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October 2011 - Continued

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Wednesday 12th October - Day 16 - Wangkatjunka

Last night I fell asleep to the sound of Richard swatting flies with a tea towel, the occasional crash as a misdirected or overenthusiastic swing took out a cup or someone's loose equipment. This morning I walked back into to the house after having a shower at 630am, and there was Richard in his underwear swatting flies with a tea towel again.

I was too tired to say anything but when he spoke I realised he might be sleep swatting. I passed him in the hall and he grumbled in a low voice that the door was open again, then went back to bed on his little boogie board mattress and started to snore. With all the flies around, one would might hope you sleep with your mouth closed.

Today we rounded up as many kids up as we could find and did a couple of hours of workshops in the back room of our accommodation. We could not use the hall because the Land Council was having an AGM. I got to look in on it a few times, it was really interesting and there was many very senior Elders that had come from hundreds of miles around to negotiate with a mining company that is looking for access to some native title. Beautiful old silver haired men with their dusty cowboy hats and women with their 1960s style frocks, sitting with their legs beside them under the shade of the few Spartan tress', sweeping the dry, dusty, red dirt with their calloused old hands. The few of them I met could speak almost no English. Translators mapped out ideas on huge whiteboard in story pictures.

What a wealth of knowledge was gathered here; the stories of legends, the forming of the Northwest, the coming of the white man, the old world colliding with the new, the days of drovers and hardship, and the Dreaming, would all be a dinner time story in any one of these peoples house. I would have given my right arm to have sat in or filmed it, but we had promised the kids we would record some songs and by then we had quite a gathering at our quarters.

By midday, the thermometer was still heading north of 40 degrees and it was becoming impossible to even move. We all jumped in the Prado, as that is the coolest place we have, hung towels over the windows and went looking for a spring one of the boys had told us about on the way back from Fitzroy yesterday. A small track back off the main road opened into a tiny green oasis. At first the smell was a bit overpowering, the earth here is discharging some sort of calcium sulphate that has dried to form a white vein of smooth rocks. However, the spring itself was an oasis in the highest sense the word, crystal clear and deep. Small fish glimmered in the shards of light that pierced the pool through the overhanging Ghost Gums and Paperbark's above.

Protecting the spring from the treacherous sun outside. In the middle, a fallen trunk formed a mossy bridge just out of the water and all the elements that adorned the miniature haven, betrayed and defied the deadly and dry landscape in every direction. Here, at the edge of the desert, we had found a slice of heaven. Something so simple seemed so glorious. The coolness of the water, a reprieve. The protection of the flora, an organic roof. And in its glory, we were as we were born to be, free and absent of worry. In that childlike state, intoxicated by the beauty and lost to ourselves, time stopped. A small rocky outcrop about ten foot high made the perfect launching point, and the depth of the spring gave us hours of enjoyment. Jumping from the rocks and tree branches like kids on a play set, the DFT crew let their inner children go free.

Back at the camp, we prepared for another big night of music. I bought every sausage the store owned for the BBQ, and we were just about to head over and get ready when DJ and Lloyd showed up with a rifle asking if we would drive them out to get a Roo for the BBQ tonight. It was an invitation we could not resist and we knew bush tucker would bring more people to the concert so we all spilled into the Prado again. It looked like tonight's concert might be a bit late!? It's not so much the hunting I like, I could take it or leave it. Personally, I won't fire a gun unless I absolutely have to. For me, it's more about being on country with the guys; the way they talk to you when they are out there, the explanations and stories change with each area. Their knowledge of the country is impressive and I always make sure I take a pen now, I learn so much about culture and language. DJ gave us a lesson in language groups. His skin group, he explained, is Wangkatjungka, however, most of the people here are either Wangkatjungka or Walmajarri, which as mentioned earlier, is not from here. However, DJ can speak Gooniarti and Bunoby, languages of the local river and salt water people, plus the local Creole. In all, he speaks four different languages including English and understands several other dialects from his area including Martu. Jammed into the back seat of an overcrowded car, off the track and bouncing over ant hills, in the fading light I took a class in Indigenous history language groups. I wrote it on a bit of paper in jarring, bumpy lines, which I now try to interpret back to you. I might have the spelling wrong for some of these language groups, but they are phonetically pretty close.

The only other thing to report is my most embarrassing incident with the community bus, which I managed to reverse into a street sign! What are the chances of that happening? I mean, it is the only street sign I have ever seen on a community, most of them don't even have roads let alone street signs! Not only did I manage to back into it, I ran over it, bent the post and destroyed the back of the bus. I was so embarrassed that I felt like hiding under a rock. Some community worker I am, come out to a under resourced outpost where they are struggling to get funding for vehicles, and trash the local bus. Anyway, $500 later I had covered the excess, but not my pride, and so I went to bed feeling a little depressed.

Thursday 13th October - Day 17 - Djugerari

I have been told that anyone can learn to sing, the throat is an instrument like any other and it can be trained. However it can be a bit like learning the violin, I guess there is a period of ambiguity that must require a certain faith or belief that at some point it will be better. Richard is the most talented musician I have ever met in my life. But even he will admit, he is no Tom Jones. However, you have to admire someone that just has a go at everything, and Richard is not one to let such a trivial fact prevent him writing or singing songs. He came up with the idea that we could do a workshop based on the concept that most songs can be played with 4 chords, to give kids an example of how simple music really is. He then proceeded to download, work out, write and learn the Four Chord Medley by Axis of Awesome. In this song, the artists perform about 30 different radio hits with the same 4 chords repeated over and over, played at different tempos and feels with the changing melodies and lines from each different song. If you have not seen the Youtube clip of this song, take a look. It is cool, however those guys can really sing. Richard has a incredible mind, able to grasp things out of most people's ability, but learning this song became a sort of musical challenge or mild obsession for him and so the camp had to endure the repetitions of his practice several times last night at the quarters. The shear fact that he could even work it out was impressive however no one else could perform it, which meant that Richard was our Huckleberry. But when he got up at 5am this morning and started practicing it again, we had to draw the line. I thought he might be sleep practicing, but he informed me he just thought it was much later?! He is a one of a kind is our beloved Richard. He also doubles as a breakfast bell.

The old dirt track out to Djugerari was a red snake winding through the black ashes of a smouldering country. Distant fire crawled across the dry spinifex, fuelled by the suns intensity. Columns of smoke in the distance, contributed to a hazy canopy. The end of the dry season is a vast extreme of conditions about to collide. The build up cracks the sky in half with flashes of lightening while the bone dry land bursts into flames at the mention of fire. Dust devils form as a swirling updraft of black columns, dancing in the burnt ashes like the massive legs of Gods walking through the clouds, their vertical piers, reaching into the heavens of the sky above. Teasing us with the hope that one may come close enough for a good photo but they are like a timid animal hovering ever at our horizons.

We rolled into Djugerari in a cloud of dust. Tumbleweeds the size of cars bounced across the burnt and cindered plains in a scorching dry wind coming off the desert. The distant horizon was a melting inferno of shimmering heat, like the steam coming off a kettle. Djugerari is on high ground in a valley of open plains and the edge of our vision, looked like it danced to an invisible fire. The community was lifeless, every living thing intoxicated by the sleeping pill of heat. Except for six kids we found swimming in an old storage bin filled with water. They informed me they were the only kids on the community except one other, who was asleep. So it looked like the workshops here would be easy.

We bumped into our quarters that looked out across the deserts edge towards the Millyit Range. Behind that ridge lies the Great Sandy Desert and rolling sand dunes. It was 42 degrees' in the shade, I found Candice sitting on a bench with her head down, unable to move, or even talk. We were all a bit exhausted and dragging our feet with lethargic effort.

At about 4pm, I was roused by the noise at the door. The little posse of Djugerari kids had discovered us and pleaded with us to take them to the local dam. Dug into the barren countryside by the station owner, the dam's massive walls cut straight down into the earth, showing the layers of sedimentary soil; dark and clay like, thousands of years of flooding then drying out, making a layer cake richer than double chocolate. Situated in a low point of the basin, the dam held water all year, cool and deep. We sprung off the black overflow pipe like a diving board, the kids did back flips and bombies with practiced ease.

The concert tonight would be very small, but we had a big load of meat for the BBQ, fresh steak and bangers, a small host of very keen kids, and the Dry Metal Band arriving at some stage. It was just too hot to set up even in the afternoon sun and it was nearly 6pm before we could make the effort. But it seems that the best laid plans of men and mice, are often just a trivial price, for when I went to start the big White Rhino, she would not be moved. After some time in diagnosis, we established the problem to be at the starter motor. From where we worked, we could see the BBQ fire and the awaiting crowd under the lights at the basketball court. It was dark now, so we needed to just get the truck started then make a decision about what to do. Luckily, she had come to rest on a small hill, and with minimal effort we gave her a push in reverse and she jump-started into life with ease! Unfortunately, as all of us where pushing there was no one to take a photo, because I think that is by far the funniest thing I have seen, four out-of-towners trying to push start an 8ton truck! Djugerari must have been wondering what the cat dragged in?!

The crew are tired, the truck has mechanical problems, it's hot, and the community is mostly deserted. With the old girl running, I was loathed to turn it off again, and I suggested to the guys what seemed the most sensible thing to do, run the truck back into Fitzroy and have it waiting at the mechanics at daybreak, but Ewan, Em, and Richard felt certain we could start her again now we knew what the problem was, and insisted that we go on with the show! "The guys are coming all the way from Wangkatjungka" Ewan persisted, and so I was guided by the group conscience, impressed with their commitment and inspired by their determination. Tonight it was a small concert, but a big victory. It's not just about playing music in the desert, sometimes the effort it takes to make it happen is a song in its self. It's a song of true grit. It was a good call to go on with the show because no sooner had we set up than the Dry Metal Band rolled into town.

Ewan spent most of the night trying to get better takes of a few songs for them. I spent most of the night tinkering with the truck, Brian and Candice sat in the Prado with air-con running trying to breathe, and Emily and Richard cooked up a storm on a half 44 gallon drum over a stinking hot fire. By 11pm, I was almost falling over myself, and by the time we had packed up, there were some haggard looking faces. Then, when I backed the car into an ant hill, to complete my hat-trick of car wrecking for the Desert Feet Tour, I realised we all needed a few days off. We jump started the truck by towing her in reverse with the Prado, but it was too late and too dangerous to drive in to town now. With all the cattle on the road and the state of the track out here, it just didn't make sense. I don't even remember my head touching the pillow.

Friday 14th October - Day 18 - Breakdown

At 6am we jump started the truck again and Em and I made an early dash back into Fitzroy Crossing, but my heart sank when the only mechanic in 500 kilometres told me he could not look at the truck 'til next week! In desperation, I offered him $500 cash above whatever he billed us, if he looked at it now. But he was an oak and not to be budged.

By 2pm I had taken the starter motor off and put it back on 3 times, cleaning the terminals, filing the brushes, re-assembling the spring loaded bushes several times all to no avail. I had a new solenoid on order from Hino spare parts in Perth, due to arrive at midday tomorrow. I was not convinced that was the issue, then, by accident, I shorted the positive terminal across the ignition line with ring spanner while tightening a bolt; the truck jolted into life! Turns out it's a wiring problem and worst case, I can jump start her with a piece of wire. I would wait for Richard to arrive with his multi meter and see if he could locate the electrical problem. The show would go on!

In the meantime, the guys had stayed back to run the workshops. A big ask, under manned and out of energy, and in the heat of the day. With no teachers to supervise and no adults to help, they did a great job to bring home the results. Workshop songs are a huge part of our reporting and important to our outcomes. So their determination once again, meant a hell of a lot to the overall result.

We checked into the Lodge. I had a look at the schedule and realised we are still on track. I could push Yakanarra back by a day, shorten Nookanbah by a day and still come out of the Valley from Jarlmadangah in time to drop Brian back in Broome on the 21st! So, seeing as we had come all the way back to town, I decided to give the team a much needed break, and take 2 days off. This meant that Brian would have his birthday in town, and so I had a very happy crew when I told them all at dinner that night! They deserve it, and are a great team.

Saturday 15th October - Day 19 - Fitzroy Crossing

In the morning, Richard and I set out to work out this wiring problem, but the truck started first pop, and continue to start without fault again?! It's the luck of the Irish?! Someone must have some Irish in them 'cause I don't!

That left us with one other very important task to perform without delay; load the Prado up with fishing gear and head down the Fitzroy River for the afternoon, that elusive Desert Feet Barramundi is still waiting for me.

Sunday 16th October - Day 20 - Day Off

Brian's birthday today was appropriately timed with the big Wallabies vs NZ rugby game. While the crew celebrated with two good excuses, I took the chance to finish off the blog and upload the next instalment. My view out of the lodge window shows the build-up that keeps threatening the first rains, and by nightfall we had one of nature's fireworks shows that makes Australia Day look like a waste of gunpowder.

This was spectacular, except it casts as certain dubious element upon the rest of our plans in the Valley. A good two hour downpour out here can turn a track to marsh. A good two days of downpour can cut you off for weeks. If the rain is inland, it will make the rivers run at astounding speed. You can cross a dry river bed on the way in, and find it a raging torrent on the way out, as we discovered last year in Nookanbah!

We will head back into the Valley now, without our much loved Candice. It with great regret that we dropped her at the bus early this morning, but unfortunately she has to start teaching again. We will see here again for the festivals at Tom Price and Paraburdoo at the end of October, however that does little to console us now, as Candice has been our cook as well as workshop facilitator. Without her, we will be terribly handicapped, we are running short handed as it is, and so I feel a tinge of concern as to how we will manage this next week of intense travel, concerts and workshops.

Monday 17th October - Day 21 - Yakanarra

It's two years since we visited Yakanarra in a comedy of commotion under less than enviable circumstances. Patrick (our tour guide and fellow performer) had his car 'borrowed' from the service station just as we were about to leave! Instead of calling off the tour 'til his car reappeared, we had done what could only be described as a pursuit tour, and in this manner, Patrick and our convoy of vehicles followed his stolen Prado through the deserts edge, deep into the Fitzroy River Valley over tiny dirt tracks with no name.

Helen, the principal here, and all the teachers, remain the same. They all remembered us with fondness, despite the swift visit that ensued as a result of the urgency created by our dilemma. We had stayed only as long as it took to run the workshop.

This time however, I had time to go meet the Elder. The first question I always ask is, "Is it ok for us to stay here?" The next one is, " Would it be OK to perform a concert for the community?" The third is, "When I recognise the Traditional Owners here, how should I acknowledge them? Most of the people here are Walmanjarri, and this community, like most in the Valley, is surrounded by some of the most fertile plains on Earth, along with the cattle they attract. Yakanarra is a sleepy community tucked away amongst the ridges of obscurity, and mostly forgotten by the world. Most people know about Nookanbah, and any Grey Nomad might know some of the colourful names signposted along the Highway, but Yakanarra is off the beaten track, an un-posted, forgotten world that most of Australia would never know even existed.

Even after all these years, I can't prevent a touch of concern that precedes my arrival in a remote community. A little voice of self doubt that judges me like a QC on a bench. "What are you doing out here Damien?" "Do you have the right to come out here with your big ideas, and are they of any value anyway?"

But no matter where we go, it's the same thing. Friendly faces greet us at the office, we are billeted and accommodated with generous enthusiasm, and every effort is made to contribute to the concert. Communities are always short of housing, overcrowded and poor, so showing up with 8 people and expecting to just have somewhere to stay is not as simple as it sounds. It usually means a lot of rearranging, and a lot of the time there is just none available, so we will swag it in a school classroom. Most communities will put food towards the BBQ, and even come down and cook it. Some will send guys out hunting, and there is always musicians. They are always keen to play, and there is never a moment to lose. I have had the same experience in lower economic areas all around the world. The less people have the more generous they seem to be. The truth is, communities like Yakanarra are living in third world conditions. Sometimes less than. But like every community I have visited, we are welcomed by the cries of happy kids and smiling locals. I have never had a greeting rebuffed or felt uncomfortable. Quite the contrary, I often feel overwhelmed by the fact that after 200 years of oppression, displacement, political mistreatment, and cultural ignorance, there is not a hard feeling out here, which only compounds my scene of injustice. Not only were the people out here mistreated, they were badly misjudged too. Two generations of men gave their lives to the Kimberley's as Drovers and Cattlemen, mostly unrecognised, without thanks or reward, in an effort now forgotten. Australia was built on the backbone of its fruits. The evidence is a flourishing economy, which like the Pyramids of Egypt, it's all that remains of the efforts of the nameless multitudes that made it happen.

Yakanarra has a pretty strong Council and they have somehow raised the funds for a little telecentre. In this little transportable, plunked in the middle of a deserted field with a lonely power line running to its roof, I found Shannon. He, along with several kids, was checking their Facebook?! (That's a first.) But he told us of a few acoustic songs he wanted to record, and had several mates that could play with him tonight too. I knew we would have a good turn out now, as word travels pretty fast in a remote community. I told him to spread the word that there would be a big BBQ with loads of free meat too. We are expecting the Bayulu Hillside Band to come, and the Dry Metal Band if they can make it. It would be a mini Indigenous festival if they all show up, and that could be really cool.

That night Shannon's band stole the show before they even began, an eager audience of 30 or so kids sat pensively cross legged, jammed against the edge of the stage, necks straining upwards in anticipation. The boys had some really cool original songs which we recorded for them. Some of the lyrics where in English and I loved one song with the line "When the rain wakes up the country." Very appropriate as the first of the Wet Season's rains threaten to come down.

Yakanarra Band - Fires Burning by Desert Feet Tour

Yakanarra Band - Yakanarra by Desert Feet Tour

We did a power pull-down tonight. The team is becoming so familiar with the process, that we had the truck in the driveway not more that 45 minutes after the lights went out. It was about 11:30 when we walked into the shack. It was about 11:35pm that a boom of thunder and a crack of lighting scared the dog under the bed, followed by a vicious downpour that lasted about half an hour! Hmm that makes things interesting. Last year, after about 2 days of rain, Helen spent four hours trying to make it out of here, just to make it Turkey Creek, then turned around and came home. No one could cross the Fitzroy and so she was stranded in the Community over the holidays. The road into Nookanbah is very old and hard, it would make more sense to push deeper into the Valley from here; get over the Fitzroy and into Nookanbah as soon as possible!

Tuesday 18th October - Day 22 - Nookanbah

The leg between Yakanarra and Nookanbah is a mesmerising trip. Although the road was in bad condition, the slow pace was well appreciate to soak up the vast visual experience, and the Prado constantly overtook us and then fell back with Richards various photographic endeavours. To the south, a line of ridges followed us the whole trip, carved from the earth by Orion's chisel, hammered into ridges by Thor's Hammer, stacked like discarded dinner plates, uneven and high, defying gravity, oblivious of time, impervious to change, and guiding us up the valley. To our right, the lands grew denser with lush green foliage. The many arteries from the overlooking ridges flow into the great Fitzroy River somewhere to our North, her presence growing obvious by all nature of things that come here for the life her water brings. This Valley is alive.

Some parts of the road were lined by washouts deeper than a creek, some parts had washouts on both sides leaving a small ridge of road. I have never seen anything like it, and it's disconcerting to say the least. We made too many floodway crossings to count, and it is obvious how treacherous this road could be after the smallest of rains. On the high sections, the border of deep green trees to our right indicated the rivers closeness and as Nookanbah is right against the mighty Fitzroy River, once the road and River join we will be there.

Soon we were enshrined in the foliage. The sky above, and the suns intensity, washed out by the shady pastures, made cool grassy banks on the many little dry creeks that networked the undergrowth awaiting the next rains. A great variety of different plants and trees could survive here feeding on the ground water below. Then, after a large stretch of boggy river sand, cut deep with tyre tracks, it appeared. The Crossing itself was only just over knee deep and so our escape out of the Valley was pretty much assured. From here, we would continue west along the northern side of the Fitzroy River, across the barrage, through Camballin, and out to Mt Anderson Station, on which lies the sleepy community of Jarlmadangah Burru. Then we'll come out on Great Northern Highway around Saturday or Sunday, all thing being equal.

In the meantime, we return to Nookanbah with much anticipation. We have built up a great rapport with some of the communities we have been fortunate enough to keep revisiting. Nookanbah is one that we have not missed for 4 years. At the Crossing, we joined a bunch of kids swimming and found Fernie from Djugerari among them. I joked with him that every time we see him, he is in water! He was very proud to introduce us to the other kids.

At the community, I checked in with Dickie Cox first, the elder for the Nyikina language group. His welcoming smile creased a well weathered old face into shapes of happiness. His rusty legs hindered his procession to the door. Once a tall and powerful man, in an age of cattlemen and drovers. Dickie is now stooped and tired, he came to the door buttoning up brown cowboy shirt across his sinewy frame, smiling in a toothless grin, warm and quiet. Recently retired after 20 years of service as the Chairman for Yungngora Council, Dickie will see out the twilight of his years in peace on the community he helped to reclaim from the pastoralists, and forge into one of the first Aboriginal run and owned cattle stations. His generosity is 'the shirt off ya back' type, and at his command a few of the younger guys organised a hunting party to take out us out country to shoot some game for dinner. He lent Bubbly the gun, the car and the bullets, then sent him out with his nephew. I piled into the old Patrol with the boys, and the Prado followed at a distance with the rest of our crew. Bubbly (or Bubbles) was the man for hunting, and Dickie gave us the right guy, he found fields of wild Bush Turkey. Their long white necks strained in the evening sun. Bush Turkeys are a docile and slow moving bird, beautiful both visually and taste-wise, unfortunately for them. They are a favourite amongst the mob, especially in winter when their bellies are full of fat and juice. Bubbles told me he had been working as the groundsman for the school for 12 years. I wouldn't have guessed he was old enough to have worked that long, his youthful face and smooth baby skin could be used for an Oil of Ulan advert. His confident manner and pleasant smile was infectious, he is the owner of a unique little characteristic which I just have to mention. During any discussion, he would emit a sharp and heavily accented "Yerp" as a response to all manner of questions. It served as an answer, a comment and a conversation additive. Bubbly was a man you could not help but like. Nookanbah is a hard working community. One would be forgiven for mistaking it for a mining camp, the guys are all dressed in high vis' clothing. Old Troopies with the tops cut off ferried hay bales like makeshift tractors, and cowboys in big hats whirred back and forth across the community, going about the business of Nookanbah's Cattle station.

Out on country, Bubbly showed us how to dress down a bush turkey in true countryman style, plucked warm on the spot, he lit a fire and singed the fuzz off, then gutted it and checked in its stomach for the white pearly stone that brings good luck. The stomach bag, heart and most the organs are all considered the best part, but at this time of year, the birds are not fat enough, he informed us.

Back at the camp, he invited us to stay, and introduced us to his wife and sister. They prepared a huge fire, Devina cooked up some damper for a starter, and we roasted that turkey in the hot coals with fresh vegetables. We contributed some steak, but none of us were even remotely interested in cow with that fresh bird in the camp oven. Bubbly's house sits on the high watermark and he showed us the spot where people were catching Barra from his back yard, during the flood earlier this year . "Were you worried the house would go under?" Emily asked with concern. "Yerp" he replied in his single syllable that seems to represent a vast range of emotions. And that is what life is like for men like Bubbly, there is nothing really worth getting too upset about, nothing worth getting too uppity about either. There's just an even stability in Bubbly reflected in that catch phrase of his. It's the motto of a man who can withstand adversity without self doubt or morbidity, and can accept good luck without ego or the need for acknowledgement. He sails his ship with a wind called acceptance, he knows you sail close to that wind, because soon it might be storm time, then again it might become becalmed.

Nookanbah is cut off in every direction for at least a minimum of three months every wet season. The world outside, just an idea across a flooded plain and boggy marsh, and so with a billy brewed tea in a tin cup, I contemplated being stuck out here with envy, and somewhere on the edge of Fitzroy River we faded into blissful obscurity with compete satisfaction, licking the oil of fresh turkey off our fingers. I could disappear from this world like a blink of an eye in the remoteness that is Nookanbah, and be content for the rest of my life. "It sure is beautiful out here Bubbly" I said with sincerity and a hint of jealousy. "Yerp" confirmed Bubbly, with his economic discourse, full of certainty. "How often do you eat bush turkey Bubbly?" I asked. "Yerp" he confirmed.

Wednesday 19th October - Day 23 - Nookanbah

A big day lay ahead for us, there is at least 2 bands here that want to perform at the concert tonight, The Rock Eagles (a great name for a band, I thought) and Broken Hero (another great name for a band (I thought anyway).

But in the meantime we have the workshops to do. The School here is the biggest of any remote community I have ever been to. They have upwards of 100 kids at peak, today however we are informed we would be dealing with about 70. We decided to break them into two groups and do two workshops simultaneously then swap groups. Doing one lot of workshops is usually pretty tiring, but two in a row will be full on, and with a full set up, concert, and pack down tonight, we earned our keep in Nookanbah.

The concert was by the far the biggest we have ever done. Shannon's band from Yakanarra showed up as well as The Yakanarra Band, and then the No Name Band wanted to play, which seemed to form out of nowhere? Previously unknown to us, and instantaneously appearing, perhaps inspired by the musical smorgasbord, I don't know, but they were pretty good. The bass musician is a Western Bulldogs rookie, a huge fit-looking specimen he was! However, the real show stopper was the much anticipated Rock Eagle, these guys were a bunch of veteran muso's, older guys and obviously seasoned performers, seven of them in all! Poor Ewan nearly had a heart attack trying to record them. They had a keyboard, a multitude of vocals, bass, drums, and 3 guitars! They were really tight and it was pleasure to watch them, however I don't think Ewan will be getting much rest over the next few days, having to mix down four bands (All hungry for a CD), and four lots of workshops from today! I will bet my last dollar these guys will be waiting at our door at daybreak, looking for the recorded track. They have had no concert or entertainment out here since we came last year!

Rock Eagle - Crying Out by Desert Feet Tour

Thursday 20th October - Day 24 - Back to Jarlmadangah

In the morning, before anyone could get up, the first knock came. "Is that CD ready yet?" I was keen to get the truck over to Jarlmadangah as soon as possible, the back road was an unknown quantity and we had to be there in time to set up and play tonight. So the truck left early, Ewan informed me later that night there was a few emotional moments when he gave the CD's to the bands. Gideon from the Broken Hero was so grateful he was nearly in tears, and so we left Nookanbah regretfully, but with many new friends.

Malcolm Skinner is one of the senior men around here. He knows every nook and cranny of this land better than anyone. I ran into him at the office, just before I was about to leave, and asked him if the back road to Jarlmadangah was passable in the truck. He looked it up and down, took of his sweat stained, felt cowboy hat, thought about it for a second, then ushered a calm "I reckon." He drew me a mud map, then offered to escort us to the first gate. "After that, you be right." He pointed across the valley and into the wilderness with a casual hand, as if driving across the valley was all in a days work.

Once we left Malcolm, the Valley's landscape changed dramatically and opened into rolling plains, I could have sworn I was in the Wheat Belt; as far as the eye could see, the brown stubble of cropped stems, like a harvested field, stretched before us. The earth here is a deep rich brown soil, the sun has baked these paddocks like an urn fires pottery, and the ground is a cracked pattern of hexagon shapes. Just before Camballin we drove across the Barrage, constructed on the Moola Bulla Station in the early Twentieth Century, John Watson has memories of labouring there. It was built mostly by Indigenous labour force and is the only weir or dam constructed in the Valley in spite of the many plans and ideas to dam the Fitzroy that have been proposed over the years.

The road wound over far reaching plains taking the high ground by default. Obviously, most of these tracks have been pushed through in urgency or out of necessity, and one would not know how uneven this land is 'til it is flooded. Anything with a bit of height becomes a road, and thus sometimes the track seems ridiculously serpentinous and meandering.

At Camballin, the road turned to bitumen and a row of massive double story houses lined a one sided street like West Coast Drive overlooking the ocean. However, they looked at nothing but dry dirt and scrub. Conspicuously positioned in the middle of nowhere they looked like a row of houses transported by an alien tractor beam from Malabo CA. Then just as suddenly, the road tuned back to dirt and we were lost in the vast remote Valley once again, as if Camballin was just a dream I had at the steering wheel.

Jarlmadangah was like a home coming. Nabaru welcomed us like old family and we drove the truck straight to the basketball court for setup, where a bunch of highly energetic kids dripping with anticipation bombarded us with questions, requests and demands, climbed all over Emily as if she had 'I'm a swing set' written on her forehead, until the teachers showed up like the cavalry, with a BBQ and some cutlery, and soon we had a show on our hands.

Sean the headmaster rang the school siren, and a sound like a 19th century air-raid warning filled the sleepy hollow of Jarlmadangah. The smell of BBQ steak, the sound of music, and the promises of entertainment filled our little open air amphitheatre with a willing audience, and for an intimate gathering we poured out our souls, vibrating the ether between us with stories of love, loss and hope, plucked out upon wood and string, a symphony of empathy, injected into the sweating Kimberley night and just as quickly, absorbed by an open sky, lost forever in the vastness of our surrounds, like a shooting star, our music was a flash against the night, ephemeral, like a spider web cast upon transient points, its gossamer threads just a brief connection across a world of vast cultures.

The highlight of the night for me was Laurie and Rosetta's performance, Laurie works as the FaHCSIA agent out here, they have six girls and one boy! The boy all of 6 or 8 years old climbed up and clung to his mother while she and his elder sister harmonised. Laurie strummed my old Cole Clark with country rhythm and their bare and dusty feet spoke of an insoluble connection to the earth. This most beautiful couple chilled our bones, their songs full of stories of drovers and horse breakers, about his father and grandfather, cattlemen. The words painted illustrations on our minds like a Banjo Paterson poem, and spun up images of dusty scenarios full of life, death and toil on Kimberley soil. Laurie's heavily accented voice was the Aboriginal version of John Williamson and held us like a vice clamp, glued us to his every word, and lulled us into an age now past, like a romantic dream. His most unassuming manner and the honesty of his lyrics brought a tear to a few eyes, one of which I'm not ashamed to tell you was mine.

Laurie and Rosita Shaw - Rough and Tough Rodeo Riders by Desert Feet Tour

Friday 21st October - Day 25 - Jarlmadangah

This morning we conducted the last lot of workshops for the Kimberley's. I'm now confident to tell you that we can turn a sceptic into a believer, an ignoramus into a scholar, and a blind man into a seer (well maybe thats going to far), but our workshops are really good now. Not that we had any resistance from the teachers here at all, they bent over backwards to help us and then participated in everything we did. The best thing was that these kids sat with open jaws, absolutely intrigued with everything, which meant the scope of the information we can deliver was further increased.

Richard's musical skills and Ewan's production capabilities have created a perfect team. Richard has created a sort of template for the songs, so the content can be filled with words very quickly, and Ewan wrote click tracks for Richard to perform them to. It means the songs are fuller with a drum beat, and we can explain the components of a song, and show how easy it is to build a song track by track; chorus, verse, lead break, intro, vocals harmonies and break out etc. till we can play them back the full song with their little voices singing out!! Richard can then lay the lead breaks on ukulele, guitar or harmonica live, while Ewan multi tracks it all instantly. This is impressive for the audience and effective aurally. It means the kids get a CD with really good production quality that they are singing on, with a song they have written the words to, and chosen the feel and subject matter (with a little bit of guidance from us, to deliver some messages into the song). Next thing you know, you have kids running around singing stuff like "drink water, it's good for you, fruit and veg is healthy too" without realising they are doing it.

Jarlmadangah Kids - In Jarlmadangah by Desert Feet Tour

I know I am bragging now, but I have to tell you, the teachers at Nookanbah and here were really impressed with what we did. It has not always been this way, and we have developed the content by trial and error. One thing out here, is the open learning format, it means the age groups are always very broad. Older kids can take in more of the theory and information, but younger kids respond better to prizes and have a limited attention span, so we have had to learn to be flexible and versatile.

Saturday 22nd October - Day 26 - Jarlmadangah

We had all wanted to return to Jarlmadangah and give them a good show. Most importantly, was to do it before Brian left us, and so we have pushed ourselves hard, setting up after driving yesterday then jumping up for the workshops today. We had to do the workshops as early as possible to get him into Broome in time for his flight. His departure will be felt by all. He is a man with a unique set of skills, an artist, a poet, a seasoned performer and a great guy. An inspirational role model to the kids and a hit at every event. He is our secret weapon of motivation and never fails to create a furore of interest. I have watched him draw, with intricate detail, contemporary works of art, which he calls Graffiti, on chalk boards and scraps of paper, then just walk away, only interested in the activity and its engagement. I have seen him challenge the crowd to hold up items while he freestyle raps about them on the spot, and he is constantly concocting beats and lyrics, because that is what he loves to do. Travelling with a Hip Hop artist is not an experience many folk musician like myself would get, and our diverse arrangement of music on the DFT has been of great value to me. To meet someone that lives for his art and who's art is his life, is rare. There is much to be said about that, but most of all we just love him and his carefree, albeit sometimes totally frustrating ability to live entirely in the moment. Even if it does mean back tracking to pick up his wallet occasionally, or spending all morning looking for his computer?!

The rest of the crew waited back at Jarlmadangah but with Brian now gone we are all of four. Simone will join us in Derby on Monday to help Ewan take the car home, and Rob will do a roster change with Richard for the last three concerts after the Curtin Detention Centre. In the meantime, we took advantage of a day off to head out bush with one of John Watson's nephews and catch that Barra!

TJ was our tour guide for the trip. He lives on Mt Anderson Station with John's younger brother Harry Watson who runs the Cattle Station, but a tour company called Kimberley Dreamtime Adventure Tours runs trips from Broome in a bus during the peak season. TJ has opportunistically opened a camel ride and some sightseeing tours. Wanting to invest back into the community and hoping to get to see some of the country, I asked TJ to do a special tour for us. Being the off season there was no work and he was happy to make some extra coin. He ran through a list of tours he could give us. Camels rides, paintings, bushwalks, sunrise hill hikes, etc, to which I replied, "they sound fantastic, but we just want catch a Barra."

He thought about it for a while then made some vague gestures, but returned in the morning after speaking to the Elders with some good news. "I'll take you out to our own fishing spot, where no tourists go." I could feel the barra biting at my line already!! "Can we camp out there the night too?" I asked a little over exuberantly, like a big kid. He smiled broadly at my embarrassment, realising I might have been inappropriate to ask for the baby just because I had been given the bassinette, but he indulged me even further with his casual extension of the above mentioned promise by offering to take us up a creek to one of his favourite camping spots. "You'll eat lots of Cherabin tonight," he teased. I could have fallen over dead with my leg in the air! The excitement was too much to bear, we had those swags jammed into the Prado along with the billy, some tea and our fishing gear in ten seconds flat.

We tracked across some pretty rough territory, but also amazing to see. The road was not really a road, barely even a track. In most places it had been pushed through on fresh ground very recently, probably since the last rains, as all this country is under water at some stage. In one section in the scrub it seemed he was just following an internal compass, until we come out at the edge of the great Fitzroy River. The huge rains earlier this year's had forged many new arteries into the once flat valley, which created a series of very steep and intrepid crossings, at some points we lost sight of the TJ's vehicle, and even his big V8 troopie struggled in parts. Over a metre of topsoil has been washed out to sea from most of this land since the barrage was built in 1959. The changes this has caused have been dramatic; it means the water forges new routes across the plains and washes out the earth that stores all the seed pods. Even in TJ's life he recalls this area being flat, now it is undulating and scarred by hundreds of new creeks and river beds. The effect of even such a small scale damming operation has had a profound effect on the ecology, TJ spoke of plants and animals that are never seen here anymore with a sort of disbelief. Guddia logic?!

The mighty Fitzroy River never fails to impress me, but out here it is a forgotten paradise under a burning sun. The banks, steep and wide, are lined with majestic, ancient trees. Their huge and old trunks horizontally reaching out over the water as if they are bowing to an unseen King, are draped with a velvety type growth fit for the Royal courting it anticipates. Like platforms, they offered access out over the water's edge at great heights, complete with shady canopy and soft foliage, each one like a tree house with built in furniture, designed by the environment, nailed together by evolution and arranged my mother nature. The banks of the Fitzroy here are like the cubby house of your dreams, a child's paradise regained. Out here the fish roam with impunity; their sides glimmer with silver flashes in the broad stream, while more ominous dark shapes speak of other creatures, and the Fitzroy is an intricately balanced world of life and death, not to be treated with contempt.

From those slopes we cast in our baited lines with anticipation of the mouth-watering Barra that it would produce, but long before any good size Barra were landed, a horde of silver Catfish filled our coffer. At TJ's insistence we retained them with great scepticism, but he assured us that we would enjoy them and even asserted that he favoured them over Barramundi!! A fact we found hard to digest, and with ignorance we threw back our lines ever awaiting that massive fish.

TJ disappeared along the banks for some time then reappeared with the silent stealth inherent of his ancestry, each footstep always sure, silent and graceful. He lit a fire and when the coals had burnt down he invited us to leave our lines. By the fire he revealed a decent size Barra' stored under some leaves to keep the flies off, which he had caught quietly without celebration. It put to shame the barely size ones that we had made a huge fuss over with our great commotion, he must have watched our carousing with amusement.

For a lifetime I have thrown back those Catfish with contempt, cursing them as a nuisance. Once or twice I have hacked off their heads trying to cut through that large hard casing, negotiating those poisons barbs and awkwardly gutting them with ineffective determination. I've boiled them and fried them in butter but never been satisfied.

The trick is, I discovered all in the way you prepare them. Having no scales makes them very un-fishy, and when you know how, they are very easy to clean. TJ simply ripped the gills open at the neck, and squeezed the belly. The stomach popped inside out through the open neck and he flicked away the contents, leaving a clean gut protruding like a small sausage. Holding it by the mouth with one hand, he ran his fingers in a ring along the outside away from the poisonous barbs leaving the skin dry and free of dirt, then he hung them in the tree. "If they are dry when you put them on the coals" he informed me, "then the ash won't stick to the skin." Once the Kimberley air had dried them off, he lay the many small carcasses across the coals turning them slowly and lovingly with a stick until the skin bubbled like pork crackle.

He collected a few leafy branches off the mangrove plants to use as a dinner plate, then set the fish on them to cool. The really exciting part was when he showed us how to eat them! Never have I seen a dish or food source that has such a comprehensive built in dining experience. Complete with own cutlery, assorted culinary delights, and a vast array of flavours all in one dish. Let me explain; often one catches a fish, skins it , fillets it, and throws away the carcass. You are now left with a chunk of white meat. If you fry it, you make a perfectly healthy meal fattening, or it just tastes like butter instead. By cooking the catfish on the coals with its guts, bones and skin, it is packed full of flavour. The skin has a layer of fat under it, in the coals its goes crunchy like crackle and is a delicacy, or so TJ promised as he turned the fish upside down, took hold of the wings and lifted it back towards the tail. The wings, along with a strip of crunchy skin, peeled back perfectly like a pre-cut package. With great relish he crunched the skin, "I'll eat this over Barra any day" he reaffirmed with delight and a groan of satisfaction. I followed suit. It was indeed flavoursome and not fishy in the slightest, more like chicken skin only silver. Next, he sucked the wings dry, not a skerrick of meat was to be seen on any part after he finished. Next, he hooked his finger through the throat, and the gills and guts pulled out like a ring-pull can. Attached to the back of it was a ring of organs; the heart, the liver and kidneys I suppose. He sucked them off first "this part the delicacy" he said again. "is any part not a delicacy?" I asked facetiously. "Mmmmmm" was all he could manage in reply. Once again, I followed suite, it was nice, sort of overpowered with that liver taste mostly, so if you like lambs fry you'd be right. Next, we ate the stomach like a crunchy protruding sausage, it was chewy, like the fat on a steak only not as oily. But next was the "proper good bit" TJ informed me, "it's a delicacy right?" I checked. This part, he said, is the bit that everyone fights over like the cream on top of the old milk bottles. TJ called it a tongue but I think it was like an air bladder, its texture was very chewy, but it looked like a white hollow tongue. he slurped it up with obvious satisfaction, releasing a loud Mmmm's through busy lips. "Even Bear Grylls, he don't know dat trick", he offered with assurance. Once again I followed suite and can confirm that it was divine and now all our mouths were watering and we had not even eaten any of the meat yet. Now he started on the two belly fillets that lifted out like ripe fruit. Delicious and tender, it melted in my mouth and by now I was really impressed. That was not the end of the dismemberment of this dish, like unfurling a Russian Doll, it just kept offering more. On the other side he took the head between his fingers, snapped the bone near the back of the head, and pulled upwards and back towards the tail. Once again it came away with a strip of crunchy skin like an orange peel, and just when you thought you could not enjoy it any more, it was another huge chunk of crunchy skin. He removed the back straps and they lifted out in two neat fillets. By this time I was getting full, and all that was left now was to suck the last vestiges of meat away from the bones, and this we did with great satisfaction, casting the skeleton back into the fire. And the best bit; no dishes!!

By the end of my first 'coal grilled Catfish', I was a convert. Later that evening we fished for dinner and let three Barra go, all I wanted was Catfish now.

Later TJ moved us to a billabong where he promised we would get a feed of cherabin for dinner. With the stillness at the water's edge intoxicating us, and in the fading light, we lit a fire which reflected in a multitude of little beady eyes, glowing in the blackness of the water like comical cartoon creatures. The Crocs (freshies) were so prolific that TJ even caught one three or four foot long on a fishing line. We didn't eat it, in case you're wondering, but only because the line snapped.

Sunday 23rd October - Day 27 - Jarlmadangah

The next day was more of the same, and time stood still for us. it did not count or have any tangible relation that we could conceive out here, it is a timeless world as it has been for the hundreds of centuries of the lives of men before us. After all, who would ever want to leave this? After a day here I have forgotten all my woes, given up my concern, let go of my desires and detached from my ego without any effort or conscience decision to do so, it is all just displaced by sheer force of nature. The self is drowned out by the beauty and wonder. There are no mirrors to remind one, no windows to reflect our image. For a second I was just a part of nature, like an Indigenous man, I understood the shy reserved nature, for what needs to be said. I understood the economy of movement, for what could you do here that could improve it? I understood the beliefs, why would you need for anything more than what you can see and in that second I believed too, I saw the perfection of things. It was just a second.

Before we returned to Jarlmadangah, TJ took us for a drive to see some paintings, back across the plains and into the dry arid and open valley. John and Harry had found them as children but the stories had been lost, TJ explained. The original artists, the Nyikina people traditionally from here, had disappeared before John could remember and so they cannot be kept by the Mangala because they did not learn the law associated with them. This, unfortunately, means that these drawing will fade away now and weather in the elements, however many of the spirits here are similar to Mangala, and so TJ interpreted what he knew from his own Law. One large drawing laying sideways out of reach of the ground was what he called the Barlungun, it is a bad spirit. He talked about it with hesitation, explaining that this spirit tries to entrap men by making them thirsty and hungry. Once the Barlungun has a hold on you, you will become delirious and can get lost. "If you have been walking long time then find you are back in the same place, it means the Barlungun is close" said TJ. In this way, the bad spirit can take you over, his ambition is to trap you in the heart of a hollow Boab tree where he will lead you in your delusion. Inside this tree you will become his prisoner, and will be fed on frogs and insects until you are fat enough for him to eat. But all is not lost, there is also a good Barlungun which one can call upon to help. TJ explained how this valley came into being, under Mangala Law it is understood that the Fitzroy river was formed by Winubu, an ancient Spirit Being, he speared the Rainbow Serpent, who then lay down and died in the form of the mighty river. Winubu then turned into a bird and flew away.

If (like me) you're wondering what happened to the Nyikina that painted these rocks, and why they are missing without a trace like the Easter Island tribe, then you can Google the Mower Bluff massacre. There is no real evidence to support the oral law that surrounds the story of the Mower bluff massacre in 1916, except for some police records that showed up 80 years later in Broome, documenting claims from two Aboriginal men who found their way to Broome two years after the event with gunshot wounds that had healed with the bullets still in them. The accusations where briefly investigated and their statements, along with the medical records, buried and forgotten. It is claimed that over 300 men, women and children may have been killed by the early pastoralists and the police after a series of reprisal actions carried out between pioneers and Nyikina men in a familiar set of circumstances played out on every colonial front the world over. It's an age old story and I wont entertain it here, but you know the jist of it. It's not my fault, nor is it yours. It's not about blame or guilt, but it would be good to acknowledge the truth. If Germany can do it, then surely we can too. So who's going to do that? I think I can be justified in feeling guilty if I don't. And I think I am to blame if I don't start now. All I know is a language group about 400 strong disappeared off the face of the earth at some point, about the same time as our great grandfathers were crawling over the trenches in Gallipoli. We all know what happened at Gallipoli, why don't we know about what happened here?

100 years later I am standing under a massive outcrop, protruding from the burnt rolling plains like a misplaced landscape. Its ridge offered shelter from the prevailing easterly's, and its slight incline, protection from the sun. Amazingly, a series of little pools of water have formed in the rock wall where hundreds of years of dripping has etched out little basins. The water is fresh and cool. Pressed through a million ton of rocks, filtered by a huge minerals machine. Birds nest along its edge, snake tracks and animal prints adorn the soft white beach sand that forms the floor. Some type of native fern/creeper craws up the undulating walls. It's nothing short of miraculous, it is the perfect home, complete with running water and the constant food source that it would attract, juxtaposed against a red and dry landscape. This sanctuary would have been a haven. Large slabs of rock are etched with deep long reservoirs where the red rock and plants used to paint these ceilings were ground into paste. Maybe only a hundred years ago?! From its elevated position, one could imagine faring out the rains of the wet season here. Land locked by the flooded plains below, painting those hours away with the stories of the Dreaming. This place is powerful, to me now it represents life, precious life, a reprieve from the harsh surrounds. Its comforts are a stark contrast to the unforgiving environment around it. Obviously, it has been employed for generations in this manner. If this place was in use only a short time ago, then it would be safe to assume that it has been used by previous generations, maybe as a seasonal resting place, maybe just for ceremony or initiation? There is no reason that it could not have been in use for 20,000 years or more, probably continuously up till only a short time ago.

TJ was stoic, the power of an ancestral presence like a spell upon him. He squatted in the shade of a Ghost Gum tree that grew awkwardly from a crack in the faceiour, tapped into some unseen source of water. Its smooth trunk balanced a leafy umbrella of shade above our heads. In that reprieve we listened to the silence of the stone around us. It held stories of the ages. I could almost hear the tapping sticks, the primal wailing song of ceremony, the crackle of the glowing embers. I envisioned the painted faces, the smell of coal roasted meat. For TJ, this place had meaning beyond our comprehension. Not just personal identification, but a continued connection, unbroken since the Dreaming. A type of contented completeness. Then I knew that this was as close as I would ever get.

That night back at Jarlmadangah, I went looking for John Watson to play him his new song. I strapped the guitar to my back and walked across the sandy community with bare feet. I stopped once to drop my expectations in a bin, then I discarded any pretences I could find. A host of dogs followed me like I was a meal. At his yard I checked my motive, and as he answered I realised I had no idea. Both him and Harry stood in the darkness, side by side. They watched me approach in silence and when I called John's name they both remained silent. It wasn't until I called a second time and John said calmly "No need to yell", that I actualy made out their figures in the darkness. Stoic and unmovable. As is their ancient custom, they had watched me, motionless and silent. Harry held a tin cup, empty now, in his hands behind his back,. His face expressionless but profound, covered in silver whiskers like a Taoist monk. A worn out cowboy hat and his bow legs, wide and round, betrayed him as a stockman and horse breaker. Even at his age he looked powerful and strong. He stood taller than me, and would have been a force to be reckoned with in his day. John stood beside him with a gruff face, I had obviously interrupted a important discussion. His huge white beard matched his thick white eyebrows and I couldn't help but think of Gandalf the wizard. "Well you found me, now what?" he barked. Embarrassed, I declared I had come to see if he wanted to hear the song he had asked me write for him, but then I just wanted to run away. They were both silent and I knew not to talk again. After a brief pause John said, "Well let's hear it". With naught else to do, I swung the guitar around my shoulder mounted an invisible stage and swallowed hard. I felt like it was the most important performance I would ever play, and I couldn't believe how nervous I was. My hands trembled in the dark. But I plucked out that simple tune to the best of my ability and in the darkness standing in the red dirt under a Kimberley sky I called out.

My name is John Watson I'm drover and a stockman I bin working this land for as long as I can, Remember, Remeeeeeeeemmmberrrrrrrrrrrrr, When I had finished singing I opened my eyes, several of John's nephews had joined us, appearing from the ether. "What is that song called?", asked some white teeth in the darkness. "That songs about me, I'm a drover and a stockman", John rejoined proudly. The mosquitoes bit at my heels and bare neck. I didn't care, I had won a victory over myself, John was happy and I was relieved. As the kids ran off into the darkness, I heard them sing; "Remember, Remeeeeeeemmmberrrrrrrrrrrrr".

"Come in Damien, sit down with me" said John. On the veranda, a Killers head stripped of meat stared blankly with its giant, white-bone, eye sockets, empty and hollow. A cute brown puppy chewed at a corner of its nose. The smell of roasted meat wafted to my nostrils. I asked John to help me write the last few verses by telling me about his life. "Have you got a pen and paper?" he asked. I handed them to him. "I can't write!" he cried with indignity. "Put me to work at the age of 7 they did Damien, was not allowed to go to school, had to work, I did", and so began a sojourn into a world of cattlemen and hardship as recounted by those that stood before the old iron gate. When the west was won, or lost.

Monday 24th October - Day 28 - The concert I can't talk about

Today marks the end of our work in the Valley, and after making our farewells we turned our bow west to make our way back home. Off our stern, the great Fitzroy Valley and her life-giving River faded into the rear view mirror. John Watson's last words sounded in my mind, "Don't say goodbye Damien, just say I'll see you soon" as I pondered on his life of loss and gain, how many friends, brothers, family had he said goodbye too and never seen again? I guess I'll have to wait till the book comes out. But I promised myself to return here as soon as I can.

In the mean time our next big challenge lays not more than a few hundred miles away, just south of Derby at the Curtin Detention Centre. The concert that I am not allowed to talk about. I have no idea what to expect, or what it will be like, but I know that there will be musicians in there that will want to record their songs, and I expect any form of entertainment will be welcome. For this reason, I hope we are well received and most importantly, of service to our fellows.

The road in is in the middle of nowhere, but when you arrive at the facility, you know you are somewhere! A bustling hive of activity, like a mini city on a mangrove tidal flat, surrounded by waterless scrub in every direction. If you didn't know it was here, you would never guess. I had to leave my dog at the gate house, and it was a little distressing to say goodbye to her knowing I would not be back out till around midnight, but unfortunately dogs, along with phones and sharp instruments stay at the gate. The compound itself was impressively fortified; towering double, boundary fences boasted of their impenetrability with electric borders and razor wire. Access points are heavily guarded and a convoluted process of double gates, checkpoints, cameras and security guards covered all access and exit points, and one could be forgiven for thinking they where looking at Auschwitz, until one is inside where you realize that all this excessive force is probably more effective at keeping people out than in. Inside the compound I met friendly faces, inquisitive expressions, kind smiles and warm handshakes. Heads wobbled from side to side like friendly hawkers at any bazaar, men sat on mats on the ground plying cards and others squatted to smoke or chat. In fact I felt like I could have been in an one of the thousands of markets somewhere in Asia. The majority of these guys are Hazara's from Afghanistan, Iran and Pakistan. In Afghanistan, first they fled fighting against occupation forces from the old Soviet Union, then they ran to escape a civil war, then the coming of the Taliban five years ago saw them killed in ethnic cleansing equitant to genocide. Now they are running away from hunger, winter and American bombs.

The Hazara people of Afghanistan are its most culturally distinct, and most persecuted. Their gentle Mongolian features set them apart from other Afghans, and so does their adherence to the Shia sect of Islam.

Inside, this facility it is clean and green. The guys have built magical little gardens, and pool tables and TV's adorn most outdoor areas. (I'm not sure if pool is very popular in the Middle East, 'cause most of the guys seem to use the tables as seat rather than for billiards). The rooms are air-conditioned and not much different from living in a boarding school or camp-like dorms. However, the bottom line is that these guys do not want to escape, they know that it would hinder any chance of getting a visa, and at the end of the day they just have to wait. So the reality is that this facility/prison, boarding camp, detention centre (or whatever it is) has the dubious quality of looking and serving as something like a mix between a holiday camp and Alcatraz. The real issue for these guys is that they just don't know, and it's the indefinite amount of time that hangs around their neck like a rope of conscience. The physical world of impoundment and the lack of freedom is compounded by their inner struggle. Many of these guys have left a family, a wife and children and spent all their life's saving to take a huge risk. The conflict of abandoning one's family on a vague chance of making it to a distant country (if you survive) on the assumption that if you make it, there is a slight opportunity to be able to give your family a better life, becomes the nightmare of conflict which creates a living hell for most of these guys, and so this facility has the highest rate of depression of any know. I can't help but ask myself, if there 1200 guys here, how many did not make it?

John is the music teacher here and was assigned to help us, we also received help from several other staff with positions ranging from English teaching to yoga and drama. We set up the recording equipment in John's music room; well equipped and comfortable. We were accommodated for our every need and given a very generous lunch before we started the workshops. A couple of the resident musicians were sought out and one guy, Ali, from Afghanistan, showed up with his own traditional instrument called a Dambora; a two stringed type of lute that he played some traditional folk songs on in a very eastern mode. We recorded this music for him which made him very happy. Ali was a very pleasant and unassuming fellow, young and handsome, with long and thick black hair, calm and softly spoken, his English was quite good and we spent most of the day with him.

Another client (as they call them there), was an Iranian fellow called Ahmad , who got up and mounted the keyboard. He searched through the presets till he found a eastern sounding drum beat, then proceeded to astound us with an Iranian rap song! When he had finished, we all sat silent, a little dumbfounded. He was obviously an accomplished musician. Pianist, singer, rap artist. When I asked him what the words meant in English, he informed us that before leaving Iran he had been a part of an underground music scene, in which he had become very popular or perhaps infamous, until he was caught by police and jailed for 2 years as a political prisoner for writing songs against the government. As he spoke, I could see the looks of disbelief on my crews faces. Trying to comprehend what it would be like, to have so little freedom and to be imprisoned at such an young age, and for, what seemed to us, a trivial offence. He seemed to have an inexhaustible repertoire, and we recorded several songs with him before the English teacher we had met earlier brought her entire class into the music workshop, at which point we had about 40 guys sitting in front of us. I had no idea what to do, really! The workshops we have been doing are more for kids then adults, and most of the guys didn't speak English. The teacher insisted it would be good practice for them to try sing a song though, so I asked Ahmad if he would help me write a song with the guys, and he agreed good naturedly. He struck a melody in a typical eastern mode, which was a great start. Then I asked the group if they could help me write a song. There was some multicultural discussion, till the translation came back that it would not be possible because there were five different languages in the room. I suggested that we just try to write it in English, then translate it so we both learnt a few words. Ali translated this back to the group, and to those that understood, it seemed to generate much excitement. The Pakistani guys wobbled their heads from side to side, some stared blankly, others just happy for any distraction smiled broadly. Not sure if anyone knew what I was saying, I pressed on regardless. One thing was for sure, we were having some fun. "What would you like to write about?" I asked. "I want visa", someone yelled from the back, there was a chorus of laughter. "So what would a visa mean to you?" I asked, "Freedom!" he declared. And so in this manner the material for our song was born. Our chorus read like this: We are six different cultures, But we want the same thing We are here together For our freedom we sing!

Although Ahmad was not Persian speaking, he managed to sing and perform the song in both languages. There was some interesting discussion amongst the guys while they translated the words, but the end result was that they used Persian, and so we all got a lesson in English and Persian, by repeating the song through together each time. If you want to listen to the resulting song you can go to Desert Feet Tour's soundcloud.com and listen. It was an amazing experience, and as the word spread throughout the facility, more and more guys crammed into the room till the air-conditioner could not handle it anymore and shut down, leaving us to sweat it out in a transportable, stuffed with about 70 detainees, packed to standing room only, under a sweltering Derby sun.

That night at the concert, 1200 guys crowded around the stage in silent amazement, a cultural smorgasbord of epic proportions. Transfixed, our truck and stage met with looks of wonder and intrigue. When we began to perform every song met warm applause and loud cheers. When Em and I took the stage they went wild. It's the greatest cheer we have ever received. Mind you, most of it was directed at Emily (well maybe all of it), but it was a great feeling to obtain such encouragement, and so I sung out my heart as hard as I could. I would guess that most of these guys couldn't understand a word I said, but I reckon I got the message across.

Ahmad Saeedi - Live at Curtin Immigration Detention Centre by Desert Feet Tour

Curtin Asylum Seekers - Hazara Song by Desert Feet Tour

Ali and Ahmad got up and did a set each. One fellow got up and sang what sounded like Middle Eastern Yodelling? A series of short laments in rising and descending scales ranging from falsetto to high pitched. I have no idea what he was saying, but at the end of each one he received a cheer like a "Hurrah!", after which he would continue on. They all sounded pretty much the same to me, but it was an interesting cultural experience. Ali played his Afghanistan folk songs on the Dambora and keyboard, and Ahmad, obviously a seasoned performer, performed for nearly an hour. At one point he got another guy playing rhythm on the djembe while he freestyled in Iranian for a good 7mins! Ahmad, skilled and versatile with his instrument, contributed keyboard for another of the guys who held up some sort of traditional Persian folk songbook, the repetitious but entrancing mode invoked a sort of intoxication of the senses, and dancing broke out with intensity. From then on, they owned the stage and dance floor. We learnt several of the dance moves, but mostly we were just swept up in the emotion of it all. Exotic dance, foreign music, cultural diversity, and a euphoric but sober release from captivity. The dusty red dirt absorbed our sweat as the warm and humid air clung to our shirts, wet with exertion and soaked with music. To forget the past, we believe in the future, but music is the source that connects us with the present moment. Together in a circle with arms joined, we danced without a past or future. We just danced, free and simple. Just people. Not Iranians, or Afghanistani, or Australian, or anything. Just people dancing together.

During the night, I took a few moments to go and sit in the crowd, disappearing amongst the group. To sit and listen to their language, and watch them enjoy the night. I struck up a few strained conversations in what limited English some of them had, mostly they just wanted to thank us. Sometimes their praise and appreciation became overwhelming. Trying to explain that it was our pleasure and privilege, was too cumbersome and so mostly I grinned and nodded my head, soaking up the good vibes and love. But there were two profoundly moving conversations I had that night that I will never forget. Muhammad's English was really good, and he expressed to me that our songs had made him long for home, to be with his wife and baby daughter whom he had not seen for 18 months. "Very romantic, you make me romantic" is how he explained it. Muhammad was a young guy maybe 23 or 25, well built, very fit, and confident. I noticed his arms where badly scarred with what looked like burns. During our conversation he explained to me what he was running from and why he left. In his broken English and with his own understanding of the words he knew he expressed his conundrum. "One part of me is ashamed for leaving, and I am afraid what will happen to my family. I want to die myself now, but then all hope will be lost for my family. The other part of me struggles to keep hope and be strong." After 18 months there is a light at the end of Muhammad's tunnel. However, he explained to me how the depression 'Took all his weight.' He became suicidal and started to self harm. The burns on his arms spelled his wife's name on the right his daughters name on the left, etched into his skin with the pain of longing, one dot at a time with a cigarette. They where deep and purple, they would never leave him. I am sure there are 1200 stories of longing, loss and fear like this in here. That is just one.

Tuesday 25th October - Day 29

It was 1:30am by the time we checked into the King Sound Lodge. Determined to get some sleep, I drew the curtains, but I was awakened early by a phone call from Rob saying was crook and could not come.

It was also time to say farewell to Richard after nearly a month on the road together, it is with great regret that we see him go. With the big Curtin gig behind us now we will turn our sites for home and edge our way along the 2600 kilometres between us and the end of the trip. Between then and now, we have three more concerts and workshops to perform. Possibly one night in Bidyadanga to record some music with famous Shoveller Family Band, then two concerts/workshops as part of the Rio Tinto Picnic Day community festivals at Tom Price and Paraburdoo, which will break the long trip up. However, as our shift change did not work as well as planned, now we are three. We decided to just head for Broome and work it all out there.

The truck has been running hot, and we had to take it slow. A head wind was not helping and very, very hot day made it worse. Five hours later we had checked into a hotel and were ready to grab some much needed rest. We held a bit of a meeting and looked at our time frame. It was 1200km to Tom Price and that meant a full day on the road for the truck. To be in Tom Price on Friday we needed to be on the road by Thursday morning latest. That gave us a window of opportunity to visit Bidgidanga tomorrow night only. The truck windscreen is held in with gaffa tape, and I had to have the new one fitted tomorrow morning. With only three of us to do a full set up and pack down, we decided it was too much work to undertake shorthanded. The final decision was with Ewan; it was him that would have to do the lion's share of the work with recording and mixing down. His workload was already overflowing from the previous concerts, and the idea of ending up with another heap of tracks to mix down was too much to bear. We all work hard to make the show happen, but Ewan never gets a seconds rest once the truck is set up, as he is stuck with the mixing desk the whole time. He can go for several hours without getting to sit down, and that includes getting up and playing his set, setting up and packing away, but not the hours of editing he will have to do later too.

Wednesday 26th October - Day 30

Well I'm starting to feel a bit sentimental as the end of the tour draws near. Today is a refuel day. Refuel the truck at $350, refuel the Prado at $180, refuel our energy tanks with a good night's sleep, a big meal and a bit of R and R. I put the new windscreen in the truck and that cost $650 and four people for two nights in Broome cost $500. So I managed to blow nearly two grand today! For some reason it seems cheaper to be out on a remote Aboriginal community?!

Putting in the windscreen was relief, I was not sure if that would make it back to Broome. Every morning I woke up, that crack got bigger, it was nearly touching all four corners of the cab by the end, and most of the left side was covered in black gaffa tape! I was envisaging having to drive out of the valley over dirt roads with no windscreen, that would not have been fun, but like about 99% of my fears, it didn't come true.

I'm looking forward to seeing Brian and Candice again at Tom Price, I miss them both. When I reflect on the last 31 days, I remember with fondness some of the funny incidents that happen on the road. When you live, work, perform and hang out together, you get pretty close. Candice has a real fear of insects and creatures, which I think is really funny, because there is nowhere on earth with more of those things than the Kimberley. Day one at One Arm Point after checking into our rooms, Candice came back in the afternoon to change clothes, and found four giant green frogs sitting on her opened suitcase! She was nearly traumatised. Then at Wangkatjungka when she went to flush the loo, she put her hand on a frog which was sitting on the button, and came out screaming, holding her hand like it had been burnt!

Then there was the time in Fitzroy Crossing on Brian's birthday, when the guys had a bit of a 'celebration.' The next morning I found Brian's t-shirt hanging off a pole at the shopping centre about 20km away? To this day, no one knows how it got there.

The funniest thing I remember is Richard, he really was a laugh a minute, always up to something. During the workshops, he likes to do this trick with the kids where he pretends his head is made of wood by knocking on the hollow chamber of his cello from behind, while tapping his head at the same time. Later one night at Nookanbah I saw one of the kids try to knock on his head several times. No matter how many times he explained it was not real, the kids would not give up. So Richard had a host of kids following him all night, knocking his wooden head.

Thursday 27th October - Day 31

We bailed Broome town with the rising sun, sights set for sunny Tom Price! A quick stopover with our good mate and fellow friend of Bill W, at Sandfire Roadhouse, where he and Dorothy shouted us a huge breakfast of fresh eggs in the best omelette I have ever had. I got to see my first albino Peacock, it was doing its 'look at me who wants to have babies' show, all his feathers sticking up. I never knew they could rattle their feathers like rice shakers. I couldn't stop watching him parade around trying to get jiggy with a peahen. It was pretty comical, I guess guys are the same across all species.

On the Roebuck Plains we hit a strong headwind which brought our speed down considerably. Then around 10am she started to overheat again, so I took a look underneath her and discovered she had a bad crack in the exhaust. With the exhaust not drawing the heat away from the manifold properly, and the 20-30 knot head winds, we crawled along at no more than 65kph for a good 5 hours, trying to keep her from getting to hot. It was 3pm before we reached Port Hedland and turned south and away from the headwind, and with the cooler afternoon we arrived safely in Tom Price that night about 9pm. 16 hours on the road is a good leg.

Friday 28th October - Day 32

The festival that we joined was called Picnic Day. An exclusively Rio Tinto funded event for the town, which is basically Rio Tinto's town. A family fun day for the wider community and workers of Rio. Amber of White Room Design very graciously employed us to feature as one of the attractions in the marquee area. The benefit to us was to show off our set up and it was a chance to meet some of the Rio Tinto crew. A company that as yet we have not been able to penetrate. In return, we supplied four fresh acts for the main stage to support the headline act, a Blues Brothers Tribute Band called the 'All Star Showstoppers'. Ewan (The Mong), Candice (Ulla Shay), Brian (Bryte MC) did half hour sets each from 4pm onwards. Then everyone got back up (Candice on drums, Ewan on bass, and Bryte doing some freestyle) to play with Em and I as The Orphans! The production and main stage supplied by Rock West was epic, and it's the biggest stage we had ever played on. There was some 2000 people at Tom Price and it was an impressive set up, but it's a different world playing at gigs like this. It's not a festival in the sense of 'Blues and Roots', and it's not really a carnival like the Royal Show. It's a corporate community event, and so it's all free to the public. I must admit that this type of surplus does not really inspire me much (especially the fireworks at the end, which is just a waste of money if you ask me), and as the old cliche goes 'when you give someone something for nothing they usually don't appreciate it.' Tom Price is like an alien planet after where we have been. Talk about culture shock, (sorry any miners or Tom Price crew if your reading this) but give me a poor remote Indigenous Community any day!! The kids are better behaved, you feel appreciated and the outcomes seem far more tangible.

Tom Price is basically a hole in the earth, it would not be there if it was not for the massive iron ore extraction taking place, and most people seem to be in a waking dream, reflecting each other in their high vis' orange clothing and reflective strips. Overindulged on the fat of the land. Too many all-you-can-eat buffets for breakfast, lunch and tea, too much money, and nothing to do. All I heard most of the day was complaints about not enough stuff to do for the kids; not enough rides, not good enough this or that, and so while their kids made cupcakes, played games, got their faces painted, and filled up on free smoothies, they sat huddled in the bar area in one corner, dulling the pain of an existence/ nonexistence. We had some good feedback on our music, but I think Tom Price is probably not the best place to play slow, original, acoustic folk music. However, the kids loved it all and danced like crazy. I think I should just start playing in a purple suit and call myself The Wiggles. To any adults that I caught remotely enjoying themselves (even if they tapped thier foot once, could be perceived to have clapped or accidently waved at a fly), I rewarded with a CD, so a big thanks to those of you that appreciated the soul and vibe of the original musician.

Tom Price Kids Song by Desert Feet Tour

Saturday 29th October - Day 33

It was a mammoth operation and a credit to Amber to have got that huge production packed up and moved all the way to Paraburdoo by the next day. I'm not actually sure how they did it, because I know we struggled with our little show in the time frame but following day saw us set up on the oval again, ready for day two. I was a bit concerned how the workshops would go in this environment, and with loud music coming from the main stage, it was hard to write a song with the kids. But Ewan stepped up to the mark and just made it happen yesterday. He is such a life saver. I was just out of juice and had no energy, I was worried that Amber would not be happy with us, as it was all an unknown quantity, and at one stage every other stall had kids in front of it except ours. Ewan was urging me to just start, saying that the kids would come if I did, but I was sort of shell shocked. Next thing I know Ewan has the mic' in his hand and is doing the Cha Cha Slide dance, yelling over the PA "c'mon kids, join in!" Ten minutes later Candice walked over after finishing her set picks up the guitar and has these kids eating out of her hand! Love this team. Within twenty minutes she has them singing a song and Ewan recording it just before he flies off to do his set on the main stage. From there we had our secret weapon Bryte MC doing beat boxing, and then a graffiti workshops, that got a bit out of control when all the kids just picked up a spray can each and started to spray paint the truck!

So today, learning from our mistakes, we got Bryte to do a mural and sectioned off the area with danger tape. He started painting at 2pm and did not stop till 930 that night. It was a super effort, and the tray of the truck is now completely covered in graffiti artwork. Today is the last gig for us, and we have played nearly every day in one form or another for 30 days. So when we got on stage today, I felt totally relaxed and we played a great set to a fun audience on a huge stage. It was the perfect climax for the 2011 Desert Feet Tour and I think Amber was suitably impressed, as she has invited us to repeat our efforts at the Fusion Fest in May next year.

I think Bella should get paid for this show too, as she became a main attraction at our stage. Either that or I should start an animal farm tent with her as the centrepiece. All night she was lead around by the leash by adoring little kids, and I am not sure how many cupcakes she ate, but I think they nearly killed her with love. By the time I realised what was happening, her disgorged stomached was hindering her movements, and I had to lift her into the back of the cab to prevent her from overdosing on sugar. Her head was purple, stained the colour of the fruit smoothies all the kids where drinking. She had either rolled in it or had it poured over her head, I'm not sure, but she was a very sticky and fat dog.

Sunday 30th October - Day 34

I woke at 5am to start the truck, Emily was flying out from Newman, so we needed to bolt for it ASAP. I made the mistake of leaving Bella in the cab, thinking it would be cold. I had underestimated the amount of cupcakes she must have eaten, and the result was some interior decorating that I was not too happy about dealing with at 5am!!! The poor thing was so sick she looked green, except for the purple patch of raspberry smoothie on her head which had now gone crusty and dry. She will now take her place on the back of the truck for the rest of this trip I believe.

At Newman, the truck would not start again, and now that I was alone I had to ask someone at the shops to help me start her. The poor guy must have been wondering what he was dealing with when he got into the cab. I saw him actually flinch at the smell, but I was too tired to explain that my dog had vomited in the cab not me, and I was worried about the truck not starting. He had a very strange look of scepticism on his face when I produce a bent piece of fencing wire and a pair of pliers. "When I yell out, NOW!, you turn the key, ok?" The guy was in shock as I climbed under the truck, he must have been to stunned to reply, but I knew he got the message and sure enough she kicked over first pop. A huge cloud of black smoked poured out of the cracked exhaust and I appeared from it to offer him thanks, but it seems our friendship was not destined to develop any further as he ran off pretty fast. I wanted to buy him a few beers or something to thank him, but it was not to be.

By Capricorn Roadhouse I had about 20 smelly Christmas trees hanging in the cab, another two packs of Kleenex Wet Ones had been used on the back seat, still to no avail, and all I could do was keep my windows down. So the unstoppable White Rhino limped its way to Meekatharra. The hole in my exhaust now sounded like a twin turbine jet engine, screaming in though the open windows, and so with two bits of toilet paper stuffed into my ears and a beautiful sunset in the west, I headed for home. Life is good!

Monday 31st October - Day 35

It was not till later that night that I realised I would not be able to just pull over on the side of the road to sleep. Once I stopped the truck I'd need another person to start it. So if got tired, I took quick naps with the engine running until I could get to the next roadhouse or truck stop. However, as I left Newman in the arvo, I hit a strong wind and severe weather warning just before Meekatharra. The earth put on a ferocious display of her beauty, and the wide open plains of the Pilbara gave me a view worth mentioning. A mosaic of sunny fields dotted with intense rain could be seen in every direction, it was sun showers and rainbows. In the distance I watched downpours lean into the wind like bent columns emerging from black clouds, while other parts of the road remained as dry as the desert they are. A few sheet downpours crashed into the truck with violent strength, and then the sun split the world apart, driving arrows of light through dark clouds like pierced hearts. The red dust blown into the sky by the winds, the moisture in the air from the rain and light from the setting sun exploded into a mesmerizing show of elemental beauty and once again, I was reminded of my insignificance in the stream of life.

Now as the city of Perth grows near, I contemplate the successful completion of year four of the Desert Feet Tour. A lonely feeling of disbelief fills me, and I ask myself "What have we achieved?" Is the world a better place? Have we changed the lives of anyone we reached? Have we had a positive effect? What do I do now...................? I know I am employed by a force beyond my understanding. Up till three days before we left for this trip, we had less than a third of the budget. It was suggested to me that we need to delay the tour. I agreed, but there was a desire in me so strong that I would not have forgiven myself had I failed. Determination? Audacity? Immaturity? All of the above? It's a mindset that says "Damien, I know if you just go and do it, somehow, you will make it, and then everything will be better, and next time it will be different." But here I am, coming home, and nothing is different here. No press awaits us, nor celebrations. No homecoming will sing our praises. In fact, no one really knows we even left.

I do not expect life to be fair, nor do I think I deserve anything in particular, nor do I even presume to have an answer to any of the issues I have raised, but I hope I am doing something about them. Most of all, I hope that you now believe, as I do, that our greatest single resource is not the minerals in the ground, or the ground itself, it is a culture of immeasurable value, and it's ours. The indigenous people of this country offer us an opportunity to develop ourselves both as a nation and as individuals, that as yet, is mostly untouched. This journey has been, for me, about bridging the gap. But not the gap that I hear about in the media. I'm talking about my own gap, the gap between me and the First Peoples of Australia, the void of ignorance that I have lived in and about questioning the racial predacious I have inherited and learned, it has been about facing my own fears and finding my own truths and on the path the relationship I have discovered have forced me to look for new meanings to my own ideas and conditioning, and so ultimately it has been a journey of self discovery. Every day on the road I learn more and more about Indigenous culture and history and every day I ask myself "How is it I do not already know this? Why was I not told this? How come this was not part of my education? If you have asked yourself these question too then we are on the same path. And so it has been successful after all.

End of October 2011 Tour

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