Archive for October, 2010

I wrote this for a Rock Magazine article a few years ago about climbing in Central Australia.

Dave climbing the second pitch

Viewed from a distance, the wedge-shaped Karinyarra massif resembles the sinking Titanic. The scree slopes like the waves beating against the boat, and the cliffline like the broken hull. Racking up to climb on the prow of this great ship, we liked these romantic images. They kept our mind off the fact it was 200m of towering choss. Definitely not the next Arapiles, but an impressive mountain in a proud position in the middle of the desert.

Several years ago I made my first enquiries about climbing this remote Central Australian peak. Japaljarri, a Warlpiri man and Aboriginal Owner for the site, told me many people had negotiated the long scramble to the summit from the western side. In the old days, men had climbed to sing love songs from a stone platform on the summit. He had not heard of anyone attempting to climb the eastern face. Why would I want to do that? ‘Too dangerous’, he said. I showed him some back issues of Rock and laid out some of my gear. Convinced of my ability and somewhat amused at my enthusiasm, he granted me permission to attempt the climb.

Before leaving, Jangala, a young man, told us about the strong ‘love magic’ associated with Karinyarra and warned that if we climb it, any shirts we wore would possess this love magic! We now had all the inspiration we needed for the long walk in. After walking for miles over sandhills and through mulga scrub, passing through a pack of camels, we reached the base of the cliff in the afternoon and climbed two pitches before retreating in darkness.

A month later, Dave and I stood at the base of the prow. At that point, it is almost possible to look down both sides of the mountain. On a clear day we could have seen Yuendumu and Papunya in the distance. We paused to reflect. It was October, and it was hot.

We discovered we had left all but two litres of water behind with the cached pack on the walk in. But, the day had already got off to a bad start. Having left the sunscreen at home, we had found some red ochre in the car to cover our white bodies from the sun. We were also a little concerned about that love magic. So, it was with some irony that we had taken off our shirts and painted ourselves for battle with the elements.

The mountain rises 550m above the plain; and the cliffline begins about half-way up. So, the exposure from the first pitch was fantastic. With the wind blowing hard, we imagined ourselves climbing on the prow of that great ship. We were surprised to find sections of solid sandstone. The second pitch was partic­ularly good and involved a traverse into a crack that was clean enough to accept protection we felt reasonably happy with. However, on the third pitch Dave had to take a diagonal route to lessen the risk of taking me out with the inevitable falling rocks. We sat at the base of the fourth pitch looking up at a mass of delicately perched refridgerator-sized boulders of conglomerate sandstone. While not technically difficult, it looked very fragile and almost devoid of anything other than token pro.

We sat for a while, looking out over the plain to the north. The white explorer, Colonel Warburton travelled through here in 1872 and, in the typical style of conquering hero, renamed the mountain ‘Central Mt Wedge’, because he thought it resembled a slice of cheese. Sitting halfway up the cliff, it certainly did, though well past its use-by date. Ironically, most Warlpiri today refer to Karinyarra as ‘Mt Wedge’. We consoled ourselves with the fact that Warburton had not actually climbed the mountain, marking in his diary: ‘The hill was too formidable for me to ascend’.

I stretched the rope through a series of large boulders on a ledge and continued delicately up through very loose country. I was relieved when Dave and the rope arrived intact and he continued on a somewhat contrived attempt to find an inter­esting path through the choss. A scramble to the summit followed where unusual weather conditions obscured our view. Having run out of water halfway up the cliff, with youthful fervour we celebrated the climb with two small bottles of Baileys.

We had planned to make the long walk off the back of the mountain. However, I managed to convince Dave it would be quicker and more inter­esting if we abseiled down the large cleft that split the southern face. After three 50m abseils we pulled up 8m off the ground with nowhere to go. Feeling quite dehydrated, Dave soloed a difficult traverse and convinced me to follow.

Walking down the slope to retrieve our pack, we could just make out the car in the distance. I sighted a line to it, hoping we would reach it before dark. Excited by the prospect of reaching water, we walked to where we expected the pack to be. Somewhat confused and increasingly dehydrated, we realised we had been mistaken. With the light fading, I put the climbing gear down and climbed a large boulder from which I could see the pack across several gullies lying next to a rock. I moved quickly, arriving to find nothing. In my haste, I had left the climbing gear behind. We had now lost all our gear except for the rope Dave carried.

Feeling quite foolish, I called out to Dave. We spent 10 minutes finding each other in the dark. We were both very dehydrated and obviously lacked the required acumen to continue the search. I was beginning to get dizzy and my lips were cracked. We decided to head to the car.

We walked for what seemed hours, through mulga scrub and rocky spinifex, using the dark outline of the mountain in the distance as a reference point. Frustrated and unable to find the car and concerned I would soon blackout from dehyd­ration, we stopped. I lay on a pile of rocks and fell asleep using the rope as a pillow. When the moon rose some time later, we discovered we were lying on the track the car had made through the spinifex!

Two weeks later, I returned and soon located the equipment. It concerned me how the dehyd­ration and effort of climbing had distorted our ability to locate the gear. Even with experience and preparation, things can very easily go wrong climbing in remote areas. I also don’t recommend celeb­rating climbs with bottles of Baileys before descending.

Sometime later, I remembered Jangala’s warning about that love magic. It seems to have had little effect on me. Sadly, however, Dave got bitten and seldom frequents the cliffs of his childhood, preferring instead the horizontal adventures of adult life.

I have climbed Karinyarra a number of times since. On one occasion, my partner and I reached the summit to find an open case of flashing electrical equipment. As we sat and contem­plated what it was and how it got in such a remote location, a helicopter moved towards us and eventually landed nearby. A slightly disheveled man ran to the case, completely ignoring our attempts at commu­nication, before returning to the helicopter and literally, flying off into the sunset. We never did find out what that was all about.

I met Scott Duncan at Yuendumu in 2000 when he came out to shoot a short film on the local painters for the NBC Olympics coverage and I was working at the local art centre.

Yuendumu is pretty much in the centre of Australia on land belonging to the Warlpiri and Anmatjerre people.

Scott came out to shoot a short film on the local painters for the NBC Olympics coverage and I was working at the local art centre.

I’d never seen so much film equipment in Yuendumu before. I think there were about 35 cases of gear! The drive out to Yuendumu was pretty rough back then and Scott’s crew had a bit of an accident on the drive out, so when they arrived they were all pretty dusty and fit right in.

The light in Central Australia can be pretty special and when you travel the desert country with Warlpiri people it comes alive with the stories they tell. Scott got that right away. I remember him talking about how ‘juicy’ the sunsets are out here, and all the ‘epic’ shots he was going to get… I’d later come to really appreciate and learn from Scott’s unique approach to capturing the world around him as he engages with it.

At the time, I was working on a book about one of the local elders and after Scott’s visit I was inspired to buy a Nikon F100 and explore some of the things he had taught me about photo­graphy. I travelled to China and shot way too many rolls of Kodak, Fuji and Agfa film (remember them?) around the Tibetan border trying to see what each could do. As I was in Sydney during the Olympics working on a doco, Scott gave me a whole lot more cool film to play with.

I found myself shooting everything on this retro Kodak slide film Scott had put me onto and cross-processing it. It made the clouds blow out crazy, gave this beautiful blue gritty look to dark skin, and bled purple  or orange on silhouettes. I ended up buying bulk rolls of the stuff and still have some cooking in the fridge in Yuendumu. Now that I’ve gone digital all I have is this Photoshop action… it’s not the same, you know.

Anyway, back to the film Scott shot… I was really impressed by what he managed to capture in only a few days and the sensitive way he dealt with people and presented the film. Everyone in Yuendumu loved it and we still watch it!

I think meeting Scott and getting to share that first visit with him in Yuendumu really opened my eyes to what was possible creatively with photo­graphy and encouraged me to take the book project I was working on to another level.

To see some Yuendumu paintings, visit www.warlu.com

To see Scott’s work, visit www.scottduncanfilms.com, and to read about his adventures visit www.scottduncanfilms.blogspot.com.

Now it’s time to watch Scott’s film. Keep an eye out for the awesome shot of the southern sky captured on a time lapse camera that sat out in the bush carefully watched over by scrub bullocks.

I stumbled across this today. I wrote it about 8 or 9 years ago and thought I’d post it.

Gutting a snake on the Yininti-walku-walku trip

After returning from a funeral in Melbourne of a Whitefella who used to live in the community I was greeted by two Nampijinpa ladies.  They wanted to talk to me and I offered them a cup of tea and we sat on the grass outside.  We each sat looking in a different direction. We talked for a little while about my trip and the insig­ni­ficant details of travelling 3000 ks in a Toyota.  It soon became clear that the ladies wanted to discuss the funeral.

I did not realise the affect this persons death had had on the community.  One of the ladies, who people had begun calling my ‘mother’ after her only son died, took my hand in hers and told me that if I should ever feel like that man — if I should ever stay away from Yuendumu and feel sad or alone — I should know that I had family here in Yuendumu.  I looked at the other lady who smiled in agreement.  Not knowing what to say, I replied ‘Yuwayi’.  I had already told her that it had been good to see my family down south.  But, that man had family down south and he was still sad.  I told those two ladies that I was not sad.  People used to call that man Wajampa, which is Warlpiri for sad.

When the ladies left I started thinking about how I had become close to some of the people at Yuendumu. I remembered back to the time when I was just a youngfella standing on the cracked pavement of a basketball court with kids going through boxes of coloured jumpers looking for their favourite number.  I umpired short offensive games dominated by little kids that launched the ball off their shoulders with both hands and somehow managed to get it through the hoop.  After the kids games, the young men would come to play on their court.  I collected the jumpers and whistles and threw a ball over to them.  We didn’t really know each other at that time, the forty or so young blokes on the other side of the court and me, the whitefella who didn’t know much Warlpiri and was about the same age as a few of the older players.  For the first time in my life I was challenged with the feeling of being very much out of my depth and knowing I was being watched.  I didn’t understand what was being said, or what was going on; even the body language was different.

It’s hard now to remember exactly why I had trouble under­standing these blokes —  now that they seem more familiar and I know their names and we have lived together.  But, I do remember feeling very isolated, intrusive, and self conscious.  I don’t feel so much like that now.  I’ve lived here long enough to have seen older kids become young men, and young men become fathers.

There are all these other stories that are part of my experience at Yuendumu:

Driving into Yulara with a truck covered in red dust stuck to diesel, the result of a leaking fuel tank.  People covered in red ochre walking from the truck to buy cigarettes, leaving smudges of colour wherever they went on the white washed walls of the resort.  Sitting waiting for the fuel line to be fixed wondering if the tourists who were watching us realised that the desert had just got into town and would soon pass them by.  Then driving out of town and picking up the old men who were sitting under a tree.

Being at the side of a man who just passed away. Sitting with other men my age as a brother and son of the deceased.  Sitting confused and crying with women as they walked behind us, embracing us one by one.  Going to the clinic and lifting his body into a black bag. Putting the bag into the back of a car of a man we had just met, a man we did not know.  Sometime later, driving through the scrub looking for a gravesite with the backhoe following.  Watching the hole being dug, thinking that it’s a crappy place to end up, in a hole in the ground, even if it is just your body.  Then celeb­rating the man’s life, speaking some words to his family and friends, laying across the coffin and finally dropping a handful of sand before decorating the place with plastic flowers and a white cross.  Eating sausages at the church when we arrived back at Yuendumu, wondering if the image of a man is stronger in our minds when we don’t remember him in photo­graphs, as we took some of each other.

Creeping up on a sandhill way out west at Yininti-walku-walku with an old man, two young­fellas and two friends.  Looking suspi­ciously at a area of water on the salt lake that Japanangka said is where the Warnayarra lives.  Listening to his stories of when he walked there as a child while I made spinifex resin on the head of a shovel under a large desert oak.  Desperately pulling things out of the back of the Toyota when we thought the goanna we had just caught set off the emergency beacon.  Then getting bogged in a claypan with rain coming in, a long way from the nearest road.

Travelling to a group of low lying hills to the south of Mt Theo with an old man and his family.  Digging out a soakage that the old man had drunk from with his family as a child.  Collecting the water in a green Sprite bottle.  Keeping that water for four years before finally giving it to the old man’s grandson who was yet to visit the site of his own country.

There are many other stories.  Stories that I think about now and then.  They make me laugh, make me think, make me sad, but ultimately, make my life richer for having been a part of them.

My exper­iences at Yuendumu have revolved around relationships built with people within the community.  A constant daily occurrence; inter­action was not a choice. I was forced to commu­nicate, to understand and seek to be understood, and to cross barriers.  This has been difficult and one of the biggest challenges of my life; to be uncom­fortable, develop a greater sense of family, have the patience to sit and listen to old people, and have the humour and humility to (like them) learn another language and attempt to use it.  I have learnt to allow language to break down barriers; to laugh at mistakes and enjoy drinking really strong, milky sweet tea.

Bouncing along a dusty track out bush I learnt to accept country music as a legitimate genre.  I even considered barracking for Collingwood.  I discovered the currency of boomerangs, blankets, kangaroos and firewood.  I spent most of my 20s at Yuendumu; I feel like I grew into a man there, and I did not do it on my own.  Maybe one day I’ll be that old man sitting on a bed, keeping myself company by closing my eyes and recalling these stories.