Thursday, August 15, 2013

We sit in the back of the 4WD talking about emu. Good hunting, them ones. Turkey, too, and kangaroo, but emu are the best.

We are bringing back a patient from the remote clinic into town, driving through rough savannah. She can just see out the window if she stretches up tall. Her mother shows me the places along the highway:

That side, we camp. Big river, down there. We stay in tent. Big tent. Big mob people. Drive back, whole mob, big truck. Go back community.

That other place, down there, name […], that good hunting place. Big mob emu there.

A little way along, I see a windsock and a small shed. We are still a long way out from town, way before the next station, with no other buildings in sight. I’ve driven this road a few times and don’t know of a community here, so I ask:

What’s this place? Is there a station here?

Mum says, here? Plane come.

I try again: What’s the name, the name of this place?

Receive a look of scornful bemusement:


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