February 8:
“…Only the white crooks survive here…”
From an independent funding source I managed to get $36,000 to start an alcohol rehabilitation programme. I handed the cheque over to the Aboriginal organisation in Alice Springs who were responsible for all monies, asking the accountant to hold it until the project could be launched. Some time later – maybe six weeks or so – I again approached the accountant telling him I would soon be ready to start tapping into the $36,000.
“Oh, that,” he said. “That’s already spent.”
“On what?” I demanded to know.
“Well,” he grinned, “you know what it’s like around here. Your place was missing a lot of money that we just couldn’t account for, so we used your $36,000 to patch up the crack. You know how it is. Now everything’s sweet.”
“Not with me, it isn’t,” I said. “You have misappropriated a grant of money that was given to the community for a specific purpose. Now, that’s illegal, and I’m going to report you.”
That same night, very late, he rang me to say: “I just thought I’d let you know, mate, that your $36,000 has been put back for your drunk’s programme. You know, I really admire blokes like you …,” and the flattery poured out unabated.
Some days later we heard on our impeccable grapevine that the accountant had resigned and joined up with another Aboriginal organisation in Alice Springs. So it goes on.
A sniffer attacked the office while I was away. The female accountant, Jane, had been approched by him during my absence, demanding money. When she refused, he went beserk. He started smashing things and tried to assault her. But his father intervened and dragged him outside. Jane locked all the doors for her own safety. Outside, the sniffer started throwing rocks and bottles at the office walls, ordering the “white cunt” to come outside so he could bash her. When I arrived, I found the sniffer’s father standing outside the locked office door, standing guard, in case his son tried to smash his way in. He told me what had happened. I immediately called out to Jane that I was back and asked her to summon the police. She had already done so, she said, over half an hour ago, but they still hadn’t arrived. She told me the sniffer was at the rear office door calling her names and trying to break in. Cautiously, I walked around the building to the rear and when the sniffer saw me standing there he withdrew, saying nothing. I just stood there, silently, staring at him, watching his every move. He started to look uncomfortable and walked further away, looking back at me, very uncertain of himself all of a sudden. When at last a police car arrived I was a bit surprised to see that the two cops, a man and a woman, both carried guns in a hip holster. They approached the sniffer from two angles and quietly guided him into the car. He went like a lamb. Jane has now resigned. I don’t blame her. This happens all the time. They can’t keep good European staff on such dangerous locations, often in isolation and without much support when things go wrong. Only the white crooks survive here. If you are part of the network of corruption, you will survive. The honest ones last six months at the longest, I’m told, even though they offer very good money as a lure.
On very cold mornings (it can get VERY cold in the desert, often below zero), I often see a group of young sniffers huddled around a large plastic rubbish container they have set on fire. As it burns, the container melts away into a black, oozy puddle. It terrifies me to see those stupid kids crowding around the blazing fire with their cans and bottles of petrol held close to their faces. An old woman told me that sometimes the petrol ignites and the sniffer virtually gets cremated in front of everyone’s eyes.
“Nothing we fellas can do about it,” she shrugged helplessly. “Them kids is full of petrol and they just blow up.”
Overnight, one of the unoccupied houses was smashed to smithereens by the sniffers. Everything that could be destroyed was destroyed, leaving just a pile of useless, unidentifiable rubble. This included a refrigerator, washing machine, freezer, air conditioners, furniture, even the doors. When I arrived in the first light of the morning with a camera, intending to photograph the vandalism, old Pop, who was the council chairman, shook his head and muttered: “No cameras here. No one allowed to take pictures.”
“Who said so?” I asked.
“Council say that,” he explained. “No one can take pictures here.”
So when he was gone, I took a photo of the demolished house.
The next night the sniffers set the house rubble on fire and enjoyed the spectacle through a long, freezing desert night. In the morning, only coals and charred metals remained on the site.
Soon afterwards two representatives from the Aboriginal Housing Commission arrived from Adelaide. One was a white woman shacked up with a part-Aboriginal man which gave her the distinction of being the A.H.C’s programme manager. Her offsider was the obligatory part-Aboriginal woman whose only role seemed to be to re-enforce the dictates of her white lady boss, and was undoubtedly paid extremely well for her submissiveness and endorsements. I showed the women the destroyed house.
The white woman said: “Well, they will need another house to replace it.”
“Yes,” said her lackey. “Of course. I will put it on the list for another house.”
“And what if the sniffers trash the new house?” I asked. “Will they get put on your list for a third house?”
They both stared at me as though I was a bad smell who had suddenly acquired a physical origin.
Old Pop, the council chairman, dropped a friendly arm around my shoulders and grinned: “No more worry, brother. This mob got plenty houses. We just get another one if them silly kids burn ‘em down.”
