by Bill Marsh
‘Oh, lovely. Oh, lovely,’ they said.
Anyway, there I am talking to the elderly lady and the old bloke’s walking around and around and around the wagon. And he’s looking under it here and over it there and all through it and then, after he’d searched all the wagon over, he comes back and he says, ‘Where do yer keep yer chooks?’
And, oh, I had to laugh because he was thinking it was like in the olden days when they always had a cage of chooks underneath the wagon. That’s what he was looking for. Yeah, ‘Where do yer keep yer chooks?’ he asked, and I didn’t even need to have any chooks because everyone was giving me all these eggs.
So, there was quite a few funny little things like that that happened. Another one was with two English girls. They were probably in their early twenties or something. They were travelling around Australia and they stopped for a chat because they’d never seen anything like a horse-drawn wagon in their lives before, and one of them asked if she could travel with me for three or four days.
I said, ‘Yeah, that’ll be fine.’
Then the other one says, ‘No, you can’t travel with him because we’ve got to get to such and such a place at such and such a time.’
Well I thought that was a bit rich, you know, but then there was nearly a blue. Oh yes, I thought there was going to be an all-out brawl between the two of them so I said, ‘What about I make a compromise?’ I said, ‘I’ll get the fire going and put the billy on and you can have tea with me then you can head off.’
‘Oh, that’d be lovely,’ they said.
So anyway, after tea they nuzzled off and away they went.
But I must say that I did have a couple of run-ins. See, I went through Bourke and followed the Darling River down to Wilcannia, then along the road to Broken Hill and down the Barrier Highway into South Australia. But Walgett, Brewarrina and Wilcannia, they were terrible. It’s a shame. The police at Bourke weren’t going to let me go through to Wilcannia. Apparently, not long beforehand two young couples had been driving along and they were forced out of their cars, then they were beaten up and the cars were hijacked and taken for joy-rides. So they were wary of me going down that way, because of the trouble. But I said, ‘Well, what am I going to do? I’ve got no other way to go, you know.’
So, I went on and when I got to Wilcannia there was an old Aboriginal bloke, a full-blood. He used to be a drover, and when he saw me coming past, oh, he run out and he waved me down and I probably spent a good hour and a half there with him while he was going on about the old droving days. Oh, he was showing me all his old photos and all that. And oh, it was fantastic. I enjoyed every minute of it.
Then a couple of hundred yards further down the road the kids started pinching gear. They’d just walk along beside the wagon and they’d grab something then they’d take off. And most of the time they were grabbing lumps of harness and stuff like that; stuff I needed, that was of no good to them. But they’d just take it anyway. It was really just a pain in the butt. That’s what it was. And there was nothing I could do about it. But they’re funny, kids, aye. It’s sad, that’s all you can say.
But you get all types, don’t you, both black and white, because further down along the highway, over near Peterborough in South Australia, these two white blokes pulled up in a ute. One was a decent sort of a bloke, but the other one, I think he was on something already. Anyway, the decent bloke was talking to me and, just out of the blue, the other one said, ‘So, where’s yer drugs?’
‘There’s no drugs on this trip, mate,’ I said. ‘I don’t believe in that sort of stuff.’
‘Bullshit,’ he said. ‘Yer’d have ter be on drugs ter be doin’ somethin’ as mad as this.’ Then he said, ‘Anyway, I’m gonna have a look.’
‘No, yer not, mate,’ I said. ‘You just don’t walk into people’s houses and do those sort of things.’
Anyway, I had a knife that one of me mates gave me, back here in Rocky. He’d made it out of a saw blade, so the blade was probably about 12 or 13 inches long, you know. I was using it for any dead kangaroos I came across; like cutting the roo meat for Minnie and what have you. Well, I had it behind the seat so I just pulled it out and started cleaning my fingernails with it. And this bloke, well, he did a bit of a double take when he saw the knife. So while he was goggling at me I said, ‘I haven’t got any drugs here, mate. I don’t believe in ’em so I wouldn’t have ’em here in the first place.’
Anyway, he went, ‘Eh, we’ll bloody see about that. We’ll be back.’
They took off then and I was a bit concerned that they might come back, but they didn’t.
But Minnie loved the journey. She was a little girl — elderly — but she just absolutely loved it. I thought I lost her one time. Did I tell you about that? Well, there was quite a few pig shooters of a night through some of those outback places in New South Wales. Anyway the sound of their guns must’ve frightened her and she took off. And, oh, I never had a clue where she was. I couldn’t find her anywhere. There I was yelling out and yelling out and wandering around the place. But, no, nothing.
Anyway, I hung about till around ten o’clock the next morning before I left. And I was just about to hop into the wagon and drive off and here she comes. She’s in a real lather and there was blood all over her feet. Red raw, they were. God knows how far she ran that night. But it was good to have her back, I can tell you, because she was great company and, as I said, she just loved the trip.
Then I guess the highlight of the great big adventure was my sixtieth birthday at the Tilpa pub. That was unreal, that was. How it came about was that, well, the night before I was camped at a station property out of Tilpa and the people there, oh, they were fantastic. I’ve still got all their names and everything but they were having a barbecue there for their grandson’s birthday. He was eight years old or something. Anyway, I was talking to the little feller and I just happened to say, ‘You and I are nearly twins.’
And he said, ‘Why?’
I said, ‘Because it’s your birthday today and it’s my birthday tomorrow.’
Well, he got a bit of a giggle out of that. So, anyway, the elderly lady there — she must’ve been the grandmother — when she brought the birthday cake out she had two candles on it: one for the little feller and one for me. And it was a really lovely night: with a good feed and what-have-you, plus a few yarns. Then the next morning I headed off and I got into Tilpa and I set up camp, probably about 300 or 400 yards from the hotel. Then after I’d done that I thought I’d go over and see if they served a counter tea and, if they did, I’ll shout myself a meal for me sixtieth birthday. So I went over to the pub and the publican there, he said, ‘Have yer set up camp for the night?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, do yer reckon yer’d know your way there and back?’ he said.
Of course, all this had me sort of intrigued, so I said, ‘Yeah, why’s that?’
And he said, ‘Because yer probably mightn’t be able to walk back to camp tonight.’
‘Why?’ I said.
He said, ‘Because I believe it’s yer sixtieth birthday.’
Well, within half an hour, I reckon there would’ve been, oh, I don’t know, about sixty people came and went, you know. At any one time there was probably thirty people there, in the pub. And there were only about six people who actually lived in Tilpa. There was the publican and he had a barmaid and then there was a couple over at the little store. Well, that was about it. So there might’ve only been about four people, I guess, that lived in Tilpa. So, all these other people, I don’t know where they come from. But I reckon there was a good number of ringers and fencers and shearers and all that amongst them so they must’ve come from off properties or something.
Now I think what must’ve happened was that the elderly woman where I stayed the night before — the grandmother — she must’ve rung the publican. And things travel fast in little places like that. But I never saw a penny go over the bar all night so I think the publican and this e
lderly lady must’ve paid for everything. I don’t really know. And the next morning the publican handed over something like $400, which was good money. And then, when I opened me little camping fridge that night, they’d also snuck a couple of fresh bunny rabbits in there. So that was Tilpa, yeah at the Tilpa pub.
And so I finally made it to Ceduna. I left Rockhampton on 9 April 2001 and finished up in Ceduna on 26 October 2001 and I travelled a distance of 3200 kilometres. Seven months it took me, and I raised a total of $4511 for the Flying Doctor Service.
But that’s just what the typical Aussie is, isn’t it: a giver. And since then I’ve been back and I’ve seen a lot of the people who looked after me and here they were, doing the same thing again. I mean, they weren’t giving me donations but they were making me stay overnight and they were feeding me and all the rest of it. So it truly is an amazing country with some amazing people living in it. And what truly amazed me was how the isolation out there in the outback doesn’t really isolate people, it brings them together, and the Royal Flying Doctor Service is a great part of that.
A True Legend
This is an interesting story about a feller, a true legend, who was a pilot with the Royal Flying Doctor Service for I-don’t-know-how-long. His name’s Phil Darby.
At the time this particular incident happened I was Chief Pilot with the RFDS here in Cairns, in far north Queensland, and also their Senior Checking and Training Pilot. So, in that capacity, I quite often found myself out at different RFDS bases for a couple of weeks either checking and training pilots or doing relief work while one of our pilots went on holidays or something.
In this case it was one of my very early trips down to Charleville, in south-western Queensland, and while I was relatively new to that area Phil had previously been the pilot down there for — oh, for heaven’s sake, I don’t know — maybe ten years or more. Actually, Phil worked with the RFDS when it first opened down at Charleville so by then he’d had a chance to solidly cement his persona within the township and the surrounding countryside.
Anyway, by this stage, Phil had been posted over to Cairns and I was relieving out at Charleville and while I was there we were called out to this property — Thylungra — which was then owned by CSR (Colonial Sugar Refining Company). It was also the place where they had a polocrosse weekend, you know, the polo they play on horseback. But Thylungra was run on behalf of CSR by a manager chappie whose surname was Green. Anyhow, this chappie’s wife fell ill and we were called to go out there. So the doctor and I and a Nursing Sister, we climbed into — I’m not sure if it was a Queen Air or we took the King Air that time — but anyway, off we went out to this property.
When we landed, there was the truck waiting at the airstrip so we pulled up and we all got out of the aeroplane and the manager bloke, Green, was there with his wife, and she was looking very grey, indeed. She was not well at all. So the doctor went to have a closer look at the wife. Anyway, the manager, this chappie, Green, I could see that he was sort of eyeing me up and down in an extremely suspicious manner. And he was rolling a durry — a roll-your-own cigarette — in the fashion that they can only do in the outback. You know how they roll the durry, sort of nonchalantly while they’re deep in thought about something or other, and in this particular case I had the strong feeling that it was me he was thinking about.
‘Well,’ I said to myself, ‘this feller obviously doesn’t know who or what I am.’ So I went up to introduce myself. ‘G’day,’ I said, ‘my name’s Nick Watling. I’m flying the aeroplane today.’
‘Oh yeah,’ he said, in a half-interested sort of way. ‘So where’s Phil?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Phil’s been posted. Phil and I are at the same base in Cairns these days.’
‘Oh,’ he grunted, sounding none too pleased with this turn of events.
Then he left it at that, but you could see that what I’d said wasn’t really sinking through to this feller, Green. So there he is, he’s still rolling his durry and he’s deep in thought then he looks at me and says, ‘But Phil’s the pilot for Queensland, isn’t he?’
And I thought what a brilliant job of PR Phil had done during the years he was out there, in the Charleville area. Because this feller, Green, he just could not possibly imagine that anyone else other than Phil Darby flew aeroplanes for the RFDS. And the fact that Phil had gone to Cairns, you know, 800 nautical miles to the north-east, didn’t affect a thing. If anybody was flying out to pick up anybody’s wife or anyone who was sick or injured, the pilot had to be Phil. Nobody else would do, and so who was this strange bugger by the name of Watling, and what right did he have to be out there flying ‘Phil’s aeroplane’? And that’s the way it felt to me.
So that was Phil Darby, a wonderful feller, a brilliant bloke who was tremendously valued and loved as both a man and a pilot, particularly throughout the Charleville area, where they virtually looked upon him as a god. Oh, he’d give you the shirt off his back, Phil would, he was that generous. And if you ever wanted someone to fill in anywhere, there’d always be Phil. He’d be the first to put up his hand, every time.
But, on the other hand, if you wanted someone to obey the rules to the strict letter of the law, well then, perhaps not Phil. Of course, being Chief Pilot, I was responsible to the Civil Aviation Authority for the running of the place and Phil had to be reined in on occasions. So we had our moments together. But, in saying that, Phil went through his many, many years flying for the RFDS without having one accident relating to that sort of approach to life. In fact, I’d reckon that Phil could land the aeroplane on a postage stamp, in the middle of the night, you know, and there’s not too many that could do that.
A True Privilege
Well, I suppose, something that pops straight into mind was my first lesson in cultural safety. To be more accurate, I guess I should say that it was a real lesson in how to work appropriately with an Aboriginal patient.
There was one old fella, he was into his seventies and it was the first time he’d ever been in an aeroplane. The only trouble was that I didn’t speak his language and he didn’t speak English so we had this real communication problem right from the start.
Anyhow, we got him into the aeroplane and I’m trying to tell him to put his seat belt on, but he couldn’t understand what I was on about. So then thinking I was being helpful, I went over to show him how it was done. And, well, didn’t he take exception to that. He got angry at me for trying to interfere with him. Obviously he didn’t know what was going on because he got stuck into me. Oh yeah, he was hitting out at me and everything. Then finally I worked out how he must’ve been seeing the situation, from his point of view, what with it being his first time in an aeroplane and then, to make matters worse, here was this white woman pushing and pulling him around.
‘That’s okay. Now I understand,’ I said and I got one of the other patients to explain to him what he had to do, and he was alright after that.
Then I had another old patient who was incredibly incontinent in the aircraft, so then we had an overflow problem, out onto the floor, didn’t we. And at the altitude we were flying, it was so cold that the urine froze. At the time I was unaware of what had happened, that was until I went to stand up and I felt this crack, crack, cracking. That’s funny, I thought, and when I looked down I saw that my shoes were stuck to the floor of the aeroplane.
And there was another old fella who obviously didn’t understand the principals of aircraft safety because he decided to light a fire on the floor of the aeroplane. Oh, he just got cold so he started pulling old bits of rubbish and stuff out of his pockets and then he tried to light it with a match. Yeah, on the floor of the aeroplane, as we were flying along, because he was cold.
Of course, when we saw that we freaked out. ‘No, no, you can’t do that!’
‘But I’m cold,’ he said.
‘I’ll turn the heater up! I’ll get you a blanket! I’ll do anything, but don’t light a fire on the floor of the aeroplane!’
&nbs
p; So, yeah, I must say, it’s a true privilege sometimes with these Aboriginal people, particularly with the real old traditional people, to see them when they’re having a first-time-in-their-life experience. I remember when I took one old fella from here, in Alice Springs, down to Adelaide. Oh, he was a lovely man. I’d say he’d also have to be well into his seventies and, anyhow, he’d never seen the ocean before.
At first, I found it really hard to believe. But then, when I thought about it, I realised that he wouldn’t even have come across an ocean on television or anything because he’d never even seen a television before, either. Maybe he’d seen a dam. I guess he’d seen a creek and probably a river, but it was obvious that he couldn’t grasp the concept of what an ocean actually was. But you just think that everybody knows, don’t you? We just sort of take it for granted.
Anyhow, I pointed out the window of the aeroplane and I said to him, ‘Out there, that’s the ocean.’ And he gazed down upon that huge, vast expanse of water, spreading all the way out over the horizon, and he was so shocked. He just couldn’t believe there could be so much water anywhere. Even the word ‘ocean’ was strange to him.
‘Ocean?’ he kept asking. ‘What is ocean?’
I said, ‘Water. Karpi.’ Because karpi is the word for water in their language.
So he stared back out the window of the plane for a while, then he looked back at me and he said, ‘No, no, not karpi. Too much for karpi.’
A Wife’s Tale
I met my husband, Phil, in Cairns. He’d previously been a pilot with the RFDS out in south-western Queensland, at Charleville, and had come to fly with them in Cairns. That was around 1974. At that time I was working for the Queensland Education Department as a teacher at the School of the Air in Cairns, and, in a way, we shared the HF radio because the School of the Air was in the same building as the RFDS.