At Home in the World by Michael D. Jackson

Author:Michael D. Jackson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Duke University Press
Published: 2012-05-31T22:00:00+00:00

The mine was a complex of modular offices and living quarters with eucalypts planted around them. Here and there were rusted relics from the old days. The skeletal chassis and cab of a truck. Bits of machinery.

We drove around for a while until we found the main office. Zack went in ahead of me. He was nervous, but wanted to tell the mine manager who he was and explain our business at The Granites.

The office was air-conditioned. In his bare feet, frayed bell-bottoms, and grubby windbreaker, Zack looked as incongruous as I felt. It was hard to guess what the mining manager made of us, but he took pains to show us the greatest courtesy. Zack’s manner was an odd mixture of bravado and deference. He forthrightly announced that he was a traditional owner for The Granites, then stood cap in hand, so to speak, waiting for the mine manager to respond.

The manager asked Zack if he remembered Gordon Chapman, the son of Colin Chapman who headed the company that owned The Granites’ leases in the 1930s when Zack worked there. Apparently, Gordon Chapman was dying of cancer in Darwin.

Zack seemed not to understand. He was looking increasingly nervous. He shifted his feet, then declared, “Right. We going now!”

We walked out into dazzling sunlight and climbed into the Toyota. Zack directed me down the road to where the old stamper battery stood. This was where they used to work, shoveling ore into the mortar box. This is where old Jakamarra got his army greatcoat caught in the machinery one night and was crushed to death.

“That battery working all night, all day. We bin working, no money, poor bugger, no anything! Working all day, just for tucker and tobacco! I bin chew tobacco, drink tea, that’s all. Little bit of clothes, short trousers, only singlets, that’s all. No blankets! Just this bag, big bag, we got to have a lot of big bags, oh really big ones, flour bags, big one, you know, like a 100 bags of flour. That one we bin use ‘im. Working no money, poor bugger.”

“How many whites were at The Granites when you were working there?”

“You know how many kardiya we bin have ’im? Old Chapman. And Gordon Chapman. That’s his son. And Paddy Chapman. That’s his son too. Chapman is boss for everybody.”

Colin Chapman in 1943 reached this conclusion, after fifty years employing Aboriginals: “I must admit that they still puzzle me in many ways & all old hands will tell you the same story, they are much like grown up children with advanced Socialist tendencies ...” I was intrigued to know what Zack remembered of him.

“Right, I tell you!” Zack said enthusiastically. “Old Chapman, he bin finish right along Alice Springs, poor bugger. He big bloke. He never work, that old fella. He wait for his sons gunna work all day. And yapa! Big mob yapa. Yapa people bin working hard, too many people, working for nothing, only tucker. And no blankets!”

Nowadays, a lot of well-meaning whites lament the way Aboriginals were ill-treated and exploited.

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