I should be so Injalak-y: Part the Third

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The dilemma of what to do with your spare time in a remote indigenous community is one that plagues most balanda (white people) who decide to doff the trappings of civilisation – coffee, live music, films, theatre, restaurants, shopping, university, and the obligatory drunk-on-Saturday-seedy-on-Sunday pantomime – and go bush. The easiest way to deal with this is simply not to allow yourself any spare time. This worked pretty well for me, and I found a 6 day, 46 hour working week infinitely preferable to the alternative, which involved reading till my eyes fell out of my head, more Sudoku than your average inner-suburban, Age-reading yuppie could do in a month of Sunday mornings and the discovery that 9.3 days worth of music in an iTunes library is not necessarily all that much.

Other people react differently. Those with more of a penchant for exercise than me (i.e. an inclination to raise their heart rate for anything other than boogie or booty) did crazy things like swimming 2 kilometres per day in the local pool and biking round the community in leggings and a shroud of sweat. Those with more of a penchant for the moving image than me splashed out on Foxtel and spent hour upon hour watching reruns of Futurama and American Dad. The Vietnamese family who run the local store invested in a $5000 karaoke machine and spent their nights competing with the curlews, warbling along to ‘My Way’. Honestly, some stereotypes just don’t seem to want to be debunked. Those who’d been in town long enough to genuinely be able to call Gunbalanya home, which was a very small percentage of the white population, engaged in such wholesome activities as pig-shooting, buffalo hunting and haring around on quad bikes scaring the bejesus out of native and introduced animals alike.

All these activities were pursued either solitarily or in the company of other balanda. In my case, I was fortunate enough to join a karaoke session and misguided enough to believe that I would be remotely interested in swimming any approximation of a kilometre in the murky waters of Gunbalanya ‘Community’ Pool (I use the term ‘community’ very loosely, as access to this pool cost $150 a year, somewhat beyond the means of 95% of the community). The only social sphere in which binninj (aboriginal people) and balanda interacted was at the institutional heart and soul of Gunbalanya and raison d’etre for many of its denizens: the Gunbalanya Sports and Social Club.

It’s hard to know where to begin with the Club. Although it’s called the Sports and Social Club, it’s really just a drinking hole, more than that, the only drinking hole in a 60 km radius. It’s managed by a guy named Alex Seibert, whose family pretty much owns Gunbalanya, as they run the Club, the Service Station and the Air Charter Service and thus all the booze, fuel and wet season transport this side of Kakadu National Park. Technically, Mr Seibert merely administers, rather than owns the Club, which has an Aboriginal executive committee, but he seems to be able to take whatever salary he chooses out of its enormous profit, judging from the $400,000 Winnebago that sits in his yard. In a touching, Brady Bunch-esque display of family bonding, the entire Seibert family ran on the same ticket in recent council elections, meaning that if things go their way, they may actually, rather than effectively run the town. I anticipate an episode of ABC’s ‘Dynasties’ on these guys some time soon.

The Club’s opening hours govern the operation of the town. Since the intervention, the Club is only open four nights, as opposed to six lunch time and evening sessions, per week. At Injalak, it was always noticeable when it was a Club night. On nights the Club was open, the centre was packed with artists furiously working on various forms of art, organising advances and working hard around the centre for their CDEP ‘top up’ – a cash payment to augment the meagre payment they received from the government and acknowledge the full time hours they put in. At 4.30pm sharp, the Injalak troop carrier would depart for the first run to the Club, after which either Rebecca or Murphy would have to drive up and back so that no one would have to bring it back again. On days when the Club wasn’t open, the buying desk would be near silent, frequented only by regulars and non-drinkers.

A visit to the Gunbalanya Sports and Social Club is unlike any drinking experience to be had in the city. Almost entirely outdoors, the place is always packed. Attracted by the floodlights, cane toads lollop in hordes across the lushest grass in town and people are ranged across picnic tables, the air abuzz as Kunwnjku, English and Video Hits compete with the whine of voracious mosquitoes. On approaching the bar, you squish yourself into a throng of people that four people are furiously trying to serve all at once. There are no rounds, as you are only allowed to purchase one can at a time, two if the person you are buying for is standing right next to you. Choice is not difficult – cans of VB, Carlton, Crown or XXXX, all mid-strength and all yours for the bargain price of $5. I can say, after careful research and the adjusting of my palette to distinguish the subtle distinctions between each incarnation of watery beverage, that VB is the most drinkable of the lot. Unsurprisingly, mid- and full-strength XXXX taste pretty much as bad as each other.

At 7 o’clock, an ear-splitting siren that you are never quite ready for generally causes you to throw your unappetising beverage all over yourself. This alarm tells all children and ‘banned’ patrons that it is time to leave. There is an intricate system when it comes to barring those who commit misdemeanours, and punishments are meted out according the severity of these transgressions. Punching Alex Seibert in the face, for example, carries a ban of three years, which some would believe is worth it for the comic effect. More minor offences are punished with bans from a week upwards, or the lightest penalty of leaving at 7pm, an hour and a half before the Club shuts its gates. Most bizarrely, at times when the Police Station finds its cells too full, the police will dole out Club bans as punishments for minor offences to save themselves the paperwork.

Going to the Club can be a great experience, as it provides a sphere in which to relate to binninj one on one and learn things that would not be possible in a professional capacity. People are more likely to open up after a few cans of anything, mid-strength or otherwise, and it is at the Club that a lot of balanda, including me, get their Kunwinjku skin names that will, for better or worse, define your relationship with people in the community in many ways. There is the standard humbugging to buy people cans of beer, and you find yourself saying ‘no’ for a decent portion of the night, but at the Club I learnt about people’s families and histories, met Traditional Owners and those not involved in the arts centre but intrinsic to the community, as well as learning a great recipe for damper.

The Club’s position in the community is problematic and everybody has an opinion on its merits, or lack thereof. It’s hard to assess having only been in Gunbalanya four months. From my experience, it seems that the Club was managed in a manner that benefited its management more than the indigenous population it was supposed to serve. The changes the Intervention brought – limited opening hours and the serving of mid-strength beer – have been beneficial in many ways. When I arrived in town, there was a young men’s initiation ceremony, a Kunapipi, in progress that traditionally occurs every year, but that until then had not taken place for a decade. The spare time that people were given with the Club’s closure for three nights had resulted in the revival of one of the most important ceremonies in Kunwinjku culture. On the flip side, the practice of grog-running – driving to Jabiru, getting as drunk as possible and taking the treacherous road back, croc-infested tidal river crossing and all – increased, which in my short time resulted in a death, some serious injuries and, gruesomely, a car driving into a wild horse and splitting it clean in half. It’s hard to weigh it all up, and the question of the Club’s position is intrinsically tied to that of alcoholism, so obviously rampant in the community, but it is unequivocally there, showing no signs of leaving, and the place that most people choose to spend their time.

I should be so Injalak-y: Part the Second

Work

I work at Injalak Arts and Craft Centre. It’s named after the hill that sits behind the arts centre. Injalak is pronounced Inyaluk (thanks again, sadistic linguists), which, you will see, makes the title of these rantings hilariously puntastic. Injalak is a community arts organisation that buys paintings on bark and paper, as well as fibre art (otherwise known as baskets) from local artists, and markets and sells it to the wider public. More importantly, it is the only source of cash income in the entire community. Most of the Aboriginal people in Gunbalanya are on CDEP, an indigenous work for the dole programme, which pays $350 per fortnight. Pity the liberals don’t like Aboriginal people; otherwise they could trumpet their hardships along with those crazy single aged pensioners. So for most, Injalak serves to supplement their meagre income.

As workplaces go, it’s absolutely nuts. There are only three of us that work full time. To put it very basically, Murphy is the manager, Rebecca buys all the art and I sell it. This does not begin to explain what all of us do, but every time I’m asked what I do, I draw a blank. I think it’s because I have no way of anticipating what any day will involve. To serve as an example, take my first week.

I arrived at my first full day at work bright and shiny and prepared for everything it could throw at me… except hearing as I walked in the door that one of the artists had died at the age of 37 and that I needed to get every piece of his artwork out of the gallery before anyone saw it and the smoking ceremony began. This might not have been so hard in a normal gallery, where less is more and art is hung sparsely. Injalak hardly fits this description. Unlike most art centres, which attract very few visitors and do most of their business remotely, Gunbalanya sits 40 minutes drive from Kakadu National Park and right in front of one of the most breathtaking rock art sites in the world. As the most accessible place in Arnhem Land, people are dying to get to Gunbalanya to experience Aborginal Cultcha first hand, and tourists visit en masse every day. As a result, the gallery that I look after is absolutely chock full of art. The best work is displayed in a small fine art section attached to the main gallery, but everywhere else shelves groan under stacks of paper, barks hang off every surface, carvings are stacked against every bit of wall not already taken up by bark and the floor is covered with baskets. This is not to mention the prints, spears, spear throwers, didjeridus and books. To his credit and my exasperation, this artist (whose name is still not said) was very diverse and thus produced ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING except baskets. It was a tough task, especially as at this stage I had no eye for the distinctions between artists and thus had to check the accreditation of almost every piece. Picture me manically peering at the back of every piece of paper in a huge pile, throwing baskets over my shoulder the whole time. In the middle of all this, there was suddenly, a didjeridu playing, a whole heap of smoke and everybody was standing completely still. I was able to compose myself and do the same and next thing I knew, someone was going over my whole body with a leafy branch. I then realised he was doing this to everything and everyone in the centre. That is a lot of branching, let me tell you. This was, of course, the point at which the tourists turned up and had to be unceremoniously booted out before they got their zoom lenses smashed over their heads. It was tragic and confusing and for days after I was still finding things that the artist had done and running them out of the gallery as fast as my freakishly elongated legs would take me.

I arrived at my second full day at work quiet and wary and pretty sure that my university education and globe-trotting had left me entirely unprepared for what was waiting for me. All went as normally as I hoped for the first hour or so, I attacked some enormous cobwebs with a broom and got covered in crap, but at least I wasn’t breaking any taboos. I tried to help out in the shop and learn as may stories as I can. I packed up artwork, I organised freight. So far, so good. Then my manager turns round and says “how do you fancy going for a plane ride over Arnhem Land to deliver some stuff to an outstation?” I nodded my head up and down until I thought it might fall off when he hesitated “just to let you know…” What, I thought, I’m going to have to fly the plane myself? It’s a one way trip and I have to hitch home? I have to hunt and kill an emu/buffalo/wild pig and bring it back? “… You won’t get a lunch break.” No worries, Mr Manager.

He informed me that I had to do a shopping run for someone at the outstation, which is called Gumarringbang, so off I go to acquaint myself with the community store. Coming back with my booty, I am greeted by two men in blue uniform who I assume are the police, but turn out to be the pilots. I still haven’t worked out exactly what is going on, but I don’t ask questions at this point and we load the food into the back of a van and speed off to the airport where I am greeted with the tin can I will be hurtling through the air in. No Boeings out here. Thankfully, the flight was smooth and Arnhem Land from the air is breathtaking. Towering escarpments climb backwards across the landscape, never flattening off enough to constitute anything other than outcrops and waterfalls and cliffs and fissures. The floodplains are impossibly green and dotted with cows and brumbies, the rivers are dry, brown ribbons snaking through the trees. We pass an abandoned mine and a number of other outstations, all the while following the path of a cyclone whose devastation is still apparent.

As we come in to land at Gumarringbang I suddenly remember that I am in a tin can and freak out momentarily but the landing is smooth and soon we are being greeted by a man, Jeremiah, a woman, Louise and a huge gaggle of kids who are into the boxes of food before they even touch the ground. Jeremiah quietly tells us that the Outstation Resource Truck didn’t come this week and it occurs to me that these people are very hungry. The improbably large family (I later discover that only two of the children belong to Jeremiah and Louise and the rest have been left there, making the lack of resources more acute) goes off to their house and Rebecca and I visit a man known as Old Timothy with a care package. Old Timothy was, unfortunately, very unwell and unable to leave his bed. Rebecca went into his room to chat to him for a while and I leaned in to hear what he had to say but I couldn’t get close enough so I look around his room and am surprised to see my old fave the Virgin Mary hanging out on the wall with Jesus. Never doubt the penetrative powers of Christianity. Outside Timothy’s, three overweight old white people sit on camping chairs and play cards. The man tells us defensively that he is Timothy’s old friend of 20 years and makes it clear that we are most unwelcome and the women tell us that there is amazing rock art in the surrounding bush and they are the only white people to have seen it. But, alas, it is time to go back to work, and we go back to the plane. The trip home is just as beautiful, but feels less like a treat and more like an unnecessary chore undertaken due to governmental incompetence. Jeremiah paid $600 for that basic grocery run using royalties from an amazing burial coffin entered into the Telstra Art Awards that I’m sure could have been better spent fixing their generator, which had been broken for months, leaving them with no power.
Other days at work have been less exciting and more trying. One that comes to mind is a day spent physically picking up a young lad who had fried his brain with petrol sniffing when he was younger and as a result has episodes of psychosis that mainly involve him throwing himself onto the nearest available patch of ground, be it in the middle of the road, under a sprinkler or onto someone’s painting, and putting him back inside. All that said, my job mainly comprises working in the gallery, selling art, packing it up and sending it where it needs to go, as well as other basic admin duties and sometimes I actually find myself twiddling my thumbs in boredom. On those days I do not stress, because I am sure that something bizarre will no doubt happen tomorrow.

Aside from Murphy and Rebecca, there are always a huge number of people at Injalak. Some artists choose to work on site, some live there and some people help out round the centre. One of these people is Thomas ‘Bundine’ Nabegeyo, a tour de force, without whom the arts centre slowly begins to fall apart as we realised that nothing has been labelled, is where it should be and we have no mail. He is one of the best dancers in the community and speaks little English, so communicates largely with hand gestures worthy of a fiery Italian. When it comes to me, these gestures usually involve him hitting or poking me shouting “hey!” and pointing me in the direction of the place he requires me to be. He also does the best air guitar I have ever seen.

Kathy works in the shop with me. She is a no nonsense lady who is slowly and patiently teaching me Kunwinjku and is indispensable when it comes to dealing with irritating, patronising tourists. Once, a doddering middle aged woman tottered over to her with a very basic, small painting of an egret. She looked at Kathy very intently for a while, leaned in conspiratorially and said “tell me, are these good spirits or bad spirits?” Kathy fixed her with a withering look, cleared her throat and in a tone as patronising as the woman’s said “That is a BIRD.” Kathy is in her forties, but apparently according to my skin name she is my granddaughter. ¿Qué?

It’s a good job I enjoy my work, as I’m there six days a week. If you’re wondering why I’m as pasty as I was the day I left next time you see me – it’s because I spend most of my time inside, doing whatever it is I do all day.