Fair Dinkum

AROUND THE DROVER'S CAMP-FIRE

Enjoying an Outback camp-fire after a long day on the job is as traditional as damper and mutton to the drovers of the back country. As with most of these non-alcohol fed times the conversations would start with the important stuff like "Do ya' reckon it'll rain?" and "When do ya' reckon it'll rain?" until they turned to the stories of various feats, great events and wondrous adventures.

I was once at a camp-fire that attended by only drovers, who at the time did not have a mob on the road. There was Big Jack from Arillia Shack, Johnny the horse tailer (who used to tail horses), Swede Sonderson who they reckoned was from another country, but could speak proper, and was as gooda' talker as most blokes ya' could get ta' meet. There wuz me, or I wouldn't be able to tell this story—a true story I might add—a story which I heard with me' own ears. And there was Snowy White, or Pete White to those that knew that Snowy wasn't his proper name, but a name given to him for some reason or other. I mean he wasn't blond, or an albina or nuthin' so I don't really know, nor care that much, other than he was a good bloke.

The flames of a camp-fire are like one of them travelling magic shows, where you get to be hypnotised by some joker dressed in a suit like he was going to the annual ball, but lost his way and ended up making fools of folk, including himself. That is what the camp-fire is like, although you wouldn't call anyone around this one a fool.

The talk had got around to mobs of stock, with the men sharing tales of the ones they’d been with over the years, both cattle and sheep. included

As the night progressed, so did the size of the mobs. Had grog have been involved in this camp-fire, many arguments would have broken out before the mob count got above 2500! especially when you consider that the average mob for cattle was around four to six hundred, and sheep around two thousand, which was a bit of a big mob. With sheep, you would have maybe 4 dogs, with cattle usually none.

No one tried to talk over the other, such was the calming effect of a camp-fire of this type, where men could talk, and the teller would know that it was an over-indulged imagination, and other men would know that, but there was still the "Yeah mate," or "Yeah! I can believe that,", or just the nod of the head and "Yeah."

Most of the blokes had told their stories, and as the other stories held bigger stock numbers and travel lengths no one got in for a second chance. One shot only was the rule of camp-fire yarns.

Pete had sat all evening, adding his "Yeah," and his other highly intellectual comment, the one that equalled any other intellectual comment from the rest of us: "Yeah, I have heard of that, I think."

"Hey, Snow, you ain't sed much. What is the biggest mob you 'ave been with?"

Now Pete wasn't slow, like in being educated or anything, but he was slow in talking, and it seemed that he had to search real deep in his long lean body to find words to suit any occasion. Pete seemed to be a bit embarrassed at the question, or maybe he was embarrassed at his answer that he was about to give, 'cause he knew that it was gunna be hard to believe, even he had his doubts when he ever reiterated this yarn. However, it seemed to hit Pete's fancy to join in on the challenge. He got up off his stump, and topped up his pannican with the steaming, and heavily brewed, billy-can of tea and returned to his seat. We, that is the rest of us, knew that Pete could not be pushed, and that when he had something to say he was sure to say it as slow as he possibly could, mulling over every word as though he was translating from some language that the rest of us would not understand.

"I was with a mob of sheep once, back in the 50s. We picked them up at Winton and was to travel them down the TSR to Isisford, up along the Barcoo to Stonehenge, past the Trafalgar Water Hole, around behind the Jump up country and then down to Windorah to a property owned by, what's-is name, that bloke wot owned half of the Simpson Desert."

"Ya' mean Old Sid Kidman?"

"Yeah, him," Pete said, "Sid Kidneys," Pete soon got into his story.

"When the sheep were let out of the yards at the beginning of the drove it took the boss and the squatter half the day to count them out in threes, an' they strung out down the paddock for a mile or more, fair dinkum, I ain't seen a bigger mob before, or since that one trip," Pete was saying.

"How many were there, Snowy?" Someone asked, and was ignored by Pete as he had his own timetable for this story.

"The first camp was at the six mile bore head, and half the mob were at the camp a day before the tail caught up."

“Yeah! I can believe that," I decided to get in on this story. "I think I heard about this mob, back a few years ago."

"Yeah, me too," another said.

"Shut up yous blokes, I wanna hear how many sheep there were."

Snowy Pete White again filled his pannican, and just stood near the dwindling camp-fire before he continued.

"Well, I never got to hear the number spoke right out like, but I was in charge of the dogs, an' there wuz fifteen hundred of them."

Short Story 'The Pup' - A Quote

The Code of the West

Was there a code of the West in the Outback? Does it still exist? What is the code of the West?

One main thing I could remember, and it is a pity that it is still not 'the code', but anyone that pulled a knife in a fight would not last long in any Outback town. It just wasn't done, and anyone that did was labelled as a "Wog."

Now, I know that word is offensive to some people, but to cover myself from litigation, please recall the book and movie, "The Wog Boy", or expressions like "Wog Football". These expressions are used by many ethnic people in this country to this day.

It is odd, I know, but I never suffered a cultural cringe when I was in the back country. We accepted the Greek Café owners, the Greek and Italian pub owners, and they in turn, accepted us Australians just as though we were actually humans.

In a Greek Café you were sure to get more than you could eat if you asked for a mixed grill, and as many cups of tea or coffee as you wanted.

So, Code #1 was fight fair.

Code #2 was respect the people around you, the ones that would help you out without hesitation, the ones that fought nature's onslaughts, standing side by side with all other men and women of the West.

Code #3 was definitely the hand shake. To shake on a deal was like writing it in blood, and consequently if one reneged on a handshake, there would be plenty of blood to write another agreement. Mainly from the reneger!

To have a reputation for someone that cannot be trusted was probably worse than someone that was a bit of a mug, a fool, as they often could not help themselves.

Code #4, I remember well, was respect women. They were so few women in the Outback towns that it was more awe than respect. I remember only too well young Nerida in Longreach saying "Are you going to stop babbling and kiss me, or not?" I kissed her, but I am sure the red glow of my face gave her sunburn, so much was my awe of the fairer sex.

Don't ever steal from your mates ... this one could be any number but I will give it Code #5. You see, trust features in The Code in a big way, and if you lose your mate's trust, you lose your mate, and many more mates along the way.

Code #6: never leave a man in trouble, be he broken down on a dusty road, hurt in some fall or accident. I say fall, as many of us fell from horses, as well as falling for a girl or falling from the graces of a girl ... lots of falling about went on in the good old days. Life was a bit slower, and we had time to stand by a mate, or anyone else, for that matter.

Code #7, do not be a coward. If for some reason, during a drink or two in a pub, a bloke says "You ... out where the bull feeds," there is a good chance you have been invited to a bit of a donnybrook, out on a patch of grass, grown for that specific purpose in a good few of the Outback pubs.

Being a smallish bloke, I won a few of my fights by at least fifty yards. However, there were the times that I was forced to stand toe to toe, nose to nose, eye to eye, finger to chest and likewise, reciting the well known battle chant ...

"Yeah! Sez 'oo?"

"Me, I sez,"

"Yeah?" Jab with the finger.

"Yeah!" Jab back.

And this would go on until someone in the gathered assembly would say, "Come on blokes, these pair of pansies ain't gunna have a stoush ... let's go have a beer," and off they would go, leaving the combatants standing there glaring until one or the other would say "Your shout."

Later in the evenings the real 'blues' would be on, and some serious, well bet upon, fights would take place. I never saw a coward in my time. Many of these blokes would be the best blokes to have around you as you would ever find. In fun someone might say "YOU! Out where the bull feeds," quickly adding "And if I'm not there when you get there, start without me." But you had to be good mates to get away with that.

Code #8, although you might be called a pansy in circumstances like the one I relayed above, if you showed any sign of being what a pansy intimates you would have no mates, inter or otherwise. I do remember one chap in Aramac, that made advances to a young bloke in the middle of the night, and I tell you, I have never seen such a bloodied, almost corpse, in my life. I never came across him again in Queensland, and although his gear was still at the pub, he never came back for it to the best of my knowledge. Such was the Code of the West.

Editor's Note: These are thoughts and recollections on life in Outback Queensland in the 1950s and 1960s.

Out Takes from Droving (Sheep)

There are a few things that is not mentioned in the Droving story, things that some would not normally think about,  but are an intrinsic part of the job.

Washing clothes and bathing:  On a rare occasion, in warmer weather one would find a reasonably clean water hole, dam or tank and the ritual of bathing and washing clothes were conducted in the one ablution.

Boots, belt and hat would be left on the side of the water source, and then you would dive into the water,  diving as far out as your legs would propel you so as not to get bogged in the mud, getting out would be a problem in this department.

A bit of a splash around, a thumping of various parts of the clothing and a scrub of the neck, under the arm pits and if no one was watching, around the family jewels.

It would not take long before you dried out and felt like you were Mister health and Hygiene himself.

Winter, of course, brought a different approach to bodily hygiene.  It was not a good idea to bath much in the winter, as the body would build up a goodly amount of external fat excretions that would act as insulation once soaked into the clothing.  The same applied with blankets in the swag.

The one problem with the blankets, once at their warmest capability with the added treatment of body grime was the by the time you rolled up the swag in the morning ad unrolled the swag at night, the local blow flies would have a bonanza, and maggots would greet you as you were about to have a good kip.

A couple of shakes into the camp fire would soon get rid of that little inconvenience.

Dust was the bane of the drover, not the boss, of course, he would ride up front and make sure he is position was never challenged. tailing any stock in unfavored wind was most undesirable.

The above also contributed to the extent of the mundane mental stimulation of the drover. Imagine, if you will, looking up the rear end of three thousand sheep, or five hundred head of cows and tell me how far your mental horizons would stretch.