Flying for a piece of cake

As many will know, I'm not one for flying, but faced with a four-hour drive or a half-hour flight, I know which one I'll choose, especially after a 5am start and a full day of meetings.
So when the opportunity to catch a charter flight back to Darwin came up, I grabbed it, not realising there was one small problem - how to pay?
The pilot couldn't take my credit card, and beyond the six dollars in my laptop bag, the closest ATM was 120kms up the track.
It was looking a lost cause and a long drive home until the pilot, who'd been sitting patiently outside the meeting room for most of the day, suggested an alternative - one homemade ginger cake for a one-way ticket to Darwin.
Turns out that Captain Barter had forgotten his lunch, and the only thing he'd had all day was some cake (baked by my partner, Julia, and brought up to the NT on Friday) I'd shared at morning smoko. Knowing what a greedy bugger I am, Julia had brought two cakes up north - and amazingly, I hadn't eaten both within minutes of her arrival.
There's no doubt air fares have fallen over the past few years, but do let me know if you see anything cheaper than a charter flight to Darwin for a few slices of cake.

Closing up the containers

It's hard to blog when you're homeless, but that's where I've been for the last fortnight.
Since the shipping container accommodation used for government officers was found to be full of formaldehyde (I knew they smelt bad, but not that bad) and closed up quicksmart, I've been living out of a suitcase in all sorts of hotels around Darwin. 12 of them in 15 days, to be precise.
They've ranged from the super-nice to the not-so-nice, including one which smelt worse than the containers themselves.
At this stage, there's no formal indication on when we'll be back in the containers (they're being tested by a bunch of very formal, very serious, scientists from Sydney as we speak) but given the complexity of the situation, and the speed at which things happen up here, there's every chance that I'll be homeless until I'm sent home in July!

No worries about being water-proof

A slow week for all the wrong reasons, but I'm pleased to report that testing of the water-proof, shock-proof and kid-proof camera is still on schedule.
Since handing it across to the Under-12 Wrecking, sorry, Testing Team last Tuesday, the camera has spent at least 2-3 hours under fresh/salt/tap water each day, and works fine. Image quality is great - the camera has an auto white-balance setting that seems to know when it's underwater (automatically compensating for the blue or yellow casts), and the flash lights everything up without a problem, as the Chief Wrecker, sorry, Chief Tester shows above.
Stand by for shock-proof, dust-proof and kid-proof tests in the days to come.
BTW, despite the expression on the tester above, he's actually not having a sad, bad or otherwise unhappy time. It's just that most Aboriginal people - old and young - don't smile for the camera.

A sole for every surface

Computers, cameras and mobile phones ain't the only things 'ruggedised' in remote Indigenous communities - in fact, all the magnesium, titanium and triple-seals in the world are no match for the feet of Aboriginal kids across the Territory.
In the two months I've been up here, I'm yet to see one kid wearing a pair of shoes in any of the three communities I'm working with. That's not to say that things are so bad there's no shoes for the children; rather, that like singlets, shirts and most other clothes, shoes are just another burden getting in the way of going outside.
It doesn't matter what sort of track, trail or surface - it's bare feet all the way. Bitumen road at midday in the middle of summer? No worries! Broken shale that will slash the sidewall of a reinforced truck tyre? Bring it on! 10-foot tall spear grass with who-knows-how-many brown snakes slithering through it? No problem!
Is it any wonder these kids give me a funny look when I tell them I'll be ready to come outside in five minutes, or as soon as I've laced-up my Vibram-soled, double-stitched, Gore-Tex-lined hiking boots with reinforced heavy-duty tread?

Testing times for the toughest camera

After many weeks of tiny sand-covered hands vying desperately for my DSLR, I only just remembered that I'd been issued with a water-proof, shock-proof - and hopefully kid-proof - Olympus digicam in my grab bag of gadgetry.
Road test, literally, this afternoon (as it's dropped onto bitumen - a result of three hands going for one camera) and so far, so good on the shock-proof factor. Tomorrow, the guys have promised me they'll test the water-proofing down at the dam, and with a week of school holidays about to begin, there's not likely to be any shortcomings on the kid-proof bit, either.

Semi-trailers times four

I don't know if it's just me, all blokes, or anyone from down south, but the fascination with road trains continues, despite seeing hundreds of them each week.
(For those who don't know what a road train is, think of a semi-trailer, double it, and then double it again - one truck, four trailers.)
The tankers are the biggest and baddest of all the trains - 150,000 litres of unleaded, charging along a two-lane highway at 130 kilometres an hour - although the mining trucks, with their raw, reinforced trailers covered in red dust and carrying who-knows-what riches, come a close second.
Along with the gleaming, clean and colour co-ordinated road trains of the big corporate players, like the Shell train above, you also see plenty of owner-operated 'mongrels'; ancient Kenworths or Macks, pulling along four mis-matching trailers with completely different cargo on each one.
New or old, matching or not, they're all still huge (try 50 metres and 62 wheels) - so much so that even my wide-angle lens can't fit the whole thing in.

Going troppo in a season out of schedule

No one's quite sure why, but this year, the wet season is weird - really weird. It's way over schedule, and the dry is nowhere to be seen. Instead, the days are long, hot and humid, with intense electrical storms and torrential showers arriving almost on cue at 6pm; an unseasonal repeat to the Territory's infamous build-up to the monsoon, and the reason behind the term 'going troppo'.
And nowhere is it more apparent than where I am right now.
Since Monday, every night has been another chapter in the real-life 'Dummies Guide to Going Troppo', complete with true surround sound, including men shouting, women screaming, kids crying and dogs barking.
Without exaggeration, it's a war zone from the comfort of your air-conditioning; listen closely and you'll hear the words turn into fists, then fists into faces, all the while punctuated by breaking bottles and the shrill ring of steel piping being hurled through the night.
It's a challenging, confronting and confusing environment for insiders and outsiders alike, including the police, who are sitting at the entrance to the community when I get home this evening. This is the fourth time in five days they've been called out this week, but tonight, even they're scared by what they see.
Fuelled by green cans, red cans and cheap casks, around 25 blokes swing fists, feet, sticks and whatever else they can find at each other. One fella gets hit again, again and again; each time he gets up, his anger grows even stronger. It's terrifying stuff, and makes even the most ferocious small-town Saturday night punch-up seem like nothing at all.
In the background, lightning arcs across the sky, reflecting the rage and intensity below as the police discuss how best to handle the situation. One officer suggests firing several rounds into the air; another says they should turn around and go home.
If only I had the option. Instead, I wish them good luck, roll up the window and hope the wet season gets back on schedule.