Afghans Built This Land
Chapter One
They say central Australia is the last great frontier, waiting to be opened up and tapped, but if you spend much time here you wonder why anyone would want it to be opened. The treeless landscape runs for hundreds of kilometres around, brown dirt and red rock stretching as far as the eye can see. Only the hills are inspiring; they just appear out of the ground and run quickly up on a steep slope, a dingo scratching its ear halfway to the summit. Rough bush of some kind finds a way to survive on the craggy outcroppings of rock and at the top a lizard sunbathes in the forty degree heat. Under a cloudless sky the reds, browns and even at times greens create a multi-coloured landscape.
I’ve spent all my life out here, in the sun and the dirt, I have had more pets than people live in this town and the only city I can remember being to is Adelaide. These days I find the outback fairly depressing, sixteen years seeing the same things everywhere will make anyone at least a little bored.
Kylie Creek is a railway town, halfway between Tarcoola to the south and Coober Pedy to the north. It was founded in the late seventies as the railway between Adelaide and Alice Springs was rebuilt. It consists of a railway siding with a small wooden goods and maintenance shed six metres long facing the railway tracks and three and a half metres wide, four houses, an electric generator and a dirt road. The population of thirteen is one of the lowest in South Australia.
“Patrick!”
The soft, feminine voice pierces the clam evening air and I turn my head right to see my mother standing at the back door of our house. My mother is about five foot three inches, a little over weight and with blonde hair down to her shoulders; my own hair is light brown, somewhere between hers and my father’s black locks. She almost always wears a skirt and a blouse.
“Come inside and have some ice cream, your sister is determined you’ll want some”
she shouts across the twenty or so metres of dirt separating the railway from our house. I get up from between the main line’s rails and saunter over to the house, feeling the hot dirt seep in between my toes as I place my foot and some of it fall away as I lift it again.
I step over the threshold of the back door and into the kitchen, my sister and father sit at the table while mum scoops ice cream into four bowls. My sister Emily looks up as I come in and a big grin comes across her face,
“come have some ice cream Patrick” she says excitedly.
My sister is eight, has my mother’s hair, the same bright green eyes as me and is such a sweetheart. We have a really good relationship; Dad is away for a few days at a time occasionally so I have to be a substitute father figure, I’ve always doted on her and she practically worships me in return.
I sit down and watch the usual exchange between Emily and my father, with my mother butting in occasionally.
“How was your day sweetheart?” Dad asks Emily.
“Really good, I went over to the Speed’s and did school work with Julie and Alex, then we went to see Mr and Mrs Mills.”
Julie (nine) and Alex (thirteen) are the daughters of Mike and Nicole Speed, Mike works on the track gang with Dad and Nicole, like my mother, is an archetypal housewife. They also have a five year old son, Jack, who clings to all of us kids like a limpet. The Mills’ are an elderly couple who live a few kilometres north of town and own a shop in Coober Pedy with their daughter who runs it.
“How are the Mills’?” Mum asks as she placed the bowls of homemade ice cream in front of us then took the only other chair at the table.
Emily became rather excited now and exclaimed, “They’ve found out Jessie is having puppies! And Mrs Mills said we could have one if it’s all right with you.”
“We’ll have to think about it, taking on a fourth dog will stretch us further” says Dad in his sternest voice which booms slightly even when he’s talking normally. He continues to my mother after eating a spoonful of ice cream, “this is delicious darling.”
“I helped her with it” interjects Emily, proud as punch and grinning from ear to ear.
Dad reaches over and ruffles her hair in congratulation while I place some of the chocolate ice cream in my mouth. It is rich and tremendously creamy, melting into my tongue and around my teeth. Mum has made it from some old chocolate and this week’s left over milk before our weekly supplies and mail get dropped off this evening by the Ghan on its way north.
I finish my ice cream and walk back outside and sit on the porch, I look at my watch and note the time, 8.30PM, shouldn’t be too long before the train comes. I stare out over the metal of the railway tracks and onto the plains, the Flinders ranges rising up to the east, a beautiful backdrop to the depressing foreground of tussock and dirt. I stare up into the mountains for a while, losing myself until I hear the unmistakable rumble of an approaching train.
It takes almost ten minutes for the train to get to Kylie after you first hear it, I walk over to the tracks and then down them to switch the points for the train to go into the siding loop. The train somewhat slowly approaches; the red diesel engines and silver carriages creep past and come to a stop. I walk to the baggage wagon, just behind the engines where a twenty-something called Aaron opens the big sliding door.
“Hey Patrick” he says, stepping up into the wagon and walking over to four wooden crates.
“Hey mate” I reply, following him. “How are ya?”
“Good, hard day though, have one of the most difficult passengers I’ve ever met on the trip, complains about almost everything and has no real manners.”
I sigh and approach one of the two bigger crates which has “SPEED” printed on a piece of paper attached to it. Inside the crate is all their food and household supplies for the week.
“Pity you can’t bop him one” I say, pushing the crate to the door.
“He’s not that bad” Aaron replies, pushing the other large crate alongside the other one, I catch the word “JOHNSON” in the same place as “SPEED.” In here are my own family’s supplies.
I jump down onto the ground and lower the two crates onto a low metal trolley with small tyres. Aaron pushes the other two crates to the edge and I place them on top of the large ones.
“Cheers mate” I say holding my hand out.
“No problem, see you next week.” He jumps down, takes my hand and shakes it firmly, closes the baggage wagon door and climbs up into the front Passenger carriage.
The driver lets off the horn and as it splits my ears it carries over the plains for miles around. The train slowly gains momentum and after a few seconds it starts moving quickly by, people in the windows looking out at the seemingly normal boy stuck in the middle of nowhere. In fact the reason I do this job every week is because it’s direct contact with the outside world that comes to Kylie Creek four times a week.
After the train has gone past I push the trolley over the dirt and past the side of our house, and over the dirt road to the house of Eric O’Hara. All the houses in Kylie Creek are identical; oblong shaped, made of wood and they sit on piles to let air circulate under them. They have porches that run along the front and back, the front door is in the middle. At the left hand end is three bedrooms, two the same size and one slightly larger. The front door opens onto the hallway and to the right is a large living room type area. On the far side of the living room is the bathroom, laundry and kitchen, which contains the back door. Fences are an unknown.
I knock on Eric’s front door and place his crate on the porch and carry on next door to James Mathews’ house and do the same. They’re both in their late twenties, single, and take to alcohol like a duck to water; they work in the track gang with my father, checking the track, replacing rails and sleepers and occasionally rudimentary maintenance on many things. After delivering the other crate to the Speeds Dad and I carried ours into our kitchen. Dad and I are fairly similar physically, we’re the same sort of average body type but I’m just a little more thick set and he’s slightly taller than me at 6 foot.
We put the crate down and I let out a yawn.
Dad looks up at me and sees I’m tired. “I’ll deal with the trolley son, you go to bed.”
“Thanks Dad” I reply, following it with another yawn. I walk down the hall to my room and flick on the light switch, the late November light starting to fade. I close my curtains and strip down to my boxers, the temperature is in the low thirties, as opposed to the forties it got to during the day, but it’s still unbearable to sleep in if you are clothed. I turn the lights off and climb into bed, the end of what is probably the most exciting day of the week.
I’ve spent all my life out here, in the sun and the dirt, I have had more pets than people live in this town and the only city I can remember being to is Adelaide. These days I find the outback fairly depressing, sixteen years seeing the same things everywhere will make anyone at least a little bored.
Kylie Creek is a railway town, halfway between Tarcoola to the south and Coober Pedy to the north. It was founded in the late seventies as the railway between Adelaide and Alice Springs was rebuilt. It consists of a railway siding with a small wooden goods and maintenance shed six metres long facing the railway tracks and three and a half metres wide, four houses, an electric generator and a dirt road. The population of thirteen is one of the lowest in South Australia.
“Patrick!”
The soft, feminine voice pierces the clam evening air and I turn my head right to see my mother standing at the back door of our house. My mother is about five foot three inches, a little over weight and with blonde hair down to her shoulders; my own hair is light brown, somewhere between hers and my father’s black locks. She almost always wears a skirt and a blouse.
“Come inside and have some ice cream, your sister is determined you’ll want some”
she shouts across the twenty or so metres of dirt separating the railway from our house. I get up from between the main line’s rails and saunter over to the house, feeling the hot dirt seep in between my toes as I place my foot and some of it fall away as I lift it again.
I step over the threshold of the back door and into the kitchen, my sister and father sit at the table while mum scoops ice cream into four bowls. My sister Emily looks up as I come in and a big grin comes across her face,
“come have some ice cream Patrick” she says excitedly.
My sister is eight, has my mother’s hair, the same bright green eyes as me and is such a sweetheart. We have a really good relationship; Dad is away for a few days at a time occasionally so I have to be a substitute father figure, I’ve always doted on her and she practically worships me in return.
I sit down and watch the usual exchange between Emily and my father, with my mother butting in occasionally.
“How was your day sweetheart?” Dad asks Emily.
“Really good, I went over to the Speed’s and did school work with Julie and Alex, then we went to see Mr and Mrs Mills.”
Julie (nine) and Alex (thirteen) are the daughters of Mike and Nicole Speed, Mike works on the track gang with Dad and Nicole, like my mother, is an archetypal housewife. They also have a five year old son, Jack, who clings to all of us kids like a limpet. The Mills’ are an elderly couple who live a few kilometres north of town and own a shop in Coober Pedy with their daughter who runs it.
“How are the Mills’?” Mum asks as she placed the bowls of homemade ice cream in front of us then took the only other chair at the table.
Emily became rather excited now and exclaimed, “They’ve found out Jessie is having puppies! And Mrs Mills said we could have one if it’s all right with you.”
“We’ll have to think about it, taking on a fourth dog will stretch us further” says Dad in his sternest voice which booms slightly even when he’s talking normally. He continues to my mother after eating a spoonful of ice cream, “this is delicious darling.”
“I helped her with it” interjects Emily, proud as punch and grinning from ear to ear.
Dad reaches over and ruffles her hair in congratulation while I place some of the chocolate ice cream in my mouth. It is rich and tremendously creamy, melting into my tongue and around my teeth. Mum has made it from some old chocolate and this week’s left over milk before our weekly supplies and mail get dropped off this evening by the Ghan on its way north.
I finish my ice cream and walk back outside and sit on the porch, I look at my watch and note the time, 8.30PM, shouldn’t be too long before the train comes. I stare out over the metal of the railway tracks and onto the plains, the Flinders ranges rising up to the east, a beautiful backdrop to the depressing foreground of tussock and dirt. I stare up into the mountains for a while, losing myself until I hear the unmistakable rumble of an approaching train.
It takes almost ten minutes for the train to get to Kylie after you first hear it, I walk over to the tracks and then down them to switch the points for the train to go into the siding loop. The train somewhat slowly approaches; the red diesel engines and silver carriages creep past and come to a stop. I walk to the baggage wagon, just behind the engines where a twenty-something called Aaron opens the big sliding door.
“Hey Patrick” he says, stepping up into the wagon and walking over to four wooden crates.
“Hey mate” I reply, following him. “How are ya?”
“Good, hard day though, have one of the most difficult passengers I’ve ever met on the trip, complains about almost everything and has no real manners.”
I sigh and approach one of the two bigger crates which has “SPEED” printed on a piece of paper attached to it. Inside the crate is all their food and household supplies for the week.
“Pity you can’t bop him one” I say, pushing the crate to the door.
“He’s not that bad” Aaron replies, pushing the other large crate alongside the other one, I catch the word “JOHNSON” in the same place as “SPEED.” In here are my own family’s supplies.
I jump down onto the ground and lower the two crates onto a low metal trolley with small tyres. Aaron pushes the other two crates to the edge and I place them on top of the large ones.
“Cheers mate” I say holding my hand out.
“No problem, see you next week.” He jumps down, takes my hand and shakes it firmly, closes the baggage wagon door and climbs up into the front Passenger carriage.
The driver lets off the horn and as it splits my ears it carries over the plains for miles around. The train slowly gains momentum and after a few seconds it starts moving quickly by, people in the windows looking out at the seemingly normal boy stuck in the middle of nowhere. In fact the reason I do this job every week is because it’s direct contact with the outside world that comes to Kylie Creek four times a week.
After the train has gone past I push the trolley over the dirt and past the side of our house, and over the dirt road to the house of Eric O’Hara. All the houses in Kylie Creek are identical; oblong shaped, made of wood and they sit on piles to let air circulate under them. They have porches that run along the front and back, the front door is in the middle. At the left hand end is three bedrooms, two the same size and one slightly larger. The front door opens onto the hallway and to the right is a large living room type area. On the far side of the living room is the bathroom, laundry and kitchen, which contains the back door. Fences are an unknown.
I knock on Eric’s front door and place his crate on the porch and carry on next door to James Mathews’ house and do the same. They’re both in their late twenties, single, and take to alcohol like a duck to water; they work in the track gang with my father, checking the track, replacing rails and sleepers and occasionally rudimentary maintenance on many things. After delivering the other crate to the Speeds Dad and I carried ours into our kitchen. Dad and I are fairly similar physically, we’re the same sort of average body type but I’m just a little more thick set and he’s slightly taller than me at 6 foot.
We put the crate down and I let out a yawn.
Dad looks up at me and sees I’m tired. “I’ll deal with the trolley son, you go to bed.”
“Thanks Dad” I reply, following it with another yawn. I walk down the hall to my room and flick on the light switch, the late November light starting to fade. I close my curtains and strip down to my boxers, the temperature is in the low thirties, as opposed to the forties it got to during the day, but it’s still unbearable to sleep in if you are clothed. I turn the lights off and climb into bed, the end of what is probably the most exciting day of the week.