Why Broome
It’s always intrigued me why so many Victorians arrive in the Kimberley and stay over half a life time. It’s a common story. I also came for a casual visit to Broome in late 1978 and finished up finding my second home.
“Why Broome”, a book written by Noel Trevor details the lives of some of the expatriates who have also made Broome their home. And it came as no surprise that that there were no less than seven Victorians featured.
How does one end up in Broome; a tiny town over two thousand kilometres from a major city. For most people a seed is sown along the track. My journey interstate began by winning a two bob raffle at school. The first prize was a trip for two by bus to Brisbane with accommodation and meals included. My mother and I headed North in 1966 and it was my first experience of the tropics – palm trees, humidity, shorts and casual life style. We both loved our trip and the memory stayed with me.
This adventure coupled with my school holiday experiences spent on my uncle’s farm in Western Victoria led me to a liking of warm weather, small country towns and the wide open spaces.
By 1971 I had begun my career as a teacher in Devonport Tasmania. Tassie is an artists delight and I loved my time there for 2 years teaching primary school. However, after a couple more years in Melbourne I found myself with itchy feet. I wanted to experience life outside the circle so I decided to join Australian Volunteers Abroad and my posting was in Mt. Hagen, Papua New Guinea.
When we touched down at Port Moresby it was quite a culture shock. A huge crowd of dark skinned people awaited us in almost complete silence. “Why were they staring” I thought. As it turned out, the locals were fascinated by the ‘calibus’ (pigeon for aeroplane) and the ‘mixmaster e stap on top’ (helicopters). They stayed at the airport for hours observing the foreign visitors. The plane destinations must have been quite a mystery to most of them back in 1975.
Arriving in Hagen was quite an experience. We corked screwed our way down between huge mountains and poor visibility and the wing cut the sky at a constant 45 degree angle. Eventually, we landed with sweaty palms and relieved sighs. When we peered out of the window it seemed we had been catapulted back into the stone age. Previously, the Lae brothers from Brisbane were seeking gold and came across this large community in the Wahgi Valley as late as 1935. It was the first time they had seen white fellas or ‘ghosts’ as they thought. Was it any wonder that the people were still dressed in ‘arse grass’, feathers and had bamboo belts around their waists. Some had pig oil smeared over their bodies and many were chewing beetle nut which gave their lips and teeth a bright red appearance. Again I had found myself in the tropics but I had been given a great opportunity to understand something about the local people and to share their lifestyle. I was working in a Teachers College beside other Australians, VSO’s from England and Peace Corps volunteers from America as well as a good smattering of Papua New Guineans.
The experience was wonderful. On the weekend we would go to ‘Sing sings’ where the local people would dress up and celebrate their culture or we would go bushwalking. Another favourite pastime was to ‘gumi’ (pigeon for rubber tyre) down the Wahgi River and be picked up few hours later at an agreed rendezvous.
But all good things come to an end and I found myself back in Melbourne briefly for one year. I was engaged and then unengaged all in the space one year. By then restlessness had overtaken me and I wanted to make a move. This time I was making plans to be gone for six months in India but it turned out to be two years throughout most of Asia, the Far East and the Middle East.
At last it was time to go and I began to find a great sense of freedom. Soon we were travelling over the wide expanse of the Australian deserts. Eventually, it was the Captain who aroused me from my dozing. “If you look out the left window you will see the little town of Broome as we leave the Australian coastline.” Little did I know that the seed had been planted and I would find myself there at the end of this adventure.
Asia was a huge learning curve for me; trying to adapt to the culture, the change of food, and the different religions. But I loved the people, the casualness and the warmth. When we landed at Djakarta Airport the Wet season was in full swing. Every day it seemed to rain at 2 o’clock and the humidity was way up there. It took me six weeks to pass through Indonesia, Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand and Burma. It was all backpacking and staying at hostels, cheap hotels and dives.
Finally, I’d made my destination – Calcutta. This would be my home for a year all up. It’s quite an experience for a handful of Aussies to be among 12 million Bengalies. I was to work with the Missionaries of Charity, (Mother Teresa’s order) among the poor. Working there makes you appreciate safe drinking water, the fan above your head and the bed beneath you at night. Calcutta is tough but it has a lot of positives. It was the Capital of India until 1912 so it contains some wonderful buildings like the Victoria Memorial, Eden racecourse and the Botanical Gardens. Most Bengalis are very proud of their city and volatile to boot. You would be a brave person indeed to denigrate it in any way. A highlight for me was being able to meet Mother Teresa and she kindly signed a piece of paper that I produced. She was very small of stature, quite rinkled in her facial features but her eyes were sparkling and her energy contagious.
My experiences in ‘Cal’ were concentrated and varied. But my health was failing and my visa was soon to expire so I needed to get out. I was not ready to return home to I headed overland to Israel. That was an interesting trip mostly by local public transport – crowded trains in Pakistan, buses up the Khyber Pass to Afghanistan and across the desert of Iran to Turkey. It was then turn left through Syria and Jordan across the Allenby Bridge and hey presto you’re in Israel. The overall cost was for me was $88 Australian from Calcutta to Jerusalem. Like a lot of travellers I worked on a Kibbutz for two months and saw many of the sacred places on my days off. I returned to good health, but Calcutta was calling me back.
I commenced my journey back in wintertime but the snow had closed in by this time in Turkey. Often the bus became bogged and all the passengers had to get out to give a push. I had to take the Southern route across Iran and Pakistan because most of the Northern regions were snow bound. Believe it or not I had such a joyous feeling returning to ‘Cal’ and the friends I had made over the first six months. I put in another six months at the Orphanage but India was starting to get to me.
I flew out from Dum Dum Airport to continue similar work among the poor in Hong Kong, Taiwan and South Korea. Mother Teresa’s Order is spread far and wide and they work at the grass routes without the infrastructure. Six more months in the Far East and I was ready to return to Australia. I knew that Melbourne would be culture shock in reverse so I opted for Perth. I could then work my way across the Nullabor and gradually get acclimatized.
Nothing really prepares you for your arrival back. Perth was so very clean and the population seemed to stay behind glass much more than the countries I had visited. I was unsettled with the thoughts of adjusting again to our Western way of living and the fact that I was jobless. My Perth friend suggested that I head north to check out Broome. “It may be your last opportunity for a while to see the ‘outback’. I took his advice and bought myself a Greyhound ticket and headed north. That bus was fantastic compared to some of the transport I’d experienced over the last 2 years. Soon the earth turned red and we eventually arrived in Port Hedland – the last stop before the Kimberley. Having breakfast at the Pier Hotel was quite memorable.
The road to Sandfire wasn’t sealed back in October 1978 and our Coach driver had the affectionate name of ‘Potholes’. Sandfire roadhouse was something else. “Why does everybody up here rip off one of their shirtsleeves and pin it on the ceiling”, I thought? “And why is that heavy metal gas cylinder out the front ripped wide open by an explosion”. I pondered these questions over a welcome beer as the night air was still very warm.
The last part of the journey – the road to Broome. As we approached where the One Mile is today we could make out the few lights on the horizon which was Broome. It was midnight and I had been dropped off at the old DC 3 which was now the tourist bureau. “Is this the centre of Broome” I asked. “O.K. hop back in and I’ll take you to the centre”, Potholes thankfully replied. He dropped me off at the Conti Hotel assuring me this was the town centre and within walking distance of the shop. He was referring to the small grocery shop that was later to become Seaview.
Too bad the Conti was closed so I wandered out the back and went to sleep on the concrete band stage. The next morning I was awoken by the splashing of water as the cleaner hosed down the concrete. I guess he thought I’d had too much to drink last night and politely waited until I gathered up my few belongings and left. “But where do I go now”, I pondered. As I squinted at the new day an overwhelming feeling hit me. I realized that I really liked the feel of this town – I felt at home. Even today I can still feel the energizing emotions of that morning, October 13th 1978. Broome was a summation of all the last few years experience rolled up into one. I also loved the blue sky, the palm trees, the birds and the warmth.
Next to the Conti was the General Store – Matso’s. I walked up the stairs and introduced myself to the owner – Phil Matsumoto. I was surprised to find that while he had Japanese features he had a great Aussie accent. It was a pretty interesting shop. On the noticeboard outside was an invitation to join Saints Football Club for the coming season. Phil informed me that the Catholic Church was just along the way and that I should meet the Parish priest.
Within a few short minutes I arrived outside the Presbytery. There was a figure bent over some plants. His hair was red and matted and he displayed a broken arm. Thinking him to be the gardener but wondering why he was still worked with his disability, I made myself known. I was quite surprised to find that he was Fr. Mc Mahon – Parish Priest of Broome (a position he was to hold for about 25 years). He was known affectionately as ‘Mac’ and soon he invited me in for a cup of tea. I noticed that he had no hot running water in the kitchen and seemed to live a Spartan lifestyle. But all the same he was a mover and a shaker in the town. As soon as he found out that I’d worked with Mother Teresa and was a teacher to boot he bundled me into his tray back truck and informed me he was going to introduce me to the staff of Nulungu College (St. Mary’s College today).
We made our way up Anne Street with its many roaming dogs, poor road surface and past the Aboriginal Reserve at the top. By the time we were at the Cemetry we were right out in the bush. Nulungu was set back from the road. There was no boundary fence and the College was barely visible. This was to be my first real introduction to Aboriginal culture.
The Christian Brothers established ‘Nulungu’ after an invitation from the Bishop in 1970. Its role was to provide a good secondary education to the students in the Kimberley who previously had to venture to Perth. Boarding facilities were provided, so the school population consisted of students from as far North as Katherine N.T., to some of communities in the Pilbara such as Gigalong as well as for local Broome students. Many of the original buildings of the College were brought up from South of La Grange Mission from a former rocket base called ‘Talgarno’. This word incidently means ‘lizard coming out of hibernation’. Subsequently, its pronunciation and meaning were warped somewhat when ‘whitefellas’ adopted it.
I met the students and immediately felt total affinity. They displayed tremendous joy, physical agility and genuine care. I was committed to Broome for a few days because the bus only came through once a week from Perth. As my time drew near to leave, the Principal Br. Laurie Negus offered me a job for 1979. I thought about it for 5 seconds and said “Yep, no worries”. Again, a tremendous sense of peace took over me as I looked around at my home. I walked the sands of Cable Beach and let the wind blow through my hair. So this is my next station in life.
I went down into Chinatown and walked the stairs of the DC 3 to find out more information on Broome. There wasn’t much there but I signed the visitors book “Hello Broome – see you next Year”
I journeyed back to Melbourne to make contact with my family and friends and then it was off again by Greyhound to Perth and Broome. Air travel was expensive in those days and it was many years before I could afford to fly and eventually enjoy the direct route through Alice Springs. I used to really enjoy the bus trip from Perth to Broome in late January. It was summer down south and the more north we went the skies drew darker and the weather brooded before a torrential downpour would start the process again. There were times when we couldn’t get through. We would be informed in Port Hedland that Roebuck Plains was flooded so we would have to make the remaining journey by jet.
Most expatriates only stayed 2 years back then, including teachers. But who could blame them because luxuries like air conditioning were only for the select few. To accommodate this weather Chinatown shops closed down each lunchtime for a siesta of two hours. It was a wonderfully civilized idea but got left behind when changes in the mid 80’s overtook Broome did away with the quaint custom.
Broome had waved its charm and I was drawn into its tantalizing web. Now when I look back the weeks have become years and the years blend together. It’s when you come back from time spent in the major cities and experience Broome time again that the stark magic of the place hits you – friendly smiles, the raw beauty of nature and peace for the soul.