Adventures In Oz

In 1967, when I was 20, I hitch-hiked through the centre of Australia to Darwin. When I got to Darwin, I was short on cash (an understatement) and found work with a company which, with World War II landing craft, ran supplies to isolated communities along the north coast of Australia.

In Western Australia we delivered wholesome dry goods and basic toiletries to the Catholic mission, perched upstream on a tropical river. At the mouth of the river was a classic, rough hewn Aussie outbacker, 40s something, building, incredibly, his own steel landing craft, like ours, probably 80 feet in length. And he was doing it, hundreds of roadless miles from anywhere. His supplies? Construction materials, of course, canned food and dozens of 24 packs of beer.

East of Darwin, we entered Arnhemland, an enormous Aborigine reserve, then, only accessible to non-Aborigines by permit (Now, they fly tourists into those places). There, we stopped at missions (run by religious orders) and settlements (run by the government). On one such trip, we stopped at Maningrida, a government settlement. The administrator had time to kill (in fact, the poor man was desperate for company) and showed me around. He explained that their work involved, first off, convincing Aborigines to stop their wanderings and settle at Maningrida. Here, he said, we teach them to grow their own food, read and write, dress appropriately in western garb, be taught a useful occupation with which they could find work in Euro-settlements and otherwise, be productive members of society.

“Ours is not easy work,” he blurted, “you have to get used to failure. Do you see those two fish boats out there in the bay? They’re a good size, right? Inboard motors, wheelhouse, nets, the works. In a day, two of the men could catch more fish than eight of them fishing from canoes  could in a week. The fish boats? Never been used. Can’t get them to go near them. They cost a pile of money and they’ve been sitting there for months and months. You know, we put a ton of effort into giving these people what they need to get along in Australian society. But despite all our efforts, every one of them, once a year, tosses their western clothes, grabs a spear and dons a loin cloth, and for three months, they’re gone — men, women, children. They’re gone.“ The administrator paused for a minute, then said, “You know, we desperately need a purchasing agent. Interested?” I respectfully declined