On the day we said farewell to Cooladdi, the old falcon wagon was packed full — Mum and Dad in the front with one kid sitting between them on the bench seat, one on the floor under Mum’s feet and the other six of us crammed in the back with our beautiful faithful sheep dog, Biddy, and of course, Cocky. We knew the road to Charleville was going to be rough and dusty, but beyond that was unknown — the thought of maybe having a bitumen road to drive on would be a pleasant change from pot holes and bull dust. The roads were particularly hazardous at that time as there were lots of heavy vehicles with oil-drilling rigs doing exploration work and with all this activity going on it left the roads in a very bad state of repair.
Charleville was our first stop just before lunch and it was a good opportunity to have a quick dip in the Warrego River and boil the billy. Some of our friends from Cooladdi had packed sandwiches and cooked cakes for us to eat on the way and once we cooled off and washed ourselves down of bull dust we sat down and enjoyed a picnic lunch under a shady coolibah.
Morven would be the next stop-over on our epic journey and much to our disappointment there was still no bitumen — the dust kept pouring in and the pot holes were endless. Dad lived in Morven as a young fella, working as a station-hand on properties around the district and playing football with his mates on the weekends, so I guess it was a good opportunity to call into the local pub and say his goodbyes and reminisce about the old days.
He seemed to take forever as we all sat impatiently waiting in the back of the old falcon and while we were waiting Mum told us a funny story about Dad’s football prowess. She said that Dad had a cousin called Sarah Bell who played match-maker between Mum and Dad in their early dating days. Sarah wasn’t obvious about this in the beginning but over the course of a few weeks it became very clear to Mum that is exactly what she was up to. On Sarah’s suggestion, a few weeks after Mum and Dad first met, they all went on the train from Charleville to Morven to watch Dad play football. Mum said she was really excited and looking forward to watching Dad play as he was telling her about how he and Sonny Curry, a local football legend from Mitchell, would pass the football back and forth to each other and completely annihilate the opposition with their skills. ‘Well, you’ve never seen anything so embarrassing in all your life,’ she said. ‘When Jack got the ball he took off running in the wrong direction! I couldn’t wait to get out of the place, all I wanted to do was to get back on the train and hide my face in shame.’
Us kids just roared with laughter as we had all believed Dad was a great sportsman, by his own account, naturally, and to learn differently from Mum was too much for us. It really cracked us up! He was looking rather happy when he eventually made it back to the car for the next stage of the trip and that would be to Mitchell and of course he would have to call in and say goodbye to his cousin Angus Mitchell. Thank goodness he didn’t stay too long chatting with Angus as it had been a long and challenging day being crushed between five other kids in the back of the car and the sun was now setting behind us as we set off towards Roma.
We arrived in Roma at about eight o’clock that evening — I remember that night very clearly because there was a total eclipse of the moon — and we spent the night with Aunt Marie and family before setting off the next morning. All fed and freshened up for the last and final leg, we said our hoorays and Dad sped off down the bitumen highway towards Cambooya… Bitumen at last! It was such a relief not breathing in bull dust and now Dad could actually wind the windows down and let some fresh air in.
It was a relatively smooth day compared to the previous with no stops to say goodbye to friends, only the odd toilet break. We knew that we were getting close to our destination as we passed through Dalby and onward towards Oakey because there, standing in the distance, was the big hill that Dad had told us about: Gowrie Mountain. We kids just marvelled in awe at the site of such an enormous site as it was the biggest one we’d ever seen.
Prior to seeing Gowrie Mountain the biggest hill I ever saw was in Charleville where the water tower stands. As a young boy driving past this magnificent site I allowed my thoughts to drift into an exciting adventure. I wondered what it would be like climbing to the very top. Would there be any caves I could hide from the rest of the world? And wouldn’t it be great if I found a hidden treasure and we could turn around and go back to Cooladdi and build a beautiful big house on the banks of the Quilberry?
There was no more kicking and fighting going on between us kids when Dad finally stopped the car outside our new home. I think we were all too overwhelmed with the realisation of facing the unknown and the mood became unexpectedly eerie: a future filled with uncertainties lay ahead. I wondered if there would be any other Aboriginal families around that would befriend us, and what the school would be like, and whether the kids would be friendly.
Mr Aisthorpe, the ganger, was there to greet us with his gold tooth noticeably shining through a warm and friendly smile and to hand Dad the keys to our little railway cottage. Dad thanked Mr Aisthorpe for his kindness and his warm welcome to Cambooya and with that, everything was official. We were here now and regardless of any emotional pain we were experiencing at that moment we simply had to accept the situation and move on.
The next few days were extremely difficult for everyone as we tried to adjust to our new home and the new lifestyle that we were suddenly confronted with. I said to Mum on several occasions, ‘Can we please go back home to Cooladdi? I don’t want to live here – I hate it.’ And I believe that as much as she was also finding it hard, she also knew it was the best thing for her kids to remain.
As the weeks went slowly by, we became more accustomed to life in Cambooya. The most difficult time for me was going to school, I mean I was no Rhodes scholar, but I was good at maths for some odd and unknown reason. Having to face the staring eyes of kids hanging over the school fence to see the ‘Aborigines’ was confronting to say the least; it made us feel like aliens.
‘Here they come! Look at their skin! Isn’t it black?’ I could hear them calling out over the fence as we got closer to school.
This morning ritual went on for weeks and it was beginning to take its toll and we became more frustrated and angrier until one day me and my brothers grabbed a few of the bigger fellas and took them over by the tennis courts and got stuck into em.
There were kids running everywhere, screaming out for the teachers to come out and put a stop to the brawling, but it didn’t stop us as we wanted to make a point to everyone that we’d had enough of the name-calling, and it was time for us to make a stand.
Mum always told us kids to stick up for our rights and to not let anyone bully us around and that’s exactly what we did. Needless to say, that was the end of the morning, over-the-fence greetings. And there was no more, ‘here-they-come’s. It was more like, ‘Hello and good morning’.
I believe Dad was under enormous pressure to stay in Cambooya and not retreat back to the relatively safe and familiar surrounds of Charleville where he’d always lived. It would have been easy to give up and return, but to his credit he managed and did the best he could under extreme circumstances.
Dad had no peers or anyone who he could communicate his feelings with. He was a trailblazer and a man with a vision who desperately wanted to educate his loved ones. He drank more often than he should have as the pub was within walking distance of our place, but I guess the pub offered some kind of sanctuary for him and how could anyone blame him for the sacrifice he gave us?
Amid all of the negative things that was happening in our new life living in Cambooya, I found more time to play. I didn’t have to fill kerosene lights every evening or carry drinking water from the railway tanks, we could just flick a switch and light would instantly appear, and a walk down the stairs to the rainwater tank made life for me all that much easier.
My dear sister Niecey, I can’t possibly imagine how difficult it would have been for, the only Aboriginal person at the school, catching the bus into Harristown High School for the very first time with glaring eyes wondering where this black girl came from… ’Did she come from Central Australia or the Northern Territory?’ they would ask amongst themselves because that’s the only place Black fellas lived according to what they saw on television.
I had my own experience the following year when I started high school, I was met with racist slurs and name calling and when I was approached by a group of young boys who asked me if I was related to Lionel Rose I could only wonder to myself how ignorant they were. The late Lionel Rose was the only Black person who they could relate with as he was the famous Aboriginal boxer and known across the country and on television for his boxing ability.
They say that the world is a small place and how true it is I thought when one of my old teachers from Cooladdi, Basil Calldicot, walked through the door and into the classroom.
‘You’re one of the Martin’s from Cooladdi, aren’t you?’ he asked and with a big smile on my face I answered, ‘Yes’. It made me feel good sitting in class surrounded by all these kids and knowing that I was the only one who knew the teacher personally.
We would live in Cambooya for about two years before Dad became too sick to continue hard physical labouring work on the railway and that’s when we moved to Toowoomba.
Mum and Dad did the best they could under extreme circumstances and having access to good schools and the chance of a decent education for their kids was one of the main reasons why they decided to give up the security of living in Cooladdi and move to Cambooya.
As I look back on those days, and especially now that I have three kids of my own, I realise the importance of a good education and I am filled with such admiration and respect for my parents for having the vision and the courage to undertake such a huge task of moving from Cooladdi to Cambooya.
Garry Sonny Martin 