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DISPATCH FROM AUSTRALIA:
GEORGE OF THE OUTBACK

Text: JOSHUA OSTROFF

Decked out in red dirt-encrusted suit pants and what may have been a button-down office shirt in a previous life, the white-bearded Aboriginal elder approaches the small group. His worn, wrinkled face breaks into a wide grin, revealing a partial set of brown and yellow teeth, as he produces a large goanna and throws it proudly in the dirt.

A younger man motions to me. "Taste like chicken," he says, rubbing his stomach. Hungry dogs circle around as an old woman, her ceremonial white body paint visible under an ill-fitting summer dress, removes the dead lizard’s innards. A second old woman begins drawing in the sand, while speaking a mixture of Warlpiri and traditional sign language. I’m told she’s explaining that a Western Australian tribe, the Walmajarri, have "eaten the snake’s eggs and made rain." Looking up, I see only blue.

I came to Alice Springs to track down the Aboriginal Australia obscured by tacky souvenir and overpriced art shops. I knew Alice was the hub of the country, but I was seeking its heart.

While the original inhabitants of this island continent suffered the indignities of colonialism, the desert people of the Northern Territory have managed to emerge relatively unscathed. But few travellers get to experience life in their communities without connections. Mine was named George.

George Jampijinpa Robertson and his wife Monica grew up in the desert community of Yuendumu, but moved to Alice years ago to perform traditional dances and make dot paintings for camera-toting tourists. After I express interest in learning more about contemporary Aboriginal life, George offers to ride with me to his former home, 300 kilometres away.

We drive out past the MacDonnell mountains and follow the dirt Tanami Track. Looking back at our red dust plume, George points out the path he followed as a child, helping drive cattle down to Adelaide. He went on to become a stockman but abandoned ranch work. Eventually, he assembled the first Warlpiri dictionary and was invited on a speaking tour of American universities. But that was long ago.

Housing about 1,000 residents, Yuendumu looks like a semi-abandoned refugee camp. The nomadic Warlpiri tribe once wandered throughout the desert landscape, but severe droughts and a paternalistic government eventually led to the establishment of Yuendumu in 1946 to provide federal "supervision." It took another 20 years for the Warlpiri to gain control of their own community.

George directs me through a maze of unmarked dirt tracks until we reach the home of his brother Eddie, the assistant headman. We pull up to a yard littered with broken-down vehicles and trash. A curly-haired man in a Che Guevara tank top, with the word "freedom" blazoned across his chest, greets George warmly. I do not receive the same welcome. "Why are you here?" Eddie demands. "We’ve had problems with journos before. They don’t understand."

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