history being overwritten by the white man.
* * *
My time among the Gurindji came to a sudden and unexpected end.Jenny had enough of roughing it after a while and began spending most of her time in Katherine. She sent down, via the twice-weekly Conair flight, food parcels to relieve the monotony of beef, beef and more beef.
I was in Katherine on station business when we both ran intoJames Powell, an American who was a Vietnam vet and, apparently, more charismatic than me. Powell was camping alongside us at the Katherine low-level caravan park. Heâd grown up on a farm in Oklahoma, and I was impressed by his extensive knowledge of horses and station work. He, in turn, was curious about Wave Hill and wanted to know more, so came back with us for a visit. Powell was an instant hit with the community, but was an even bigger hit with Jenny, who told me the bad news with a swift, âHeâs terrific, youâre not much, and Iâm leaving.â Before I could argue, she ended our ten years, climbed up on the back of his Honda 450 motorbike and they roared off down the Stuart Highway, headed for Mt Isa. (There is a sequel to this story, which Iâll get to.)
For nearly two years, through one summer and two wet seasons, Iâd given the job at Wattie Creek all I had. I didnât learn the Gurindji language, but I took a strong interest in their culture and the massive injustice they had been subjected to. It was tough physically and emotionally but also rewarding in many ways, and I thought myself something of a hero for sticking at it and earning the peopleâs respect. But that self-image fell apart completely when Jenny left. I collapsed in a heap, and couldnât work or sleep; I was a Âliability and the Gurindji didnât need a passenger.Vincent Lingiari advised me to get away and sort myself out. I left for Adelaide.
Things there werenât good at all. I thought Iâd be welcomed as a hero returning from the front; instead, many of my university friends had moved on. Worse, some drew attention to what they described as the arrogant and patronising letters Iâd written about my important role in this land rights struggle, yet here I was back in town, and falling apart just because my relationship had broken up. My parents had separated by this time and I didnât get much sympathy there, either; mymother said sheâd always thought things would fail with Jenny. I knew I had to get out of Adelaide. Then I got an invitation fromBarry Frommelt, who Iâd known at Flinders and who had visited me at Wave Hill. Come to Melbourne and start again, he said.
SIX
Melbourne, women and the Outback again
I write of the Northern Territory of Australia, problem child of empire, land of an over-shadowed past and an ever-shining future of eternal promise that never comes true â¦
Ernestine Hill, The Territory: The Classic Saga of Australiaâs Far North
W omen have been pivotal to the directions my life has taken, and never more so than during the year and a bit I spent in Melbourne. I got a job as atram conductor and fell in with an inner-city crowd that was interested and active in the Aboriginal rights cause. I had my Wave Hill credentials and the people in Melbourne didnât know how badly it had all ended.
I became involved with a woman namedVirginia, who intrigued me because she was the total opposite of Jenny. She was a radical feminist, who wore overalls and was Âcommitted to separatist sexual politicsâopposed to monogamy, and supportive of homosexuality and bisexuality. In early 1975, this intrigued me. She was a journalist, writing for radical papers like the Nation Review and Digger. Virginia was ambivalent about having a relationship with any male, let alone me, but thought we might be able to work things out if I were willing to change. So I did changeâI modified my language, stopped the sexist expressions and conformed to this new style of
* * *
My time among the Gurindji came to a sudden and unexpected end.Jenny had enough of roughing it after a while and began spending most of her time in Katherine. She sent down, via the twice-weekly Conair flight, food parcels to relieve the monotony of beef, beef and more beef.
I was in Katherine on station business when we both ran intoJames Powell, an American who was a Vietnam vet and, apparently, more charismatic than me. Powell was camping alongside us at the Katherine low-level caravan park. Heâd grown up on a farm in Oklahoma, and I was impressed by his extensive knowledge of horses and station work. He, in turn, was curious about Wave Hill and wanted to know more, so came back with us for a visit. Powell was an instant hit with the community, but was an even bigger hit with Jenny, who told me the bad news with a swift, âHeâs terrific, youâre not much, and Iâm leaving.â Before I could argue, she ended our ten years, climbed up on the back of his Honda 450 motorbike and they roared off down the Stuart Highway, headed for Mt Isa. (There is a sequel to this story, which Iâll get to.)
For nearly two years, through one summer and two wet seasons, Iâd given the job at Wattie Creek all I had. I didnât learn the Gurindji language, but I took a strong interest in their culture and the massive injustice they had been subjected to. It was tough physically and emotionally but also rewarding in many ways, and I thought myself something of a hero for sticking at it and earning the peopleâs respect. But that self-image fell apart completely when Jenny left. I collapsed in a heap, and couldnât work or sleep; I was a Âliability and the Gurindji didnât need a passenger.Vincent Lingiari advised me to get away and sort myself out. I left for Adelaide.
Things there werenât good at all. I thought Iâd be welcomed as a hero returning from the front; instead, many of my university friends had moved on. Worse, some drew attention to what they described as the arrogant and patronising letters Iâd written about my important role in this land rights struggle, yet here I was back in town, and falling apart just because my relationship had broken up. My parents had separated by this time and I didnât get much sympathy there, either; mymother said sheâd always thought things would fail with Jenny. I knew I had to get out of Adelaide. Then I got an invitation fromBarry Frommelt, who Iâd known at Flinders and who had visited me at Wave Hill. Come to Melbourne and start again, he said.
SIX
Melbourne, women and the Outback again
I write of the Northern Territory of Australia, problem child of empire, land of an over-shadowed past and an ever-shining future of eternal promise that never comes true â¦
Ernestine Hill, The Territory: The Classic Saga of Australiaâs Far North
W omen have been pivotal to the directions my life has taken, and never more so than during the year and a bit I spent in Melbourne. I got a job as atram conductor and fell in with an inner-city crowd that was interested and active in the Aboriginal rights cause. I had my Wave Hill credentials and the people in Melbourne didnât know how badly it had all ended.
I became involved with a woman namedVirginia, who intrigued me because she was the total opposite of Jenny. She was a radical feminist, who wore overalls and was Âcommitted to separatist sexual politicsâopposed to monogamy, and supportive of homosexuality and bisexuality. In early 1975, this intrigued me. She was a journalist, writing for radical papers like the Nation Review and Digger. Virginia was ambivalent about having a relationship with any male, let alone me, but thought we might be able to work things out if I were willing to change. So I did changeâI modified my language, stopped the sexist expressions and conformed to this new style of
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