Town Beach - A Weekend Back Home

Opening my eye’s slightly I could just make-out the silhouette of a man standing over me. Paying little attention I shifted my body some more and dig deeper into the warm moulded beach sand below. Two empty pizza boxes providing all necessary protection, splayd over my filthy stained jean. The shadow. It was Parasite, I presume - moving around doing something. Maybe he's still fishing with Dan. To tired to care, I didn’t take much notice and drifted off again into a heavy exhausted daze. Sleep wasn’t coming on exactly, just a heaviness from the tips of my toes right up to the lashes below my brow.

The water lapped gently against the sandy shore, the open air was still, warm, snug and it was about midnight when I had decided to turn in. That is, right after a big feed of the aforementioned pizza which seemingly filled that large, self induced bottomless pit which formed somewhere deep within my little left toe.

‘What a great day’ I decide as my body got heavier and I breathed out, sinking deeper and deeper until at one stage I figured I was under ground but wouldn’t move, wouldn’t panic.. Just drift, drift deeper, drift further, drift off somewhere into the abyss and I would smile contentedly.

They say too much of a good thing is a bad thing but whoever said that obviously never slept on a beach with a tummy full of delicious golden oat soda and a head lightened by a little friendly smoke. Just lying around - take it all in, the smell of the sea, just still and lazy. No point in moving, theres nothing more than the 'here’s and now’s'. Nothing else to discover other than maybe the pleasant wisp of the salty sea goodness and the feel of the sand between my toes and I slept a deep sleep.

Sometime in the early morning, when it was still a little dark, I awoke slightly cool. The beach was deserted other than a small tent pitched a few yards away. Parasite was sound asleep inside, tucked in his sleeping bag. I think he was sucking on his thumb but I couldn’t tell. Gathering up the two full pizza boxes which I had been using as a pillow I made my way up the beach to the resort in hope of finding some water. I tried opening the rear door which overlooked the beach. No luck. So I snuck around looking for a tap, my mouth was dryer than a bitumen road on a stinking hot day and I made an audible ‘nic’ sound as I drew my tongue from the top of my mouth.

‘Click’, the door sounded, I looked up and Dan smiled. He had just gone to bed, he told me.

“You can sleep on the couch” he mumbled dazedly so I walked in and lay on the stiff suede lounge. He stumbled a little then headed up to the next room where his newly-wed wife was waiting in the room? Maybe she was already asleep, I decided. The lousy couch was uncomfortable so I got up and found some water. Gulping a few times from the container I then brought it to where I was resting. I woke up intermittently, trying to get comfortable but at first light I got up frustrated and went outside.

The sun was warming up the sky. Shades of blue drifted lazily around me and I watched some early morning swimmers paddle through the cool silent ocean. Finding a more comfortable day lounge, I stretched out and drunk some more water while observing the scene. One of those magic mornings where you ponder the definition of heaven, and think, no, decide, that this would probably be it…

Feeling drawn towards the beach I started thinking maybe I could live in that warm sand and just eat fresh fish with a small portion of rice. It was always the dream and I was happy. Town Beach is the name of this particular strip. Dad used to bring me down here when I was young, but these days things had really changed.

It’s another billion dollar project which has reclaimed land, high rise apartments and pompous café’s dwell there now. It's where the latte arrives with a complementary cookie and the man reads his paper bitterly as the coffee cools down.

His wife looks over from across the table and notices she has missed a spot on his shirt and wonders if she should iron it again. Instead she decides not to disrupt him and alternatively pours some water from the bottle into a dish and lays it out for the complacent poodle by his legs. Sitting back she gazes off silently into the marina and admires the morning sun shining through the beautiful boats which are stowed within their locks.

The 'here’s and now’s'. I’m laying here on this day lounge right in the middle of all this. The residences nearby had written to the local paper when this development was first approved by the local council. 'A town beach with no facilities' they exclaimed, other than those provided at the hotel which bounds up casting shadows across the crisp white beach. Facilities we must mention are 'exclusive to those staying at the hotel' it went on to say and the old lady with her dogs now feels forlorn with the whole situation and the council planners busy themselves at some award ceremony.

Watching on I catch Parasite walking up the beach towards his car, tent in hand and Dan’s inside getting a drink. I look around at the ocean with it’s gentle morning haze thinking how lucky I am being here right now and how tomorrow this time I’ll be on my way back to Darwin… Darwin… It’s only been two day’s and I’m missing that crew already. Good people with all sorts of stories and I’m loving life. So is Dan and Parasite and we’re saying goodbye once again. I decide too hell with all this - I’m happy to be leaving.

Thanks Dan for a great day and especially thanks for asking me to be your groomsman. Best of luck to you and the missus!




(Sorry guys I drifted off track with the Carnarvon stuff, it’s a couple of years out of date but I wanted to get some stuff down, and I have heaps more too go. Anyway this is the latest going ons, hope you enjoyed it)

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 2

Colby was out cooking up some toast in the kitchenette when I awoke. The air was already hot in the small donga accommodation and I threw off the single sheet restlessly. It is the only protection from the busted up fan which spins methodically throughout the night.

6:00am…

Really was it that early? I stood up tiredly and then sat down again in front of the television for a few minutes of Morning Sunrise. Meanwhile Colby fixed up a strong caffeine mix for the both of us. Most of the time since first arriving Colby would have already had the first pump running before I even thought about waking up, but somewhere, somehow I had ended up on the payroll.

The morning felt soft and warm against my bare skin as I walked outside. There is nothing better than waking up dressed in a loose pair of board shorts, so natural, so normal and just so right. It reminded me of those early mornings during the school summer holidays, all excitement, anticipating another long day on the sandy white beach.

The Oyster farm, most commonly described as the bum-fuck rat warren is located on a small tributary to the south which drains into the Carnarvon basin. Surrounding the oasis of dishevelled structures is kilometres of dusty infertile salt marsh, baked crisp on top. The drive way and overhead powerlines, the only form of infrastructure comes in from the north side off Oyster Creek Road. The road is a skinny compacted gravel path which regularly floods when the tide comes in.

This is certainly a contrast to the cushy office job back down south, I thought as I looked out over the makeshift boardwalk. The knife was in my small canvas fishing bag down near the water and I pulled it out as I made my way to the crude pontoon. Some nights I would sleep out here, in my comfortable swag and just look out into the peacefulness of the Midwestern stars. Last night though, I slept inside.

Through the early ray of light I could just make out the fishing line, the loose couple of rolls I had left unravelled were gone and the line was taught. Always a good sign something had taken the bait I’d left out the night before. Reaching down I pulled swiftly at the line to make sure I had something on the other end, dead weight. I pulled again and the line restricted around my supple fingers. Placing the line back down I looked into the murky waters as the tide rushed in. The line pulled increasingly tight again. After a brief moment I reached down and drew at the line once more, this time with as much strength as I could muster. It was moving, but hellishly slow. I struggled as it bit into my fingers. It hurt, but in a good way.

The blood started pumping though my body - adrenaline. Hell, I wonder what it could be? It didn’t take long to find out unfortunately. The end of the log poked out of the water first and I looked at it thinking how unusually heavy it was. I grabbed at it the first chance I got, hoping to take some weight off my hands. It was rotten and crumbled in my fingers, I wrestled at it some more, grabbing at it, finally getting a good hold and I struggled at the mammoth log to bring it aboard. The line was intertwined and looked like an ornate dream catcher weaved by some spiritual wizard, I traced the line, and there on the end was a nice size spotted cod.

You beauty, I thought to myself and quickly detached it from the hook. Leaving the log on the deck I scuffled off the dodgy pontoon and up to the feeble accommodation. Colby was just walking out to start the day when I showed him the catch.

“Is it still alive?” He asked disinterested.
“Yeah, but it’s been on the line all night”, I replied, holding it out fondly.
“Well, chuck it in the pond” and with that he walked off into the shed and disappeared around the corner.

I could tell he was keen to get started and I knew he didn’t want me to be far behind, though he never said anything. I shimmied between the store and the donga, through the work shop and out of the garage to the ponds. There was a series of ponds which held a variety of fish, I dropped it in the first and watched it dart off into the shallow weed. The Mangrove Jack drifted out and looked up at me in anticipation of some food.

Better get to work I thought mindfully.

Midwest Depravity - Carnarvon Part 1

It’s been some time on the road; I’ve been drifting in and out of a restless slumber, the scenery slowly changes, getting sparse now. Colby motions his head conscious to the music blasting from the stereo, keeping his eye’s fixated on the long straight barren job ahead.. Kyriss’s heavy percussions vibrate through the small cab of the diesel Hilux 4x4. A painstaking slow piece of Japanese engineering by any standard, but today I don’t feel in a rush, and I drift off again.

The rig starts to slow down some hours after departing Perth City, and I open my eyes to see what’s going on as the change of rhythm disturbs my sleep. It’s a lot lighter outside I notice then when we first departed.

“Piss stop chief”, Colby announces as he swings out the door and proceeds to piss just off the side of the hot desolate road edge. I’m still busy clumsily finding my dick, when he’s already jumping back in the cab..

“Time to go chief”, He informs me, “we got’ a keep moving if we wanna get there today”.

I cut the piss short, and shake twice. Any more then two shakes is just plain fooling around and I don’t have time to be fooling around apparently. I’m not so sure that’s a good thing though as I feel a dribble of urine run down the side of my leg. Some friendly ants have also decided to claw up my feet, better keep moving. The Ute’s already rolling when I turn back around and I quickly clamber along the sharp stone under foot making short painful steps, while struggling to climb the tall awkward side of the moving car.

“You have any water?” I ask weakly
“Yeah sure do chief”, he say’s as he gazes at me with a ‘why haven’t you got your own bottle of water’ look...
“You can use the bottle on the floor”.

Colby points to a beaten up old juice container which looks like something his grand-dad might have found on the side of the road during the great depression. I gather he’s fond of the old bottle. Inside is what I can only describe as a somewhat translucent liquid which swishes around as the car jerks violently on rough bumps of the road, which is many. It’s hard to tell though if it’s because of the beat-up exterior of the bottle or just the opaque bits that float within that make it so unclear. I twist the lid, and the smell hit’s me instantly, old wet boots have been hidden inside I reckon, and I peer down the nozzle to be sure they’re not still there.

“Toughen up princess” Colby jokes noticing my discomfort and I notice he’s got a big grim thick across his face. I look at him, then the bottle and back at him… His grin growing bigger at my hesitation, and he’s bursting for a laugh.
“It’s just water” he stresses, knowing I’m desperate as hell to squish this hangover and have little other options.

Looking concerned at the bottle I take a swig trying my best not to come in contact with the area around the lid, it’s absolutely vile and the smell and the taste are even more rotten. Looking around the cab I try to find somewhere to regurgitate the mess, but I’m stuck. The car pulls along at a steady 90 clicks, I’ll have to keep it down I decide as I do my best to swallow it.

Colby chuckles, shakes his head and settles his eye’s on the road again.

“What the hell is wrong with this bottle”, I blurt as I look at its trashed exterior, “why don’t you get a new one”.
“Arh well, ‘ya know”, He starts, “I like seeing how long I can use the same bottle for”.
“Have you ever cleaned it”, I ask intrigued.
“Arrrh no”, he turns and gives me a slightly queer look.

Shaking my head I look at him and he laughs a little more and then it all goes quiet again except for the sound of the road under the heavy wheels, and the gentle clutter of a smoking 2.8 litre diesel. This is good driving country.

I notice a little later down the road, somewhere around the other side of Geraldton he has another, much cleaner bottle in which he drinks from. He hints a snide smile every time he brings it to his lips as I watch inconspicuously. I sense I’m sucking at the emergency radiator water, but I’m grateful for anything and keep quiet. Anyway I’ll buy drink at the next road house.

The next road house, on the West Coast is generally spaced about every two hundred odd clicks up the road, but when you’re hauling the Northern Coast Highway you try stretching the stops to a minimum… You’ll run a reserve tank seventy to one hundred odd clicks if it means you don’t need to stop so soon, and even sometimes you’ll keep a spare twenty litres on the back in a jerry as insurance. In this case, where about six hundred kilometres north when the tired old Ute finally comes to a deserving stop. My legs are aching from the tight space inside the cab and we still have roughly four hundred to go. It’s still mid morning I think to myself, looks like we’re making good time.

Colby jumped out and is filling the car by the time I’ve found my wallet in the bag on the back seat.

“Come’ on chief” he says as he makes for the door, “time to get moving”.
I’m still busily looking through the selection of beverages in the road house. I quickly snatch up a bottle of Powerade and some water, throw the money on the counter and rush after the Ute which is already rolling.

It’s been awhile sense I came this far north. We used to make the trip regularly with folks when I was younger on fishing trips and what not. Mainly we went fishing around here. Turn off at Northampton we would head to the coast at Horrick’s Beach. Big choppers the usual fair from the beach, but there was one time we snatched a decent Mulloway.

Since starting full time work though, four odd years ago I’d only been up here once, and that was early on in the piece. Work, I thought about it as I watch the scene go by through the dirty window. The land turned red, and the tree’s smaller. Feral goats chewed leisurely at short clippings as roo’s lay lifeless on the hot bitumen road. Lizards and snakes all kinds of reptiles licked profusely at the air, and the big fat wheels speed on past with an audible ‘whoosh’, and then it fell into a ghostly silence, just the air, the dirt and the sparse surroundings.

I’d started work back home and now the first time in four years I was finally free from the tiresome obligations. It was a good feeling, and I was glad to be doing this trip with Colby. He worked up here in an Oyster farm, he told me. Growing pearl oyster spat for exportation to some other farms out at Sexmouth Gulf as he affectionately referred to it, and another at Monte Bello Islands.

He’d be working the next two weeks, and I’d keep out of his hair and just explore the surrounding salt flats and creek system we agreed. Might head out to scratch up some Cray’s (Clawless lobster) off the Quobba coast we also decided. It really all depended on the weather though.

“It’s always hot”, Colby informs me, “It was forty eight the other day”.
“It was almost to hot to work, so Richard the lazy prick’s hiding in the lab and I’m out sweating my box off”
“Had to get a spare tank, fill ‘er up with water and sit around drinking Corries” he continues.

I smiled reaffirming his toughness… No doubt he’s a workaholic. Actually he is the complete opposite to me. He is dark, well tanned, fit and generally healthy. His cloths are old and well worn. Holes in his favourite ‘wife beater’s’ match his equally holey double pluggers. I on the other hand was fat. Swollen from endless nights boozing in dingy lit pubs well into the late hours of the night and I couldn’t even tell you the last time I did a decent days work. This is what I liked about Colby, his outgoing ‘nowness’ persona - rip the bull by the horns and tackle the motha’ to the ground even if it was just a show. He had good intentions.

The day drifted into pm, and the ground got hotter and the shrubs shorter. Not much out here other then an open road and desert for as far as you cared to look. Arid nothingness.. Just you and the desert to think of what ever you feel like thinking about. This is usually just thoughtful nothingness itself. It’s beautiful beyond description.

It was around 3:00pm when we finally hit Carnarvon, turning off onto the HMAS Sydney Memorial Drive.. Plaques lined both sides of the road every few meter’s and above every couple of plaques loomed a tall coconut palm.

“The Council’s out here planting new tree’s all the time”, he asserts, “But they usually just die in the heat and lack of water”.

It would be a glorious drive I think to myself, if all the palms were healthy and green and there was some grass to cover the relentlessly dry red dust and dirt, but like all of Carnarvon as I would soon learn, fails to be anything more then a dreary old dirty fishing town.

Half way up the road, Colby stoves the wheel into a quick left turn sending the Ute sliding out across the gravel road. He smiles,

“We’re here”, he confirms, “It’s just up ahead, eight clicks”

I look down the open dirt track, there is nothing other then small shrub on either side of the road and an over head powerlines which lead off into the distance..

“We’re here” I mutter softly taking it all in…

There is nothing.

Did You Pack The Moral Intuition - Part 2

“I need a job, can you get me a job?”, Carly blurts excitedly. The pollie looks up at the fine young lass dolefully. Her big wide smile smothers the situation; the look in her eyes is carefree and simple. She picks up a fresh beer and takes another long mindful sip as the Pollie and I watch on.
“Yeah I might be able to get you a job”, he lied
“She’s just finished a journo/PR degree ‘ya know”, I helpfully interject seeing that she’s given him nothing other then an infectious smile to work with,
“Oh in that case I can definitely get you a job”. His head straightened –he laughed a big booming laugh – and looked back at her approvingly.

I quickly grasp the phone from my pocket and slam down on the keys awkwardly. It’s frustratingly difficult while skilfully juggling the phone as well as the delicious soda.

“Quick update, you never know what will happen in Darwin. Be serious, we could get you a serious job out of it. I’m a bluff… that’s how I get jobs… It’s never about skill!”

But the message came through late, I caught onto the conversation again and Carly was apologizing.

“I’ll only be here a short time, we’re going to South East Asia”, she announces cheerfully. Her pale skin amongst these tall tanned brutes make her look so small and fragile, eloquent in some strange way, like a freshly opened flower on a cold morning mist, just moments away from the farmers open blade slasher.

“Oh, I’m drunk. Please help me. I’m trying”, her reply reads.

“Haha just bullshit and ask for a job. It’s like we found a gold deposit which is untouched. It’s an easy place to find riches in places you would have thought were worthless”.

I’m obviously very drunk by this stage, but the words seem right. I’ve watched this happen in West Oz, it’s everyone’s game. Riches ready for the plucking.

The pollie however has read the play and we lose his interest. He tells us he would be able to find something if she wanted to stay longer but it’s a missed opportunity I gather.

Meanwhile Heath has shuffled off in a booze induced fantasy, thinking that he’ll beat old one-eyed pirate tooth at a game of darts. A game ‘old mate’ has been mastering for the past few hours, and before long he’s bailing me up.

“Where’s your mate gone?” Crusty one-eye interrupts “He owes me my money”

His body moves awkwardly, one patch affixed across his eye and a tanned leathery completion dressed in smudged tattoos of years before which probably involved many a dart board. What sort of stories he’ll be able to share after some turps, I’m left wondering.

“I think he’s gone to get the money. He’ll be back shortly” I inform the crazy, He looks at me awhile as if not to believe my humble words then grunts doubtfully and moves off.

Truthfully, I have no idea and what more, why does he owe him money and how much? I survey the balcony and notice the pollies also gone, slinked off into the filthy corners of the night I guess. Crap, just my luck, stuck here with the old one-eyed loon…

Carly and I sit around chatting for a little while – its gibberish. I want her to understand the logic behind serious jobs; it’s about not being serious… Take the money and run with it. You make it through three months, they realise your useless at worst and it’s too late, cashed up, fly away. On the other hand, she just wants me to realise she’s 20, adorable and trying to have some fun. Maybe the West Oz has got the better of me and now I’m stuck in this uncontrollable loop of stupidity, like an electric wired cupcake – mmm delicious cupcake. Heath sneaks in and taps me on the shoulder.

“Man I got to win this hundred bucks back, I can win this hundred back”.
“It’s as good as gone mate”, I reply stiffly “You’re not thinking right and your boong drunk”.

On que as if listening to our conversation, old patchworks waddles over to the rotting wooden bench where we sit…

“You want another game”, he gurgles raucously.
“I’ll let you take his hundred” I tell ‘old mate’, “But I’m not going to let you take another”. The one-eye two legged pirate chuckles calmly.
Heaths eyes are fixed on his opposition. His testosterone bubbles through his veins like a mad scientist’s magic concoction over a Bunsen burner.

“Lets go to the pub” Carly suggests carefully, using some of that retarded womanly way of persuasion of hers. It breaks his train wreck of thought, he hands old one-eye the coin in a vice like shake and then turns to Carly smiling delighted.

“Let’s go”

Did You Pack The Moral Intuition

They could not possibly begin to understand what was before them - advanced dance moves which plagued the DF; control, mystery, delight, like nothing you or I have ever seen, even on the Madonna channel. Outraged with jealously, the baboons grabbed me by the shirt.

“Time for you to leave” and it was.

I stumbled through the rich oak encrusted doors and onto the hard barren kerb. While mumbling something back in protest.. A night in Darwin always seems to end this way and I couldn’t expect the first to let me down. Being ejected from the seediest of pubs on Mitchell Street, by all indicators, is just another good night out. In the morning maybe I’ll sit quietly, a little ashamed of my Bogan ways and wonder what made me do those fabulous moves I did. But what the hell, this is Darwin. The last frontier, they say.

It all started some time after our arrival on the first day. The Drop Dead Redhead and I set off from the airport in a flurry of excited anticipation - similar to dogs wetting the carpet, tail wagging goodness, ‘ya know?.

“The beer is so cheap” I exclaiming avidly despite discussing, just earlier, our vain plan to go sober awhile, save some money and get decent rigs about us.

We stowed the bags at the musky backpackers. First things first, our nerves fried snap-crackle-pop. For Carly this was the first decent trip into the alluring unknown and, well for me, I just have a fear and inability to use airplane facilities. I was cross-legged, just around the time little creamy first saw those big bloody bull, cross the river miss. Yes, it was time to hit the concrete jungle of shame and indulge in some frosty golden beverages of seeming satisfaction. Iron these suckers out and get a feel for the place.

It’s a good heat up here in Darwin, the kind which encourages a steady thirst from the pores, as the sweat rolls to the tips of your fingers, the glass attains your dry parched lips… It started slowly, a pint every now and then between the usual City introduction.

‘This is…’, I exclaimed dapperly, Carly for a brief moment glanced at the monument slightly disinterested.
‘Oh yeah’, she exhaled under a heavy warm breath
‘And this is…’, I continued
‘Oh’, she moaned drearily. Her cheeks were flush with heat.
‘Wanna get another beer?’,
‘Hell YES!’.

By mid afternoon we had settled around the bar atop our backpackers. A few swimming pools surrounded it, wide screen TV, pool table, kitchen and the obligatory hot bodied tourist strapped in nothing more then a thin fragile strip of fascination. It’s a great place to be getting loaded on $8.50 jugs of oat soda, I thought while taking another large mindful gulp.

We had polished four jugs, when a friend of mine crawled in, a head full of booze and emotion – the missus has gone stray he explained. With him was a daggy looking tag along. He’s a pollie, going for the Chief Minister position, met him tonight. The guy beamed a thick proud drunken smile across the table.

“Wow that’s pretty cool” I lied.

He just looked like another phoney, drinking phoney beer and make outrageously phoney claims, but then this is what Darwin is. I smiled back. He dashed off and moments later returned with three new jugs and yesterday’s junk paper. He poured some beers and cheered as if knowing, he returned my smile. Without saying much else he opened the paper to page three, just sort of pointed and grunted. It read ‘Politics Is Boring Hey Mister xxx’. On the page was a mug shot, balanced by an equally huge screen shot from his Facebook page with little writing… I wonder if Krudd has a Facebook page. Drop Dead Redhead trawled though the fine print, a freshly accomplished student, a head full of booze, a shamble of a newspaper and some sort of hairy politician big heading himself. This was sure going to be fun.

Carly busily sieved through the slap-dash horridness that blemished the pages of the Territory’s only paper.

“This isn’t reporting, this is Facebook”, she exclaimed, horrified.

Everyone broke into a laugh, even her, but she caught herself and this annoyed her even more. It was such a terribly desperate scene for a drunken frenzy. Something as pure and innocent and believing as Carly, subjected to this non-sense in such a raw and ugly form. This is a newspaper which failed to be anything more than a piece of paper and a pollie who appeared to be nothing more than a drunk drongo… This is Darwin, a place which does not need to hide it’s ridiculousness in mass media hype, and its pollies need not attend decadent dinner parties…

To be continued…

It Was Time To Move

It was late afternoon when the hum of the computers had faded and the irritating buzz of the telephones had become lifeless and unthreatening, only the gentle sound of keys being stoked by those dedicated few who could be heard – seniors, co-ordinators and managers, the ones who seemed to somehow appreciate responsibility. I looked around my desk, piles of paper, junk which I failed to discard and an assortment of coloured highlighters. My feet were cramped in the small space where I had hidden files of work that wouldn’t fit on my narrow desk. I was uncomfortable, irritated and ready to move. The Boss was still in. I had been watching his office keenly anticipating a practical time for my announcement.

“I’ve decided I’m leaving” his eye’s thinned out suspiciously.. “Where to now” he asked genuinely. “I think I’ll head to Darwin a little while before my Thailand trip” I lied, I knew exactly when I’d be leaving, we had already booked the tickets two nights ago, when Carly, the Drop Dead Redhead travel companion called “You ready to book, I have the details on the screen”, “yeah sure” I replied, “Do you want my credit card details and we can hook it up now”. And that was that. This idea, this crazy stupid idea of just leaving, midnight express, all happened one day when my brain once again failed to differentiate between reality and my dreams, a sad yet real truth. I called Carly during a routine building inspection. Her voice was full of anxiety as she contemplated the offer I put forward, “Don’t worry about work, something will come up, and you said you wanted to leave the job you already had”, I must have been convincing. The Boss looked at me contemplatively.. “It’s no wonder they thought you were a half-cast. Going walk-about all the time, as it pleases you”. It wasn’t in a harsh tone, but I knew I wasn’t building concrete relationships with the City and I tried to ignore the blaringly obvious fact that it hadn’t even been two months sense I started working here. I had offered a genuine commitment of up to six months.. ‘Up to’ I argued in my head as I left the office, worldly belongings strapped across my shoulder.

The Whisper On The Street

Parasite and I enjoying some midnight coconut, Darwin style


“Hey brother, you’re a half cast aren’t ya, you understand?” the black fella, dressed in a dirty flimsy polo shirt, tight jeans and the obligatory bare feet asks intriguingly. I laugh acknowledging his observations and smile. “No, he’s not a brother, he’s a white boy” The other black fella condemns. He is short but lanky, dressed much like the first guy, except for one unmistakable feature – a small ghetto blaster perched aloft his thin bony shoulder blade. “Are you a half cast brother?” he then follows on from his own statement.. I turn to him, who for clarity purposes is blacker then the night.. “Look at me, I got a pretty good tan” I let the words linger while holding out my arm, they both look at it slightly perplexed, “I’m almost as black as you” I jokingly confirm. The two burst into a cheerful snigger.. “You aren’t as black as me” he protests between his curious laugh, holding out his arm against mine in comparison. It’s well.. Black against white! They then both burst into another round of infectious cackles. Anyone who has spent some time with the Aboriginal people will know they have a wicked sense of humour, particularly the men and these fella’s dig this joke!

Pulling himself together the first guy introduces himself, “I’m Abraham Lincoln, but without the Lincoln” I shake hands with him, as do Sean and Jen. The other fella without missing a beat infers that he is fact, Snoop Dog. “I thought Snoop Dog was much taller?” Sean interrupts. “Na brother, that’s my cousin” a dirty great big grin spreads thick across his black leathery face, “You are gorgeous” turning his attention to Jen, reaching in, gives her a sneaky kiss across her delicate neck. She looks to Sean and I with the uneasiest expression. We smile back unanimously, this time laughing ourselves. From my understanding this is the first time Jen, a back packer from New York City has ever had any close interaction with some black Australians. Most white Australian females would have slapped five shades of race out-of-him for such a bold manoeuvre an I think Snoop knows this. Sean, Jen’s Sydney based boyfriend finds all this totally bemusing, and again our new friends burst into a fit of laughter.

“You got two dollars for a brother” Abraham asks politely.. I should have expected this question was coming, but today I wasn’t ready for it. I used to feel offended by it, as if somehow it was intrusive by nature and would leave me feeling uncomfortable with the whole situation. In actual fact I’ve grown up with it, white or black. When we were younger it meant imminent danger, usually a refusal to comply would end with fists being thrown, blood lips and a good story to tell the boys.. But these older fella’s aren’t no threat; they are good people, leading a cheap scabby existence – dharma bums by pure instinct. I pulled all the change I had, and Abraham accepted thankfully, meanwhile turning his back to the fuzz paddy that just rolled in ready for the arrest.

You see it all started when we crossed the bridge just out of the Perth train station, opposite the Perth Art Centre sat a lone middle aged Aboriginal man, bare skinned expect for the well worn set of blue jeans which hung loosely around his thin frame.. Drunk presumably. Two eager young policemen stood over him doing there business, a filthy trade to get mixed up with I would say. We passed apprehensively as if ignoring the situation, better off out of site, out of mind type of approach is what we seem to be taking.. The same approach most City Mayors seem to have taken when it involves our indigenous heritage, preferring the non-confronting wall posters and delicate dot paintings which plaster arcade walls and shop frontages which sell chap imitation didgeridoos – usually attended by some entrepreneurial Asian shop keeper with eye for the market.

Twenty odd yards back were Abraham and Snoop Dog dancing to the rhythmic beat of “Hammer Time” which blared from the small ghetto blaster. Was this in protest to the evil which lurked around them, I’m unsure? But what I am sure about is that I’m kinda drunk and I love this song! I jumped in without hesitation and started dancing to the surprise of Sean and Jen, who then laughed at my ridiculousness as they watched on.. Maybe it was my flawless moves on the makeshift D.F. which confused them into thinking that I was half cast, but more likely it was the fact that I was prepared to listen, something I gather is not the priority of others. I had heard all this before, back up in Darwin drinking beers on the foreshore with Sandy and Paul, two natives from Groote Eylandt.. “It ain’t safe for us to be drinking here” they told Parasite and I, “We’ll get arrested”, “its okay for you guys though” they continued. Somehow a law was passed recently that stopped the consumption of alcohol and/or loitering in popular tourist locations. Confusingly this only ever really applied to the native indigenous, “They moved us out of our camp too”, (Which was well hidden in the bushes, precariously hung atop the sea cliffs a few hundred meter’s from where we sat. Parasite later found this camp and spent a night curled up in the black garbage bags amongst the numerus amount of empty flagons, but that’s a story for another time) , and relocated us too the Mangroves out the back of Fanny Bay, with the mud, the persistent sand flies and all other god awful creatures. The story was similar, apparently Abraham’s brother had been warned to move on, and as the story goes the cops followed, hassling him along the way, they then decided to arrest him for whatever.. loitering after a move on notice had been issued. How much of the story is true I’ll never know, but what is clear is there power to confront this matter.. Sweet f*#k all – cop it on the chin – and just don’t forget you are free to do what ever I say. “This is racism!” Abraham echoed it the exact same way I heard Paul say it, over 3000 kilometres away.

Florence Falls - Litchfield National Park

Yes Darwin.. I'm ready to go back.