Authors: Anita Heiss
The department had become a major sponsor of the
Dreaming Festival in Woodford and I was looking forward
to going north to escape the cold in Melbourne and to get
an across-the-board look at what was new and innovative in
Indigenous arts. I was also excited about catching up with
cousins and mates.
The program had great local theatre and dance and some
international films as well. I couldn't move five metres
without bumping into someone I knew through family, or
my old job in education or my new role at DOMSARIA.
I loved the vibe and seeing everyone having a good time.
The only disappointment was that the bitter cold I'd
hoped to leave behind in Melbourne had made its way to
Queensland and my toes were constantly numb.
I hadn't been to Woodford for about six years and
didn't remember there being so many hippies in the past.
I thought their claims to be living an 'alternative' lifestyle
were confused, to say the least. If there were so many
of them living the same way, could they be regarded as
alternative? At Woodford they were the majority.
The hardest thing about being a government rep at any
event or festival, though, was that I was considered to be the
'cashed-up Koori'. Compared to the performers, I probably
was. Some locals took shots at me for not camping on site
and choosing to stay in a motel in Caboolture.
'A motel eh? You're not Black, you living like a
whitefella,' one local artist had to say when she heard I
was staying in town and not camping with all the Murris.
'Well, you can be as Black and cold as you like in your
tent tonight,' I began, 'but I'm going to be warm in a bed
with an electric blanket and doona and heating.' I watched
her face squirm at the thought of the absolute discomfort
she would be in compared to me.
'Anyway, my mum was born in a humpy – you fellas
are going backwards instead of forwards. God knows, Mum
would never sleep in a tent now, and I know she doesn't
care where I sleep as long as I'm warm and safe.'
'Yeah, you just don't wanna rough it. Too good for the
bush, aren't ya.'
'That's right, I don't want to rough it, but I'm happy for
you to and I don't expect you'll be asking to use my hot
shower then, will you? I mean, that's too white, isn't it? No,
you enjoy your freezing cold in the morning and queuing to
get a wash,' I said.
'But what about sleeping under the beautiful stars, babe?
You don't want to sleep under the stars?' asked a young
dancer with bulging biceps.
'Yeah, cuz,' I said, to stop his flirting. 'I wanna sleep
under the stars –
five
stars would be my choice if I had my
way!' And I walked off to find Sylvia, before I attracted any
more crap.
'Sylvia, please, can you stop telling people we're staying
in a four-star hotel? They'll wanna come shower and then
sleep over when they realise how fucken cold it gets at dark.
Anyway, four stars in Caboolture are about two stars in
Sydney or Melbourne, so you're making us more flash than
we really are.'
Back at the hotel my phone was back in range and there
were numerous text and voicemail messages from James. I
hadn't spoken to him for over a week and he was fretting.
Where are you babe? Are you OK? Call me.
I was still in work mode, and I was too tired to deal with
James after the ribbing I'd had at the festival. I was ripe for
an argument and didn't want to take it out on him. The
problem with being apart meant that every minute talking
or together had to be conflict free, which was enormous
pressure. I sent him a long text instead:
J – sorry, range poor, weather cold, work hard, mood crappy,
won't share misery. Call when back in Melbs. Love u! Px
Shelley had also texted:
Hihi, cuzin Joe dropd in sum roo Bolognese. Called it kanganese.
I'll save sum 4 u, maybe! X Shelley
I was so cold at that moment that I wished for the yummy
bush-tucker-Italian dish to warm me up.
Before I knew it three weeks had passed and NAIDOC
Week had arrived, along with the bitter July weather. I'd
hoped to get to Darwin for the NAIDOC ball and some
warmth but Sylvia had managed to build me a tight schedule
of events right around the state. James offered to fly
down and come with me, but there was no point – I was
simply too busy and had no time to play.
'Well, don't say I didn't try, Peta.'
'Trying once in the busiest week of the year shouldn't be
the end of all your effort, James. You get some points but
you're not in the black – no pun intended – just yet.' I tried
to make a joke of it.
Sylvia travelled the week with me and we did a Thelma
and Louise road trip, starting at the Kaawirn Kuunawarn
Hissing Swan Arts Centre in Port Fairy and then driving
east to Geelong for a local Indigenous tourism experience
hosted by Narana Creations. Next we headed north-west
to Ballarat to the Kirrit Barreet Aboriginal Art Gallery
and then west to Brambuk Aboriginal Cultural Centre in
the Gariwerd National Park, or what whitefellas called the
Grampians. I suggested we take an extra half-day to visit
the Johnny Mullagh Cricket Centre in Harrow, because I'd
heard so much about the man who bowled Don Bradman
out for a duck.
Travelling for the week was fun with Sylvia, and even
though we were comfortable enough to have periods of
silence, there was plenty of singing along to the CD she
had made for us as well.
'Best of the 90s!' she said as she pushed the disc into
the player and adjusted the volume dial. I couldn't believe
the number of Mariah Carey, Céline Dion and Whitney
Houston songs that we both knew the words to, and how
soppy they were. All in stark contrast to the 'Macarena' we
both tried to do in our seats.
'Can you take the wheel for this one?' Sylvia asked, as
'I Believe I Can Fly' started, and she pulled over. I got in the
driver's seat and she restarted the tune and sung along to it
with arms out like wings. We belted out Michael Jackson's
'Black or White' and then I went silent when Jewel came
on, singing 'You Were Meant for Me'. It was the song that
James had always said was
our
song.
'What's wrong?' Sylvia asked.
'Nothing, why?'
'You've gone quiet all of a sudden. Giving your vocal
chords a rest, are you?'
Before I had a chance to answer, Britney Spears came
on. 'Okay, that's it,' I said. 'We're not doing Britney Spears,
have to draw the line somewhere. And there's a STOP
REVIVE SURVIVE place up ahead, what perfect timing.'
'Good idea, my butt is a bit numb anyway – a stretch
would do us good.'
'Yeah, and my butt is spreading from all the chocolate
I've been eating along the way.'
'Don't worry about it, you need it for the sugar, to keep
awake.'
'That's right, because you thinking you can fly in the car
isn't going to do that for me, is it.'
We got out of the car and I noticed my skirt was tight in
the waist. Our driving tour meant we were eating too much
restaurant and fast food and sitting for too many hours
without exercise. I could feel myself packing on the pounds
every day.
We arrived back in Melbourne for the finale of the week
at the Koorie Heritage Trust on Friday night, with soul and
country performances by two young hot musos, Dan Sultan
and James Henry, but I was almost too exhausted to enjoy
it. I didn't think I'd ever be too tired to perve, but I was.
♥
I woke up on Saturday feeling fat and frumpy and very,
very unsexy. I'd have to marry James because I couldn't
possibly take my clothes off in front of anyone else anyway.
It's the ones who love us unconditionally who don't worry
about love handles.
My weight gain wasn't just from NAIDOC Week, but
also from eating date slices, plum cakes, cherry tartlets and
other goodies from Monarch on Acland Street. The shop
had been there for over seventy years and looked like it still
had its original fittings. But my big weakness was Le Bon
Cake Shop. Every time I went there I confused myself over
what I would have because there were so many choices.
Date slice, raspberry slice, rhubarb and apple slice . . . I
reasoned that anything that had fruit in it was remotely
healthy, but of course, nearly everything was full of sugar
and fat. I had no rationale whatsoever for pigging out
on the brandy, chocolate or caramel slices: they simply
looked delicious and had to be eaten. I wished they could
genetically modify carrots and celery to taste like
anything
I
could consume on Acland Street.
Because of my indulgences I needed to get more exercise.
I really missed swimming, and it would give me the best
overall body workout, but winter in Melbourne had a
chilly bite. Shelley had raved about the St Kilda Sea Baths,
insisting that I should check them out; they were indoors,
and heated, so I decided to take the plunge. At least my
brown skin meant I'd look a bit better than everyone else.
Fat and dark was better than fat and pasty white.
It was expensive to enter the baths, so I wasn't surprised
that it was quiet and peaceful with plenty of lane room
to swim. I guessed that most people like me would see
the experience as a bit of luxury rather than part of a daily
exercise routine. Shelley told me it had once been more
'working-class friendly' but from the moment I hit the
change room, I felt it was a place for middle-class mums
and retirees. And even though both groups of women
had more stretch marks than I would ever allow myself
to have, I still couldn't bring myself to undress in front
of strangers. I laughed to myself, thinking that Josie
would relish the change room experience, but I just
couldn't do it so I took my cozzie (or my 'bathers' as the
Melbournites called them) into the privacy of the toilet and
got changed.
As I lowered myself into the pool I felt more relaxed
immediately. I began doing backstroke in the salty water,
watching the blue skies through glass roofing, then swapped
to a slow breaststroke towards the horizon, watching the
ocean approaching. In Sydney there was always competition
to get a lane, but here there were only a couple of people in
each, and none of them looked like they were here for a
serious workout. I even managed to swim in the 'fast lane'
as opposed to the slow or medium lanes I swam in back
home. No, this pool was about relaxation and enjoyment,
not fitness.
I shared a lane with an old man who should have been in
the play area. I could hear his breathing, like an underwater
foghorn vibrating throughout the pool. It was almost scary,
like a whale was approaching. He swam so slowly that I
caught up to him rather quickly, and copped an eyeful of
his worn and wrinkled genitals floating around freely in
his too-wide-legged swim shorts. At least Speedos kept
everything packaged tight and close to the body. I couldn't
swim another twenty-five metre lap with that in front of
me. I considered stopping at one end of the pool and then
kicking off in front of him, but then I felt weird about the
thought of him swimming behind me and taking in my
back view while doing breaststroke. The only thing worse
than the idea of his wrinkled old penis was thinking that I
might actually cause it to go hard. I couldn't have that, so
I just kept going, but I switched to backstroke, focusing on
the flags above the pool to make sure I didn't go head first
into the wall at the end of the lane.
The pool was sea water, and so salty it reminded me
of gargling hot water with salt out of the big white Saxa
bottle when I was a child and my throat was sore. Even
with goggles on my eyes were starting to sting. Not being
able to take the salt or the wrinkled testes any longer, but
determined to get my twelve-dollar entry fee's worth, I
headed to the hydrotherapy heated seawater pool where
even more old men played. At least their genitals were well
hidden under the foam. They hogged the few spa jets in
an attempt to cure their aches and pains. I had none of
those, but I wanted to get the full experience, so while I
waited I checked out a bald guy in black shorts. He was
the youngest male in the pool and had a well-cut chest. A
jet became free and I paddled over and pushed my back up
against it, facing the main pool.
I turned around and rested my head on my hands, looking
out to the bay and thinking how beautifully relaxing a space
it was to be in. I could have gone to sleep but I turned my
head left and read a sign that told me I should only spend
ten minutes in the spa, so I got out and set off for the steam
room, walking up the stairs as sexily as I could, aware of the
cute bald guy still in the pool. I knew my legs looked good
in my black Speedo, even though I often fantasised about
wearing a red Baywatch cozzie like Pamela Anderson. I
believed that kind of cozzie could help make anyone look
good, or at least better. A good cozzie was a far healthier
and cheaper option than cosmetic surgery.
A young life guard in a black and orange uniform smiled
at me and I was hoping it wasn't because I needed a bikini
wax. It was winter, after all, so I hadn't thought to prepare
myself for public exposure.
The steam room was all white, with two levels of benches
along three walls and eucalyptus vapours that cleared the
throat and lungs. It was cleansing and refreshing after the
salt in the pools, but in that hot, confined space I felt a
particular energy as the only woman in there with two men.
One was a young guy in long shorts who kept pouring water
over himself from a Mount Franklin bottle. It was a very sexy
thing to do, but I couldn't imagine myself doing it. There are
some things that some people just shouldn't even try.
He was only about twenty, way too young for me, so
I tried to focus on work priorities then, to block male
thoughts from my mind. I started making a to-do list in
my head:
edit the new music strategy paper; check staff are all
doing the required amount of professional development . . .
But
then I noticed that the other guy was staring at me. He
was around thirty-five, dark, fit and cute, but hairy. I didn't
really like hair. James didn't have anything other than three
strays on his chest which he would never let me pluck out,
even though they were worse than the comb-over on an old
balding man. This guy was incredibly attractive, though.
I was suddenly horny and started visualising getting
naked with my toy boy and the hairy older guy at the same
time. I was so turned on that I scared myself and got up
abruptly and left the room.
Ever since I'd decided to stay away from men because
of James and my long-term career plans, all of a sudden
they were everywhere, following me. Or maybe they weren't
at all – maybe I just subconsciously wanted them to be. I
emerged from the spa for the final time, grabbed my towel
and sat on the white chair facing the bay. I started to dream
about the Ladies Baths back at Coogee – serene, private,
and women-only – and I wondered how Alice and the
girls were getting on. Were they there right now, sunning
themselves on our rock? A pang of homesickness consumed
me, and it was easier to satisfy that pang than the horny
one, so I headed back to Acland Street to Monarch and
some chocolate guglhupf and sachertorte in honour of my
friend Alice and her Austrian heritage. I sent her a text:
Missin u all, eatin cake 2 feel better. Ur fault if I get fatter! Pxx
I also bought a piece to give to Josie as she was taking me to
my first football match that night.