We only have one street. Its long, dusty, and has fences that catch all the bags from our one shop.
Alice Springs is the ‘big smoke’, never been there, but Mum says it’s 600 clicks away. There’re other communities like ours, families living on country out from Alice. We got waterholes, gorges and hills made by the olden-time people. Uncle is teaching me some of these stories.
So here we are, riding in the back of the Ute, we kids, Mum, Auntie and the dogs. Its frosty, a pile of blankets, swags and a couple of pups work to keep us warm. But jees, it’s cold!
We’re goin’ to see Charley Pride. Dad and Uncle Warren have their guitars packed. They are gonna be the ‘warm-up’ act before Charley takes the stage.
The Apache Steppe Wranglers have been practising for weeks, even a couple of new songs written specially for the show. We’re keen as mustard, but the oldies are a bit nervous, I reckon!
I hear Dad talking to the rest of the mob about the importance of this gig, saying it could be the ace needed to break out of their rut, the regular small-town shows, the half-arsed staging, power blackouts, the boozy fights, the kids lairizing at the front, leaping arse-over-head, shuffling left to right, outdoing each other with spectacular moves, inventing new steps, refining old ones.
We were flyin’ along, just passing Kata Tjuta, that old Wanambi’s secret place, when the tell-tale thumpity-thump of a flat tyre brings things to a halt. While Dad works on the flat, Mum and Auntie get a cuppa on the go. We kids let off steam, running around like blue-arsed flies, until we’re on the go again.
It is dark, but we start to see Alice’s lights mooning up into the sky. Lights everywhere, even in the houses, and sittin’ on poles along the streets. Dad pulls into Grandma’s place. We all pile in: swags, blankets, dogs, and us. We’d bought some meat from home, and it was in the frypan quick as a flash.
There is a bit of a sing-song going on as I crawl into Mum’s swag. One of the pups joins me.
Saturdee night. We’re all at the showgrounds early and have swags set up close to the stage. There are more people here than I reckon I’ve ever seen before. Hundreds and hundreds of em.
Dad, Uncle Warren and the rest of the Wranglers are workin’ the mob. When those couple of new songs hit the crowd, there are cheers, hoots and clapping.
The crowd hushes. Even us kids take a break from our shenanigans. The lights dim, just the one spotlight stays on. It’s magical. We hold our breath and then this big tall bloke, black curly hair, glittery stuff over his coat, is standing there. He starts to sing.
I’ll never forget this night. Maybe I’ll become a singer. I learn a few tricky moves, and meet new cousins and stuff!