Sunday, November 04, 2007
Saved by a Dog's Nose
The 80’s. I was living in Brisbane for a year and it was a bit of an eye opener for me on the race relations front. Having grown up in New Zealand in an area where about half the people I hung out with were Maori, it really hit me just how racist many (not all) Australians were.. err, are. The two worlds were just so separate and I wasn’t used to that.
It also hit me just how much more advanced New Zealand is in terms of acknowledging indigenous culture. Sure, we have a long way to go – but Australia has much further. Much.
Anyway, I grew up knowing all my Maori mates were different – of course they looked different and they did draw on different ways of looking at things. Yep, we were different, but equal. These days I have the benefit of knowing so much more about what is a very rich culture. But even when my knowledge was minimal, I never thought of us as anything but equal. This was not the case in Australia.
Back to the 80’s. Labour day, a day off – so I trundle down to the famous Breakfast Creek hotel for a few cold ones. There is a bunch of us, and some of the locals were getting fairly shickered. All this time, there is an Aboriginal chap, sitting alone at the bar, enjoying a quiet drink. But as some of the (white) Aussies got drunk, they started hurling awful, racist taunts at this chap. Even the barman joins in. It was despicable. The guy at the bar ignored them. He just sat there with his drink and did not react in any way.
I tell you, coming from where I do, I was disgusted. So disgusted I immediately dis-associated myself from the white boys and went and joined the Aboriginal man at the bar. “Hi, my name’s David, Mind if I join you.” He did not mind. But he did have some concern about the reaction it might provoke and he was right. Boy, did we ever cop some abuse from those Aussies after that – and it was only the actions of a couple of decent people in the bar that stopped us both, I suspect, getting more than just the verbals. When they started calling me N_ _ _ _ _ _ lover, you could feel the seething hatred behind the voices.
Anyway, they let it go eventually and I spent a wonderful few hours with my new friend learning all manner of things about his people, their problems, their way. He called me ‘friend of the black fulla’ after my stories about my Maori mates back home. And, I called him Dog’s Nose – after his drink of choice (A Dog’s Nose is a beer with a shot of gin mixed in it).
We became good mates in a short time. Unfortunately, in an equally short time, we both became extremely intoxicated (Dog’s Noses are lethal. Beware.) Anyway, we were both asked to leave the pub (rightfully so too) and me and Dog’s Nose parted company with an A frame and a handshake. Down to my last $10 by now, I jumped into a cab and said “3 Hunter Street, Greenslopes or ten bucks, whichever comes first.” And as the tenner only got me about half way, the cabbie let me out in the middle of suburbia with a good 30 minute walk ahead of me. Phfft. It was around 4pm. Broad daylight.
Next thing I wake up as I am being lifted into an ambulance. It seems I had taken a seat then fallen asleep, sprawlled out right there on a grass verge outside someone’s house. Someone obviously thought I was dying or something and called the ambulance. I tried to explain to the Ambos that there was no problem, I was just pissed on Dog’s Noses and would be fine to walk. But they were adamant there was more to this than booze and insisted on taking me to Brisbane hospital. Here they put me in a room, and told me to wait for someone to come and see me. Foolishly, they had put me in a room with many temptations and being young and stupid, I loaded up my pockets – a fact that was fairly obvious when the doctor came into the room. My jacket was bulging. Split second decision – run David, run. This turned into a hilarious chase through the corridors until I saw the exit which transpired to be a wide loading bay at the end of the corridor. To assist, I jumped on a bed with wheels and rode it prone at quite high speed, ultimately flying off the ledge of the loading bay, which was quite a bit higher than I had imagined. It was one hell of a prang and the bed and I came off second best. Now security guys had me bundled up and within minutes the cops arrive.
Now, a word to the wise, never… never be a smartarse with a Queensland Cop. They were/are nothing like our comparatively reasonable New Zealand cops. These guys had a culture of bullying and brutality; one of them just so enjoyed forcing my arm up my back to the point of breaking – and they dished out a pretty severe physical introduction – scary and painful. And for good measure – because I had been a total smartarse, they threw me into the special drunk trank that was segregated for Aboriginals only. And because Aboriginbals are treated so badly by so many white Australians, they pretty much hate ‘em. So, me being put into their drunk tank was pretty much a guarantee that I would get the bash. The cops had it all worked out – a nice plan to ensure I would get beaten up.
There were about a dozen of us in the cell, and immediately a bunch of them had me circled and the pushing and shoving began, the foreplay to violence. This was really scary and I knew I was in deep shit. Really deep. I took the first few hits but there was no way I could defend against so many, and I went down quite quickly. A couple of boots went in then as I shielded my balls and my head, foetal position, awaiting the worst.
Then the big metal swung open – clang - a moment’s respite.
And who should get thrown into the cell?
Dog’s Nose! You bewdy mate!
He saw me; saw what was happening. And then he saved my life.
Really quickly, he showed them my tattoo’s, proving I was not Australian and he explained to them all that I was a “Friend of the black fulla” and that he had spent the day with me, that I backed him up when the guys had racially abused him at the pub – and that I had bought him more than a couple of his favoured drinks.
Recognition set in, apologies made – and I spent a really cool night with a bunch of Aboriginals, learning all sorts of stuff and telling them everything I knew about our indigenous culture in New Zealand.
The cops got a real surprise – and were quite pissed off I think, when they let us out in the morning and we all hugged and said our farewells as the ‘best of mates’.
People, like Peter Garret (Midnight Oil) made some significant moves to reduce the racial divide in the 80’s, and the climate has changed in some ways in Australia over the years since. But Australia has a long long way to go if they seriously want to address the need for recognition of their indigenous culture and to redress some long problems. Just like ours, theirs is a culture that has much to offer.
All it really takes is some effort to learn about it, and then to respect it. If you can achieve that first step, then over time all of the associated issues will be seen to.
It is really complicated for sure. But that is no excuse not to take the first step. And that first step is nothing more than a mindset.
It also hit me just how much more advanced New Zealand is in terms of acknowledging indigenous culture. Sure, we have a long way to go – but Australia has much further. Much.
Anyway, I grew up knowing all my Maori mates were different – of course they looked different and they did draw on different ways of looking at things. Yep, we were different, but equal. These days I have the benefit of knowing so much more about what is a very rich culture. But even when my knowledge was minimal, I never thought of us as anything but equal. This was not the case in Australia.
Back to the 80’s. Labour day, a day off – so I trundle down to the famous Breakfast Creek hotel for a few cold ones. There is a bunch of us, and some of the locals were getting fairly shickered. All this time, there is an Aboriginal chap, sitting alone at the bar, enjoying a quiet drink. But as some of the (white) Aussies got drunk, they started hurling awful, racist taunts at this chap. Even the barman joins in. It was despicable. The guy at the bar ignored them. He just sat there with his drink and did not react in any way.
I tell you, coming from where I do, I was disgusted. So disgusted I immediately dis-associated myself from the white boys and went and joined the Aboriginal man at the bar. “Hi, my name’s David, Mind if I join you.” He did not mind. But he did have some concern about the reaction it might provoke and he was right. Boy, did we ever cop some abuse from those Aussies after that – and it was only the actions of a couple of decent people in the bar that stopped us both, I suspect, getting more than just the verbals. When they started calling me N_ _ _ _ _ _ lover, you could feel the seething hatred behind the voices.
Anyway, they let it go eventually and I spent a wonderful few hours with my new friend learning all manner of things about his people, their problems, their way. He called me ‘friend of the black fulla’ after my stories about my Maori mates back home. And, I called him Dog’s Nose – after his drink of choice (A Dog’s Nose is a beer with a shot of gin mixed in it).
We became good mates in a short time. Unfortunately, in an equally short time, we both became extremely intoxicated (Dog’s Noses are lethal. Beware.) Anyway, we were both asked to leave the pub (rightfully so too) and me and Dog’s Nose parted company with an A frame and a handshake. Down to my last $10 by now, I jumped into a cab and said “3 Hunter Street, Greenslopes or ten bucks, whichever comes first.” And as the tenner only got me about half way, the cabbie let me out in the middle of suburbia with a good 30 minute walk ahead of me. Phfft. It was around 4pm. Broad daylight.
Next thing I wake up as I am being lifted into an ambulance. It seems I had taken a seat then fallen asleep, sprawlled out right there on a grass verge outside someone’s house. Someone obviously thought I was dying or something and called the ambulance. I tried to explain to the Ambos that there was no problem, I was just pissed on Dog’s Noses and would be fine to walk. But they were adamant there was more to this than booze and insisted on taking me to Brisbane hospital. Here they put me in a room, and told me to wait for someone to come and see me. Foolishly, they had put me in a room with many temptations and being young and stupid, I loaded up my pockets – a fact that was fairly obvious when the doctor came into the room. My jacket was bulging. Split second decision – run David, run. This turned into a hilarious chase through the corridors until I saw the exit which transpired to be a wide loading bay at the end of the corridor. To assist, I jumped on a bed with wheels and rode it prone at quite high speed, ultimately flying off the ledge of the loading bay, which was quite a bit higher than I had imagined. It was one hell of a prang and the bed and I came off second best. Now security guys had me bundled up and within minutes the cops arrive.
Now, a word to the wise, never… never be a smartarse with a Queensland Cop. They were/are nothing like our comparatively reasonable New Zealand cops. These guys had a culture of bullying and brutality; one of them just so enjoyed forcing my arm up my back to the point of breaking – and they dished out a pretty severe physical introduction – scary and painful. And for good measure – because I had been a total smartarse, they threw me into the special drunk trank that was segregated for Aboriginals only. And because Aboriginbals are treated so badly by so many white Australians, they pretty much hate ‘em. So, me being put into their drunk tank was pretty much a guarantee that I would get the bash. The cops had it all worked out – a nice plan to ensure I would get beaten up.
There were about a dozen of us in the cell, and immediately a bunch of them had me circled and the pushing and shoving began, the foreplay to violence. This was really scary and I knew I was in deep shit. Really deep. I took the first few hits but there was no way I could defend against so many, and I went down quite quickly. A couple of boots went in then as I shielded my balls and my head, foetal position, awaiting the worst.
Then the big metal swung open – clang - a moment’s respite.
And who should get thrown into the cell?
Dog’s Nose! You bewdy mate!
He saw me; saw what was happening. And then he saved my life.
Really quickly, he showed them my tattoo’s, proving I was not Australian and he explained to them all that I was a “Friend of the black fulla” and that he had spent the day with me, that I backed him up when the guys had racially abused him at the pub – and that I had bought him more than a couple of his favoured drinks.
Recognition set in, apologies made – and I spent a really cool night with a bunch of Aboriginals, learning all sorts of stuff and telling them everything I knew about our indigenous culture in New Zealand.
The cops got a real surprise – and were quite pissed off I think, when they let us out in the morning and we all hugged and said our farewells as the ‘best of mates’.
People, like Peter Garret (Midnight Oil) made some significant moves to reduce the racial divide in the 80’s, and the climate has changed in some ways in Australia over the years since. But Australia has a long long way to go if they seriously want to address the need for recognition of their indigenous culture and to redress some long problems. Just like ours, theirs is a culture that has much to offer.
All it really takes is some effort to learn about it, and then to respect it. If you can achieve that first step, then over time all of the associated issues will be seen to.
It is really complicated for sure. But that is no excuse not to take the first step. And that first step is nothing more than a mindset.
