In typical Aussie fashion, no one said a word.
Aha! I finally grasped my phone and poked at the screen, trying to answer the trivia. After a couple of moments with no success, I decided I needed out, and switched the phone off.
Silence, finally. I breathed a sigh of relief, and the security guard lifted one eyebrow at me. ‘Step forward, please.’
Just another day in the life of an Aussie Muslim chick rig-hand.
So here I am, squished between two dudes on the long drive to the rig. It’s quite cold in the car, and there isn’t much conversation – none at all, actually – and so half an hour and a short nap into the trip I’ve put the headphones on and am listening to Eminem. In typical fashion I don’t know what to expect, but am quite looking forward to whatever comes next! I’ve got bright orange nail polish to match my high vis and clothes so new they still have the creases. I’m keeeeen :)
I’m gonna focus on following Avs’s advice.
This is taken from a diary entry, day one on the rig. My best mate, Avrithi, who had been my friend and colleague through YWB, Spark and university, had sat me down right before I left to give me a stern talking-to:
‘Don’t kid around with these guys, okay? You have to be strong. You don’t have to be their friend. You don’t have to let them treat you poorly. Be a boss and channel Beyoncé. Don’t let them in your room, don’t add them on Facebook. Watch yourself!’
Avs was a strong woman who suffered no fools and she knew I would make friends with anyone. She wanted to protect me, but sometimes I just needed protection from myself. She was half right – I would have to adjust – but I also found ways to make friends on my own terms. A little bit of Bey, though, never went astray. I would have to be the one to make the effort and set the tone.
A few hours later, we drove onto the lease. It was a cleared piece of land, about 100 metres by 100 metres, on which sat the rig, with all the equipment required to drill the hole, the dongas (converted shipping containers), which are used as offices and a ‘crib room’ (the cafeteria). On a land lease there were generally about thirty to fifty workers (two weeks on, two weeks off, usually), and on an offshore rig between 100 to 160, depending on the size, working month on, month off. There’s also accommodation on the lease for some of the personnel, usually the geologists and the company representatives, while the rest of the workers sleep in a camp a short drive away.
We parked up near the main equipment, jumped out of the truck and grabbed our hard hats. The new kids on the rig wear green hats, but I was not a fan of being singled out as a newbie, so I’d bought my own white hat and pre-decorated it with tags and graffiti, based on what I’d seen at the mines during vacation work and on TV, so I looked like I belonged. Graffed hat on top of my rig-friendly hijab, which just looked like a Rastafarian cap tied down with a bandana, I mentally donned a tough persona, channelling my inner Alanna of Trebond, and walked with the crew to sign on and meet the boss of the rig, also known as the Company Man (gendered profession alert!).
It was at this rig I met my future rig-bestie, an awesome young female geologist who taught me how to be friends with the guys without being seen as a sexual object. She warned me what to watch out for, and told me the Golden Rule: ‘Don’t screw the crew.’ Well, there’s no chance of that happening! I thought, chuckling internally. I felt super lucky to have this friendly, experienced woman for my guide into the rocky wilderness.
I knew what it was like studying with a bunch of male engineers. We had been the same age, learning the same content, and had enough shared background to be able to relate to each other, and the ‘success criteria’ for respect was the same for everyone: get good grades and you earn respect. I quickly learnt it was nowhere near as clear-cut in the ‘real world’. The men I would be working with came from all over the globe, meaning varied ages, generations and social expectations. This was now my reality and I had to learn the ropes as fast as I could.
I had assumed that my religion would be the biggest barrier out on the rigs, but apparently working with a Muslim is not as surprising as working with a woman. Although, to be fair, the guys don’t always realise I am a Muslim. My hijab on the rig is less obvious and not as obtrusive, convenient to combine with the hard hat. In true Australian fashion, religion is the one topic that is studiously avoided in this workplace. People also don’t always realise the significance of my head covering. This makes for some interesting conversations over lunch, starting that very first week with: ‘When’s that tea cosy come off?’
I turned around to my colleague, already grinning inside. ‘Nah, mate, it doesn’t come off. I was born with it, hey!’
He looked up from his steak, jaw dropping slightly in confusion. ‘Wha–?’
I laughed out loud. ‘It’s a religious thing. We call it a hijab, and I guess this is the abbreviated, hard-hat friendly version.’
‘Oh yeah, righto …’ He nodded uncertainly, then shrugged and went back to his meal.
When I told my family at home, Baba couldn’t get enough of it. ‘Let’s call you Tea Cosy now!’
Sia’s ‘Breathe Me’ was my soundtrack for that first trip; it spoke to a kindness and a gentleness that I couldn’t get in my new environment. I would curl up on the top bunk of the beds in the donga, willing myself to sleep as the words wrapped around me, cocooning me safely away from this place I was yet to understand. Although I was getting along well with my new colleagues, it really did feel like a big change. I needed more than colleagues, I needed friends. This was my first time away from home for real, which probably added to the feeling of loneliness. Spending all day being strong came naturally to me, but with my new life built around that persona, there was very little room to be small, which I needed to be once in a while. That vulnerability stayed between me, Sia and the darkness of a small, cold donga.
It’s a lifestyle I’m pretty used to now, and when I’m back home, in some ways I miss its simplicity – just work, sleep, meals and small talk to fill the hours. There are many moments, though, that draw on your personal reserves. Moments when you’re the only woman in a group of guys and you find yourself arguing against calling the duct tape ‘rape tape’. Moments when engineers are yelling at you because you’ve made a mistake that will cost hours and tens of thousands of dollars, or when you don’t know what you’re doing but you just have to figure it out because you are literally unable to walk away from the place. At moments like these, the rig feels as if it’s a dream that you can’t wake up from, because this is your life, the life you have chosen.
Some people call home to talk to their partners and family about their day, but it’s quite hard to explain what life is like on a rig if you haven’t been on one. It is even harder to explain what life is like on a rig as a woman, even to a man who works with you, because they can’t fully understand the constant balancing act. It’s during casual conversations that I find myself most challenged, and I’ve gathered dozens of examples during my time on various rigs.
One afternoon during a typical shift, I went to the rig floor to shoot the breeze with the lads. The topic of conversation was graphic; they were discussing their masturbation habits, particularly crudely. I dithered, and then decided to sit and listen, figuring it was an interesting conversation from an anthropological point of view. I couldn’t leave every single conversation with which I felt uncomfortable, otherwise I’d be walking in and out of chats all day! How else was I going to make mates?
After a good few minutes on the topic, the lads save the driller left the rig floor for a smoko and I hurriedly changed the topic to the pecking order on the rig, curious about how people fit into this strange world and keen to get onto safe ground.
Later I wondered: did the fact that I sat and listened mean I was implicitly condoning their conversation? What did this say about my character? How was I meant to navigate this? Can I participate in this type of chat with my morals intact?
The topics I liked talking about – cars, racing, boxing �
�� were things the guys would be interested in and happy to chat about. Often, though, the conversations ended up a mixture of dirty jokes and worse. Where did that leave my dignity?
The kicker was the realisation that the same banter that makes ‘men men’ on the rig, is not open to women. Too much backchat and your value is ‘diminished’ (too difficult, thinks too much of herself, doesn’t shut up); too little, and you’re perceived as uptight and hard to work with. A fine line.
My willingness to stay and put up with awkward conversations stemmed from a desire to want to be friends with people, no matter who they are or what status they are perceived as having. The currency for someone like me, someone who is constantly an outsider, is the ability to communicate with a group and be accepted – just enough that you are allowed in the ‘tribe’. Sure, I will never be a man, so I will always be inherently different and may not quite fit into the existing pecking order. However, if I am able to effectively communicate and understand the tribe’s language, I can exist and contribute to that space.
Perhaps it is about being adaptable, but there is a difference between adaptability and submitting. I will never give up my values in order to gain credibility with a group. That’s not what a group demands, anyway; the group dynamic requires respect and a genuine interest in what the tribe cares about. If I want in, I need to make the effort, and if the gateway is learning how to shoot the shit, that’s something I can do. I just have to be careful not to cross my own boundaries. But the more ways we learn to communicate, the better we can connect and see how others view the world, and that makes this work worthwhile.
It’s not all rough on the rigs, and the industry has changed significantly, even in the past few years. Despite the traditional male dominance, there are strong factors forcing welcome change. Two catalysts for change are the increasingly strict Occupational Health and Safety regulations and the growing presence of women on rigs.
While there are relatively few women in the physically demanding rig environment, there are increasing numbers of women working as geologists, engineers, and in wireline, and drilling and measurement services. When companies also hire women as drilling supervisors it tends to have a significant impact on the group dynamic.
The transition has not been easy and reactions from the rest of the rig workers vary from acceptance and encouragement to fear of the change the presence of women might bring. ‘It makes it feel more like the real world,’ several rig hands have said to me. ‘When there’s a woman around, people argue less, talk about different things and it doesn’t feel like such a strange place to come to.’
To be honest, that perspective was slightly surprising and also encouraging. The more common opinion is shaped by fear. Although some men enjoy having women as part of their workforce, they still believe it’s their domain and that women are ‘more trouble than they’re worth’, or are promoted before they are ready, in front of men with more experience.
‘We gotta suss the chicks out,’ an assistant driller commented. ‘You don’t know if one of them’s going to report you just for a joke you didn’t even realise you made. I don’t want to lose my job, so I just stay quiet.’
This view is not uncommon; a lot of men have said the same thing in different ways. On one hand, it is heartening to see the system working, to see that women’s rights in the field are taken seriously. On the other, it instantly causes an ‘us and them’ rift. The men band together; their view is that ‘all women are the same and out to get them’ or that they are ‘too sensitive’ and won’t understand the men’s banter. Unfortunately, on most sites there are not enough women to form their own gangs (yet).
The banter is not always gender-related. I once had a sixty-eight-year-old directional driller grin at me when he finally decided he could talk to me, and his first words were, ‘Oh yeah, I have some blacks in my family tree!’ I was naively impressed (and surprised) that we had some shared heritage, because Charlie looked like an average ‘Aussie battler’.
‘Oh yes, yes I do. I think they’re still hanging there, out the front of the house!’ His wizened face creased into a smile as he began to chortle. I laughed as well, mostly in shock. ‘Charlie, you’re a terrible man!’ I replied, shaking my head.
‘I know! It’s great, isn’t it?’
I am constantly asking myself, even today, if I should adopt and accept the mannerisms of the rig to fit in, to become one of the boys, to accept the status quo and not cause waves. Or should I, and other women, stick to our guns and demand change, insist that the men working in these isolated and testing environments change their culture and mannerisms to incorporate women?
Even as I write this, I feel I should apologise and add a disclaimer. Not all the oil and gas fields are like this. Or is that just me explaining away behaviour that is common on rigs so I don’t rock the boat and become unpopular? Am I just being nice? I haven’t been able to answer these questions yet. Working on the rigs has, however, forced me to reinterpret my understanding of what it means to be a strong woman.
‘I’m going to kill ’em with kindness!’ I announced to my boss after more than a year on the rigs. I was an older hand now, with a little more experience under my belt, but I was having particular trouble connecting with a driller and the crew kept playing practical jokes on me, like calling me over the PA and sending me to random parts of the rig for no reason or putting my equipment where I wouldn’t find it. I figured being the nicest person I could possibly be would be a good response.
‘Who?’ he asked, perplexed.
‘Everyone!’ I grinned, thinking it was the best solution ever.
‘Right.’ The boss looked over at me. ‘You’re on the next chopper!’
There was no room on the rig for being kind. He was joking, of course, but there is another, similar word that the women are expected to be, and that is ‘nice’.
For a long time, I went with ‘being nice’. I had taken on the suggestion of an older, very successful woman I had met on a women’s issues panel event who said I should ‘always be charming’ because ‘you can’t lose if you’re always nice’. It was great advice, or so I thought at the time. We won’t reach equality if we’re always on the attack, I reasoned. Being on the offensive always puts the guys offside and makes for a difficult working environment. Rigs, in that respect, were no different to university.
‘Nice’ is playing by the rules – fitting into what is expected of us as women and not demanding change, be it quotas on boards or separate sleeping quarters to the men. ‘Nice’ is assuming that everyone around us wants what we want – equality of opportunity and a free and fair society – when that is often far from the daily reality. ‘Nice’ is fine if you don’t want to rock the boat. But is the reason the women’s movement is the least violent movement for social change in history because women are better at negotiating what they want or because they were told to play nice?
Being nice can still be a pretty good negotiating tool, a useful weapon in my life arsenal. At times, it allows you to make changes without getting people offside – being charming while challenging the status quo so that people don’t even realise change is occurring until it has happened. That definitely works for some people, but it doesn’t always work either. What is the alternative?
Sometime during the first year after university, as I entered the workforce, I started to care less about not rocking the boat. This was due to the gradual realisation that if I never made people uncomfortable, there would never be any reason for them to examine their beliefs and actually change. If I was nice, I was working around the system to make it functional, and while that made it work for me, it didn’t change the structural expectations of society or make it easier for anyone else.
If I didn’t speak out on behalf of women, especially women of faith and women of colour, in spaces where those voices are not heard, then there was little point in having me at that table. I was not only wasting an opportunity, I was being disrespectful to those who had entrust
ed me with the responsibility. Challenging the status quo openly is not ‘nice’ – although the delivery sometimes can still be. But it is important.
As women, we are taught to conform to social expectations. We are taught that it’s important to be liked. We all like to be liked, generally speaking. So to fight that instinct takes a little gumption, a little concentration, and a capacity for more than a little work. But let’s be real – women have all those talents in spades. The rigs are the frontline of the ‘picking your battles’ war zone. Sometimes, you have to roll with the punches and kill ’em with that kindness, and other times you have to put your foot down and channel your inner Beyoncé. If anything, this job made me realise that I am proud to be a woman, and being ‘strong’ doesn’t necessarily mean being ‘masculine’. It’s ironic that it took a world renowned for its toughness to make me appreciate my femininity.
Chapter 24:
#ThingsRigPigsSay
‘He’s tighter than a fish’s asshole.’
‘Don’t forget, hygiene is all about cleaning the back, sack and crack.’
‘That guy’s so irritable, we call him “Thrush”.’
Being on the rigs is an interesting environment for your backyard, wishing-they-were-a-real anthropologist. It’s an opportunity to hear perspectives that I don’t usually hear, either because people make a judgement about my values and omit certain topics and expressions out of respect, or because I don’t always get exposure to people with opinions vastly different to mine.
One situation during our weekly safety drill caught me unawares. At every rig there’s a weekly muster drill during which everyone practises assembling, simulating an emergency. I always look forward to standing in the muster lines, as much as you can look forward to standing in a life vest and full Personal Protective Equipment (PPE) in the beating sun. You never quite know who you will end up next to, and as the drill drags on, people tend to chat to the folk around them. Although I try to meet as many people as possible on each rig, I don’t get to chat properly with everyone if our shifts don’t line up, or just because some people don’t quite want to talk about life and love at breakfast, our main gathering time.
Yassmin’s Story Page 27