Heading to Hedland

[Note: I haven’t had internet access for over a week. Believe it or not, I survived the ordeal! The following is an entry I wrote on my first night in the Pilbara]

The time is presently 11pm and I’ve been awake since 3am. I haven’t showered or shaved in three days and it feels great (unless I take deep breaths). I am literally having hallucinations which might have something to do with sleep deprivation. The tripiest hallucination I’ve had thus far is mistaking a fire hydrant for a drunken miner. No hallucinations of Rose Byrne as of yet.

Port Hedland is a deal greener than I expected, most probably because of the unusual amount of rain the town’s received over the past few days. The rain’s also helped bring the temperature down to the mid 20 degrees which suits me perfectly. Port Hedland is actually two conjoined towns – the Port and South Hedland – separated by 13kms of freeway and surrounded on all sides by a thread of knee-high bush shrubs which quickly give way to flinty red desert sands the further away from the settlements you go. This makes the landscape pretty unremarkable, but nowhere near as spartan as you’d expect. There is in fact a great deal of colour, from the bright K-Mart sign to the several scrubs of bush flowers that occasionally dot the roads. There’s also a fair amount of infrastructure interspersed with tracts of vacant land to occasionally make you forget how remote the location is. The massive cranes and other earth moving equipment on the Port Hedland coast is the most obvious example of this.

Port Hedland is the hub of the Pilbara, a region of north-western Western Australia that contains 97% of Australia’s iron ore. Western Australia is presently experiencing a mining boom driven primarily by intense demand from China, and the Pilbara has been at its forefront. The mining in the region has generated tremendous wealth for mining companies and the State Government, but the local impression has been limited. There’s clearly sufficient disposable income to warrant the aforementioned K-Mart, a gym, and a range of other shops. But, I am told, indigenous social dysfunction remains high. Already I’ve noticed some tell tale signs. You can find broken bottle glass sprinkled around a number of street corners. The local Coles has three security cameras in every aisle and intimidating ‘This store is under security surveillance’ signs on the shelves containing meat, blankets and other basic goods. A number of security guards patrol the store. In fact, I was followed by a security guard the last time I shopped at the Coles. Maybe he liked my new three-quarters?

Before my ramble gets too long (I know what you’re thinking, ‘Too late buddy!’) I should shatter any myths the reader might have about the intrepidity of my visit. The unit I’ve been given is nestled quite inelegantly amongst a McDonald’s, Blockbuster and Video Ezy which is a tad depressing. It’s certainly shattered the outback romance of the place a little, but it’s not that big a deal. My unit is well furnished, although the shower sprays sideways more than downwards, and any attempt to close the venetian blinds turns them into a cubist monstrosity! Notwithstanding that, and the fact that I was chased by four dogs on the way home tonight, so far so good. I’ve instantly built a report with the people I’ll be working with for the next three months, especially the aboriginal liaison officers. The ALOs are all senior male members of local communities. It’s a subtle thing, but I think being male and coloured has helped. I’d like to think my interpersonal skills have also had a say. Almost the first thing each ALO asked me was where my ‘country’ was. By ‘country’ they do not refer to Sydney or Canberra, where I live, or, indeed, my ‘nationality’, but to the country of my ancestors. Shame my explanation isn't as exciting as the ALOs'!