Sympathy not fear

I’m driving to work, the narrow road following the curves of the river with its wide sweeps of sand and leafy gums. There are a few people stirring after a night in the creek, getting a little fire going. I like this road, because of the river and how you can still see bits of the old Alice Springs on the other side of the road – big grassy blocks with ramshackle fences and odd-shaped houses of fibro or stone, on the far end away from floods.

I’m getting near the town camp. This is one of around 20 areas, in or on the outskirts of town, with longterm leases owned by the Aboriginal groups that live on them. They were originally camps of fringe-dwellers but now have a handful to a few dozen houses. The town bigwigs want to get rid of the camps. It’s true many of them are very rundown, but people have a kind of autonomy in these ‘ghettoes’ that they wouldn’t have if they were ‘integrated’ into the rest of town like many Aboriginal people are. Many of the people in the camps grew up out bush and don’t live in houses the same way whitefellas do. They often live around the houses – cooking and sleeping outside – more than in them.

The camp along this road has an official Arrernte name, but it’s usually known as Abbott’s or BP camp – it’s near a BP garage. Not without its troubles and litter, the camp is open to people and the river in a way the new flats with tall colourbond fences will never be. These days, as with all the other camps and remote communities, there is a huge sign out the front proclaiming ‘No grog, no pornography’ in large letters, with details of the Federal Government’s recent Intervention requirements underneath. The Government has spent hundreds of thousands of dollars putting these humiliating and useless signs up all over the Territory.

There’s a woman sitting, with her head in her hands, in the middle of the road outside the camp. Cars are driving carefully around her. If I was in a hurry, I might too. But I’m not today. One of my friends from another camp has just killed herself – accidentally or on purpose – by driving a car into a tree. For her memory, at least, I decide to stop and help.

The woman is not in any real danger, but something’s obviously up with her. I walk over and ask what’s wrong. She says her husband left her last night, and starts crying. I say that I’m sorry, that it’s hard when things like that happen. I had a relationship end recently and I can relate to how this woman, maybe in her early forties, is feeling. She continues to sob. Many people’s lives are so much on the edge, with poverty and violence and deaths and drinking, that any new trauma can make someone flip right out – that’s probably what happened with my friend.

I hold the woman’s arm and tell her she needs to move off the road. She shakes her head. Cars keep driving around. Then one slows down. Some help, I think. I can’t move the woman by myself. The bloke winds down his window. ‘You’re better off calling the police in situations like this,’ he says. This makes me angry. ‘I don’t need the police,’ I say, and he drives off.

I notice a couple of blokes hanging around nearby, on the river side of the road. The woman tells me they’re her brothers – maybe cousin brothers. I yell out to them to help me move her, but they shake their heads, say they can’t. They’ve probably tried talking to her but don’t want to drag her off, it’s not their way.

I tell the woman I’ll give her a lift somewhere. Or does she want to come and have a cup of tea at my work? Sympathy helps, as it would with anyone. Eventually the woman agrees to come with me. She wants to go to the bank, but the banks are not open yet. Then she asks me to take her over to the men – her brothers have walked off into the river, about a hundred metres wide here. I don’t know why they’ve walked off. Maybe they thought the police were coming and wanted to keep out of trouble. We drive around to the other side of the river. The woman tells me her name and the community she comes from. I know this place a bit and we talk about families there.

When we get to the other side, we can see the men are walking back towards the camp. It’s alright, the woman says, they’re going back. You can take me back there. She’s smiling now, chatting happily. When we get back near the camp, a police car drives by. I can see the woman is thankful not to have to deal with them. We part warmly.