Day 10 - Warburton

 Tuesday, 8 June 2021

I wonder if the weather’s always like this in winter around here, I said a few days ago as we enjoyed another clear, calm, warmish evening drink. Apparently not.

This morning there was no ice on the table, but the wind had kicked up and felt colder than ice as it cut through our layers. By midday, the temperature was just 15C, with a windchill factor of around 8C. Brrrrr.

Part of the highway on the way to Warburton is paved again, then reverts to gravel just before entering town. As we head towards a ridge on the bitumen, I spot animals on the road. Slow down. Whip out the binoculars. The camera. It’s a family of dingos. We edge up closer to them, slowly. They see us and start trotting towards us. Hello, I call, we’re humans! Haven’t you seen us before? Maybe they just want food, but they look young and genuinely curious. They look up at me as I click their picture. Three adolescent pups. A larger, older dog trotting on the other side of the road. Dad?

The pups turn to follow the older dog but stay in the middle of the road. We drive a bit further, trying to scare them off the road. A car coming over the crest wouldn’t have enough time to see them to slow down. Get! Go on! Go follow Dad in the bush! The road’s not safe for you. But they happily trot along, in the general direction of Dad, preferring the smooth open surface of the pavement.

The first thing that greets you in Warburton is a dip in the road, inundated with water. Straddling both sides are lovely white-trunked river gums. A sudden oasis in the desert plain. Fortunately the river crossing is lined with concrete and it’s useful for washing our tyres of the red dust.

The second thing you find as you enter Warburton is a sprawling rammed-earth building, architecturally designed and landscaped. The Tjulyuru Art Gallery of indigenous local artwork. Last trip here we bought the large mural that adorns our living area at home. This time we buy a woven basket and small carved wooden piece to hold toothpicks, both of which can sit on the small table between our chairs at home, a receptacle for all our stuff.

The third thing you see is the Warburton Roadhouse. Like the previous roadhouse, the bowsers are caged in padlocked enclosures, but a hole in the fencing allows you to reach in, grab the spout and deliver your own fuel. Signs are everywhere. This is Ngaanyatjarra country. No photography allowed. If you have a permit, one person can pump fuel and only one person can enter the roadhouse shop at a time. If you don’t have a permit, go back to your car and drive away. A small sign at an imposing gate advertises accommodation. Through the fence you can see cheap little bungalows, portable housing units. The entire compound is fenced with barbed wire. More like a concentration camp or detainment centre.

I prance nervously while Johan pumps the fuel. I don’t like breaking rules. We have a permit but I’m not sure who wants to see it. Johan goes in the shop to pay for the fuel and I want to go in too to see what supplies are available. We need fruit and cream. I follow him inside. Young teenage Aboriginal girls are at the counter wanting to pay for their snacks. A young child is with them, sitting on the floor playing with a phone. A few white folk, travellers, are milling about. No one objects to my entry so I browse the shelves. In the end no one seems to be enforcing the rules. We pack away our supplies and head off to the art centre.

A young Filipino woman jangling keys comes out to the central courtyard when she sees us milling about and opens the door to the gallery. We have to lock it, she replies when we ask. Too many young kids around want to come in and hang out. The artwork is impressive, some over 50 years old, painted by artists who “walked the land” in the traditional ways. One wall is lined with 4x6 photos, community snapshots of the locals, mostly indigenous, playing, working, sporting, painting. It offers an appealing view into their contemporary community, warm and hospitable, unlike the forbidding signs and the surly sidelong looks the black residents give visitors.

We chat with the Filipino shopkeeper, asking her what it’s like to live here. She and her partner have lived in Warburton for 8 years. It’s a multi-cultural community. Lots of Asians. South Americans. The streets are segregated: the police live on one side of town, the teachers (mostly white) have their own street. Itinerant workers are given housing in their own district. The whole operation is owned by the Ngaanyatjarra people who employ the non-Aboriginal workers to run their businesses. 

While I catch up on some work, Johan wanders around and meets up with a road engineer, an Asian Australia man in his 60s. He looks after the roadworks in the area, comes out a couple times a month from Perth. He has a long history working alongside Aboriginal people. He respects them and their ways. And also feels their condemnation: this is our land, you stole it from us, we deserve payback.

A bit further down the highway we stop at the Mummine well, a “functioning windmill with tank and pond”. The water tastes OK so we fill up the water tank on the trailer. A small dirt track leads out the back of the turnout and we drive down a ways to find our next bush camp in a lovely and protective nest of trees.