One of the highlights of providing IT support to remote Indigenous communities around Central Australia is spending time with some of the hospitable residents of each community, and conforming to the peculiar rules that govern a visit to each community. This job commenced early in 2005, with my first trip a three day visit to the southern part of the Anangu Pitjantjatjara lands. This is mainly desert country with some beautiful rolling mountains and plenty of dangerous corners on the poorly maintained bush roads.
Indulkana lies four hours south of Alice Springs, 45 kilometres north-west of Marla and was the destination of my first evening on the "Pit Lands". It is a small community of around 250 Indigenous residents; and 30 visitors employed in areas such as education, administration and art. There is less communality amongst these employees than may be expected and dinner parties are a rarity, although more common than a New York bagel topped with smoked salmon and cream cheese. Perhaps it is because community life is not a simple 9 to 5 existence, perhaps not. Regardless everything is hot and dusty and cooking for work colleagues is the last thing one needs after another exhausting day.
After a day of fixing databases and computers and installing networks in 45 degree heat it was time to eat. We were staying at the household of the Director of the Art Centre and after navigating our 4WD through the camp dogs and potholes we safely arrived at the front door. Housing appears incongruous in the desert. Magnificent views and burnt orange sunsets are spoilt by corrugated iron houses, and households are cluttered with objects to hide the impermanence of the occupation. This particular house was crammed with books and spices and sacks of potatoes.
As I struggled to avoid yet more dogs and enter the front door laden with bags and food I caught the odour of roasting chicken. It was a sign. I presented my gift of chicken rissoles from Milner Meats (an Alice Springs butcher) and attempted to rest my eyes. Shortly I was roused under the instruction to help with the table and some of the preparation. There was to be roast chicken, potatoes, greens and some rissoles. As the couple had just returned from Adelaide there were plenty of fresh ingredients (a rarity when the nearest major supermarket is 500 kilometres and one state away) and after a day in the dust the greens were heavenly. The table was burdened with the guests and the foods and soon the conversation was flowing as quickly as the sour cream was disappearing onto boiled potatoes. Old stories, happy times and general bush banter flowed amongst the table as long-time friends shared a brief re-unification. There was much joviality and mirth, but also the burden of years in the bush, which the delicious meal could not mask.
Greens and chicken gave way to tinned fuit and custard. As the dishes were packed away and the conversation lulled, the espresso machine was revealed and coffees were prepared. I settled down to read an updated version of Mrs Beeton's Book of Household Management after the black coffee and fell asleep thinking of her Treacle Pudding.
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