The time has come
To say fair’s fair
To pay the rent
To pay our share
The time has come
A facts a fact
It belongs to them
Lets give it back
How can we dance when our earth is turning
How do we sleep when our beds are burning
-Midnight Oil, Beds
Are Burning
In the small, lazy and scalding outback towns of central Australia, it’s easy to overlook many of
the inhabitants, who, along with having the darkest skin, have found the
shadiest and most hidden places, at least from the sun, to avoid the heat. I
sit next to my car writing, within sight of them, but afraid to wander over and
start up a conversation. They sit together in a mellow, purposeful group that
doesn’t seem to invite outsiders. Their lounging, which is peaceful and
passive, like a pride of lions relaxing between hunts, is in stark contrast to
me, 100 meters away, sweating furiously in the heat, swatting the annoying and
omnipresent bush flies that track me down no matter where I go. In search of
water in the dry heat, the pesky insects cover my eyes and nose every time I
stop swatting at them long enough to finish writing a sentence. As I sweat
through my shirt, watching from afar, I notice no movement coming from the
group of about a dozen Aborigines, who have found solace from the radiating
ball in the sky under the thickest-leaved ghost-white gum tree in the dusty
central Australian town of Alice
Springs. No sweating; no scratching; no swatting. They
lie. So dark is the shade that I can only make out their forms, like
silhouettes in an otherwise blindingly bright world. I rub my eyes, wondering
if they are really even there. The white people in town scurry about, never
spending more than a few seconds outdoors exposed to the sun, and are seemingly
unaware of the presence of the darker members lazing in the daytime shadows, as
if this group doesn’t even exist.
My current preoccupation with Aborigines stems from what
little I understand of their plight in Australia, and the comparisons I
can draw with the systematic extermination of native North Americans after the
arrival of European settlers on both continents. As a direct result of these
genocides, both indigenous North Americans and native Australians suffer
unspeakable horrors, the kind of suffering one would expect from a forced
societal breakdown. Perhaps the major difference I notice between the two
groups is that the Native Americans live on reservations in the US. In
Australia, there are specific areas of land the Aborigines have reclaimed, but
the majority have abandoned the nomadic way of life and moved to small cities
and cattle stations in the outback, where they are subjected to indignities
similar to those which have befallen the Native Americans: poverty, rampant
alcoholism and drug abuse, child and domestic abuse, and an appalling 15 year
gap in life expectancy compared to their white counterparts! All these problems
stem from the methodical crushing of culture and the purposeful stomping of
long-existing races of humanity.
The parallels that run between the two histories of these
downtrodden cultures couldn’t be clearer in my mind. But in the US I have
always been afraid to address them by confronting an Indian, fearing the
negative reaction a native might have toward the pandering sympathy from
somebody whose ancestors benefited from confiscating tribal lands. But here in Australia, I
don’t feel as directly guilty for what happened to the natives as I do
curiosity for some insight into their reality. Like in the US, many of the
indigenous here keep to themselves and do not interact with whites. But unlike
the US,
I don’t have to intrude onto a reservation to do some freelance cultural
anthropology. I can just meander over and sit down next to the group in the gum
tree grove in any outback town, if they will indulge me.
By now it’s an old social war cry here in Australia,
those who want to compensate the indigenous population for the stolen land and the
other atrocities synonymous with an invasion and displacement. There are
various loosely affiliated groups in the population of Australia, who represent
differing views of the situation: the sympathetic whites, who protest the
injustices through investigative journalism or artistic output such as music;
the adamant Aborigines, who employ localized activism or political
representation for change; and, increasingly, there is an apathetic majority,
who don’t have a clue how to atone for the wrongs of the past.
Consequently, nothing much ever comes of the public outcry. I wonder how this
kind of movement would fare in the US. Maybe it has already succeeded,
as the federal government gives millions of guilty dollars to tribes across the
country. Only lately in Australia,
under the new government, has the effort for reconciliation gained a little
momentum. Just last month, the new prime minister, Kevin Rudd, who succeeds a
very conservative John Howard – the Australian neo-con sympathizer and
George Bush ally – offered a formal verbal and written apology to all
Aborigines for wrongs committed by former Australian governments. The
statement, read aloud in parliament, was a first step in reconciliation, other
than a ‘National Day of Apology’ offered some years back.
The conservative Howard government always opposed a formal
apology to the Aborigines, stating that the current Australian generation
should not have to apologize for the actions and policies of former
governments. Many Australians feel this way and it is a fair argument, but in
some ways it ignores the travesties that were faced by the indigenous
population throughout the colonial years and even into the late 1970s, when the
policy of stealing Aborigine children from their mothers was still practiced. The purveyors of these acts, often Christian do-gooders,
believed they were saving the children from certain doom because the Aborigines
were a dying race. Whatever the motive, after experiencing the horror of being
taken unwillingly from their biological parents, the ‘Stolen Generation’
certainly cannot be faulted when major, cyclical social-structural problems
such as alcoholism and child abuse rear their ugly heads. By refusing to
apologize over the past, the Howard government cemented a path that permanently
absolves Australians of any guilt, and therefore an obligation to any form of
reconciliation or reparation. Quite clever. But the
tide toward compensation has shifted just a smidge under the new Rudd
administration, with talk in the air of some blanket monetary compensation for
all Aborigines, although a huge number of Australians oppose any such program.
At the moment, the country has said only, “Sorry about that, mate,”
to the Aborigines, but nothing more.
In search of cross-cultural interaction, I travel from the
center of the country, Alice Springs, to its
northwest corner, Broome, whose population also consists of a large contingency
of Aborigines. Upon arrival, the moment I navigate to the center of town, I
find the masses of dark-skinned locals, just like in every other outback town,
huddled together and sitting under a lone, enormous gum tree on the perimeter
of the Australian Rules football field, which is a giant oval. This posse,
however, behaves less like a pride of lazy lions like those in Alice Springs, and more like a pack of hyenas. There is
much squirming, yelling, babbling and even semi-playful pushing taking place
amongst this bunch. I quickly attribute this behavior to the heat – even
though the mercury reaches no higher than it did in Alice, the humidity is cranked up to full
volume. One’s brain might boil inside its skull if out in the heat
unprotected for several hours. I contemplate how to initiate myself into this
group. The obvious choice is running to the bottle shop to grab some alcohol.
Several of my Australian friends told me that if I show up to any gum tree
party with a box of wine, or goon, as it is called here, I would be a legend
and therefore be able to talk with the group to my heart’s
content. I am all for breaking the ice this way, and in this heat I could
certainly enjoy a nice cold glass of cask chardonnay.
Upon further examination I decide against the wine for three
reasons. One is that it is very assuming, bearing gifts of booze or not, to
show up and sit down at a party to which I was never invited. My ploy must be
culturally sensitive. Also, I have read and seen signs in some cities that outback
and Western Australian towns have been attempting to cut back on violence and
abuse by banning alcohol in public areas. I suppose this means that these people are
homeless because a public liquor ban doesn’t prevent anybody from getting
drunk and beating their kids at home, where all illegal activities could take
place in private instead. Finally, I feel a bit morally reprehensible supplying
alcohol to a crowd of probable alcoholics, who could very well be dry, in which
case I would be upsetting a delicate balance. Even if they are wet, I would be
willingly contributing toward societal evil solely to appease my meaningless
curiosities.
Instead, a brilliant idea comes to me: I will bring them cigarettes rather than goon. Aborigines in every town
have been asking me to bum a smoke, as packs are very expensive. I could easily
break the ice by showing up with an overflowing box of tobacco. Morally, I am
appeased. By inhaling hundreds of carcinogenic chemicals they will only be
harming themselves, rather than drinking booze and destroying the future of
youth or breaking up households. Why add fuel to the fire by taking them
alcohol, I reasoned. I will buy cigarettes. Because who has ever been harmed by
tobacco, anyway? I trudge off, or seemingly swim through the sizzling, soggy clouds
of moisture, to grab a pack of cancer sticks.
I have read that on certain Indian Reservations in the US,
alcohol abuse and its related ills have become so detrimental that the tribe
has decided to ban it altogether. Results, of course, are varied, because this
policy only entices residents to leave the confines of the reservation to
procure liquor, which can then be consumed in public, or worse, in cars on long
drives back to the reservation. The story of Australian alcohol restriction in
native population seems to be following a similar pattern as in the US. In many
cities, alcohol is completely banned in public, which cuts down on all-day
drinking benders. These booze fests are sometimes dangerous because they
can lead to interpersonal anger and violence that arrive home along with
the drunk and take the form of spousal and child abuse.
There are already restrictions in place in many towns as to
how much alcohol one person can purchase in one day, and at which hours goon,
or cheap 4-liter boxes of wine, the staple of Aboriginal drinking –and of
my own, I must admit – can be sold. According to urban legend, goon is an
Aboriginal term meaning bag or pillow. The term arises from the culmination of
a day of drinking in the treacherous outback sun. When an Aborigine has drunk
enough goon to pass out cold on the cement in the
town’s square, he can make his drunken slumber that much smoother by reinflating an empty 4-liter boxed wine bag with air and utilize
it as a pillow. Without wishing to convey unsubstantiated rumors, I do disclaim
the former definition of goon. But these are exactly the kinds of questions I
endeavor to find answers to while visiting the humbled societies of these once
great shepherds of the land. Besides the truth about goon I want to know: what
do they think of the current government? Can the Aboriginal culture recover
from the brutal history of occupation? Is compensation the answer? Why are
Australian and Aboriginal culture so seemingly incompatible? Do they hold a
grudge against Australians? And can you pour me another cup of goon?
Even further restrictions on alcohol are being considered in
many Northern Territory
and Western Australian towns, with such measures as complete booze bans on
certain days or even totally dry cities, ala prohibition, being mentioned.Who knows if these solutions are the
true answers or if they are lust slicing off the visible limbs rather than attacking
the roots of the problem? On February 27, 2008, a new measure was approved in Western Australia that
regulates the welfare checks to families with histories of child negligence so
that they are only permitted to spend their government benefit on certain
consumable products and not on alcohol. This type of control is now commonplace
in small towns across the outback where government intervention at every level
has failed to stem the flow of booze and abuse through a traumatized society.
The amount of finance, effort and legislation being committed to repairing
these broken societies elucidates the scope of the problem.
Having purchased a pack of smokes, I walk back toward the
football oval, hesitant about my next move. Sputtering toward the crowd
anxiously, I pull a gem from the old social parlor trick book. I will ask the
group if anybody has a light. In the process of lighting a cigarette I will
also strike up a conversation. Undoubtedly at this point, my $14.60 pack of
cigarettes will be ravaged in the process. Good, I don’t smoke. I will
then ask to sit down. I will tell them I am a journalist or a friend form another
country or whatever sounds clever. We will smoke harmless tobacco in peace. And
I will fire away questions eagerly to obtain my coveted answers. A Brilliant
plan, I believe.
I look across the oval confidently, plan in hand, where the
Gum Tree Gang is now in sight. With one look ahead, a sudden realization occurs
to me concerning the reason Alice Springs was
a peaceful lions’ den and Broome is a hyenas’ ground. While in
Broome alcohol flows freely, in Alice
liquor is totally banned in public. Now I see why. Just ahead of me I witness
absolute chaos. An afternoon melee has erupted on the oval. Several scuffles
have splintered off the main formerly calm circle. Old ladies in print dresses
are screaming at nobody in particular while spinning in circles.
Incomprehensible yelling, flailing, pushing and pointing radiate from groups of
salivating men. Others are passed out amidst the furor. Many have fled the
scene into the street for a calming cigarette. Trash looks like it has exploded
out of bin. Goon bladders litter the oval grass. Loud, meaningless accusation
bursts from pockets of men unexpectedly. Calm becomes disorder. Confusion
preempts logic. It is a hellish, non-sensical,
alcohol-fueled riot.
Predictably, as if on cue, the cops arrive in a paddy wagon.
Both are white. One man and one woman. They have that
another-day-at-the-office look on their faces. First they unsuccessfully
attempt to quell the most riotous and violent of scuffles. Then they
half-physically, half-verbally address the most obnoxious and inciting
individuals, who scream uncontrollably at the nearest person to them, or the
one who has most recently offended them. The behavior seems so foreign and
unpredictable to me that I would expect a group of LSD-laden psychopaths to act
more rationally. If these people had machine guns this would be a scene from the
movie Jacob’s Ladder. As I
photograph and take video of the carnage, the police slowly gain control.
One drunk refuses to cease screaming full-volume at the cops, five feet from
their ears, that his people have been here 50,000 years so just f*ck
off. Touché. Several of the worst
instigators, from young men to old women, are cuffed and piled into the wagon,
crutches and all, to make their daily booking into Broome Central Jail, just
around the corner from the bottle shop. Nobody resists arrest. The detained are
suddenly complacent, calm, passive like a pack of
cuffed and defeated lions.
Standing 100 yards from ground zero I look down at my feet,
where a reinflated goon bag lays on the steaming
pavement under the hot sun.
I think to myself, ‘well, it looks like I am out
$14.60 for those cigarettes, more than the cost of a box of wine.’ More
importantly, I have missed out on my opportunity to obtain the answers to all
my burning questions. The answers are more elusive than I thought, and perhaps
can’t be garnered so simply as in an afternoon of tobacco smoking. Today
is not my day to understand them.
Last summer, in Alaska, my
brother and I spent an evening in the streets of downtown Anchorage, killing time outside the bars
rather than money in them. What we witnessed that night was nearly a mirror
image of the scene described above. Drunk, indigenous Inuits,
who had been boozing heavily since the 515 Club opened at 9am that morning,
spilled out into the street at an almost customary hour of night. The drunken
Indians proceeded to fight verbally and physically, tossing items at each
other, and were promptly arrested by some sort of citizen-funded paddy wagon,
containing two robotic, white officers. The arrest scene was serene as well as
sad – equally so to the one in Broome. Old women and young men piled into
the paddy wagon methodically and were taken away.
Explanations for these types of scenes, so common in the
indigenous communities of the US
and Australia,
come a dime a dozen: these populations hadn’t been exposed to alcohol
until the colonists arrived; inequality breeds poverty breeds social problems;
the sense of community and culture in these populations has been destroyed.
From my perspective, it is difficult to pinpoint the root causes. But what is clear are the similarities of the Native American plight
and the native Australian plight. These similarities run deep; their histories
parallel. When a culture is destroyed or forced into submission life can become
meaningless, stripped of significance. Without a source for moral and rational
behavior, spurred by a substance which tears at the fabric of society, it
becomes unglued. The bottle of chaos is shaken and cork of sanity blows off.
Later, at the bottle shop, I discuss what transpired earlier
with the white liquor clerk. “Man, it was utter chaos out there at the
oval today. Is it like that every day?” I ask.
“Mate, there are good days and bad days,” he
says, complacently.
“In Alice Springs
they had none of this,” I blabber, hoping for more clues into the state
of this town. Both clerks perk up, interested in the new information.
“Oh yeah? That’s good
to know. So it works, I reckon?”
“Better than here,” I grant. Three Aborigines I
recognize from the oval stumble through the front door. The old lady is the
sloppiest. In the entry she supports herself on a display of wine bottles. One
guy has a bandage over most of his head.
“G’day,” all
three enthusiastically slur, making their way to the refrigerated section of
the store. The clerks watch them nervously. One clerk says, “Well, I was
wondering why so many of them keep showing up in Broome every day. Must be because booze is illegal everywhere else. Well, our
day will be up soon.” I finish my transaction. “Yeah, man, it was
quite a bit calmer in Alice,”
I repeat, struggling to keep the conversation alive while the clerks focus on
the drunken patrons. Just then I am accidentally nudged sharply in the back by
the old lady. I jump to the side. She slams a fifth of Jack Daniels
and two cokes on the counter. The clerk says, “$42.16,” to the old
lady. Then he looks at me, winks, and says, “Welcome to Broome.”
