All in a Day's Work
I have been variously playing around with the right title for this post. It included the words dancing (inma), goannas, troopies, Patjarr and moonlight cycles. All to no avail. Some days the weeks are strange and a catchy title can't possible capture it all. It's (almost) all in a day's work.
Last week, I dashed through a range of odds and sodds at work that had been progressively getting more and more urgent as the weeks away from my desk clicked over. The difficult thing about all the travelling for work is that you're out there creating jobs for yourself when you're back at your desk, but you're hardly at your desk to do them. So while I ploughed through all the jobs on my list, I didn't have time to update the blog on the lovely week before at Patjarr.
This week is in many ways symptomatic of the ways things work at Council. Expect the unexpected. Plan to not know what's going to happen. Be ready for anything. Don't forget your water bottle.
On the weekend before going to Patjarr (a small, very beautiful, and particularly remote community - even for the Ngaanyatjarra Lands - in the Gibson Desert), I got an email to say that the arts centre coordinators and the Lands would like a Ngaanyatjarra Council representative to attend their governance training. The governance training started on Tuesday at Patjarr.
It was Saturday. I needed to organise (a) approval to go (b) a flight to Uluru on Monday (c) someone to collect me from Uluru that day (d) a bed for the night at Warakurna en route (e) camping equipment and provisions for the week (f) a way to get back to Uluru by Friday and (g) some basic understanding of arts centre business on the Lands. At the same time, I was two weeks off packing up to move to Warburton. Needless to say Sunday required a lot of ringing around and putting provisional plans in place.
On arrival at Uluru on Monday, my ride to Warakurna was stranded at the mechanics - stuffed shocks and, it later became apparent, broken engine mount. The governance trainers, also being picked up, arranged an alternate hire car (not robust enough to make it all the way to Patjarr, but enough to Warakurna, where we could reconsider our options, repack etc). After a few hours shopping for supplies and getting organised with the mechanic, we set out for the 4 hour drive to Warakurna at 4pm. Arrival at night was guaranteed, hopefully with no problems on the way (my swag was at the other end, not in the car!).
Thankfully, we made it, repacked the cars with all the arts centre coordinators and artists the next morning, and set off to Patjarr. It's normally a 2 1/2 hour trip. It took us about 4 1/2 hours. One flat tyre. Two clinic visits. One replacement tyre borrowed from a community adviser on the way. A newly graded road. A 'long time since grader' road. A car without airconditioning. And a safe driver. All this means one long, hot and dusty trip. I literally arrived with rings around my eyes where the red dust was kept out by my sunglasses.
Patjarr is a truly beautiful community, producing some amazing art works (www.kayili.com.au). Many of the residents of Patjarr are older, meaning that they have strong connections to culture and country. They have often grown up and lived off the bush with little whitefella contact in their early lives. Their practical, cultural and spiritual knowledge is extraordinary. Fifteen years ago, Patjarr residents lived in wiltjas (bush shelters), and had one tap for water. Now there are about 15 houses and about 50 residents. The youngest resident was born two months ago.
On the Tuesday we arrived, we started the governance training. I was in the role of 'silent observer', getting a feel for what (if any) Ngaanyatjarra Council support might be needed. This gave me a wonderful opportunity to absorb the training, and get up to speed on the history and evolution of the art centres on the Lands. The main message was that the new art centres need to build on their successes, and take on the new jobs that come with being more successful - the requirements and relationships change, and what is asked of artists and art centre coordinators changes. In the 2 1/2 years since three new arts centres were incorporated on the Lands, there are many new challenges for these centres. One of which is building the Ngaanyatjarra 'product'. And while many of you are now ninti for the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, you probably weren't before I started writing about my new job online!
On Wednesday, the dynamics inevitably changed as the government mob arrived. This inevitably meant that different business took place in different places. And one of the joys of this was a sudden invitation to join a goanna hunting party. Now before you get too excited, I'll caution that I did end up chickening out! After jumping in the troopie and bouncing down the road about 25 k, heading towards an area of bush that was clearly burning, it became apparent that myself and another woman were going to be deposited near the burning bush. We would then link up with the 'Warakurna women' (who were noticeably absent, although they had started the fire to flush out the goannas). I had an attack of the 'ohmigod I could die out here' and declined at the critical moment. With no water, no apparent way of getting back (although I'm sure that must have been sorted... somehow), no other women in sight, and a burning bushland, I was a bit apprehensive. So the less adventurous woman in me filed away the need to be more prepared (have water at hand at all times) and more trusting next time the opportunity comes my way!
That evening, the men were singing and the woman were dancing. There is nothing more peaceful or beautiful than sitting out under the stars in a remote area and being part of this experience. And when the opportunity came (an explicit invitation - in English - 'anyone want to dance?'), I decided to be braver than earlier with the goannas and get up. I did do it on the proviso that Janet, the Warburton Youth Arts coordinator, also come to (I will if you will). We demured from going completely niggity-niggity, but instead I left my bra on, got painted up with orange and white dots and had a crash course in the dance. Basically, it required us to dance behind a man, who would then scurry to the side. At this time, we would scurry after him, and search down the outside of his body for a grindstone he had hidden on him. As a grindstone is a woman's object (for grinding seeds to make food), he had clearly done the wrong thing. Perhaps it was an opportunity - in the original story - for the man to have a group of women chase him and pat him down. Or perhaps it was something else. Who knows, but it was fun.
The next day, we made the long slow trek back to Warakurna. What I didn't know was that the troopie I was in (and it was my first time driving a troopie, fully loaded) had accidentally taken the long way along the Old Gunbarrel Highway. 5 hours later we made it there. I am cursed to be in the slow car it seems. The odd thing was, out in the middle of nowhere on a road this is little travelled, we ran into two vehicles, both driven by people I did know! A strange but welcome break to the trip. I think Ian 'Ribs' Ward, the Warburton Community Chair, and Bernard Newberry, were surprised - to say the least - to find their RPA Manager on the back road from Patjarr to Warakurna with a troopie full of Pitjantjatjarra artists from across the border (that's another story).
The next day, I took the long way (it's a curse) to Uluru, travelling via Kalka (near the corner of NT, SA and WA borders). Considering that it made no difference to my day if I travelled 4 or 7 hours to Uluru (the work day was still stuffed), it seemed like the right thing to do. It's a bit complicated to explain, but basically it was a safer option. Having completed a four wheel drive training course, I was particularly conscious of what could go wrong out there.
That evening, it was room service, a long shower, and early to bed. Another week done and dusted (literally).
Last week, I dashed through a range of odds and sodds at work that had been progressively getting more and more urgent as the weeks away from my desk clicked over. The difficult thing about all the travelling for work is that you're out there creating jobs for yourself when you're back at your desk, but you're hardly at your desk to do them. So while I ploughed through all the jobs on my list, I didn't have time to update the blog on the lovely week before at Patjarr.
This week is in many ways symptomatic of the ways things work at Council. Expect the unexpected. Plan to not know what's going to happen. Be ready for anything. Don't forget your water bottle.
On the weekend before going to Patjarr (a small, very beautiful, and particularly remote community - even for the Ngaanyatjarra Lands - in the Gibson Desert), I got an email to say that the arts centre coordinators and the Lands would like a Ngaanyatjarra Council representative to attend their governance training. The governance training started on Tuesday at Patjarr.
It was Saturday. I needed to organise (a) approval to go (b) a flight to Uluru on Monday (c) someone to collect me from Uluru that day (d) a bed for the night at Warakurna en route (e) camping equipment and provisions for the week (f) a way to get back to Uluru by Friday and (g) some basic understanding of arts centre business on the Lands. At the same time, I was two weeks off packing up to move to Warburton. Needless to say Sunday required a lot of ringing around and putting provisional plans in place.
On arrival at Uluru on Monday, my ride to Warakurna was stranded at the mechanics - stuffed shocks and, it later became apparent, broken engine mount. The governance trainers, also being picked up, arranged an alternate hire car (not robust enough to make it all the way to Patjarr, but enough to Warakurna, where we could reconsider our options, repack etc). After a few hours shopping for supplies and getting organised with the mechanic, we set out for the 4 hour drive to Warakurna at 4pm. Arrival at night was guaranteed, hopefully with no problems on the way (my swag was at the other end, not in the car!).
Thankfully, we made it, repacked the cars with all the arts centre coordinators and artists the next morning, and set off to Patjarr. It's normally a 2 1/2 hour trip. It took us about 4 1/2 hours. One flat tyre. Two clinic visits. One replacement tyre borrowed from a community adviser on the way. A newly graded road. A 'long time since grader' road. A car without airconditioning. And a safe driver. All this means one long, hot and dusty trip. I literally arrived with rings around my eyes where the red dust was kept out by my sunglasses.
Patjarr is a truly beautiful community, producing some amazing art works (www.kayili.com.au). Many of the residents of Patjarr are older, meaning that they have strong connections to culture and country. They have often grown up and lived off the bush with little whitefella contact in their early lives. Their practical, cultural and spiritual knowledge is extraordinary. Fifteen years ago, Patjarr residents lived in wiltjas (bush shelters), and had one tap for water. Now there are about 15 houses and about 50 residents. The youngest resident was born two months ago.
On the Tuesday we arrived, we started the governance training. I was in the role of 'silent observer', getting a feel for what (if any) Ngaanyatjarra Council support might be needed. This gave me a wonderful opportunity to absorb the training, and get up to speed on the history and evolution of the art centres on the Lands. The main message was that the new art centres need to build on their successes, and take on the new jobs that come with being more successful - the requirements and relationships change, and what is asked of artists and art centre coordinators changes. In the 2 1/2 years since three new arts centres were incorporated on the Lands, there are many new challenges for these centres. One of which is building the Ngaanyatjarra 'product'. And while many of you are now ninti for the Ngaanyatjarra Lands, you probably weren't before I started writing about my new job online!
On Wednesday, the dynamics inevitably changed as the government mob arrived. This inevitably meant that different business took place in different places. And one of the joys of this was a sudden invitation to join a goanna hunting party. Now before you get too excited, I'll caution that I did end up chickening out! After jumping in the troopie and bouncing down the road about 25 k, heading towards an area of bush that was clearly burning, it became apparent that myself and another woman were going to be deposited near the burning bush. We would then link up with the 'Warakurna women' (who were noticeably absent, although they had started the fire to flush out the goannas). I had an attack of the 'ohmigod I could die out here' and declined at the critical moment. With no water, no apparent way of getting back (although I'm sure that must have been sorted... somehow), no other women in sight, and a burning bushland, I was a bit apprehensive. So the less adventurous woman in me filed away the need to be more prepared (have water at hand at all times) and more trusting next time the opportunity comes my way!
That evening, the men were singing and the woman were dancing. There is nothing more peaceful or beautiful than sitting out under the stars in a remote area and being part of this experience. And when the opportunity came (an explicit invitation - in English - 'anyone want to dance?'), I decided to be braver than earlier with the goannas and get up. I did do it on the proviso that Janet, the Warburton Youth Arts coordinator, also come to (I will if you will). We demured from going completely niggity-niggity, but instead I left my bra on, got painted up with orange and white dots and had a crash course in the dance. Basically, it required us to dance behind a man, who would then scurry to the side. At this time, we would scurry after him, and search down the outside of his body for a grindstone he had hidden on him. As a grindstone is a woman's object (for grinding seeds to make food), he had clearly done the wrong thing. Perhaps it was an opportunity - in the original story - for the man to have a group of women chase him and pat him down. Or perhaps it was something else. Who knows, but it was fun.
The next day, we made the long slow trek back to Warakurna. What I didn't know was that the troopie I was in (and it was my first time driving a troopie, fully loaded) had accidentally taken the long way along the Old Gunbarrel Highway. 5 hours later we made it there. I am cursed to be in the slow car it seems. The odd thing was, out in the middle of nowhere on a road this is little travelled, we ran into two vehicles, both driven by people I did know! A strange but welcome break to the trip. I think Ian 'Ribs' Ward, the Warburton Community Chair, and Bernard Newberry, were surprised - to say the least - to find their RPA Manager on the back road from Patjarr to Warakurna with a troopie full of Pitjantjatjarra artists from across the border (that's another story).
The next day, I took the long way (it's a curse) to Uluru, travelling via Kalka (near the corner of NT, SA and WA borders). Considering that it made no difference to my day if I travelled 4 or 7 hours to Uluru (the work day was still stuffed), it seemed like the right thing to do. It's a bit complicated to explain, but basically it was a safer option. Having completed a four wheel drive training course, I was particularly conscious of what could go wrong out there.
That evening, it was room service, a long shower, and early to bed. Another week done and dusted (literally).
posted by sophsta at 1:08 pm
0 comments
