desert dreaming
Being 5 years old at the time of this story, means that my memories heavily rely on photographs, and a felt “sense” that lives on inside me. I am fortunate that my mum loved photography and also kept a journal- which I have found limited pieces of. My Dad, an artist, also documented our time at Wooltana station in small paintings and sketches which I treasure.
This is a compilation of stories from my memory, which may be true, or otherwise. Either way- it happened in my mind…. And so, shaped me. I think that perhaps- at this time- I was the best me I ever was.
When I was 5, we moved to the desert in remote SA- Adnyamathanha country near Arkaroola. Mum, Dad, and my two little sisters Jess, and Helen. It was a 4 hour drive from the nearest town, Yunta, which was not really a town. It was servo, a handful of houses with no lawns, and a peppercorn tree whose feathery leaves swept the red dust. Yunta smelled of sheep and dead rabbits. Brett, at the roadhouse- with his long ponytail, and thumbs tucked into black jeans- made real good chips and eggs.
My Dad had taken a contract as a rabbit shooter, and so we packed mums midnight blue kingswood wagon, and left Adelaide for John Brown Hut- A dilapidated house with no power or water, in the middle of fucking nowhere.
Swallows flew from the windows. Panes were busted and broken into shards of pointy glass. It looked haunted and unwelcoming. I felt ancient spirits, and silently sought their permission. Rusted corro in every colour flapped like wings on the roof. Gutters creaked and hung from the fascia. Black plastic was taped over some frames- an attempt to keep the wild in the wild. But they were all in there. The swallows had built nests inside, and shit built up in piles on all the dusty surfaces. A tiny grey cat (who turned out to be ginger under the soot), lived in the chimney. It was frantic and wild like an unhinged teenage girl and clawed forever scars on my cheek. The house was uninhabitable, and we lived- temporarily in a massive old caravan.
I remember the smell.
I remember all the smells.
The dead rabbits in the chiller. Frozen fluff and blood. The piss- smelling quilts from babies wetting the bed, and no washing machine to clean them. Rain on the dust. Rain on the tiny greens that busted through the dust- momentarily, before they recoiled again against the harsh scorch of unfiltered desert sun. I remember the clean, christmassy smell of needle-like fingers that fell from the pine tree out the back. Hot, soggy cheese and lettuce sandwiches. And the smell of the interior of Dads Datsun- vinyl, gunpowder and tobacco.
Dad had bought a chiller truck, and was contracted to shoot rabbits to sell for meat. I would go out shooting with him. The spotlight lighting up an arc over the rocky ground, dotted with mulga and spinifex. The lever hand pressed through the ceiling, steely cold in my little hand. My eyes became experts at sighting their little galloping movement before they froze like a statue. Glowing eyes would catch the light. I ran to pick up the bunnies, still kicking with nerves. I was terrified- but brought them back to the truck like a dog with a ball- waiting proudly for a pat on the head.
Mum and Dad tidied up the place, and made it home as much as home could be in a house like that. It didn’t matter to me. Deep love and connection can exist regardless of what’s between your walls. I have no bad memories of John Brown Hut. I don’t recall it being hard- although I know it was. Particularly for my Mum. The mother in me feels that very deeply. The pioneer in me- was born.
We had no power or water. We had a generator that we used sparingly. For a treat we could fire up the tv and watch one of two films- “the Wizard of Oz”, or the “Sound of Music” on VCR. We also had a record player. Mum and Dad had an epic collection. I remember Zeppelin, Bob Dylan, Elton John, Talking heads, Bob Marley, John Williamson and Carole King. I was mesmerised with cover art, and the stories and lyrics printed inside the jackets. An insight into mystical worlds and creative minds. I had a couple of singles: Madonna's “Like a Prayer” and Fairground Attraction “Perfect” (I know- what???), on high rotation. My Uncle Gary snapped my record in a rage of repetition (I think). Music was always there. It moves me still, in a way that art (or anything else) cannot.
I did school of air, which is where you talk to your teacher and other kids over the radio. I loved projects and art, and writing, and still have the stories I wrote and illustrated. One, “the sturt pea fairy”, is typed on a typewriter, the texta drawings bled and vanished from water damage. We recorded tapes of us talking and singing christmas carols that we sent to nan and pop. Recently, while visiting my grandparents, I listened to one of the tapes, looking for clues in my slow, steady, wanting-to-be-a-good-girl little voice.
Hissing gas lamps lit the cold dark kitchen at night, where Mum cooked on the woodstove. Apricot rabbit. Uncle Gaz sat on the table with turned legs and played stairway to heaven on his guitar. I wanted to sing louder than my confidence would let me. Food was sparse. There were no shops for miles, and keeping food preserved was a challenge. For hot water, Dad made a donkey- A 44 gallon drum, turned on its side, with legs, and a fire underneath. My Dad is a clever man, whose mind can iron out the creases in any problem. He can make anything. I don’t remember having a bath- but there is a painting of Dad’s of us in it- so I know we did get clean sometimes.
The long-drop toilet was outside. One day, I was sitting on the dunny, and a massive brown snake came into the small tin clad shelter with no door. I screamed and screamed, and perched up on the seat, until Dad came out and shot it. He had carved his name in the toilet slab. 1990. It was still there when we went back in 2007. We were all still there. In the turned up furniture. In the roses woven into carpet. In the silent roars of the stumpy tailed lizards. Etched in dust on windows. In the paintings of sturt peas and fairies Mum drew on the walls. In the bore where I learned to swim without floaties…. We had moved on- but the house kept us.
Death became a part of life. It lost its heaviness. On the one hand I was desensitised. On the other hand, my quiet sensitivity felt it all. I spent hours rescuing moths from my paddling pool. Cupping their powdery bodies in my hands, and blow-drying them back to life with my breath. My sister and I used to go walking to find and bring home rabbits dying from myxomatosis- a virus introduced in the 50’s to control rabbit populations that turned the land barren and pock-marked with deeply carved warrens. They always died. Dad probably killed them.
A heavy rain. A seldom occurrence. The creek- perpetually dry- swelled and spilled. Flowers grew in carpets across the stretched red skin. My sister and I snuck out early in the morning and rolled our naked bodies in the mud. For a while, an Aboriginal family camped down by the creek. We were so thankful to see some other kids. There was a little girl around my age who became my friend. When I first saw her, she had a hand-print of flour on one of her beautiful cheeks. I secretly wondered if she was a princess. They took us to find emu eggs, and fed us kangaroo tail cooked over the coals.
At night, we sat on the verandah and watched as the sun went down and the stars came up. Everything was amplified. All the colours competing for the crown. Every star trying to beat down the next with brightness. All the stars, and all the colours remained, even when I closed my eyes. I worried there was something wrong with me. That I saw, and felt, and heard, and smelled SO much. All dazzling. And I took every bit of it in. The flies in my eyes, and the dirt under my nails. It all absorbed right inside my flesh and bones and I would never, ever shake it. Magic; too shallow a word.
