking tens of millions here. When you read of Indigenous leaders screaming about the demise of ATSIC it has nothing to do with what’s perceived as good for the Indigenous people. It is all about losing the power to allocate the millions from royalties and Government coffers.
This note from the Yirrkala web site
The mine, refinery and township of Nuhlunbuy are located on the Gove Peninsula on leasehold land within the boundaries of Aboriginal freehold land. This means the Aboriginal traditional owners are our landlords. There are approximately 1,700 indigenous people of numerous clans living in the N/E Arnhem Land region. The 5 main clans are Gumatj, Rirratjingu, Djapu, Madarrpa and Dhalwangu. Gumatj and Rirratjingu are the traditional owners of the land in the area of the leases. Aboriginal-owned land is private land. While you are free to move about the town and industrial leases at will, if you wish to leave the leases for recreation purposes you MUST obtain a recreation permit. Unauthorized entry onto Aboriginal land can result in a fine of up to $1000.00. The permit system helps to make Aboriginal land accessible to tourists, visitors and workers. It also protects the privacy of Aboriginal people, takes care of the environment and promotes safety. There are many areas, which are considered sacred or significant, and the system helps visitors to avoid causing offence or disrupting cultural activities.
Yirrkala baby competition. Cute, but I’d like the one on the left backing me in a fight in a year or two. Couldn’t lose.
We went down to an outstation and witnessed the setting up of a funeral for an elder that had just died. The locals build a new purpose-built village with shade and a centre mourning hut to accommodate the deceased elder. Due to respect for their traditions and customs I decided not to take photos but the expense, effort and time taken to farewell elders is enormous.
Water reticulation and power are supplied. Builders and other tradesmen are busy around the site and all the clans-people are involved in the build-up. The clan is tied up for two weeks. Kids at boarding schools down south (the chosen few) miss school. Commerce normally conducted by the clan ceases to operate (if there is any) and a two-week sit-down phase starts.
We were encouraged to camp at what Galarrwuy called the Spring Camp. We are out of his hair but close enough to visit. Some miles from the main outstation camp and fully served with running water, toilets and showers it was a great camp. In the afternoon woman come by and ask for an empty water bottle so they could fill up to use while hunting yams. Kids are sent up to fetch water and check out our food supplies. They discover biscuits and in the time honoured tradition of kids everywhere in the world, ask for some. I happily oblige but my lasting memory of the camp is that they didn’t have a word of English other than a fractured “biscuit?’
Kids at outstation
We leave Nuhlunbuy and head down the 800 odd kilometres to the Stuart Highway. A reasonable road in most places, albeit a gravel surface.
We make good time and get to Katherine before dark.
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