Several weeks later I snuck back to the hospital with a friend from school. I knew it took six weeks for adoptions to be finalised, so I wanted to see my baby while I still could. The nurse brought him to me. I asked my friend to hold him for me because I didn’t know if I could. We sat for ages, the three of us. I watched his little face and his little hands. He was asleep, and he was beautiful.
My fear of holding him was strong. I didn’t know what feelings might emerge, and I didn’t want to risk finding out what those feelings might be.
Later, when I spoke to my big brother about it, he started crying. I couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t him giving up his child.
Thirty Eight
It had been a week of nameless days. I wandered towards a church as choir singing floated out of the window into my ears. I walked inside. No big deal, mind you, I had no expectations, hadn’t received fulfilment from the Holy Spirit or anything, but not much had been going right for me lately, so I sat and rested on the wooden bench at the back of the church. I wondered why everyone sat so close to the front. I looked at the bible stories portrayed in glass in the windows. Then I noticed how everyone was dressed, how no one else had holes in their clothes. I started to wonder what everyone in my family was doing back at the farm. Through the drone of the sermon I heard the minister-man preach, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil’. ‘Bullshit!’ I thought; ‘loving alcohol, and then giving your baby away is worse’. I wondered about my real mum; if she was still alive. I wondered if she felt as lost as I did.
I left and walked around the streets again. I liked walking through the suburbs. Most front gardens were filled with rows of roses that bordered neatly trimmed patches of lawn. All neat and tidy, everything seemed to be in its place. I daydreamed that my life could be like that, everything sorted out properly and safe. Then I could relax and have the time to sit down and to evaluate what I would really like to do. At the moment, getting pissed and stoned was fun, but not when the weirdos called around.
Some days, when I walked around looking at the pretty gardens, I even spoke to the people who lived in the houses. I would smile and say, ‘Lovely garden.’ I would watch as my compliment made them stand taller. I wished I could stand taller too, instead of ducking and dodging to survive each day. I wished I could fit in again at the house where I grew up, the farm, with its beautiful gardens and everything smelling so nice and clean. But I just didn’t feel part of that family anymore. It made me feel sad.
I turned around and started walking to the nearest pub.
Part Three
bindi eye
Thirty Nine
I applied for a job in central Australia, and left on the Greyhound bus. It was easy to leave again.
The road north was long. I sat alone, not talking to any other passengers, just thinking about my baby boy. According to adoption laws I would have to wait eighteen years to apply to find my son. I sat, staring out the window, as the country became more barren. I buried the vision of my newborn son deep within my heart, hoping the desert would provide the sanctuary I needed to cope with my loss of him.
The scenery became more spectacular as the bus neared my destination. Hills of orange-red and blue-lilac began to appear. I watched eagles flying high in the vast blue sky. I envied them, their freedom and abandon. A single cloud sat above the horizon, reminding me of my loneliness. My mood changed, and I sank back into my seat. Geez, aren’t we there yet? I thought. I felt my anger rising, and needed a drink.
As arranged by the employment agency my new boss was waiting for me at the bus station. He called out and waved from his Mini Moke. The vehicle was packed with supplies; he said I wouldn’t need anything extra as he tossed the keys to me from the passenger seat. I noticed a folded wheelchair amongst the boxes of supplies.
I had no time to stretch my legs before we were on our way, with him seated beside me pointing directions as we headed out of town. He was clearly impatient to get back to his resort as soon as possible. He told me it was an old cattle station that had been converted for tourism.
The hour-long winding road followed magnificent ranges that stretched endlessly before us. The single lane of bitumen lay shadowed in the grandeur of those ancient hills. It was hard to keep my eyes on the road.
My new boss and I talked a bit. He knew some people that I also knew, and he told me how he broke his back in a horse fall. He wasn’t that much older than me, and after getting to know him I decided that he was an okay person. He pointed out some special places—sacred sites, gorges, and waterholes. The country felt so old. I expected to see Moses or Jesus appear on a camel at any moment.
Evening was descending as we arrived at the resort. Galahs screeched and flew ahead as the car slid through yet another sandy creek crossing. A homestead glowed white in the distance, nestled beneath a stone-wall cliff. Horses and camels were tethered nearby. It looked like a peaceful place. I started looking forward to working there and earning some money.
Several people came to greet us. The boss introduced me around; then he left. I helped unload the vehicle before wandering through the kitchen to the bar. Because it was still early in the tourist season, only a few visitors were present. It was happy hour, and mostly resort staff were in the bar area. Everyone was friendly. I won several games of eight ball, and I shared a joint with some of the younger staff. Some of the people in the bar owned a camel farm not far from the resort. They provided camel rides for the tourists. One of them had a long dark beard and looked like Jesus.
Forty
Over the next weeks tourists began arriving by busloads. Staff worked hard, and then we partied hard. Most of us drank and smoked dope too much. Whoever worked the bar shifts would slip free drinks to the others. The boss was always trying to catch us, but he had little chance in his wheelchair.
Most of the staff lived in caravans away from the resort. The caravans were hidden over behind the generator shed amongst a small grove of pine trees, where we could party and make as much noise as we liked. After smoking joints a few of us would write silly poems about the staff who didn’t drink and smoke. And we would play practical jokes on the older staff, giggling as we scrambled away from outside their caravans in the dark of night. During the day we spied on them with binoculars.
One older Aboriginal man worked there doing cultural tours. He was the only non-drinker who was free of our pranks. He was a good friend to me. He taught me about the local Aboriginal history and the bush. He told me that he didn’t grow up with his family either. I called him Uncle Alec. We were the only Aboriginal staff at the resort.
I always respected that old man, but I couldn’t leave the grog.
Killing Fields
Did they kill ’em here?
I ask the guide
quietly staring
into the distance
over the bay.
Why? Do you
feel something?
she asks with
trepidation.
Nah! I say
It’s just that
they killed ’em
every other place
I bin to.
Not here
she smiles
with pride.
Forty One
On my days off I drove to town. I never tired of the trip; I still felt the magic when I looked at the hills, a presence I couldn’t describe. It was always there, and it was always strong. Every time I expected to see something new.
Sometimes I would amble through shops, sometimes I would send a postcard to Mum, sometimes I went to the cinema. But I always ended up in the pub.
The pub was always packed. The town was in a building boom and was filled with newcomers. I made friends quickly. Most of my pay ended up in the till behind the bar. It was there that I first saw full-blooded Aboriginals in a pub. I would watch them from a distance, and never spoke to them. There was commonality inside that pub: people just wanted to have a drink and a good time. Sometimes fights broke out. A
nd the bouncers always threw the Aboriginal people out onto the streets. No one seemed to adjudicate, to find out who started what—no one cared about justice, and no one batted an eyelid. I never talked about my Aboriginality to anyone. I didn’t want to be thrown out onto the street. I wanted to belong.
I felt lonely. I didn’t understand my shyness towards other Aboriginal people in the pub. They always smiled when they caught me glancing their way. But inside the hotel there were certain rules; you sat here or you sat over there. I didn’t want to lose my popularity. So I drank more and pretended I was happy.
Faiku
I drink in the street
Ask for money each day
Intolerance is free.
If you pass away
Alone under the bridge
Weeds will grow in your mouth.
A pauper’s grave-site
Dead flowers bent backward
Broken by neglect.
Forty Two
I lost respect for my upbringing. I lost respect for my family. I lost respect for myself. I lost my job at the outback resort because of my drinking, and I moved into town. At the pub some people, who were squatting in an abandoned building, invited me to stay with them.
The squat was an abandoned block of flats in the middle of town. I was given my own room. It didn’t have any glass in the window, but at least I could lock the door. One of my friends gave me her sarong for a curtain for the window. She handed me a spray can to leave my mark on the graffiti covered walls. It took me hours to clean the room and furnish it with stolen milk crates. I didn’t have much, a few clothes, some books, and a pot plant named Phoenix. On cold nights I used my clothes like an extra blanket.
The kitchen was the dirtiest I had ever seen. The benches were black with grime, and the cupboards were filled with rubbish. I had never seen such huge cockroaches, and they crawled everywhere. Each morning I gathered wood from along the river to cook on an open fire in the front yard instead of using the kitchen. Sitting around the fire we watched the local traffic pass by. The bathroom was putrid, with mould growing everywhere. I had to wear thongs on my feet in the shower, and we only had cold water. The Water Authority came every Monday and turned the water off at the mains. We would roll a joint, sit and wait for about thirty minutes, then go out and turn the water back on. It was a regular ritual. We didn’t care because we didn’t have to pay rent.
Forty Three
It was early evening, and I was walking along the track by the river. It was my favourite path back to the place I was staying. The trees seemed to emit subtle messages. I walked out onto the sandy bed of a river that rarely held water, and I sat quietly among a clump of trees, feeling the age and wisdom of the trees. I could almost feel the artesian water gurgling, protected and safe deep underground. I often enjoyed the intensity of this different place.
I saw glimpses of movement through the trees, and I heard soft voices carried on the breeze as I dawdled among the trees. A family were camping in the creek. I smelt the fragrance of their cooking on the fire. Carefree laughter bounced from the children as they teased their father, who jumped to his feet amid squeals of delight. He grabbed one little girl and held her high into the air, laughing out loud with her, while the other children squirmed around his legs.
A beautiful moment captured by my prying eyes. As I moved away I saw the man’s arm raised, waving, bidding me well. His smile lit up his handsome face. I could not meet his eyes. He turned quickly back to the children and their play.
In that second of silence I heard other words. Words and whispers of hatred trapped inside my head, forcing me to listen: ‘Aboriginal people are like animals; Aboriginal families don’t care for their children.’ Where did those words come from? Where had I heard them before? Who had put that shit in my head? I knew Mum and Dad had never said those words.
I sat among the safety of the trees. I began to realise most of my life was a lie. It felt like the stone inside me was growing. I suffered silently with the pain.
Back at the squat I got very drunk that night.
Forty Four
I never spoke much about myself, or my family, to my friends. No one did. We never talked about our feelings either. Maybe everyone was pretending to be happy? I mastered the wit of sarcasm, and hid behind humour. As long as you can make people laugh you will always be invited to parties.
A few of my girlfriends started going out at night without me. I didn’t know why. I wondered if they had worked out I was Aboriginal.
One night they told me they were working for the escort agency. They were prostitutes; their drug addiction had forced them. I pretended I didn’t care, but inside I was feeling shocked. Some of them had toddlers; I worried about the kids.
I babysat a lot. But I could only babysit kids over the age of three. Every time I got close to children younger than that I felt like vomiting.
The boss of the escort agency offered me a job as driver. It paid well, and I got to hang out with my friends. I drove around town all night, dropping them off, picking them up. They always shared their drugs with me. And they always had money now.
One night no phone calls came in, so I knocked off early. I knew some of their new friends were looking after the kids. At the squat I stood in the doorway. I watched as the adults injected drugs into their veins. I watched the children watching. I went off my head.
I moved out the next day. The stone in my guts got heavier and heavier.
Forty Five
Friends told me they were going to hunt wild camels. I asked if I could go too, because I was beginning to get bored with all the drinking and crap.
The man in charge was with the camel guy from the resort where I used to work. He still looked like Jesus. He said he couldn’t pay us, but I was on welfare benefits, so I didn’t care.
Jesus and John, the other camel guy, supplied everything we needed. There were drums of fuel, boxes and boxes of food, two dogs, and a rifle. Their plan was to stay out in the desert for two months. Six of us were going out, and I knew everyone from my time at the resort. We all made sure we had heaps of weed.
Travelling alongside the same ancient hills forced me to feel the same sensation I had felt before. I could feel the living presence of the country. I could see faces of old men carved in the rocks above, looking out over the land. In the distance I could see female hill forms lying on the earth. We drove past the resort and turned onto a sandy track. It was my job to open and close the many gates. I felt more connected to this place the further we drove into the desert.
We made camps along dry river beds, and we set up rough kitchens for cooking on the open fire. All the food had to be kept protected from the dingoes at night. The men collected the firewood and checked the equipment. Sometimes Jesus and John shot a kangaroo, for fresh meat. We all took turns at cooking, and I learnt to make damper. The nights were spent around the fire telling stories. For the first time we shared bits and pieces of our lives. Everyone had such different stories to tell.
We all slept in swags under the stars. We were hundreds of miles from anywhere, and the night sky was mesmerising. The solar system lay above us so close, it read like a book. As I lay in my swag staring at the stars I counted satellites criss-crossing the sky. I was surprised how many there were.
The daytime hours were filled with adventure. We used trail bikes and jeeps to locate the camels, sometimes following the faint tracks of their padded feet for miles and miles. My eyes grew sharper. I began to notice the tell-tale signs of broken shrubs, where the camels had been feeding. We drove randomly through the desert, the isolation providing the most beautiful serenity.
Once the camels were spotted the trail bikes were responsible to steer the camels towards the jeeps. We all took turns racing the bikes across the desert flats, trying to outrun the camels. It was great fun. Sometimes we came across lone camels, sometimes mobs of eight or more.
We also took turns standing in the back of the jeep, hanging on for life as we b
ounced furiously around, the jeep dodging bushes and trees and unseen creeks. Once the camels were mustered in close enough it was the job of the person in the back to manoeuvre a rope over the camel’s neck. The rope was tied to an old truck tyre, and we had to jump quickly out the way before the rope tightened and the tyre flew over the side of the jeep. It seemed a bit cruel, but the tyre would slow the camels and leave larger track marks for us to follow. Camel tracks are difficult to follow at high speed. When the camels finally came to rest, a winch was used to load them onto the back of a truck. A special cage had been set up, although it looked fragile against those huge, loud animals.
It was pure adrenalin when the chase was on, and I was happy.
After several weeks, clouds crowded into a grey sky. We could smell rain on the horizon. The decision was made to return to town for safety, as the desert can flood for many weeks. I felt disappointed the adventure was over, and I felt sad to leave the desert.
All the gear was repacked onto the vehicles as rain began to fall. The gentle rain seemed to highlight the desert colours around us. But there was no time to waste. Quickly we retraced our journey through the desert peering for familiar landmarks.
The creeks began to trickle as the dirt tracks turned to red mush. The camels on the back of the truck became restless, and started kicking at the cage that held them. Jesus and John were worried the camels might kick themselves free and be injured in their escape. But we stopped for nothing.
Too Afraid to Cry Page 5