On hold...but more to come

Sorry for the delay, folks. I'm awaiting the return of my portable hard drive (which stores all my pix from up north) and access to a decent net connection. For the die-hard fans, there's another six installments - so just like Baby Jericho above (aka the mini black Michelin man), it's happy times ahead.

Hollywood celebrity meets Aboriginal community

As much as they create even more confusion, one of the more amusing things about the communities I'm working with are the nicknames given to people.
Usually inspired by the person's favourite Hollywood movie, or resemblance (however slight) to a particular movie star, nicknames are used as often as the person's Aboriginal name and English name, creating three layers of confusion for outsiders trying to find someone.
So, for our subject above, we've got his Aboriginal name ('Debilipu'), English name ('Percy') and nickname ('Popeye'), and it's not uncommon to hear him called any or all of them during conversation.
Beyond spinach-eating sailors, we also have Van Damme, Charles Bronson, Crusty the Clown, Scarface and Free Willy, and a host of non-celebrity but equally intriguing names, such as 'Burn the Rubber', 'Wookie', 'Mango' and 'Matchbox'.
Even the whitefella government man gets a nickname, and I guess I should take it as a compliment that people have given me enough thought as to come up with something appropriate. I just wish they'd come up with something more impressive than 'Tennis Ball Head'.

Another (Thurs)day in paradise

I hate Thursdays up here, and if pictures tell a thousand words, you'll know why by the photo above.
Thursdays have traditionally been pension pay day, where everyone got paid, partied and drunk, usually within hours of the money being transferred to their bank account. Although Centrelink (Australia's social security agency) has tried to address the issue by paying people on different days of the week, Thursday still remains the biggest drinking day in the community.
With no permanent police presence, most people openly ignore the Intervention's prohibition laws, and by early afternoon, the community is littered with hundreds of green cans, red cans and wine casks.
The result creates a painfully predictable day to which you can almost set your clock to, from the time the grog gets in (10.30am), the fights begin (above; 2pm) and the police arrive (4pm). There's usually a brief interval from 5pm through about 8pm, with the remaining rounds continuing into the early hours of the next morning.
Just another (Thurs)day in paradise.

Blocked for the bullseye

Okay, okay - so at 27,433 kilometres, I was a little late for the 15,000 km service on my vehicle.
But is that any excuse for the mechanic to leave the evidence sitting in the driver's seat?
For those that don't know, you're looking at the air filter for a car engine that should've been replaced a long, long time ago. Given that the engine works on an explosive mix of fuel and air, it's kind of a big deal, and probably explains why my car has been fairly sluggish over the past month.
Look closely and you'll see that in addition to the dust and dirt, it's completely clogged with grass, dragonflys, and yes, a whole bunch of bird feathers. Bullseye - I thought I'd missed 'em!

Good news is not knowing

There's good news and bad news when it comes to the kids in Aboriginal communities.
The bad news is that of all those who have it hard here, it's the kids who have it the hardest. The good news is they just don't know it.
As sad a comparison it may be, the kids, like the dogs here, wander from house to house at all hours of the day and night, usually in search of something to do, eat or drink. All are rake thin, most are raggedy, snot-nosed and always sick, and many are "grown up" by wider family - aunts, uncles and grandparents - rather than their immediate parents, who are often interstate, in gaol or deceased.
But despite the depressing circumstances, the kids are amazingly resilient, and - usually - relatively happy. It doesn't take long for them to get to know the outsider (me), and once they do, they're incredibly trusting and tactile. As I write this, one kid sits on my knee, one has his arm around me, another leans against me, and two tiny black hands struggle to hold onto my left arm.
Although most kids in the communities I'm working with lack an understanding of 'traditional' bush culture, there's no question they've created their own modern day equivalent, a creole of Australian sport, Top 40 music, Hollywood celebrity and immediate Aboriginality.
It's a strange mix, and I often wonder what these kids - born, bred and still living in abject poverty - think when they watch the music videos filled with flashy cars and luxurious lifestyles, or how they feel when they see the contrast between themselves and the other (usually non-Aboriginal) kids at the regional shopping centre.
Then again, perhaps they don't see it - and the good news remains that they don't know what they don't know.

Up close and personal at arm's length

Perhaps the most considerable challenge working and living in an Indigenous community is the need to remain impartial, independent and, above all, somewhat removed from the day-to-day life of the community itself.
But what happens when the success of that job depends on your ability to become part of the community - and becoming part of the community only happens when you immerse yourself in the day-to-day life of the community?
It's hard not to let yourself become too involved, and with two weeks until my deployment finishes, I find myself increasingly asking how close is too close?
Do I intervene when I see the 15 year-old from next door copping a hiding from his drunk father? Should I really be taking 40 litres of fresh water to a remote outstation at midnight? Does a spectacular tropical sunset over a remote stretch of coastland justify having an icy-cold beer with a bunch of blokes who are known alcoholics?
In saying yes or no to questions like those above, there's a direct bearing on your presence, identity and standing in the community, and through that, your ability to effectively service the community. In many cases, saying yes, taking part or cracking open that icy-cold can of beer is one of the few rewards - however right or wrong - in an otherwise completely restricting environment.
Most of the time, I'm confident I'm doing the right thing, getting up close and personal while staying at arm's length, but it's a fine line, and yet another complexity in the confusing world of Aboriginal service delivery.

Words, pictures, profits

Sales are up in remote Indigenous communities for generic label Black & Gold, and its got a lot to do with the brand's fresh new logo and packaging design (see above, with old at right, and new at left).
Ignore the new, non-1970s layout, or the slightly more upmarket logo - and note the colour photo.
Normally, generic labels avoid photos at all costs - after all, including a photo needs more ink which means higher printing costs - but the brand learnt a hard lesson from leaving them out, with many Aboriginal people having no idea as to what the product actually was. Look closely and you'll see that there's twice the stock of nappies where the packaging doesn't include a photo.
It's a sad reflection on the incredibly high levels of illiteracy up here, and according to my local outback store manager, the same thing happens whenever a major brand changes the design of a specific product (especially when there's a major overhaul of the colours used in the packaging) and sales plummet, until such time as the original design is brought back - or a competitor comes in using the previous brand's colour scheme...and, of course, a photo.