Bush School

As the twin-engine plane hit the dirt in a small community in Arnhem Land, the pilot screamed at me, "So you're the new, chalky?"

I nodded.

I had a welcoming party of one: A 30-something teacher with a forever beard, shorts and a cap that read, "When you're hot, you're piping hot." He explained to me that there had been some kind of mix-up with my sleeping situation.

"Mix-up?"

"Yeah mate, the school's your home for now. The principal is taking off for a while. There he goes now. Hey, J-Man!" A weathered four-wheeled drive kicked throwing dust at us.

"He's just having some fun."

We entered the school gym, which was full of creature droppings and flattened balls.

"Nice. Anything else I can help you with?" It wasn't really a question. He chucked a kid's sleeping bag onto a gym mat, made a double peace sign and, headed out the door.

I went outside and saw a basketball court sprouting tree roots. First Nations boys were playing, and upon noticing me, they raced over. We didn't fully understand each other, but between bouts of laughter, this was what I figured out: The one and only shop had no set hours, there was a pack of dingoes around, and if I saw them, I should bolt, and there was a King Brown who visited the school at his own discretion. "Oh yeah," one of the boys added, "the band is ready for you."

"For me?"

He guided me to the music room (a tin shed with a 'Music Room' sign painted haphazardly on the front). Three First Nations boys with instruments smiled, surrounded by at least 50 micro fans. The boy on lead spoke in Pub rock, "G'day punters, this one goes back."

The drummer rolled. The bass blended in and then the oldest member of the band, no more than fifteen years old, followed on lead, blaring a sweet cover of Wipe-Out.

I nodded along with the beat, smiling at the irony. The nearest safe beach had to be two thousand kilometres away. I high-fived each of them at the end of the song. One of them asked me if I was ready for the big match.

I'd actually forgotten it was Saturday. The oval was packed with one over-pumped football and 40 under-pumped footballers, chuckling together. The ground was rock hard, yet nobody wore runners. To me, it was like playing in a crater. As soon as the ball came close, I'd kick it off the ground, hearing a few murmurs. When it was over though, they all got around me. I'd always remember that.

I jogged home to a bush sunset with utes and happy horns passing me. My senses were elsewhere, looking for dingos and pulsating for one overgrown snake.

Back at the deserted school, I soothed in a shower only a kid would use, sang Listen to what the man said, re-positioned the gymmat and, drifted with the stars.