Piccaninny Daylight
“…truth should never be allowed to interfere with a good story…”
By John M. Stuart
An Alice Springs horse enthusiast went into the Don Thomas saddlery store to make purchases. The sales lady gave a stern warning against the purchase of “shoddy” leather goods made in poverty areas, such as India and Vietnam.
“Always buy the Australian-made stuff,” the customer was advised. “Then you can’t go wrong.”
He purchased a brand-new bridle for his horse, also a horse rug for the cold nights ahead.
Returning home, he decided to give the new bridle some treatment with leather dressing. While thus engaged, he noticed stamped into one of the straps: “Made In India.”
When his horse rolled while wearing the rug, two straps snapped. They were made of a cheap, very fibrous “leather” substitute and painted to disguise their true identity.
Examining the rug more closely, it bore the legend “Made In Vietnam.”
One of our old-timers remembers this story…
Years ago a bloke with a horse and dray was travelling the bush track between Arltunga and Alice Springs.
Following heavy rains overnight, the bushman went through a deep, muddly puddle and was amazed to see his mare sink into the muck up to her belly.
He tried every trick and ploy he knew to free the mare from the bog.
He dug out the mud and packed it with branches. He pulled on her reins till his arms nearly dislocated, and all the while he boiled with angry frustration at the realisation that all his efforts had been pointless.
Along the track, in a horse-and-jinker, came a minister of the church.
The reverend gentleman noticed the bushman’s plight and enquired: “Is there anything I can do to help?”
The bushie exploded: “This silly old bastard has got herself bloody-well bogged up to the tits. I’ve tried every bloody trick I know, but the silly old bugger can’t get out.”
Ignoring the flow of profanity, the cleric enquired: “Have you tried praying?”
“Praying?” exclaimed the bushman. “No, I haven’t tried praying, mate, but I’m prepared to try any bloody thing.”
So the two men knelt side by side in the red mud, eyes closed, hands clasped in prayer, as they beseeched the Lord to assist in their earthly plight.
After some moments, they heard a heavy squelching sound and opened their eyes to witness the mare heave herself out of the bog and settle herself and the waggon on solid ground.
“Crikey!” said the bushman, “How did that happen?”
The reverend gentleman scratched his head and muttered: “Fucked if I know.”
Down the pub one afternoon a bloke was telling the story of a young Pommy (English) tourist who was being introduced to the mysteries of a pig farm somewhere down south.
The cocky (farmer) was obviously very proud of his sows, boars and their various offspring and went to great pains to explain to his visitor how the pig was fully utilised by consumers.
He explained: “All the meat is turned into chops and bacon. The bones are crushed and used in pet foods. So are all the guts. Even the pig’s trotters (feet) are pickled and sold in the butcher shops as a delicacy.”
The English chap watched curiously as several beefy pigs snorted, wallowed and splashed each other at the drinking trough.
“They’re rather wasteful, aren’t they?” he observed. “They are spoiling a lot of that water.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said the cocky, “we’ve got plenty of that. It’s only bore water.”
“Geez!” gasped the Pommy, “you don’t waste much of the pig, do you?”
On a recent trip to Tennant Creek I was told the tale of a bloody war caused by an administrative error of judgement.
It seems a senior council staff member once enjoyed a happy idea: he thought the grassy median strip down the centre of the Stuart Highway in the main street should be replaced with small fist-sized rocks.
“Let’s get rid of the grass,” he probably told his fellows. “We will save money on water, reticulation gear, man-power, etc.”
At great expense to Tennant Creek’s tax-payers. council labourers ripped out the strip of green lawn and trucked in loads of stones.
These were carefully scattered over the surface of the median strip and patted down into order.
As the sun set over the arid landscape, the city fathers beamed with self-satisfaction as they looked over the results of their staff member’s vision.
“Think of the water we’ll save,” they mumbled to each other. “maybe it will help us with a civic award.”
But, as the poet, Rabbie Burns, once said: ‘The best laid plans o’ mice and men often get stuffed up,” or words to that effect.
With the first light of dawn the main street of Tennant Creek was a scene of absolute carnage.
Lying all over the highway were a million rocks.
Rocks filled the gutters. Rocks covered the footpaths. Rocks had been hurled through nearly every window in the main shopping area.
Some of the rocks were blood-stained.
Rocks were everywhere but on the median strip where they had so recently been arranged.
Overnight, several Aboriginal factions had decided to settle their differences, so the tale unfolds.
Seizing the conveniently placed rocks, these were hurled at the heads and bodies of enemies, sometimes rendering them unconscious. sometimes missing their target entirely and shattering shop windows, causing untold thousands of dollars damage and upsetting insurance companies all around the countryside.
In these more enlightened times the main road through Tennant Creek has hardly a rock in sight.
The council have restored lawns along the median strip and water conservation does not appear to be any longer a matter of municipal concern.
A Dutch lass scored a part-time job working as a barmaid in an Alice Springs pub.
Although the lass has passable English, she was somewhat flabbergasted when one evening a young Aussie male asked if she had any Durex.
In Europe, it should be understood, Durex is the trade name of a brand of condoms. She was not aware that, in Australia, it is sticky tape.
Taken aback by the request, the Dutch girl said to her Aussie employer: “Do you sell condoms in this hotel?”
Surprised. the publican asked: “Why do you want condoms?”
“They aren’t for me,” she blushed. “That man over there wants to buy some.”
The publican then approached his customer, asking: “Eh, mate, are you looking for some condoms?”
“No, the patron replied. “I asked the sheila for Durex – you know, sticky tape.”
The publican quickly understood the misunderstanding, and tactfully explained to the Dutch girl the vast difference between adhesive tape and contraceptives.
Among Tennant Creek’s earliest successful prospectors was a blind man, Bill Weaber, and his one-eyed mate, Jack Noble.
One of their pegged leases, known as ‘Noble’s Nob.’ has, since the 1930s, produced more than $2.5 billion worth of gold.
Such extraordinary tales are common around Tennant Creek.
Locals like to tell strangers that the original site for the town was further north by about 10 kilometres, near the old Telegraph Station. The truck bringing in the beer became stuck in deep mud near the site where the Tennant Creek Hotel now stands.
The town developed around the bogged truck, so the legend goes.
I cannot verify this as a true incident.
Maybe it is just one of those fanciful lies that flourish in the bush and get handed down through the generations as folklore.
In any event, the truth should never be allowed to interfere with a good story.
