From My Notebooks in 1975: Rollingstone Creek

When I read what I’d written half a century ago, I found it so harsh that I almost skipped over this episode, but it’s a long time ago, things have changed and Australians reading this will know how much they’ve changed. You left me last week as we were recovering from a downpour in the night.

Friday, December 26th

At first the prospect seemed awful. Everything wet, although some more so than others. Only the bags and Carol’s jacket were dryish, and her boots. My ST cuttings were hopelessly soaked, and I threw them out.

We wobbled off towards Townsville. Took on petrol – Two and a half gallons. Then took a chance on a side road to Bowen. “In for a penny – “ I muttered. Went through some shallow floodwater to come out on Bruce Highway just past Myrtle Creek where all the southbound traffic was stuck. We were lucky and it improved our morale. On to Gumlu where we took on more petrol – 1½ gallons for 99 miles – most reassuring – at 66 miles per gallon I don’t see there can be very much wrong inside the barrel. A pint of oil a bit farther on, and we ate sandwiches, prepared under Carol’s close supervision. Then spread our clothes and bags over the landscape to take advantage of the sun and wind. Dried tent, bags etc., then back on bike. To Townsville through a long succession of floods, some quite deep – where we were hailed by Jim Kennedy and Faith and invited to their place. Passed Laverrack (?) barracks, Aussie Army Task Force 3. Lots of council flats and houses round the back of the town, and with great relief guided into their RAAF house for a dry night.

We are invited to stay with the Kennedys. A box-like structure. Walls of hardboard panels joined by strips; ceiling likewise. Floor of beautiful tongue-and-groove. Varnished. Strip lighting throughout, white and pastel green. Overhead fan. Collection of uncoordinated furniture – harsh, jarring, an energy sink. The Kennedys relate to each other with violent displays of affectionate abuse, which could all too readily slip into the real thing.

Across the road, the ultimate horror toy – a $3000 electronic organ beats out a mindless, tuneless, soulless rhythm while the obsessed owner tries to finger a dance tune in a different key. The environment in terms of colour, shape, sound, smell is so hostile to anything beautiful that it hurts. At this point I’m forced to stop writing by Jim, who comes in to disturb me by explaining that he understands why I shouldn’t be disturbed.

Then comes the ride – never quite clear why – to see whether Rollingstone Creek is up, perhaps – or just to exercise the car. Jim drives us for endless miles up the same road we’re going to take when we leave. He drives too fast, explaining the while how drivers fail to follow the rules. A good deal of the time Jim’s only contact with the wheel is one wrist resting on top of it. He has a watch (Swiss) with metal work so sharp he has to have a woolen strap under it to protect his skin.

Pass the nickel plant which he wanted to show us. Pass some Aborigines at riverside to remind us of the degrading state of relations between people. Later to the RAAF base and watch television. In the Test [cricket test match] Lillie is bowling, and the crowd noise has a quality I have only heard before at all-in wrestling. Murderous. A colleague of Jim’s appeared at his house in the morning – ‘Smithy’ – a 21-year-old with a body so grossly flabby as to be obscene. Jim himself is in perfect physical shape for 33. He told us of his nervous breakdowns. His wife was 5’ 4” and 19 stone [266lbs] ¬– how he loathed the look of her – (though Faith says his loathing was implanted in him as aversion therapy after the break}. His touching confession that the two people who helped him most were a homosexual and a lesbian (both from the clinic).

The fascination and horror of being with the Kennedys is to see how people whose primary intentions are good can be trapped by their fears into a set of attitudes and circumstances which are a violation of the human potential.

Faith was married to a man who brutalised her life (violence and threats) for 14 years.

Jim is very hot on rules – firefighting, driving, relationships between people, games, always Jim is ready to lay down the rules. “If I had been asked, there’s one hotel in T’ville that would never have been built, and that’s Louth’s (the smartest one). The only way out of there is by the lift. A fire trap.” (Hints of City corruption follow inevitably).

Sad to see how ready everyone is in Aussie to pick up the political slogans and follow like sheep. “Dole bludgers,” “Abos”, etc. But perhaps Aussie only shows openly the workings of our own society.

Most of Townsville built on reclaimed swamp. Too flat to drain – and streets awash with mud. All houses raised – some more than others.

[About 40 miles by ferry from Townsville is Palm Island, which was an Aboriginal Reserve. This is what the Kennedys told us about it.]

It’s a medical fact that every girl over 3 has been molested.

If you hit ‘em on the head you can only injure yourself.

They’re not human beings really – they’re just another species of animal. They live with animals, don’t they?

You know those flagons of cheap wine that cost a dollar fifty? If you take one over there you can flog it for $45.

They’re the only people with any money in Australia.

Don’t you ever trust one. Never. They’ll lift anything off you. Good as the Arabs, they are.

I have to say that among the things I learned on my travels was the cardinal importance of prejudices in binding groups together. Hidden or open, their forms may change, but their effects can be as virulent and destructive today as they ever were. They are the levers by which we are manipulated.

I photographed these Aboriginals fishing, and he was very angry, rightly perhaps. “I’ll fucking toss yer in there,” he said.