In 2009, I was on the Australian leg of
my year-long world tour. By about March our time in Australia was
coming to an end and The Boy and I had nearly journeyed around the
entire country by train and camper van. In the two months we’d been
travelling around, we never felt we’d got a proper grasp of
attitudes towards and relationships with Aborigines.
The media tells you Aborigines and
“white Australians” now co-exist in harmony after land rights
were recognised back in 1976 and the original act was amended some
thirty years later. Driving through smaller “townships” along the
west and north coast it is clear this is not the reality. The reality
is complex and hard to understand purely by distanced observation.
Our first Aussie trip back in 2005
along the well-travelled East Coast did little to challenge this well
publicised misconception. It wasn’t until we moved away from
popular tourist destinations that we actually started to see
Aboriginal people and it wasn’t until we hit the Northern Territory
that we had our first somewhat mixed interactions. First impressions
were far from flattering.
Camping in the grounds of a
plush-looking hotel in Fitzroy
we were disturbed in the middle of the night by a drunken figure
tapping on the side of the van. In the middle of no-where, exhausted
from the oppressive humidity and disturbed from my naked slumber, I
wasn’t particularly impressed by the attentions of this stranger
and actually felt quite threatened.
First arriving into Darwin, we stayed
on the city’s outskirts in a campsite with friendly full-time
residents, both Kiwis and Aussies. Here we once again witnessed overt
racism from people who were otherwise well-balanced, educated and
welcoming. It wasn’t until our second night that we finally gained
some genuine insight into the Aboriginal culture and clashes between
Australia’s people.
In the bar of our city centre hostel,
The Boy met Andrew McMillan. We’d actually argued that day but as
soon as The Boy discovered Andrew was a writer, he suggested I come
to meet him. After our initial encounter, we ended up
spending our last two nights in Darwin going over to Andrew’s
house, the affectionately named “bunker”.
Having received the Northern Territory
Book Of The Year Award for his non-fiction novel, An Intruder's
Guide to East Arnhem Land, Andrew was invaluable in explaining
hostilities between Australian “whites” and Aborigines. He was a
fascinating man who had truly lived to the max and I’m sad to say
is no longer alive.
Following on from our days in Darwin,
we witnessed yet more drunken Aborigines in Katherine and also met an
elderly Aboriginal artist who dramatically contrasted with previous negative images we'd been confronted with. When we left
Australia, we planned to stay in contact with Andrew and often talked
of arranging a meet-up if he ever re-visited the Hay Literary
Festival.
Unfortunately words were merely words
and time flew by. We never got in contact with him again. It is only
in the last few days that I have discovered Andrew died battling
bowel cancer in February this year. Hearing of his death left me with
a feeling of profound sadness. I didn’t know Andrew very well but
he made such an impact, I doubt I will ever forget him. I am just
relieved to hear that he spent his last days and final moments as he
always wanted to. The Boy clearly remembers Andrew saying he'd like to be carried out of “the bunker” in a box and that is exactly
what happened. But only after he'd formed a last minute band...
R.I.P. Andrew – wherever you are, I
bet you’re creatively busy!
