Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, 26th July

Just two days drive from home now, so this will be the last post. The car incidents continued as, between Winton and Longreach, the electric brake controller died. We lobbed into the auto electrician in Longreach who fitted a new one, just another $400 item to add to the long list! Before we left the town we went down to the banks of the Thompson and were confronted by two hundred caravaners free camping. The challenges this must bring to the town council are obvious, the benefits perhaps rather limited because apart from fixing the occasional caravan issue and buying a morning coffee most caravaners stay put and socialise where they are. The tourism must be a welcome flush of money through the roadhouses and visitor information centres.

Isisford is an enchanting little village an hour or so south of Longreach, and we put up in a well grassed spot behind the pub. 

Not famous for anything apart from some good fishing for yellow belly (see sculpture left made by an 85 year old bloke), the 80 residents have made the most they can telling the history and placing every kitchen or laundry item over 30 years old on display. The weather remained warm and cloudless (as it has even to today) when we made an early start to head further eastwards towards Carnarvon Gorge. Taking the roads less travelled as always, we quietly wound through undulating country with distant ranges, charming towns like Blackall and Tambo, fetching up on the edge of the most western end of the National Park concealed from view but overlooking some beautiful country. The cattle on the other side of the fence hadn’t seen a vehicle before and showed some curiosity. 

By the time we had finished our meal fifty had quietly gathered there. Through the night we could hear their digestive systems at work accompanied by the occasional moo. Turning the light on caused a major stampede as they thundered off, not to be seen again. Such a good spot. The following day was another fine drive east, this time stopping close to the access road into Carnarvon Gorge. Again, an unspoiled ideal camp site in open forest with ample kindling, so we made a rare fire as the temperature was getting low. We were surprised the next morning by a distant approaching vehicle, that when abreast of us in the forest swung around and returned whence it came at a great pace.

Something didn’t seem right; I had commented on this the evening before. We packed up quickly and moved on to start our day of walking in the Gorge. Very sadly a kangaroo leapt out of nowhere under the car as if with a death wish, adding to the horrendous road kill in the eastern states. It is nothing like as bad in the west. Helen got into conversation with a young mum who was walking the gorge and camping with her little daughter at the tourist park nearby, who said “Queensland is really difficult, you can stop anywhere you like throughout Australia but in Queensland it’s illegal to camp beside the road unless in a prescribed place”. Well, we had two great nights out!

We have visited Carnarvon Gorge before and it was well worth it the second time. The times that the visitor centre give you for what is a long walk are way wrong, but it’s a most rewarding walk deep into the gorge, with several short side walks to features such as the Moss Garden (a landscape architects dream), 

the Amphitheatre (where you will climb a tall ladder and slide between the towering walls of a crevice that leads you into a hollowing out with a view to the sky maybe 80 metres above), Wards Canyon where illegal fur trappers hung out, and the Art Gallery, a fifty metre long stretch of wall covered with pecking, painting and stencil art. The “women’s business” is amazing! We walked 14 kilometres and paid the price!

Women's business

With a few hours of daylight remaining we headed south in a serious manner to Injune, carrying with us a sense that we are ready to get home now. We do touch wood and trust nothing more will go wrong. The hot shower in Injune was balm to aching muscles, and lamb chops for dinner in the pub a fitting reward. A big drive saw us through Queensland via Roma (street bottle trees), Condamine (bullock bells, ballads and floods), Moonie (oil rigs) and into NSW via Goondiwindi, famous for racehorse Gunsynd, camping finally in Warialda. 

Wanting to follow the ranges we rang our friend Jane, newly moved into her new abode in Blackheath in the Blue Mountains, where after another big drive of c500km we are now staying and being wonderfully indulged. The country right through Queensland and as far south as we are now in NSW, is in deep drought and looks shagged out.

We met the unofficial mayor of Merriwa at our lunch stop in Goulburn River national park yesterday, who commented that it was the driest it has been for over 60 years and many farmers have taken a big risk (minimum cost $50,000) sowing a crop. It is now too late to get a crop off as there is only at most 50mm showing, so those who took the risk will just have a little to feed stock on. Stock are being driven along the major and minor roads all the way along our route south.

Well, as I sit here looking out over Jane’s lovely garden and fine little treed valley, with sun pouring through enormous picture windows, it is a good moment to call this trip done. Another thousand or so fast km and we will be home in time for Sunday dinner. 

PS a beautiful walk today, 27 July, with Jane and Elke on the sandstone country around Blackheath, with a huge variety of native plants like Waratahs, these Grass trees (Xanthorrhoea sp.), Sunshine Wattles and Banksias flowering.

Last post from Longreach?

I guess on long trips one must expect a few unplanned issues and things to fix. As you can see from our other blogs we have travelled much of this huge continent, and that's not to mention unblogged trips up the Canning Stock Route in 2012 and Cape York Peninsula to the tip in 2015, with attendant wendings on the way there and back. Very few issues in all of these but this one is a different story - starting in Alice Springs with replacing a dud water tank, exhausted gas struts, new shock absorbers on the trailer, computer hissy fit with brake lights, and dirty gas; a busted tyre outside Newman, dead battery in Broome sorted by a delightful young RACV man, the smack up the back at 80km outside Fitzroy Crossing, disintegrated back door window in Camooweal, and the latest – trailer brake connection playing up between Cloncurry and here in Longreach, despite Ian’s best efforts cleaning and tweaking the pins. The very helpful autoelectrian who has squeezed us in today is working on it – brand new system needed sadly so it’s topping up the bank account again and sitting in the municipal library after exhausting the main street’s attractions (Jumbuck bakery, Station Store for a new hat and look at the Cobb & Co horse-drawn wagons leaving with their load of tourists).

All these outback town services are overloaded with work from the many tourists. We now judge big towns by the quality of their industrial areas – those in Alice and Broome which we now know intimately, are tops, as are helpful tradies in places like Newman and her in Longreach. In times of enforced waits, or in areas like Queensland where lovely and remote free camps are no longer available, the quality of caravan parks becomes an issue. I wouldn’t recommend the Vacation caravan park in Broome for example, with its rude signs threatening dire fines if you so much as touched a power point to charge a mobile, a most basic camp kitchen squeezed between the toilets and rubbish bins, and our dirt site bang beside the main Port road with trucks bellowing past from 5am. Two nights ago in Winton was a doozy, the Matilda, run by Mad Mick who hasn’t upgraded the most basic and unclean facilities for yonks. Saved however by a brilliant and very funny bush poet called Gregory Heath over a decent roast dinner served up by the long-suffering Sharon. He had his audience in stitches, particularly a multicultural version of The Man from Snowy River recited in many accents with matching hats. He even got me up on stage playing a rough bloke with flaming farts! 

Whinge over, and I took time out in the well maintained Longreach Tourist Park
yesterday afternoon cooking a chicken curry in the Dreampot, washing some of the dust out of a few clothes,

watching cheeky Apostle birds and topknot pigeons and musing on the blog while Ian revisited the Qantas museum. 

Still in a somewhat maudlin mood I have been reflecting on how tourists now would have very little idea really about what they are seeing, or not seeing as the case may be.  In the ten years we have been travelling these vast distances, we have rarely felt crowded and had many places to ourselves eg 6 days on the Anne Beadell across the Great Victoria Desert without seeing another vehicle. Now tracks like that and the Canning stock route and Simpson Desert are deeply corrugated by too many vehicles travelling too fast, any bitumen tourist route is busy with caravans of every sort being cursed by huge road trains, littered every few metres with road kill of kangaroos and wallabies, and all caravan parks are heaving. Rereading Nicholas Rothwell’s evocative Red Highway reminded me/brought together many of the tales we have heard and histories read, particularly of places visited in the Kimberley region. I have been feeling a profound sadness about the changes and what has been lost, for example Fossil Downs station was a grand place renowned for its hospitality and notorious parties when owned by the late Maxine MacDonald. It has been bought by the rapacious Gina Reinhart who illegally padlocks the gates preventing indigenous people exercising their legal access rights to country. Rose (Mimbi caves) told me about the manager of old Gol Gol station who was good to her family, and shot himself - and there he was in Rothwell’s book: Vince Jones, going blind, who told Rothwell’s glamorous narrator and station owner “not to keep the last dance for him” at Fossil Downs the night he used his Luger pistol on himself years ago. 

The rock art we have seen a lot of is now never talked of and hard to access, for good protective reasons of course. I wept as we had to pass a Kalkadoon site visited outside Mt Isa in 2010 as the track now is pretty well impassable (we tried too late in the evening the night before). The many tales finally being told about the massacres and havoc wrought upon Aboriginal people are in sync with the havoc 200 years of white settlement has brought on the landscape and mass extinction of native animal and plant species. At the excellent museum at Mt Isa (incidentally a more cheerful tale of the multicultural success of a mining town) a rather poignant panel showed the replacement of native animals by the introduced ones of sheep, cattle and horses. I would add feral cats.

A completely chance meeting followed by an excellent dinner last night with friends Cynthia and Neil, escaping Woodend’s winter, has restored my equanimity; they copped a debriefing in the most understanding fashion.

So, while waiting for the latest problem fix we can reflect briefly on our Queensland travels. Mt Isa’s Museum café provided the best big breakfast we can remember, and its Riversleigh Fossil Centre’s dioramas and videos an excellent reminder of Australia’s famous fossil discoveries near Lawn Hill, visited in 2010. In fact our 2010 blog about Queensland at http://orseda3.blogspot.com saves me repeating things about towns like Winton, Longreach and the dinosaur trails which have revitalised the tourist industry up here. It is the locals you chat to who make a day memorable as much as the sights to be seen, like the two women in Winton newsagency who raided their emergency sewing kit to give us a needle and cotton, which I had omitted to pack for lost buttons and torn hems.

A German migrant, Arno, collected every sort of junk for his wall

Winton’s grand North Gregory Hotel and Arno’s wall were good to see again though. So was the deconstructed in 1984 town of Mary Kathleen with its uranium mine.

Turning south onto the Landsborough (Matilda) highway from Cloncurry towards Winton and now Longreach really means we are pointing for home, and feeling ready for it too despite the prospect of cold nights on the way. Tonight camped in an uncrowded fashion behind the pub in Isisford, a slow old town beside the Barcoo River is a nice contrast to the hordes free camping nearby in the dust without facilities, as also were about 200 vans on the Thompson river outside Longreach - ghastly.

A detour to the Carnarvon National Park for a long walk to see the rock art is probably the next and last hurrah. I think we are running out of steam about any more blog posts.

Kalkarindji (now labelled Kalkaringi) NT, 13 July.

We are camped at an aboriginal community called Kalkaringi, way up on the Buntine road in the Northern Territory. It’s the settlement closest to Wave Hill Station, about 15 kilometres away. The Land Rights Movement and the path to Native Title began at Wave Hill when in 1966 the native stockmen led by a Gurindji man, Vincent Lingiari, went on strike, not for equal wages so much as wages (aboriginal stockmen were paid one sixth or less of the white man equivalent, and regularly instructed to take that meagre pay in tea and tobacco).

1966 walkout

When the manager refused Lingiari quickly upped the demand for their ancestral lands to be returned to them. “No one’s gonna go back – no women, no men are gonna go back to the station to do work”. He led a walk off and all the indigenous workers moved to a creek some distance away. Wave Hills’ owner, Lord Vestey, doubtless directing matters from a well stuffed Chesterfield at his club, not far from Pall Mall, conceded the need to pay up, but having done so sacked all of his aboriginal stockmen on the basis he couldn’t afford the bill. Their lives had been spent on station for some generations. So ended a support system that had worked in the main for both parties and could have continued if not for some understanding by the owner; and a pyrrhic victory for aboriginal communities on many stations who found themselves without tea, tobacco, wages and a roof. The story is a lot more complicated of course, and you will surely know of it. The strike took place at a time when mechanisation was increasing all over those northern properties. Contract labour was brought in and mustering took place from the seat of a Kawasaki, not a horse saddle. The aboriginal people waited until 1972 before the Federal Government recognised the claim, 1975 before Gough Whitlam handed over leasehold deeds to part of the Wave Hill land, and 1986 before Bob Hawke handed over “inalienable” freehold deeds. Lingiari died in 1988 but his action at Wave Hill was the catalyst for the aboriginal land rights movement that eventually led to the historic Mabo judgement in 1992. Have we made things better? The indefatigable Penny at the Arts Centre was a great source of knowledge and sold us some books we look forward to sharing about the history of Wave Hill; the walk off had its 50th anniversary last year. 

Welcome smoking ceremony

Two days ago we camped at the Mimbi Caves, that are between Fitzroy Crossing and Halls Creek, about 400kms west of here, and thought to be the largest and mostly unexplored complex of caves in WA. The caves are part of a Devonian reef that rings an area of some 10s of kilometers. We camped with modern, architect-designed camp facilities as part of a tour run by the Gooniyardi people. The tour, led by Rose Nuggett, one of the traditional owners, was an informative and fascinating journey into the local aboriginal laws and customs, bush tucker and medicine, some art, and includes a tale of an horrific massacre on Christmas Creek station of a family, Rose’s people, in the women’s birthing cave (which only Helen and the other women in the group were allowed to see). Rose pointed to some recent grafitti above the entrance to the cave system, and to our surprise she explained that it was put there by the adjoining young tribe members who were making claim to the caves as their own. Since Native Title, a supposed success and step forward, Rose explained that where the boundaries between groups were always known, accepted, and passed on through the teaching of elders through their traditional stories, now there is open conflict between families. Native Title has given aboriginal groups rights at law to obtain access to their traditional lands providing a strong connection with that land can be clearly demonstrated.

In the Mimbi Caves Rose was able to connect her family along with others (archaeologists have dated carbon from hearth remains there to 45,500 years) through the rock art in the caves, one piece done by her great grandfather. But the strength of the connection can rarely be as assured as in her case and her view is that some things are now worse than before the Wave Hill days, not better. Everyone wants to tell you what the answer to the aboriginal problem is, some of it unhelpful, but the reality is, is that it is an enigma. That said though, there is a lot of recent investment in tourism going on up here and some of it is targeted at aboriginal communities with a strong connection to their land, and that is beginning to enable them to share their story and bringing with it hopefully a better understanding by us lot. We just need to listen.


I get ahead of myself. It was the 5^th of July when we drove back to Broome and set up camp at the Broome Bird Observatory on Roebuck Bay, about 30kms from the town. This is a famous wader bird migration site in the wet season, and is regarded as one of the most significant, with birds migrating from as far as northern Russia. We had two nights there but moved in to a rough caravan park in Broome to avoid 15kms of bad corrugations twice a day (and had to get flat battery replaced). Graeme and Annie hosted a wonderful week for the family offspring at Sea Shells resort, where there were separate suites for each family and a range of hire cars available, large swimming pool,

Granny Helen with Evie and her Dad Andy

and BBQ evenings laid on.

The ankle biters got to meet each other – all cousins, some for the first time. A memorable and generous gift for the whole family.

Broome is lovely but we prefer the bush! We spent a small fortune on clothes and had a seniors’ moment when someone stole the car. It took us fully five minutes of contained panic before we remembered we had moved it before stopping for a mango smoothie that jumped out at us.

We dropped our daughter Katie at the airport in Broome on the Monday and left next morning after having the trailer fully greased for the return journey. A lunch at the Mango farm on the way out seemed a good way to go, and we made a free camp that night out just west of Fitzroy Crossing in the south Kimberley. You may have realised by now that instead of heading south into WA we changed our minds and headed north-west to avoid the rain and cold in southern WA. It was the Wednesday (11 July) morning then when we left our free camp early and were toddling along at about 80kph just commenting to each other what a thoroughly pleasant day it was, when we were slammed out of our euphoric state. A Prado was seemingly locked onto the back of the trailer. Realising we might have a situation that could impact the holiday we coasted slowly to a halt and stepped out to confront the perpetrator. A tiny Asian lass, confused, saying “I just close my eyes”. She had fallen asleep at the wheel at 110kph on cruise control. If she hadn’t hit us she would have gone off the road, down the bank and rolled. So being as polyanna-ish as one can, things worked out and she is still alive! The Prado, owned by Kimberley Pharmacy, brand new with 600kms on the clock, was a replacement for a previous one which hit a cow a month earlier. This one now has its bull bar rammed into the grille with bonnet crumpled and all undriveable.

The camper trailer? It has a bent post and hinge a bit out of line, and lets in more dust we think, but it all still works! Believe it or not, Fitzroy Crossing has a paleo café where we restored ourselves somewhat, topped by a relaxing boat trip up Geike (Dangu) Gorge. 

We’ve driven hard since Broome, and enjoyed some fine evenings at remote locations. One at Sawpit Gorge outside Halls Creek, near the Black Elvire River with its lovely Palm Springs

Palm Springs

where an old Afghan grew vegetables for Halls Creek and planted the palm trees.

After Kalkaringi, two days on the Buchanan highway and crossing the Barkly Tablelands over the Barkly and Ranken stock routes. Long straight dirt roads in good condition for the cattle road trains, alternating between red sand or gravel and cracking grey clay with dust like talcum powder, the only sights amidst endless plains of Mitchell grass being mobs of glossy cattle clustered around turkey dams and bores.  

The attraction for us is the isolation with no caravanners who stick to bitumen highways! Helen remarks that it feels like the whole of northern Australia is covered in cow shit. It was a telling contrast to stop last night in Connells Lagoon (no lagoon) Conservation Reserve with no cattle, seeding grass and and many more birds, such as button quails, and apparently rare marsupials. After 2160km from Broome we have pulled up today (14^th) in Camooweal, just inside Queensland, to blog under a shady tree. This morning early on, we heard a strange sounding thump we took to be a stone under the car. I have just opened the rear door to find that, behind the rubber protection mat that is strapped over the back window to stop stones bouncing off the trailer and hitting the glass, we have a shattered rear window! Oh, the many joys of this trip are equally tempered by “events” not on the agenda. However I have been in touch with the dealer in Mount Isa two hours up the road, who have one in stock and will be fitting it about 11:00am. They will be rubbing their hands together delightedly, thanking DOG for grey nomads who have brought butter and jam to their otherwise boring breakfast!

Derby 4 July

Coming out of the back country from Shay Gap, where BHP have a “temporarily shut down” mine complete with 50kms of bitumen road, an airstrip with hangar and lighting, and signs and locked gates making it plain you won’t get in even if you have long rubber necks,

there is an abrupt change as you cross the Great Northern Highway and run the 15 or so kilometers to the coast. There are a series of pastoral properties along the coast towards Broome, 80 Mile beach, Port Smith, Barn Hill etc. The word was that after 80 Mile caravan park (which is a very fine and well run operation that has re-emerged after near wipe out in a cyclone a few years ago), Barn Hill would be the favoured place to stop. We only drove the hundred or so kilos between the two places that day, and pitched up there after the long drive in to the property. In front of us on arrival was nomad heaven. Happy groups of oldies with a handful of younger ones feeling out of place perhaps, grouped around a well manicured bowling green set beside shady trees.

A simple flat roofed shelter housed a smiling reception lady selling hot fresh bread, ice cream cones with serious pedigree, and the offer of a $17 three course Sunday roast to be had that very evening under the trees, as the sun went down. Did we hesitate? Only the advice that the place was almost bursting gave us some concern, but we picked our way through deep and difficult sand to a slot on the cliff edge with our name on it. Couldn’t believe our luck. After we completed the set up routine the breeze lifted a tad and we discovered we were down wind of the facilities, but you have to take the good with the bad as someone once wisely said, and with all the flaps down and a cooling breeze blowing even the broadcast of the Dockers playing badly (Sunday footy is as popular in WA as Saturday footy. We were able to “enjoy” footy continuously from Cape Keraudren, 80 Mile beach, and finally Barn Hill) could not dampen our enthusiasm. The roast arrived in an insulated trailer and was served by young friends of the station owner’s son, down from Broome for some work experience and a serious piss up no doubt. Soup served at the table, mains queued for in civilised fashion, as with the ice cream and fruit desert. All for $17.

After the usual muesli breakfast we struck camp earlyish to make the run into Broome to stock up on whites and beer, some bathroom essentials, and quickly up the dirt road running along the west coast of the Dampier peninsula, exploring options along the coast where we might have a free night. It was a hot and tiresome drive on shitty corrugations, with almost every possible place to stop occupied. We ended up 50kms or so up the track at James Price Point, which you will doubtless remember is the place that Woodside wanted to pipe its gas to and ship out to Asia if only Colin Barnett would bend all the rules and give them a lease. Glad he never got to stuff up a magnificent bit of coast. We found a spot that was in the spikey grass but overlooking the ocean quite as fine as Barn Hill, just no roast! Gorgeous sunset as usual though.

Instead we were 100 metres from a wonderful truck perched on the edge.

A sight to behold and who said the hippie movement was over? The two young ladies and their gentleman friend emerged at dusk, nature’s children, burnt as berries and completely unadorned, to descend to the beach for their evening swim. Taking a quick peep with the binoculars at their rig whilst they were communing, I could see that the interior appeared to be occupied completely by plants. They appeared to want for nothing! 

Another early start saw us out of the corrugations again (the Prado has some cracked bodywork again – it goes with the territory) and on the road to Derby, all this to fill in time before the family gig starts for us on 5^th July. The drive east now has us foxed because we have decided to continue anti clockwise on this journey but we are re-thinking the wisdom of some thousands of kilos extra driving. That decision has been put off until the 9^th when we have to leave Broome. The country is well covered with dense vegetation going east until the savannah with its magnificent Boabs takes over on the last hundred kilos or so into Derby. The approach is across the mighty Fitzroy River, that is dry now. We are in crocodile country and every crossing over long pools and mangroves has the potential for thousands of the buggers eyeing the tourists lazily to see me. The other serious threat is sand fleas or flies I don’t know which, that present a more likely irritation to one’s day. So here we are on our second day at the Derby Caravan Park, under shady trees again,

Camped under a Boab

breeze taking the bite out of the heat, and another night booked at the Wharf Restaurant (award winning coffee!), it being both excellent and the first choice for a good meal served to a setting sun over the Derby mangroves (tidal range 11.8metres – the highest in Australia). Viewed from the restaurant deck the crocs seem less interested, (I haven’t actually seen one yet, but I know they are there!) however some serious protection is warranted for the little flea biters. Derby is surrounded by tidal mud flats and distant mirages. Many buildings have gone up in the ten years since we last passed through, but the basics don’t seem to have changed. There is limited port action with a mineral sands operation but little else. A very large abbatoir is processing meat about 50 kilometres away, although the lack of political stability in the meat export trade is scaring off much investment and some graziers are having trouble finding a market, so we hear. The tourists take in the sorry history of mistreatment of aboriginal people, that continued until 1975. The Boab Prison tree, the Derby gaol, these are morbid places where unbelievable hardship was handed out even if someone had been brought into custody as a witness. The water holes were fouled by stock, the native people reacted and took stock, the newcomers rounded up the natives both for punishment and for labour in the pearling industry in Broome, the natives speared the newcomers, the young men were sent south to prison, “to quieten the natives down”. Didn’t happen, misery all round.

Out to the coast

After a lovely drive on the Shay Gap road past more Pilbara pinnacles and mining tracks, deserted mines and

railway tracks and active mines like BHP’s Yarrie, we arrived at Pardoo roadhouse on the bitumen of the great Northern Highway for its very last hot pie and a ginger beer. A short drive into Cape Keraudren to find a spot among the many caravans pitched up for their annual fishing and family holiday. Sitting with our green veg curry overlooking a mangrove-lined tidal inlet and out to sea in the sunset was pretty special. However one night among the generators and boozy gatherings was enough so we moved on to 80 Mile Beach caravan park, a very well groomed and managed affair with hedges and shady trees and beautiful long beach. Lo and behold we pitch up a row away from sister Annie and Graeme having some R&R before hosting their big family gathering in Broome. 

Having relaxed time not exploring gorges has given us time to read, wash the sheets, perve on other rigs, and for Helen to reflect on a wonderful book just finished. It has illuminated many aspects of our journeying of the past 10 years as we have criss-crossed this ancient, beautiful but ecologically fragile and socially divided country. Deep Time Dreaming, uncovering ancient Australia by Billy Griffiths, Black Inc, 2018 is a beautifully written narrative history of the evolving discipline of Aboriginal Australian archaeology, and its interactions with science, culture, ecology, politics. I hadn’t realised for example that the successful campaign to save Tasmania's Franklin River, which swung the 1983 Federal election in Bob Hawke's favour, depended upon the work of archaeologists like Rhys Jones and others dating local sites back to the last Ice Age. Chapters include John Mulvaney on the Murray River, Jim Bowler at Mungo, Isabel McBryde in New England, the Goulds in Gibson Desert, and others - in 2017, the team at the Madjedbebe rock shelter near Kakadu confirmed that the first Australians arrived 65,000 years ago.

“It is a tale of the characters who dug the trenches, of the Indigenous people who objected to the cavalier approach of the early ‘cowboy’ archaeologists, of the political reverberations of archaeological finds within environmentally contested regions, of conflict and discovery and the shifting relations between white and Indigenous Australia” (Kim Mahoud).  It “explores what it means to live in a place of great antiquity, with its complex questions of ownership and belonging. It is about a slow shift in national consciousness…”.

I hope I live to see white Australia acknowledge all that has been lost in the past 200 years since colonisation, collectively recognise that the deep past has bequeathed a living, complex Indigenous culture (the oldest in the world), and respect it to make sure it endures.