Home

People often say that something is ‘like coming home’. I know the feeling they’re talking about - I’ve got the mental pictures, I just don’t see it anymore. Your family house has changed dynamic, and just holds the memory of that feeling. The place you’re renting doesn’t have it either – it’s basically just a place you sleep and keep some of your shit.

Even your hometown seems more and more alien every time you come back to it. Nothing is ever exactly as you remember it… like how what you see in the viewfinder of your camera is never what ends up on the film – do cameras even have viewfinders these days? Or film? Places aren’t pictures. They’re living, breathing things. A lot of the time I’m fooled into thinking they’re not.

Albert, an elder from Maningrida, went on a conference thing to some other community – good storytelling is all about details. The town was in a valley, much unlike the flat surrounds of Maningrida. He was confused. ‘How do people live here? You can’t see?’
“I’m sure they do alright.” Offered someone.
‘Hmm. But we’re so lucky. In our land, we can see!’

I immediately saw the parallel with my own blinkered approach to foreign places. ‘How do these people live?’ I was exasperated on the darkened streets of Brisbane. ‘There’s not a single fucking Coles open after 10? That’s fucking ridiculous!’ Then I vomited into my own shoes with rage.

Conversely, my reaction to Maningrida – a far more jarring change of scene – was much less severe. Tolerance is a strange thing – you’ll embrace the person with a completely different culture and lifestyle, yet be livid and annoyed at the person sipping their tea too loudly in your café.

It’s taken me nearly three days to finish this entry – short though it may be. I’ve spent the weekend in Darwin. We drove the 500 kilometres each way from Maningrida. Spending a night in Jabiru on the way back – deep in Kakadu National Park. I saw so much that I can’t seem to say anything at all. It’s hard to know where to start.

Some 7 hours driving, crammed in the back to a troop-carrying four-wheel drive with bodies and baggage. The landscape changes so quickly. A world after world winds by the window. Nothing stays the same for more than a minute, except for the roar of hot air in your ear. And none of it – none of it – felt familiar. Or even welcoming.

Stretching the legs somewhere along the way I climbed up a hill of squarish red rock. From there you could see out over the wetlands, thick with birds and green and the threat of crocodiles. Seething with life, like the heat from the lazy sun. There were paintings on the rocks. Fish, birds, men. Dimples in the stony floor where people had ground their paints. And I noticed I was still. I felt filled up. No questions came. No conversation. This had been someone’s home. I could tell. I’d felt it.

Back in Maningrida a few days later I was happy to be rid of Darwin. I’d spent Grand Final day in Art Galleries, cafes and shops. My head was still buzzing with futility, excess and stupidity. Darwin is very like the homes that I have known.... I guess that’s part of going back to your own land – you can see.