pilbara encore

Once again, the Pilbara can produce some peculiar beauty.  Amidst the hottest temperatures and harshest environs it's such a wonderful surprise to see what can emerge. Even stranger is the way mine workers have little appreciation of this place, but some mine sites have walk trails and enviro officers who are prepared to take people on tours in the tiny windows of time they have off.

              Big Col and Troy at Fortescue falls - in the Karajini National Park

                        One bit of our advertising at Port Hedland pub - The Last Chance Tavern. Boy was that a shot hole, but the audience wer fun, albeit tattooed and loud.

                   Setting up at the Atlas mine north of Port Hedland.

                 MC and tour organiser Chris Dooley. He's swatting flies, not his own head. It's bizarre, and kind of funny, what peculiar insects can fly right by your face as you perform in these places. This particular gig - at Atlas iron ore mine - was a beauty, even though there weren't many people there. The small crew at this mine are very close. We had a great sing-a-long afterwards. One bloke was an amazing song improviser, with a song called "I don't play volleyball" and there were a few Maori guys with beautiful voices.

                   
                              Big Col does his stuff. Pretty amazing to perform in environments like this.

The Pilbara

Welcome to the Pilbara: a vast expanse of 'outback' West Australia. While the following photos are your typical non-descript landscapes taken from a car, there's something magical about this place. It's vast and mysterious, and when you get out of the car and take a stroll through the bush, some peculiar beauty starts to pop out at you: plants you've never even imagined; insects that look like something out of a Starwars movie (and almost as big!); ravines and gorges that take you into a sub-tropical wonderland amidst the extreme dry of the bush. This really is the jewel of WA, mainly because it's not spectacular immediately like the Kimberleys or the South West with its surf and wineries. No, the Pilbara is a paradise that takes work; you have to drive and walk and look into it with an understanding of the sheer age and vastness of this wilderness.

Tomorrow we'll be going to the gorges, and I'll post photos of waterfalls and plants, and four comedians wandering through this ancient land.

 Hope Downs mine. All mine sites in the North West have these cyclone warning boards.

This tennis court at Hope Downs is one small example of the luxury the mining  and catering companies are implementing to keep mine workers sane and healthy. Gyms, indoor cricket, cinemas, internet in every room, free phones, swimming pools, and visiting comedians are but a few of the day to day comforts shared by WA mine workers.

                          MC Chris Dooley getting the crowd revved up at Hope Downs mine in the Pilbara.

                                     Me as Big Don Smith at Hope Downs. This was taken from the non-smoking  section, which meant a whole 100 or so people were watching from the side and kind of fenced off. Stupid laws! Even non-smokers like me think these laws are ridiculous.

                                              Troy Kinne in the middle of his act. It was a great night, followed by Big Col,
                                               but alas - no photo of Col in action.

coral bay

Coral bay is a coastal paradise about 1400 k North of Perth. It's famous for fishing, divng, coral, cool-looking European back-packers and a few drunken Aussies (us). The beach here is the main beach in town where people snorkle supposedly in safety. The locals tell you it's safe. But just around the bay is a shark sanctuary! It's interesting to see how fascinated people are by beaches and bits of coral. Sure the odd colourful fish is a buzz, but personally I can't figure out why these things might be interesting. The fishing is good (although it took me three days and much bait to catch a snapper) and there's glass bottom boat tours. But really, it's just a bloody beach. Australia has millions of them! I don't see the point.

                                           Big Col and Dooley back at the camp. Col is playing with a pair of plyers. I'm not entirely sure what he intends to do with them, but I'm not brave enough to ask.

                              Troy at the camp. No one seems to be interested or even vaguely enthusiastic about anything, not because we're having a bad time. It's just really hot! These camping places are always much more pleasant in the morning and evening.

The swimming pool at the camping ground has this folly of a waterfall. I'm amazed that someone put time into this under the illusion that they might have been imroving the aesthetic of the pool area. This will be sent to the Worst Of Perth website where there many wonderful examples of hideous art, culture and behaviour can be seen - all of them emanating from some spot in West Australia. I love the sign. The whole thing is about four foot tall.

trashed tarago comedy tour

Well, here we are in front of the tarago. Ready for the big tour to mines in WA. That's me on the left (Big Don), Troy Kinne, Chris Dooley (the organiser and MC, looking despondent because he's not drunk yet) and Big Col...aka Colin Cole. We've just arrived at out first gig: Murrin Murrin nickel mine 60 k East of Leonora. At this mine we had to carry a resuscitator and poison gas detector. If the detector goes off you have 20 seconds to rip open the resuscitator and run to an up-wind position. As Troy said, bit of a bummer if you're on stage and suddenly the audience all dive for their gas masks! The night show was a ripper - about 150 people all hollering and laughing. The morning show (at 7am!!!) wasn't so well attended. Imagine doing a 12 hour night shift, coming back to base to have a meal, drinking a few beers and then staying to watch a comedy show. Audience were geat, just a few in numbers.

 Here's big Col in Leonora. Spends most of his life in London, working as a ship tour entertainer, gambling, doing shows in the UK and selling contraband ciggarettes (bought on the ship cruises) to pommy smokers. None of us have really managed to upset him yet, and I sincerely hope that if and when that does happen, it's not me. This guy loves to bet on horses, which we'll be doing tomorrow, in between driving all the way to Exmouth.

                                  Kalgoorlie businessman whith a sence of humour.

This is Mount Newman, also simply known as Newman. It's a big town in the middle of the Pilbara (North Eastern area of WA). All around this town are mines: Gold mines, iron ore mines, mineral sands etc. People usually work at these mines as FIFOs. This means Fly In Fly Out, which is what they do, most often on a roster of two weeks on, one week off (but this varies). When the are "on" they're working 12 hour shifts, and there's not really a lot to do. Consequently the mining companies have built villages that contain pools, gyms, cinemas, internet, indoor cricket, beach volley ball courts, (free phone on some sites) and excellent food. The accomodation consists of many rows of air-conditioned metal and plastc sheds called "dongas". As Chris says, "They're called dongas coz all you can fit into them is your dick". In the old days - 1960s to 80s - mine sites were really rough, all male, everyone was pissed and stoned, and fights broke out every day. Nowadays it's very different. There's quite a few women, no drugs, each miner has to blow "zero" on the alcohol tester every morning, and anyone who fights faces instant dismisal. They also employ "enviros" or environment officers - generally science grads whose job is to cut down on rubbsih and waste in the village.

                               This is a little fella called Paddy Hanan, supposedly the first person to find gold in Kalgoorlie, the boom town settled in the 1870s in WA.  Kalgoorlie may well become world famous soon, as they're about to make a film about the 600k water pipeline that was built (between the caost and Kalgoorlie) in the late nineteenth century by another Irishman called C Y O'Connor. Many people considered the pipeline as a crazy folly that would never work. Days after it was opened - and no water seemed to be flowing - O'Conner succumed to the barage of criticism and rode a horse into the sea south of Perth and shot himself. The next day the water flowed and he became a celebrated man.

                             A sculpture outside the depratment of housing in Mount Newman. I imagine it's supposed to represent the nuclear family, the big fallic thing being the Dad.

                    This should give an idea of just how big the trucks are in the North of WA. This one has three carriages but some have four. It takes a bit of practice to pass these things on the open road. If you ever have to, remember that they have a signal system: if they flick on their right indicator briefly, it's clear to go round. You can trust them as they have far better vision of the road ahead (due to their height). A word of warning though. Stay back before passing - at least one car length per 10 k per hour. If you tailgate them, a) they can't see you, and b) you can't see what might be coming the other way.

Snapshots of miss-utterance

Ten years old. With the family in the hills. We visit Uncle Alan. He’s forty now and the home brew’s showing. We all stop as he turns to see us in his kitchen. A big silence. Which I break with, “Boy you’re fat”.

Later I’m admonished quietly.

Seven. At school. My first divinity class. Never heard of God. I’m there with my sister who’s there because of a boy. The chaplain is young and eager. It’s our first class and maybe his. He builds it up, let’s the story sound big: Christ, Adam, Moses, the whole thing up to now. Wants us all to gawk and gape. I try to help him, thinking mistakenly that the best way to show you’re impressed is to whistle – Whooo Whooo!

He asks me to leave. No more God.

Italian class 1997. Many women studying with me and one other bloke. Teacher is warm and motherly. We discuss Andrea Boccelli. The blind singer. Apparently he’s not just handsome but angelic and many other things. La Professoressa’s way of exploring adjectives. Focus comes to me. “Ecco Don, le piace Andrea Boccelli?” (Do I like him?) I pause before asking in English what the Italian word for saccharine is. Groans of despair and disappointment.

I’m no longer the amusing guy. (Saccarina by the way).

Hospital. Early forties. Just had cardiothoracic surgery. My aortic valve has been replaced with a tungsten one. A big moment. The nurses - terrific, warm, loving - laugh and giggle at the morphine antics. Early morning on the ward. In and out of the opium daze, happy it’s all done. The TV a bleary box in the air. I wake to see the doctors doing their morning round. All at the foot of my bed: Indian surgeon, Pakistani registrar, pretty Vietnamese med student. Very pretty. All standing where the TV was. The nurse shakes me awake. I look. They smile. I say, “Who switched over to SBS?” (the ethnic TV channel).

They don’t laugh. The nurse, imploding, has to leave.

Six days later, after the doctors have found me to be just a wag and not so nasty. I’m keen to go. Feel ready! Please docs. Want to go! It’s been a week. But they say I can’t go until my heart rate is below 90 beats per minute - resting. Been practising. Meditating and long breathing. Got the rate down. Down. Calm. The doctors arrive at 8. “Mr Smith” says the Indian as his head does that dance. They all smile. I sit up ready for the pulse test. The Pakistani doc says “No” as the nurse tries to take my pulse. He nods to the beautiful Vietnamese girl. She slowly moves to me, takes my arm in hers, takes my pulse. Pulse of 95! Libido’s back! Damn!

Again his lovely sub-continental head wobble. This time with a big smile. “Sorry Mr Smith. Maybe tomorrow.”

Racism at the bank

What does it take to convince people that their objection to refugees arriving in Australia by boat has no rational basis?

There’s a deep and irrevocable fear in the minds of many Australians, a fear of alien arrivals, a fear of invasion. While this fear is expressed as anger about people not ‘joining the queue’ or not ‘coming here in the normal manner’ it really is just that – fear; there’s no evidence that refugees who arrive by boat could be a danger to us, or even disadvantage any other person in our community. So, when that fear has no historical basis (a generation ago in Australia a fear of Japanese people was understandable) it really is a kind of social pathology.

Where does it come from? 

Last night I listened to a Buddhist monk talk about conflict. His simple approach is that we should attempt to ‘be’ the person we despise.  So I suppose I should attempt to see from the perspective of a person who is frightened of refugees.

How do I do that? I’m not sure. It’ll have to be a future project. But in the mean time let me tell you about something that happened at the bank a few months ago.

I was attempting to cash a cheque at my local Commonwealth bank. This particular branch is often full of people from all over the world: Vietnam, Cambodia, Africa, Iraq, Korea, Sri Lanka and Europe (including Britain). Some of them are refugees, others simply immigrants, but on any given day it’s guaranteed that over three quarters of the people in the bank will be of Asian, African or Middle Eastern origin.

It was a Thursday afternoon, a time when many banks in poor neighbourhoods are full. And yes, the word ‘poor’ is appropriate; it’s a suburb once full of poor English immigrants and aboriginal people living in Government housing. Nowadays the newly renovated low-cost housing is inhabited by refugees or young people who can’t afford to buy closer to the city. White anglo saxons like me are now a minority.

So, there we were, about fifty customers in a small Commonwealth Bank branch; and, having just arrived, I was at the end of the queue. After about a minute of waiting I heard an angry customer ticking off a bank teller. Many people get angry at bank staff, I’ve done it myself years ago, but it’s something I consider futile as it’s not the tellers who make the rules. But this person was ramping it up, letting everyone know he was upset. He was a drunk white man, early thirties, well over six foot and well built, looked like a labourer.

It soon became clear that he was upset about not being able to withdraw money immediately, and the teller, a young Asian woman, was trying to inform him that he’d have to wait. His voice became louder, he looked around to see who was watching and listening, and the largely ethnic crowd simply looked out the window or at the floor. Staff behind the counter were tense and scared. Then he said, “I put fifteen thousand dollars into this fucken bank and I can’t take out a lousy one hundred.” The woman mumbled an apology and the white bloke then said, “It’s OK for you. Ya fucken boat people, coming here and taking all the jobs.”

That’s when I piped up. I can’t help myself. Always have done, always will. I called out with my broadest Ozzie accent, “Hey mate, pull your head in...” (a colloquialism meaning ‘be quiet’ or ‘hush up’) “…you don’t need to be abusive.”

The big fellow turned towards me, took one look at the minuscule frame of a short fifty year old middle class entertainer and said, “What’s it got to do with you?” Then he walked towards me. I just stood there thinking ‘what the fuck have I done now?’ as he stopped and looked down at me. I said, “You won’t get any where by abusing people fella”. He began a sentence along the lines of “I don’t give a flying fuck what you think…” when another voice behind me called out, “Shut up you bloody racist.”

I turned to see a small African guy, early twenties, wiry and cocky. The big guy then walked towards him and asked what he wanted as the African guy called him a big fat redneck. And I thought, ‘Oh shit, what have I started!’ as the Ozzie bloke started poking the African fellow with his finger. Things looked like they were really hotting up when a middle aged Asian woman, the manager as turned out, stepped in and told us to go outside. The Ozzie bloke then looked at her, and I could see he wanted to hurl abuse at her as well, but instead he just turned to me, held up his palms and said, “I just want some money for the weekend.”

In that moment I could see the guy was tired, upset and helpless, and I could identify with that; we’ve all been there. So I told the bloke to come outside, and he did but not before once again threatening the African fellow.

Outside, he told me he was down from the mines and I told him I’d toured to many of the mine sites. We chatted about where he worked – a site I’d perormed at – and it turned out the mulitbillionaire company he worked for had bungled his payment so it was in late. He wanted the bank to understand, well at least someone to listen anyway; so I did my best. Then the little African guy came out of the bank and glared at him. Once again it was on, swear words from both of them, before the African guy scooted off towards the car park. Then the Ozzie bloke went off in the same direction, and I just thought ‘stuff it, I’ve done my bit’, so I went back into the bank.

By this stage the queue was even bigger and once again I was at the end when the manager came out and insisted I go to the front. So, amidst many smiles of thanks from the staff and customers, I did my banking, withdrew some money and left.

And after I bought a paper and some groceries, I was heading towards my car when I noticed two security guards chatting to a white woman. They were saying something about an African guy. I wandered over and told them what I’d seen at the bank. They allowed me in on their conversation, and the security guards questioned the woman: “Are you sure it was a gun?”. The woman responded with, “Yes, I’m…well, it looked like a gun…it was…well, he was pointing it at the other fellow.”

I looked down at the pavement, felt kind of sad and left them to sort it out.

Boxing

I’ve been asked to work at a boxing night. Not as a boxer, I’d last about ten seconds less then a Danny Green opponent. The promoter wants me to MC and gee up the crowds between bouts.

Yep, it’s one of those ‘in two minds’ things. Not really a dilemma because I’m doing the gig. It’s just that I know there’ll be people there acting tough, acting like they’re king of the crowd: robbers, wife-bashers, road-ragers, bigots. They’ll be yelling stuff that’s nasty and hurtful.

Umm, it’s a boxing match Don. What do you expect, Mary-friggin-McKillop?

I have to admit that I like boxing. And it’s not because I like Ernest Hemingway and Norman Mailer, because I’m not that enamoured with those writers who loved to parade their macho side amongst their softer bohemian mates. No, it’s simply because I like to see skill, tactics, strength and strategy all working together, and boxing is one of those sports where that happens absolutely. There’s no contest. For watching, the martial arts beat all other leisure activities.

Australian football is spectacular and beautiful, but there’s no strategy. Lots of skill and strength but you can’t put 36 blokes on a field with an egg shaped ball that can be passed and kicked forwards and backwards and tell me tactics and strategy will come to the fore. Same for rugby but at least they’re generally moving in one direction. Basket ball is way too fast, tennis is ok but full of posers, and don’t get me started on golf! Cricket comes closest in regard to skill and strategy, particularly when you play it, but when you watch, it’s sometimes hard to know where to look (hence the reliance on replays).

With boxing there’s no mistaking the rules, no missing a moment because you were looking at someone in the outfield, no one in the road of your vision. It’s just so simple and pure in form but exceptionally complex. It’s chess with muscle and blood. It’s as close as you can get to live tragedy without the death (hopefully). Someone has to lose and lose hard; and there's no turning to fellow players to share the burden of loss; just one guy standing (or lying) and taking it while the other guy jumps and yelps like a puppy on a beach.

So, would I go to a pro boxing match? No, not my scene and too expensive. But I love to watch Olympic boxing: 3 rounds with head protection. I’ve argued with mates who reckon, generally in a drunken stupor, that the head padding makes no difference. I don’t believe that for a second.

I have boxed though. In 1976 I worked, like so many young blokes, on the wheat bins of West Australia. It was a tiny siding not far from Lake Grace, a town best forgotten in the middle of wheat fields and salt plains. Can’t help thinking that the guy who wrote Wake In Fright spent a bit of time on a wheat bin.

There was a young bloke called Roo, tall and gangly, not many teeth, a local who fancied himself as a boxer. I’d heard from a few locals that Roo had lost a few fights at the pub but that he never gave up. He’d take on anyone.

At the time I was very fit. I was 19, and I’d just returned from England where I’d spent four months throwing bales on to trucks. I was only five foot five but, like a lot of short guys, I talked a lot. I call it the Jack Russell complex: they might all be bigger than you but if you make a bit of noise and look into their eyes they’ll back off.

Not Roo though.

He liked me and I him, even though we came from opposing sides of the class divide. It was fun to play practical jokes on each other, take the piss out each other’s accents, and joke with the farmers, many of whom looked down on Roo like he had rabies. He’d clearly made a name for himself.

And every day Roo would say, “C’mon Smitty, box me. Box me mate”. I’d find ways of discouraging him: comparing the length of our arms, our differing heights, my complete lack of experience, the likelihood of us being sacked, or our lack of boxing gloves (given my desire to continue playing guitar).  

But one afternoon the boss was away and a farmer dropped off a case of beer. Roo and I got drunk, he badgered me for a fist fight and I said “Why not?” So we simply walked over to a patch of gravel and went at each other. The tension was fabulous. And the focus! Two guys, one tall and the other short, ducking and weaving, jabbing, dancing in the heat. The other workers, both city guys like me, were watching and yelling, “Hey, you guys are crazy. Stop it!” But secretly they were mesmerised.

And it wasn’t that difficult. Roo had huge hands that I could see coming from way back, so it was simple to deflect every punch. Then it all got serious when I landed a punch on Roos gut. He paused, took in a breath, then came at me with a series of fast jabs. One of them hit my chin and that was it. It was like someone had thrown a lump of wood at me. Thump. I wasn’t dazed but I was very shocked. Roo could see I’d had enough and that was it. We laughed and went back to the shed.

The thing I remember most about that moment was how incredibly exhausted we were. It’s really hard work! But it was strangely satisfying. It was like Roo had given me a little taste of his life, his bliss.