Skin deep

I seldom talk about my time in jail.

It's just not done in polite company.

It was 1988, I'd travelled from Perth into the Roebourne via Wittenoom, myself, my 3 year old son and young German Shepherd named Mosè in our Kombi stopping and camping along the way.

Wittenoom Gorge is old, so old, layers and layers of time compressed into rock, it speaks of the beginning of time, as the earth as we know it was still being made, lush, and fertile - an oasis in a vast harsh desert, a world of canyons, clear water and endless stars.

...Sadly destroyed for human habitation due to the mining of asbestos.

From there I travelled through Millstream and on to Roebourne.

In Roebourne I found a caravan park that allowed dogs and set up camp in my designated site. As days went by, I noticed anyone with a dog was placed on the edge of the park along the creek which separated it from town but thought nothing of it. We got to meet our new neighbours and they were all friendly and it was fine.

I began to notice some really odd things. 

The only place anyone could cash a welfare cheque was at the bottle shop. The cheques came on a Thursday. On a Wednesday the bottleshop staff bagged hundreds of bottles of 2 litre wine bottles and lined them up in front of a driveway window. They wouldn't cash a welfare check unless you bought something and the 2 litres of wine was the cheapest.

Roebourne has a large indigenous population, many belong to Millstream, or Wittenoom, Port Sampson or Dampia, forced to live there due to mining and missions and the jails.

Roebourne has 2 jails the large one manages "a high percentage of Aboriginal prisoners from the Kimberly and Pilbara" and the police lock up, the place indigenous man John Pat was murdered by police in 1983.

As time rolled on I was approached by some of the indigenous children, they would come to my site and chat, pick up my son and hold him on their hip, they brought me wild honey and local chewing gum, they called me Mrs, they showed me a short cut to town and told me how they sat on the river bed when the sun was baking down because even when the river was dry it was cooler. They showed me the leaves to harvest to keep mosquitos at bay. They loved that in return I gave them iced water.

I noticed my neighbours began to shun me but thought nothing of it. We were getting to know the locals and they were lovely. The women had built a family centre to care for the wives and children whose husbands and fathers were in jail. 

I learned so much I sat on the river bed with them in the heat of the day and was told about their forced march in chains from places white men wanted, how tribal lines were broken and people forced to live on forbidden land.

And the days rolled on.

The kids one day came and asked if they could take my son to the pool so they could teach my son to swim. I looked at the eldest who might have been 9 and laughed, no, they couldn't take my son but if they waited I'd come with them. They did and we all trooped to the caravan park pool together.

The sign on the gate said everyone had to use the shower prior to swimming and I watched as one by one they stepped into the shower and scrubbed themselves and dove into the pool, little water babies one and all.

I sat on the side of the pool with my son and watched them play, gliding the length of the pool in a single breath, diving and crawling along the bottom, the older ones looking out for the younger. Again, they asked if they could teach my son. I handed him into the pool, knowing I could jump in and rescue should it be needed. Instead I watched as they taught him to float. The oldest girl had lifted herself out of the pool to sit beside me. She said you know we can swim before we walk we just need to remember. I looked at her this tiny maybe 9 year old girl and thought that is so true, I watched as they showed him how to swim under water. I was amazed as my son propelled himself under water, rising to take a breath, surrounded by children ready to bring him to the surface if required.

It was one of those rare perfect moments.

Until the shouting started.

The owner of the park slammed through the gate and started abusing the children.

 "Get the feck out of here you fing black c.nts, you're f.cking making the water dirty"

"NO!" I protested, "they all had a shower" Yet he went on and on , a tirade of abuse, the children fled, leaving the air electrically charged.  

I turned on the owner and told him you can't speak like that to children they have done nothing wrong.

He turned his abuse on me. Apparently my dog was supposed to keep the black c.nts out, it was why we had been placed on the perimeter. I apologised for my dog not being racist ( sarcasm) and told him I was leaving and wanted a refund of the remainder of the days I'd paid for.

I marched back to camp and packed, leaving no trace left behind, I pulled up at the registration desk on my way out and again argued for my money. Words were exchanged but I was refunded my money.

I felt bad for leaving, but I couldn't stay. I needed fuel to get anywhere and so I pulled into the servo on the way out of town, filled up , and went in to pay.

As I got to the counter, the guy serving said, "don't turn round but is that your kombi?." I of course turned round. My kombi was surrounded by police cars, officers were out of their vehicles shining torches inside. A bevy of uniform cops entered the shop and asked "who is the owner of that kombi?" 

I looked back at the shop attendant and shrugged and said "that would be me". 

" You are under arrest they said" I laughed, I'd done nothing wrong, there was nothing they could arrest me for. 

The guy behind the counter said " don't resist" so I didn't and allowed myself to be pushed into a police car and be driven to lockup. 

They pulled me from the car with more force than required and guided my into the office kinda ensuring I bounced off every hard surface along the way.

I was brought before a counter and told I was being held for unpaid parking fines. 

You know that moment you really shouldn't laugh but you do, I did, Roebourne didn't have parking bays let alone parking meters, I was told I could pay x $ or spend 10 days in lock up.

I told them I didn't have x $ and that they had left my baby unsupervised and alone back at the servo in my kombi.

They looked at each other and held muttered conversations, phone calls were made and eventually I was told the local women had collected my son and would look after him.

I was relieved the Aunties would care for him well.

Without being finger printed or photographed I was shown to the cell, a concrete block with no roof just mesh, open to the midges and mosquitoes. I was handed a thin cotton blanket and pushed into the yard.

On one side of the open yard were the male prisoners and the other the women. The women surrounded me and showed me to a bed, the youngest sat with me and told me the rules and wanted to know what I was there for.

The lock up had never held a white woman before.

Most of them knew who I was because they were the aunties or sisters to the children I'd gotten to know, they laughed with me when I told them it was parking fines they told me I was there because I couldn't see the colour of skin.

The first night was atrocious, the open toilets stunk and the biters were relentless, even wrapped in the blanket they hovered and whined, working their way under the bedding and clothes.

Before 1st light we were all awake, the women had to cook for the men. We were supplied with weevil infested oats, full of webs and maggots. I was horrified but the women laughted and said extra protein.

I noticed only the young women talked to me, the older women took me to their side and made me stay with them but they didn't speak English . I watched and learned. 

The women were from many different places and families, some spoke one language and others understood it, and it was translated down the line to the ones who spoke English and then told to me and anything I said was passed back down the same path.

Days were long and slow, the women in the community brought my son in everyday, staying from breakfast to lunch and coming back to spend the afternoon.

I learned they all expected their sons, daughters, brothers or sisters to be arrested on their 18th birthday so they had adult conviction thus a criminal record.

I learned is was a right of passage to end up in lock up.

I learned some of their history, of how white men had stolen and raped, beaten and killed because they could and no one from the outside cared or did anything.

At 36 hours the police pulled me back into admin and asked if I wanted to pay the fine.

"no" I said, "the fine is bogus and I am learning so much I think I will stay, thanks"

At 72 hours they asked me again but I could see my son was being well cared for so I again declined.

At 96 hours they kicked me out. No fine paid, no charges laid, never officially booked.

I spent another few days with the aunties, most of whom spoke english, asking questions before I turned my travels to the South once more.

I can never forget the time that I was jailed for standing up for children.

No one ever has the right to abuse children and there is no such thing as an innocent bystander.

In the years that have passed I don't think much has changed in the way we treat the First people of this country and I feel ashamed.

We the white fellas need to change the way we look at and treat each other. 

The women I briefly got to know belonged to country, to family, their stories of land, animals, people is so very much richer than our white history.

I wonder if we will ever learn...will we ever learn.