An Outback Nurse

by Thea Hayes

  Somehow we managed to get to Albury, 550 kilometres from Sydney, where we were to be held up for two days while the motor was installed. This meant our minibus would not go to Adelaide where my eldest brother, Tony, now a trainee Passionist father, lived in a monastery. Fortunately I was able to join the Austin crowd for that trip, while the Volkswagen group would have to go through Broken Hill. We planned to meet up again in Port Augusta.

  When I saw Tony at the monastery, he was quite shocked when I told him where I was going to work. Then he started thinking in terms of me converting the Aboriginal residents to Catholicism. Subsequently, he thought it was a good idea. I thought, but didn’t tell Tony, that I wouldn’t be doing any converting. He would have to do that himself.

  After leaving Adelaide, we headed for Port Augusta to meet up with the VW crowd, and on the way we stayed overnight in Wilmington. The manager of our motel organised his barman to take a few of us out to see Alligator Gorge. Here we viewed the amazing Flinders Ranges. This huge mountain range was created more than five hundred million years ago, when movement of the Earth’s plates caused the land to rupture and uplift. Now, erosion has reduced the range considerably. Yellow-footed rock wallabies abounded with other Australian wildlife through this beautiful landscape.

  At Port Augusta we caught up to the VW and I changed vehicles again. The country to the north looked desolate but it did have the Flinders Ranges as a backdrop. From the Ranges we headed towards the smaller southern part of Lake Eyre, which is both the largest salt lake and the lowest point below sea level in Australia. It was such a different landscape, looking across the waterless lake. It was seemingly lifeless and shimmered away into the distance.

  Continuing on, we discovered that the road had turned to a dirt track with either a turn-off with no sign at all, or a Y-junction with a sign pointing to nowhere in particular. Out came the compasses.

  It was primitive camping with only half the cooking utensils and half the number of tents needed for the fourteen of us. We made do with sleeping on blow-up mattresses under the stars, not worrying about the tents at all. For those in the Austin without dust-proofing and air-conditioning, the trip along the dirt roads was a nightmare. They had to wear scarves over their mouths, chew gum, which helped in the production of saliva, and put Vicks up their nostrils to stop breathing in the dust.

  The dust varied in colour from khaki to bright red. What a terrible sight it was to see the group sitting in their Austin with only their eyes showing, while we looked like advertisements for cleanliness in our air-conditioned VW.

  But the minibuses very rarely stayed together, especially after the sun went down. This was mainly because our driver, Adam, who was doing his thesis on kangaroos, would position the spotlights on every kangaroo he saw. He would stop and, with the lights still on the kangaroo, give us a lesson on its anatomy and physiology. By the time he was finished the other bus would be miles ahead, so it was always late by the time we found their campsite, set up and cooked a meal.

  We saw Woomera, where the atomic bomb tests were carried out in the 1950s and ’60s. We even camped in a deserted house in the Woomera area, as the other bus was so far ahead and it was getting late. We had four walls but no roof, and we made a lovely fire in the fireplace. Here we cooked steak and eggs and had billy tea. The following morning we realised we were in a prohibited area: possibly radioactive. We didn’t linger over breakfast.

  After Lake Eyre we travelled for days through the Gibber Plains, flat areas covered in loose stones called ‘gibbers’ (from an Aboriginal word), and then on to Coober Pedy, and to the turn-off for Ayres Rock. The country was awfully dry and there was nothing as far as the eye could see but flat, treeless plains, covered with gibbers from thumbnail size to that of a man’s hand.

  Coober Pedy was amazing, partly because everything was underground except for two shops that between them sold everything you could imagine. One old opal miner took us down into his house. It was very comfortable but a little grubby. Wylva went six metres down a narrow mineshaft—I wasn’t game.

  We passed through the town of Kingoonya, which had about five buildings—really just shacks. I didn’t even see Kulgera just over the border; we were past it before I noticed. But we all noticed the emus and kangaroos, wedge-tailed eagles and frill-necked lizards; we studied the stars and moon through binoculars; and we had our first wash for three days in a tank at Marlo Bore. At Wantapella Well we watched a drunken manager try to organise the branding of his cattle.

  The turn-off to Ayres Rock is about 206 kilometres south of Alice and 247 kilometres from the Rock itself. Just before the turn-off, we hit some bad luck. Our motor was running on three cylinders, and we had three flat tyres that we had to keep pumping up at twenty-five pumps each. We had no hope of getting to Ayres Rock and would have to go straight to Alice Springs.

  When we were halfway into Alice, what should come chugging towards us but the Austin? The other group had been to Alice, dumped their luggage, somehow got partially dust-proofed, and were now off to Ayres Rock. So, yours truly went with them, sitting on the engine box.

  We passed Curtin Springs eighty-two kilometres from the Rock, and there I observed my first Aboriginal person. My heart sank at the man’s dishevelled appearance; he was filthy, with matted hair. I wondered if the Aboriginal people on Wave Hill would be in such a state.

  The road to Ayres Rock was full of bulldust: a powdery, churned-up dust that lay feet deep. We very smugly passed a Pioneer tour bus completely bogged in at least two feet of bulldust. Not long after, our axles were suddenly imbedded deep in it as well. Panic! What do we do? Our trusty driver instructed us to collect bushes to put under and around the tyres, and after much pushing and pulling we finally got out. We continued towards the Rock—or Uluru as it is now officially called—and camped for the night.

  We were up at sunrise to see Ayres Rock, which turned completely red as the sun appeared—a fantastic sight. The weather was cool and the wind unruly. It was too dangerous to climb, so we set out to explore the base of the enormous rock. As we wandered part of the way around, we discovered caves with walls covered in Aboriginal art. We were awestruck with the realisation of the thousands of years that they had been there and the thought of the people who had painted these incredible images.

  6

  Alice Springs to Wave Hill

  For three days we explored Alice Springs and the surrounding colourful landscape: Kings Canyon, Standley Chasm, Simpsons Gap and the dry Todd River. In my eyes, the whole MacDonnell Ranges consisted of thousands of Albert Namatjira scenes, as though the artist himself had recreated them with hues of brick-red, purple, mauve and every shade of green.

  Then it was time for me to start facing the music. Feeling sick in the stomach, I went to the Bank of New South Wales, as directed by Mr Perry, and picked up the letter confirming my appointment as sister/housekeeper at Wave Hill Station. Also enclosed was an introductory letter to the manager, Mr Tom Fisher.

  Oh dear God, what was I doing?

  I contacted Connellan Airways, an airline headquartered in Alice Springs, and confirmed the time of departure of the mail plane to Wave Hill. It was a great relief to find that the plane was delayed for one day. Of course, the following day it was time to go, and I had no excuses.

  Wylva escorted me to the airport, giving me words of encouragement. ‘Thea, it’s going to be fabulous. I’m sure you’ll love it when you get there.’

  I tried putting on a brave face. We hugged farewell, then I walked to the plane, waving goodbye. As I stepped up into the Cessna, the English pilot introduced himself and offered me the co-pilot’s seat. I was the only passenger amid heaps of mailbags, large boxes and engine parts.

  We landed at Connellan’s property, Narwietooma, where the pilot and I were given breakfast and met some most hospitable people including Edward ‘Eddie’ Connellan, the aviation pioneer who started the airline in 1939.

  From there, it was on to Yuendumu Aboriginal Mission to pic
k up two passengers. As I saw all the Aboriginal people sitting or standing around, I was amazed at the blackness of their skin. Next stop, over miles of desert, was Hooker Creek, another Aboriginal settlement. The Vesteys had once run this property, but when the grazing lease expired in 1945, the government turned Hooker Creek into an Aboriginal reserve. We had lunch at the settlement manager’s house, with hundreds of Aboriginal residents milling around the airstrip, watching us as we flew out.

  The country changed dramatically after Hooker Creek. Gone were the vast expanses of reddish desert, sprinkled with green spinifex. Now it was timbered country, with soft green grass on undulating hills. We flew over spectacular gorges, stony creeks and the sparkling waters of the Victoria River, which wound its way through the landscape.

  On approaching Wave Hill, the pilot flew around the homestead several times so I could take photos. I saw dozens of white-painted buildings with patches of green lawn and splashes of colour from the gardens. The buildings surrounded an enormous flat open area. Cattle yards were visible on the outskirts of the station. A little further on I saw a dozen or so small corrugated houses with humpies scattered around where the Wave Hill Station Aboriginals lived.

  There was movement at the station as we flew over. A vehicle headed in our direction.

  ‘That’ll be Tom Fisher, coming to pick you up,’ the pilot informed me.

  We landed and taxied up to a fuel-storage shed on the side of the airstrip, which provided valuable shade. Opening the door, the pilot stepped out to unload the Wave Hill mailbags. It was after midday and as I exited the aircraft I felt a blast of dry, excessively hot air. The realisation hit me that I was now hundreds of miles north of the Tropic of Capricorn.

  I could see dust rising as Tom’s vehicle came closer, and felt the butterflies in my stomach. What would I find in this remote part of the world? Here I was about to meet my new boss and start a new job, both of which I knew very little about: just that Tom was an old hand and had recently divorced from his second wife, and that my duties would include working as his housekeeper and hostess, as well as nursing. I hoped we would get on.

  The Land Rover pulled up. Tom, who was in the driver’s seat, raised his hat in greeting. I saw a jovial, bald-headed, middle-aged man, and as he got out of the vehicle I observed that he was short and with a rather round stature. He shook my hand with a good firm grip. I was quite impressed. So this was Tom Fisher, the manager of Wave Hill Station.

  In the back of the Land Rover was Brisbane Sambo—Tom’s ‘car boy’, as they were called at the time—an Aboriginal man who was well into his sixties. He gave me a beautiful big smile. Brisbane had been with Tom for years, and his main job was to travel everywhere in the 4WD with his boss. He would open gates, change punctured tyres, wash the car, change the oil, and was also Tom’s right-hand man to do odd jobs and run messages.

  Tom picked up the mailbags and a few spare parts for various machines. We said goodbye to the pilot and drove towards the station. We chatted about my trip and Tom’s life in the Northern Territory. He had come from Kyogle in New South Wales to manage the Vestey’s Willeroo Station, which was on the road from Wave Hill to Katherine. During the war years he managed Manbulloo Station near Katherine, before being transferred to Wave Hill about twelve years before I arrived there. Although I knew he’d been married twice, I didn’t venture my comments in that direction.

  The station homestead was about thirteen kilometres from the airstrip, and I found out that we were driving on the Buchanan Highway, which runs right through the middle of Wave Hill Station and on to Western Australia. The highway was named after the first owner of Wave Hill, Nathaniel ‘Nat’ Buchanan, who was among the ranks of other Australian pioneer pastoralists, drovers and explorers, such as John Costello, Patrick Durack and Will Landsborough.

  The whole of Wave Hill was the traditional land of the Gurindji people, who’d learnt to work alongside the new white settlers. But in 1899 there was unrest: Aboriginal people attacked the manager and his stockmen, and the original homestead on the banks of the Victoria River was burnt down in 1900.

  In 1924, a heavy flood wreaked havoc on the rebuilt homestead, washing away buildings, stock and equipment worth thousands of pounds, and taking everything in its path except the flour stack. When I first visited the original Wave Hill Station several months after my arrival, all that remained was a small graveyard with weathered, unmarked stones—a rather sad, desolate place.

  The present homestead, its Aboriginal name ‘Jinparrak’, was built about sixty-four kilometres from the Victoria River in 1924.

  7

  ‘Jinparrak’

  On arrival at the homestead, the first thing I saw was the ant-bed tennis court and the lawns with wide canvas awnings stretching out from shady verandahs. This was the visitors’ quarters, Tom’s quarters and the smoko verandah.

  ‘Have you had lunch, Sister?’ Tom asked after we arrived.

  ‘Yes, thank you, at Hooker Creek. They all send their regards.’

  ‘Well, come this way and I’ll show you your room.’

  Tom led me through the smoko verandah, the hub of the station, a spacious area with cement and paving-stone floors. The walls on one side were made of paperbark, while the roof was covered with a thick, coarse, yellowish-grey thatch, which I found out was spinifex, the low-growing plant that thrives in the desert and holds the fragile soil together with its roots. Two lines of heavy black plastic chairs laced in yellow plastic strips faced each other with small tables scattered between. A larger table covered with a freshly ironed cloth and set with cups and saucers was in the centre of the area.

  Passing the visitors’ bathroom, I glimpsed a woodchip water heater for an old enamel bath. Then came a lattice room-divider, followed by a couple of visitors’ rooms. At the end of the building was the radio room.

  Tom informed me that the mechanic’s wife, Nancy, who was also the postmistress, sent and received telegrams via radio. The Country Women’s Association would have their meetings on the radio, and there was also the Galah Session, an hour of chitchat between folk on the different properties. This, according to Tom, was not to be encouraged! Our call sign on the two-way radio was 8OG, Eight Oscar Golf.

  The radio room was also where I was to send urgent medical reports to the Aerial Medical Service in Darwin. This service had commenced in 1946, for the Top End only. The Royal Flying Doctor Service, based in Alice Springs, looked after the rest of the Territory. They worked in conjunction with each other, and with the WA Flying Doctor Service, based in Wyndham.

  Two steps down from the verandah and a few metres from the homestead was a small corrugated-iron building. This was to be my quarters; my donga. Inside it was quite comfortable, with a single iron bed draped in a floral quilt, a timber dressing table and a mauve-painted wardrobe. There was certainly plenty of ventilation, with three doors and one window. I also had my own little shower recess just outside one of the doors, with galvanised walls and a curtain uniquely made from strips of truck tyres! On the shower-recess floor was a three-legged stool made by one of the jackaroos for the previous sister; one could use it as a footstool, or for somewhere to sit and ponder the sky, as this was the ceiling.

  Fifty yards in the distance, down on the flat, was the ‘thunderbox’. One only looked into it once as the pit, terrifyingly, seemed to go on forever.

  ‘Smoko’ll be at three o’clock on the verandah,’ Tom said, as he carried my suitcases into my room. ‘When you hear the bell, come out and meet everyone. We’re ruled by bells here—one bell half an hour before a meal, so people can get ready, and the second bell for the meal.’

  Tom departed with a smile and left me to contemplate my new home.

  An hour later, after I’d finished unpacking, I heard the bell and, a little later, male chatter coming from the smoko verandah. Feeling uneasy, I plucked up my courage and wandered out to the grating sound of a dozen chairs scraping on the cement floor, as the predominantly male gathering stood to
attention on my entry. They all turned their heads, fifteen of them, to gaze at me. To this day I remember their bright shining eyes, especially those of Jack Niven, the storekeeper, whose blue eyes twinkled the most. I should have felt nervous but they were such a friendly-looking lot.

  Tom walked in, followed by a tall, confident-seeming guy. ‘Aha,’ said Tom, ‘so you’ve come to join us, Sister.’

  One by one I was introduced to many of the Wave Hill staff, starting with the only married woman present, Nancy Walton, the round and jovial postmistress. The confident man, Ces Farrow, was next; he was the bookkeeper, and I would meet his wife, Lauris, and their baby son, Roger, later. Then there was Tony Clark, the tall, good-looking head stockman, and Ralph Hayes, the improvement overseer, who was lean, wiry and also quite handsome, but he looked very serious when he stared at me intently. I could feel myself blushing.

  As I moved on, I felt myself relax. I met Ralph’s brother, Maitlynn ‘Lynn’ Hayes, who had a cheeky look on his face. Garry Smith, a senior stockman, was big and strong, and I soon found out that he’d been keen on the previous sister.

  The jackaroos were young, shy and delightful to meet: Pat Duggan, smiling broadly, a full-of-fun Irishman; Gunner Isberg, tanned and blond, with a cute smile, from Sweden; and Tom Joyce, an English jackaroo with thick-rimmed glasses, who looked as though he would be better suited to an office. Then the Aussies: Len Brodie, bookkeeper turned stockman; Jim Tough, from Queensland; and Rod Russell from New South Wales—all very pleasant types.

  Last but far from least was Sabu Singh, with a brilliant smile on his handsome black face. Sabu, at the age of four, had been adopted by Tom at Manbulloo when he was managing there. Apparently Tom had seen Sabu’s mother in the camp with her half-Indian, half-Aboriginal baby, and jokingly said, ‘You better give me that piccaninny.’ The next day Tom had found the baby on his doorstep. His name had been Mele, but Tom called him Sabu and it stuck.