Encounter with a city

Marion Downs-Camp – 09.09.2002

At 6:00 a.m., the small plane thunders over the stony runway. It rattles and shakes us until the bird stretches its wings into the air. The dry, brown land spreads out below us. It gets wider and bigger with every meter of altitude. I look out of the window spellbound, glad that I don’t have to work my way across the almost vegetation-free area with our camels.

Robert told us yesterday that he has to fly to Mount Isa to undergo the mandatory flight test every few years. “Oh, can I come with you, I could do with a change,” I said happily. “If you feel like it, I’d love to,” he replied, and that’s how I ended up sitting in the Cessna.

It’s a strange feeling now to see the many winding tracks, barely visible herds of cattle, tiny dams, wind turbines and widely branching dried-up creeks from the height. It’s hard to believe that we survived down there for so many months. From up here, the sun-baked landscape soon looks even more hostile than when you are in its bosom.

We have already covered a long distance when the huge, glowing red ball of the sun rises above the horizon. Warm, powerful rays hit the small window my face is stuck to. The red earth suddenly glows. Hills and mountains cast their long, grotesque shadows on the land at their feet. The temperature in the cabin, roaring from the engine noise, rises as the sun climbs higher.

The time up here also seems to fly by. The hands of the clock have quickly moved on by two hours and we see the first signs of human civilization.

A dammed river forms a lake in a mountain valley. “That’s one of Mount Isa’s drinking water reserves,” Robert calls out, drowning out the noise of the engine and pointing downwards. Just a few minutes further on, an ugly chimney rises into the sky, from which equally ugly smoke billows into the clear morning air. He soon finds himself in the middle of the town, which is bordered on its western side by a mine. Having had no contact with factories and cities in recent months, the dingy and downright disgusting sight of the mine almost takes my breath away. “What is being extracted there?” I ask Robert. “I think zinc and iron ore.” “It’s hard to believe that people are building houses right next to the mining factory,” I say, shaking my head. In the hills behind the industrial plant lies a lake filled with its toxic wastewater. Its surface looks like an inflamed, festering and proliferating wound. The bird’s eye view really makes my hair stand on end. “If you fall in there, the flesh will probably come off your bones,” I say in disgust.

There is another lake just 16 kilometers to the north. The town draws its drinking water mainly from Lake Moondarra. I can only hope that no natural disaster floods the mine’s higher poison lake. The consequences would be fatal. The way it looks from up here, the slurry would flow over the city and then flood the drinking water lake.

Robert gently touches down the iron bird on the wide runway built for jets. We taxi up to the hangars where the airplanes are serviced. “I have to wait here for the man who is carrying out the test flight with me. It won’t take more than an hour. In the meantime, you can sit down in the airport restaurant,” Robert suggests. “I’d love to,” I say and get out.

On the way to the restaurant, I pass various service halls, a petrol station, baggage handling and other departments. Nobody asks me where I’m from and so I get a good insight into the side of an airport that you don’t normally get to see as a passenger. Finally, I find my way through a back door into the check-in hall. Some passengers are standing in front of the check-in counter. I greet a friendly security guard who is wondering where I’m from. Before I make myself comfortable in the restaurant, I go to the toilets. I suddenly feel very thirsty and hope to be able to drink from the water pipe there. As soon as I take my first sip, I spit out the clear liquid in disgust. “Eww, that tastes awful,” I wonder aloud. I try the water again, but once more it seems undrinkable. It tastes terribly of chlorine and other chemicals. I quickly leave the room and to my delight discover one of the modern drinking water dispensers that are available at some airports. All you have to do is press a button and a small, cool jet of water splashes out of the thin pipe. Happy to be able to quench my thirst now, I put my mouth over the stream and take a sip. “Yuck, that’s awful,” I snort and spit the inedible stuff out again. I can hardly believe it, but this water also tastes exactly like toilet water.

I realize that people here in the city drink water every day that is so full of chlorine and fluorite that it has nothing to do with the clear, delicious water of the outback. Shocked at the realization of how we humans get used to such rotten crap and feed on it every day, I shake my head and buy a tiny bottle of orange juice for just under 3 dollars.

I now sit down with relish in one of the metal chairs in front of the fast food restaurant. Many people stream into the check-in hall at once. Loudspeaker announcements, the murmur of the many chatting passengers, the rush, the hectic pace and the stress that suddenly vibrates in the air confuse me. After the long period of solitude, I am no longer used to enduring this wild hustle and bustle and leave the hall. I find a few tables in the shade of a palm tree. Breathing a sigh of relief at having left the oppressiveness of the hall, I settle down in the plastic chair with my little bottle of orange.

RIGHT HAND LEFT CHEST

I brought a book with me so that I could spend the time waiting for Robert reading. But the hustle and bustle keeps me from opening it. Business people leave the hall, carrying a suitcase or pulling a handcart behind them. Some of them stand at small round bar tables, reach for their right breast pocket at lightning speed and take out a pack of cigarettes. The cigarette is quickly lit and the tension in their faces seems to ease. Cell phones are ringing everywhere and while the smoke is blown into the atmosphere, people are talking to people I can’t see. A modernly dressed Aboriginal woman sits down next to me at the table. She also searches nervously in her handbag until she pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She hastily puts the tobacco stick in her mouth and lights it with a lighter. The smoke drifts through the air and circles above me. “You should listen to the doctor when you come to the hospital,” she says to her mother, who looks quite unhappy and is crouched next to her in another chair. “I’m sure you’ll feel better once they’ve operated on you,” I force myself to listen to the conversation. “Would you like a cigarette, Mother?” she asks, to which the old lady nods wearily.

A cab stops three meters from our tables. Passengers get on and off. The engine is running and the exhaust fumes mix with the smoke from the cigarettes. Suddenly there’s a screech that makes my ears ring. A passenger jet lands and its roaring turbines drown out all other sounds for a short time. It takes a few minutes before I hear the bird sitting in the palm tree above me singing again. The door of the cab slams shut, the engine roars and the vehicle pulls away.

More people leave the hangar. I’m now surrounded by at least 15 smokers who are all doing their best to pollute the outside air even more than before with their cigarette smoke. A man has a coughing fit and supports himself with both hands on the round bar table. It only takes a few seconds for him to recover, thank goodness. He glances over at me, suddenly grabs his chest and for a moment I think he’s going to have a heart attack. I breathe a sigh of relief when, like all the others, he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He quickly has his smoking medicine in his mouth too, presumably to soothe his cough.

A heavily panting man, who weighs a good 120 kilograms, sits down at my table. The plastic chair groans suspiciously under its weight. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with a white cloth. His face is marked by the exertion and frighteningly red. Kräck! ‘ he says as he opens a can of Coke and downs its contents in a few gulps. I wait for him to reach for his right breast pocket, but nothing happens. However, it doesn’t take long for his cell phone to ring. One grip on his hip and he has the modern communication device in his big, meaty hand. “Yes, I’ve just arrived. Just waiting for a cab… Ha, ha, ha, I’m fine,” he obviously lies. And then what I’ve been waiting for all this time happens. Reaching for the breast pocket. While he clamps the phone between his cheeks and his big shoulder so that I can no longer see it, he nimbly fishes a box out of his breast pocket. He opens it, pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

In the meantime, the hustle and bustle at the small airport in Mount Isa is getting a bit much for me. I suddenly break out in a sweat too. How will I ever find my way around a big city again? I ask myself and eagerly hope to see Robert.

“So how do you like it in the city?” Robert asks when he appears next to my table a little later. “Well, to be honest, I’m glad I can leave her as soon as possible,” I reply with a pained smile. “Ha, ha, ha, I feel the same way,” he laughs heartily.

I’m happy to get back into the little plane and look forward to it taking to the skies. We quickly leave the place that people call home and glide over the familiar, cherished, wrinkled, ancient face of the outback…