Later that night, you read that Japan gets a hundred thousand earthquakes a year.
So the Chūetsu offshore earthquake on July sixteenth wasn’t surprising in itself. But it was the first time waste from a Japanese nuclear power plant had leaked into the sea. When you arrived in Kashiwazaki, the fishermen and hotel owners said it was nothing, that the rumours had damaged their businesses far worse than any so-called leak. You weren’t so sure, and didn’t touch fish for a month.
Now, clicking through Gerro Blue’s website, you find their rhetoric brassily optimistic: they’re proud to be undertaking grassroots uranium mining exploration in Western Australia and are planning to be a major contributor to the regional and state economy through construction contracts and ongoing investment. There’s the usual sugary spiel about environmental safeguards, rigorous water testing and Indigenous engagement. Further digging, beyond the website, shows that Gerro Blue is owned by —Orangefields, a Japanese energy company with head offices in Perth and Tokyo.
A beetle dives at the screen and you swipe it away. If they don’t have an exploration permit yet, then why the bulldozer?
In the garden, a hot wind shakes loose a hibiscus. You close the lappy and pour another glass of wine.
Six a.m. and the day’s already a strangle of humidity and sun. You’re regretting the decision to ride your bike to work. In Tokyo you rode every day and it was never too hot, except for a few muggy weeks in July. Everyone rode: wherever you looked there were bicycles with baskets and baby seats and lovely curved handlebars. Between four and seven a.m., commuters whisked quietly toward the stations and you joined them, part of the morning migration, parking your bike among the glittery metal millions.
Not so here, where instead there’s a morning migration of white Japanese Toyotas. Only the poor and the drugged and the mad ride bikes in this heat. An old woman shuffles toward you with a bag of groceries and a face like a riverbed. A white kid lurches across the road, jaw and eyes working in a panic of ice-high paranoia. A man on an electric scooter gives you a wave. His burned, horned feet jut at odd angles and his mouth slopes sideways with stroke. You wave back and then turn onto the dirt track toward the office.
It’s right at the end, past the mechanics and meatworks, white tin with a view of the mangroves and the bay. Every morning, there’s a fresh tessellation of bottle glass in the car park. Sometimes there’s a swag of clothes.
The office used to be an old pearler’s house and so there’s a bathroom downstairs where you shower. After your shower, a caffeinated trawl of the news and social media reveals your croc story. Usually you don’t bother reading your own stories, but this one was important. You wanted to report respectfully, were conscious of the women’s request that you follow correct cultural protocol around death.
The story’s been changed. There’s a racy headline, Croc chomps kid at popular fishing spot, and two by-lines: Jeff Williams and Ava Kelly. The article has been sensationalised and, in a direct flout of the family’s wishes, there’s a grainy shot of the child next to a photo of a lunging salty.
Outside the window, the turquoise tide throttles the mangroves.
Lucia commiserates over the fourth coffee for the day. Jeff’s assumption that she’d be off for the week’s obviously wrong. It’s Jeff who’s skiving off. He left at lunch to get some photos of a businesswomen’s function and never came back. Lucia says,
—Course he did! Easier to shoot than to write. Easier to drink champagne than to shoot. Did you call him out on it? The by-line and the changes?
—Yep. He said I was ‘aggressive’ and that he didn’t appreciate the ‘ugly tone’. Does he ever do shit like this to you?
Lucia perches on the edge of your desk.
—Luckily he doesn’t know the first thing about sport. Far as I can tell, he doesn’t even fish. Spends his spare time guzzling beer and watching porn. It’s pretty bad news that it’s gone to print.
—I feel terrible. They’re your family, yeah?
—Sort of … through marriage. It’s complicated. And there’s a split, you know, within our native title group. The Turners and Greys are into that God stuff. But my immediate family, and the other families within our claim group, follow traditional law and culture.
You nod, though you’re not sure what that means.
—So about that other thing, Lucia says. My aunt Madge reckons Gerro Blue shouldn’t be anywhere near Lalinjurra. Might be worth giving them a call.
—Sure. You heading off?
—I gotta get the girls to swimming, but let me know how you go. And if you’re keen to come fishing with us on the weekend, we’re gunna camp near that spot, check out this bulldozer of yours …
As she sweeps out, she lets in a swarm of sandflies. You give yourself a quick icing of repellent and put a call through to Gerro.
A receptionist answers and transfers you to a woman called Mandy, Head of Public Relations. Mandy sounds like an exjourno, says peevishly,
—We’re not doing anything. If you’d bothered to check the website, you would have seen that …
—I’ll tell you what I saw. I saw a bulldozer with your company logo parked on the Burrika native title claim. They’re challenging your exploration licence through the tribunal and, given there hasn’t been a decision one way or the other, it’s my understanding that you shouldn’t be there.
—Do you have any evidence?
—Photos, you lie. I’m happy to send them through.
She’s thinking. She clears her throat.
—Ava, was it? Thanks for the call, Ava. I’ll look into it.
Gubinge has one boat ramp. Every week, a stream of letters to the editor bemoan the ramp’s maintenance, width and its unsuitability at low tide. Locals fume about some ‘turkey’, some ‘old dickhead’ from over East, who took fifteen minutes to reverse his trailer.
Launching a boat here isn’t for the faint-hearted.
Two weeks ago you did a story on a Toyota bogged in the mud a kilometre out. The wheels spun, sinking it deeper. Then the sea turned, gulping the tow ball, the Queensland number plates, the snorkel. The Toyota drifted out to sea.
Knee-deep in water now, you use the weight of your body to steady Ash’s tinny against the rising tide. The tail of the boat sprains toward the rocks. In view at the top of the ramp, a sign warns, Last crocodile sighting: Monday.
—Ages ago, Ash reassures you. And anyway, the crocs here aren’t that bad. Nothing like in the NT. It’s the box jellyfish you gotta worry about. Won’t be a minute. I’ll just park the car.
Ash is loping back down the boat ramp now, keys tapping a rhythm on his thigh. He’s got the legs and broad shoulders of an AFL player and his nose is long and Roman. You love Roman noses. Following him down the ramp is a sulky-mouthed woman in white shorts, and a man in pants with a receding hairline and Caribbean blue eyes. Ash said you’d be joined by another couple. The man introduces himself in an American accent.
—I’m Liam and this is my wife, Susie.
Ash holds the edge of the boat steady while you climb aboard, then jumps on and pulls the engine alive in a pearl cloud of petrol smoke. The ocean parts like a liquid silk kimono. The light falls jewelled through the sea spray. You feel that sense of expansion, that stretching of the mind and soul that always surprises when you swap land for water.
Ash steers toward the creek mouth.
—Got a spot that should be good for threadfin. Some blokes lifted a couple of beauties last weekend!
You hide a grin. It’s always about what the boys got last weekend …
When the boat’s anchored, with a beer between your thighs and a baited hook over the side, you get a chance to discreetly study the Americans.
They’re not dressed for fishing. Liam’s pants are wet to the knee, and Susie’s white shorts are speckled with squid juice. You throw a quizzical glance at Ash but he’s gazing into the falling sun. About fifty metres away, on another tinny, there’s the silhouette of a man holding a s
pear. He’s perfectly still.
—Sea beef.
When the three of you look blank, Ash elaborates:
—The mob reckon the best time to spear dugong’s on a neap tide. You kill the motor, then use the oars to paddle quietly through the seagrass. They’re a no-go for kartiyas, but if you ever get a taste, they’re absolutely delicious.
Susie looks like she’ll throw up. Liam nods, asks politely,
—Kartiyas?
—Whitefellas, says Ash, offering another round of beers.
Liam accepts, then reels in his line. His bait’s still on. No nibbles. As he recasts, the hook comes dangerously close to Susie’s eyebrow.
—So, what are you guys doing up here? you ask.
—I’m up here for work.
You wait for Liam to elaborate and when he doesn’t, you prompt,
—What kind of work do you do?
—I’m an engineer. I usually work for Cameco in the US, but I’m on secondment with Gerro Blue.
Your eyes are focusing, teeth tightening. In the past, boyfriends recognised this look, knew it was your journalist look. Once, one said to you,
—Just fuck off and stop grilling me, okay? I’m not your talent.
You’d blown up, sent him packing into a sleeting Tokyo night.
—It sounds like Gerro Blue’s still waiting for native title approval before exploration starts?
—That’s right.
It’s brusque. Liam pulls in his line and asks Ash if he can swap bait for lure. Ash obliges, opens a tackle box of fluoro faux fish. Dangling from their bellies you can see the mean silver of complicated hooks. You keep pressing,
—So … is it likely the native title group will approve the exploration?
He’s reluctant to answer. The question hangs. Finally, he says,
—I haven’t been in Australia long, but from what I can see, your First Nations people are a bit … difficult to work with.
Ash hands him back his rod and Liam casts carelessly. The lure lands less than three metres from the boat. He starts jigging.
—Difficult in what way?
This time he doesn’t answer. He casts again. But instead of flying out into the creek, the fishing line curls behind him. The lure, a wicked, sparkling green, catches and clings to Susie’s forehead. Susie gasps, blinking away beads of bright blood. Ash shouts for you to lift the anchor.
After dropping the Americans at the hospital, you drive to your place and invite Ash in for a drink. You’re not sure you want it to be more, know intimacy’s potential is often more exhilarating than its realisation, but you’ve got some questions, and he is handsome. As Ash moves through the house, he studies your vinyl collection, still in its infancy, the few books you hauled up on sumo, Thai cooking and Japanese economics, and a Vietnamese propaganda print of a buxom woman in combat gear.
—Wine okay?
—Sure.
On the back verandah you settle into cane chairs. The light from the kitchen picks up the dull gloss of humidity on your thighs. A police siren perforates the night. Ash takes a sip of his wine.
—Sorry to rope you into that one. Thought it might be easier with another person.
—It was awkward even before he got a lure stuck in his wife’s head.
—What’s a real worry is that Liam’s in the market for a boat himself. I said I’d be happy to give him advice … on the size of the outboard, the shape of the hull.
—I’d be happy to give him advice on a name.
Ash grins in anticipation.
—Oh yeah?
—If I were him, I’d call it Hooked on Susie.
His laugh is bold, generous, right from the belly—the kind of laugh that would make others join in, even if the joke wasn’t funny. He’s looking at you with a new kind of respect.
—So, why’d you take them out? A welcome to town?
—Well, yes and no. An order from above. Gerro Blue is giving the TAFE five hundred grand to start a barra farm.
—Could be a story in that … Is it official yet?
—Next week, I think.
—They must be pretty confident they’ve got enough to mine, if they’re throwing around that kind of money.
—Yeah, it definitely seems like it.
Someone’s dog starts barking and a Mexican wave of warning barks moves along the street, yard by yard. You continue,
—So, I mean, apart from the obvious environmental risks, do you reckon a uranium mine would be a good thing for Gubinge? For the jobs and all that?
Ash rakes a hand through his curls. His eyes, flecked like mangrove wood, narrow.
—Honestly? If they build a uranium mine here, I reckon it will rip the fucken heart out of this community.
A dragonfly quivers on the rim of your morning coffee and you take a slug. The wind has shifted. It’s no longer bacteria-hot off the ocean, no longer heady with the smell of frangipanis and mud. Instead, it comes dry off the desert, chatters the palms in the garden like chopsticks.
After coffee, you walk over to Lucia’s. She said there’d be a spare seat in the troopie and a spare swag, just to bring beer and meat for the barbie. Her house is three blocks away via a shortcut through the cemetery. The graves are adorned with flowers and fairy lights. Many are carved with kanji, all scythes and teardrops. You were aware of Gubinge’s Japanese history—even in Melbourne you heard stories about the Japanese pearl divers, the old opium dens—but so far, you’d only seen traces of it. The kanji fills you with longing, reminds you of the Japanese night classes you took in Tokyo. As neon rain tumbled past the window, you marvelled over the tangled flying symbol for ‘nightmare’, the bold strokes of ‘willpower’, the dancing legs of ‘family’.
There are plenty of dancing legs at Lucia’s this morning. About six kids are tearing around, somersaulting off the trampoline and spraying each other with a hose. Lucia’s inside with an older woman, packing sausages and cling-wrapped steaks into the esky.
—Jesus, I nearly forgot the cool drink for the kids. It’s on the top shelf, just there, Aunty. Ava! Come on in. Sorry about the mess. Bloody kids. When they get to a certain age, you should be able to take ’em back to the shop and swap ’em for new ones.
Lucia gives you a quick hug and introduces you to her aunt Madge, a white-haired woman with earrings big as bangles, and a floral Fijian-style dress.
—We’re nearly ready, Ava, just another five …
The troopie air-con is busted and the highway air howls hot through the windows. The kids are in the back and you sit up the front between Lucia, who drives, and Madge. On this same road with Ash and Mark, the country seemed desolate, but Madge points to a copse of trees with leaves that foam into soap, a side creek where the barra will be fat in the run-off, and a bark that when boiled is good for crook guts. Eventually the scrub is replaced with termite mounds. She levels a blue sparkling fingernail,
—In the station days, when a countryman was murdered, the station owners or head stockman would stuff the body inside. Sometimes you still find bones.
Not termite mounds, but tombs.
—All those old people … they’re no longer with us now … they worked on this station for nothing. Only a bit of flour, tobacco and tea. The owner was a mean man, one of the first kartiya to bring cattle. Now his grandson runs the station. We call him ‘the White Namibian’.
Eventually you turn off the highway and Madge pulls up under a boab beside the locked gate. There’s a ute and another troopie in the half shade. The troopie has a flattened beer carton taped over a window. The women and kids grab bags and camp chairs.
—We’ll walk from here, explains Lucia.
—You don’t have a key?
—The White Namibian changes the locks every few months to keep us out.
You must appear aghast. Mark and Ash had a key.
—Don’t worry, it’ll be different when we get native title. It’s not long to go now. Our old people lodged the claim fifteen years ago. You’ll be able t
o do a cracking story for the paper! Anyway, let’s take this first lot of gear …
She gestures to the other cars,
—And then we’ll get the boys to help with the eskies and swags.
One of Lucia’s kids backflips through the campfire, leaving a Milky Way of embers. After a smack and a scold, all the kids are sent to bed. A kind of silence settles, broken by a bust-up of fish downstream and the distant growl of an engine.
—’Ee sound like Noah for modiga, says Madge.
—Yeah, well, says one of the old women. He too late for mangarri now.
She gets up and collects the empty plates, dumping them into a big soapy tub.
A torch is picking a path across the saltpan and five minutes later, a bloke strides into camp. He’s tall, in black boots, an akubra, and a long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows and patterned with yellow flowers. His forearms are like bull bars and there’s a javelin-straight scar on his cheek that accentuates the strong line of his jaw. He greets the old men and women, Madge and Lucia. Then he turns to you, eyes glittering with dark mineral depth.
—Can I sit here? he asks, gesturing to the empty camp chair.
—Of course, you reply.
He settles in, stretches his legs out. The conversations between the old people resume.
—I’ve met you somewhere before, he says.
—I don’t think so …
—Oh, yeah? Where you from?
—Melbourne.
—Over East, eh?
Over East and a million miles from this desert wind that’s breaking your lips into ravines of blood, this uranium story that’s finding a devilish double in sleep, and this man—the first real-life cowboy you’ve ever met.
—Originally from Melbourne, but the last couple of years I’ve been working in Tokyo.
—Is that right? My grandfather’s Japanese.
You can see it now, in the very slight lift of his eyes. He continues,
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