By ERWIN CHLANDA

Most of the “extra” $90m in the NT Budget for police has already been spent, according to the Police Association.

President Nathan Finn says (above, left): “What wasn’t disclosed by the Chief Minister and Police Minister is that more than $70 million of that $90 million funding has already been absorbed because the department has blown its budget this financial year.

“That blow out is not surprising given the extraordinary number of resources that have been sent to Alice Springs, ongoing violence in the West Daly Region, the overwhelming number of calls requesting an emergency response coming into the Joint Emergency Services Communication Centre, and the unsustainable overtime members right across the Territory are undertaking to address record levels of crime, harm and violence in the community.

“Additionally, Minister Potter told Mix 104.9 that the $90m was ‘separate to the $570 million over five years’ but was later forced to clarify the $90m is, in fact, included in the total $570 million commitment.

Meanwhile Independent Member for Araluen Robyn Lambley (above, right) says there is not much new in the Budget for Alice Springs.

“Most of the promises made by the government since coming to power in 2016 – eight years ago – have not been delivered,” she sys.

“The few Infrastructure projects which have been delivered make up less than $100m or 20% of the more than $700m promised.

“This is a massive under-spend of more than $580m on game-changing projects.”

She lists: The National Aboriginal Art Gallery, estimated $250m (2018); the National Aboriginal Cultural Centre, $100-200m (2018); flood mitigation, $155m (report from 2017); Alice Springs Juvenile Detention Centre, $35m (2018); Arumbera Industrial Estate, $20m (2018); the completed CBD Revitalisation, $20m (2017); new Rugby League ovals, $20-30m (2018); Red Centre Adventure Ride, $11m (2018); Watarrka Walking Trail, $6m (2018) and a new Home for Tourism Central Australia, estimated $5m (2024).

By MIKE GILLAM

Every six weeks or so I drive between Alice Springs and the southern reaches of the Lake Eyre basin.

A few months after meeting the French tourist (Night Drive) who suffered from acute anxiety but had the courage to drive an unreliable bomb across the continent, I had an inspiring encounter with a lithesome Aboriginal man.

Departing Coober Pedy after lunch I quickly found myself struggling to stay awake. Long days and difficult schedules were catching up with me and in the middle of summer, the heat through the glass was sapping.

Out the window I try to identify familiars, naming the plants helps stave off fatigue. It’s far too hot to follow the recommended procedure – stop on the roadside, tilt the seat and take a power nap before resuming my journey.

I’m forced to make a choice between a sugar hit or strong coffee; a slow death by sugar is definitely preferable to falling asleep at the wheel.

The roadhouse staff are backpackers, French on this occasion and of cheerful character that possibly highlights the brevity of their tenure in retail. I promote the cultural values of nearby Coober Pedy as a unique place to live and work but they’ve already been spooked by the town’s underlying reputation as the Wild West. I do my best to counter, giving them a lecture about stereotypes and telling them I’ve encountered no threats, quite the opposite, fifty years of friendship and wonder.

The lavish ice-cream kept me alert for less than an hour before the deep tiredness returned. I kept my eyes open with great effort, blinking and pouring water over my head and chest to assist the struggling air conditioner.

Hot and tired I began to experience minor hallucinations as distant bushes took the form of road signs. I was startled by a fine splatter of mud on the passenger side window animated by a ray of light, that on closer inspection, didn’t look anything like a fly past of fifty budgerigars.

Then I saw the lilting, wafting form of a slender tree, moving side to side in the heat shimmer. I blinked hard several times and the tree continued dancing.

At two hundred metres the man took definite shape and I began to brake. I was driving north and he was walking south but there was no sign of a disabled vehicle nearby. We exchanged a wave when he realised I was intending to stop and he walked to the roadside while I turned around.

Confused, I asked: “What’s happening, where are you going?”

The hatless man whom I later established was 50 years old was clutching a small bottle of water, its contents perilously low. He extended a lean muscular arm and pointed south west in the direction of a low range about 20 km away.

“Indulkana, short cut.”

Wow, that would take me six hours minimum.

He nodded his head and said: “Get to community tonight.”

Where you coming from? He pointed back to the north east and muttered “been walking days”.  Shocked, I made some room and said: “Jump in, I’ll drive you there.” He sank into the front seat and asked, “maybe just go to turn off,” still 10 km short of his destination at Indulkana.

I admonished my passenger for walking with so little water, mid-afternoon on a day of 41 degrees and he replied a little defensively that he’d tried to have a sleep under a bush but he had too much pain from cramps in his feet so he kept walking. He was a resolute character and I decided not to interrogate the circumstances of his long walk any further.

By way of changing the subject I mentioned the Yankunytjatjara statesman Yami Lester and his family of campaigners from nearby Wallatinna, and my passenger responded with delight, confirming he was a relative.

Early March I was strolling the streets of Northcote, Victoria, when I saw this huge mural of Yami on the town hall wall. Rod Moss.

Yami’s totem was ngintaka, Varanus giganteus, the largest goanna in Australia, commonly called Perentie (pictured). A photograph of goanna tracks features on the first edition cover of his book: Yami. The Autobiography of Yami Lester.

An indigenous rights leader and activist on many fronts, Yami represented people of the APY Lands of South Australia with great integrity and distinction. He served as Director of the Institute for Aboriginal Development in Alice Springs for six years, an organisation he co-founded in 1969 with the Reverend Jim Downing of the Uniting Church.

On the international stage, Yami is best remembered as a casualty of the British Atomic Tests and a tireless advocate in gaining recognition for the 1800 Aboriginal people, catastrophically impacted by radiation.

“In 1953, I was just ten years old when the bombs went off at Emu and Maralinga. I got sick and went blind from the Totem 1 fallout … and lots of our people got sick and died also,”  said Yami in a Friends Of the Earth (FOE) interview.

Yami died in 2017, aged 75, and later that year his daughter Karina campaigned at the United Nations in support of a treaty to ban nuclear weapons.

Decades earlier FOE and the Australian Conservation Foundation had supported Aboriginal people in their campaign to prevent the establishment of a high level nuclear waste dump in arid South Australia.

Yami inspired and supported the many activists who worked on this six year campaign. The campaign was led and finally won in 2004 by senior Aboriginal women, the Kupa Piti Kungka Tjuta, from Coober Pedy, many directly impacted by the 1950’s atomic testing.

“An ambassador for the NO Dump Alliance he spoke loud and strong against nuclear waste dumping in South Australia. In 1981, Yami was awarded the Order of Australia medal for service in the field of Aboriginal Welfare. And his daughters, Karina and Rose, continue their father’s legacy today. They were deserved winners of the 2015 Jill Hudson Award for their powerful leadership in the fight against the high level waste dump …” saenvironmentawards.org.au 2024.

The eulogy posted by FOE captures the essence of Yami’s story, his kindness and great intelligence, the horrific consequences of the atomic tests and his life time of advocacy.

“Along with Maralinga veteran Avon Hudson, Yami was responsible for the formation of a Royal Commission in the 1980’s that shone a light on the atomic crimes of the British government, the spinelessness and culpability of (Australian) state and federal governments, and the ugly racism that pervaded everything to do with the atomic bomb tests.” (FOE, 9 August 2017).

Many serving military personnel were also callously exposed to radiation by those in charge but clearly not responsible. I try not to think about the unknown toll on desert wildlife.

In the late 1990’s I visited Yami and his family at Wallatina to take photographs for a poster and book cover commissioned by the Institute for Aboriginal Development (IAD), its press a leader in the publication of so many significant books preserving language and documenting culture.

Thereafter our paths crossed occasionally during Yami’s visits to Alice Springs for meetings or shopping and the Yankunytjatjara leader would always respond to us by name. I witnessed this incredible ability often, in mixed groupings or people out of context, it didn’t matter.

Without introduction Yami responded confidently to the many familiars who approached him in the street. I imagine he applied the same incredible recall for voices in the halls of Canberra where he was so effective.

Often required to engage in hard conversations, nonetheless Yami is remembered as one of the most effective and unifying figures of our times. He was greatly admired and loved by everyone who knew him.

Living alongside Aboriginal people from different language groups over the past fifty years has profoundly shaped my thinking. Predictably, sacred country, totemic plants and animals have become a rich bridge with my traditional interlocuters, especially the Arrernte.

And so it has become a habit to remember special friends through their animal or plant totem. In this way, Yami lives on and I can well imagine his family and close friends thinking of that distinguished old man whenever they encounter a large and impressive ngintaka strolling through his desert estate.

Postscript: Spurred on by cold war tensions and fear of a world war involving weapons of mass destruction the British Government were unsuccessful in gaining approval from the US and Canada to conduct tests in remote areas.

Permission was granted by the Australian Prime Minister Menzies and the atomic testing program began in 1952 off the coast of WA.

Seventy years later a warning sign located at Trimouille Island in the Montebello group, an archipelago of about 174 islands, recommends minimising exposure to radiation by restricting visits to one hour per day.

In total 12 nuclear weapons tests were conducted by the UK in the 1950s and 60s, mostly at Emu Field and Maralinga in South Australia. Despite public safety assurances, radioactive fallout was recorded as far away as Townsville.

According to Wikipedia (Nuclear weapons tests in Australia) “a few hundred smaller scale tests were conducted at both Emu Field and Maralinga between 1953 and 1963.”

Recently Australian nuclear test files were removed from the National Archives at Kew and placed in the Nucleus archives that focus on the British civil nuclear industry.

According to a CNN report, “Nucleus also does not offer the type of online access to its records as the National Archives does … In correspondence … the NDA (Nuclear Decommissioning Authority) suggested those interested in the files could file freedom of information (FOI) requests.”

According to the BBC, “multiple UK departments – including the Home Office and Cabinet Office – have been repeatedly condemned by auditors for their poor, disappointing and unacceptable treatment of FOI applications.” Sounds familiar!

Anyone who has navigated the Freedom of Information process will understand freedom’s price, of information hidden behind redacted details and walls of “commercial in confidence” by governments desperate to avoid national shame and more comfortable shaming troublesome citizens.

Clearly, the 30 year convention for declassifying documents does not always apply. In remote Australia, today’s activists and scholars are often thwarted by spurious claims of commercial-in-confidence by local, Territory and Federal Governments.

In contrast, I don’t think we can begin to imagine the difficulties faced by Yami Lester and others trying to get past the maze of secrecy provisions cited by successive Department of Defence and Ministry of Defence in both Australia and England.

Probity afforded by the McClelland Royal Commission (1984-5) helped. I intend to write further on this dreadful chapter in our nation’s history once I’ve had a chance to visit and document various sites.

Buffel on the bank of the Todd.

By ERWIN CHLANDA

The Bradshaw Walk is one of The Centre’s small gems.

Starting at the Overland Telegraph Station, five minutes from the CBD, the slim track winds its way south, along a low range of hills at right.

On the opposite side, from elevated positions, walkers can catch glimpses of the Todd River.

The region’s iconic orange rocks dominate the landscape.

Between them glitter brooks, after the rain we’ve just enjoyed, narrow enough to step across. Tadpoles are celebrating the end of their underground wait.

It’s hard to tell how many of these small water courses there are as you may be crossing the same one several times – maybe five?

Bushes and trees range from mulgas, corkwoods and witchetties to majestic gums.

You’re close to town yet it feels miles away, a mini-version of the Larapinta Trail, an hour return, a hint of the adventures that make up The Centre’s powerful appeal.

This is where the good story ends.

The green that surrounds you is buffel, as far as the eye can see, a malicious plant predator that has overwhelmed much of The Centre, and is continuing its relentless advance.

Renowned Central Australian botanist Peter Latz, who has studied the introduced plant for decades, likens the magnitude of impact on the country of buffel with the megafauna’s extinction.

On the Bradshaw walk there is only one ground cover that is not buffel, interspersed with couch, which is almost as bad.

That patch measures about 30 square metres (pictured).

After decades of warnings and campaigning, and buffel having been declared a weed in South Australia, the NT Government has now taken the significant step of replacing one buffel committee with another.

It is charged with considering declaring buffel a weed but Chief Minister and Minister of the Environment Eva Lawler hastens to add that buffel grass remains highly valued by cattle producers.

Her department says: “All walking tracks are regularly assessed under a walking track assessment framework to ensure they comply the walking track rating against national standards.

“The Bradshaw walk was last assessed on 12 March 2024 to identify a schedule required works.”

The department does not disclose what has been “identified” during what Mr Latz (pictured) describes as the worst buffel season ever. 

The recent heavy rains created an ideal opportunity for spraying the weed which needs to occur during its vigorous growth phase. There is no indication that this is happening along the Bradshaw walk.

Says the department: “In 2023 and to date, approximately 144 hours of ranger hours have been spent on slashing and spraying the Bradshaw Walk, Riverside Walk and various other sections of trails and walks that are located within the Alice Springs Telegraph Station footprint.”

That is about 20 ranger minutes a day.

“This includes engagement of Aboriginal Rangers through the Central Land Council, and the use of low security prisoners from the Alice Springs Corrections Facility. This commitment is ongoing.”

The department did not disclose how many of the 600 inmates of the local gaol were engaged in the work, or could be.

The commitment is not quantified but Mr Latz’s own work is a measure of the effort required.

He has a 10 hectare block: “I’ve spent the last four years trying to get rid of buffel. I only succeeded by hard work for half of my full-time work.

“Australia was dominated by browsers in the past. It didn’t involve grasses that were fire and grazing tolerant. Grasses were mostly under trees and water courses.

“The CSIRO said we’ll fix that, so they went to four or five different countries and brought back all the different strands of the buffel grass, a beautiful gene pool to find the best one to take over this country.

“All the pastoralists were very happy. We haven’t had any bad dust storms for 50 years. But are we better off?

“You just have to drive along Ilparpa Road. On the eastern side there’s been three or four buffel fires and there is hardly a tree to be seen,” says Mr Latz.

“But on the western side, which hasn’t been burned for 50 years, there’s lots of mulga scrub with ironwoods and other stuff in amongst them.

“The only way we’re going to do it is by bringing in biological control just as we had to bring in two diseases to deal with our rabbits.

“We haven’t got rid of the rabbit. But they are no longer a bigger problem.”

Widely reported discussion of biological control includes the importation of buffel eating bugs from Queensland where they are treated as a threat to the pastoral industry.

Mr Latz says conventional control was carried out around the Desert Park, but large area removal is impossible without biological control. 

“But the pastoralists will try to stop it happening.”

By MIKE GILLAM

I strain to see the light reflecting on the surface of another dam in my budgerigar quest. Nature photographers understand the importance of being early, to anticipate is definitely preferable to chasing the light.

Sitting quietly in the predawn gloom I recognise the distinctive flight sound of incoming Bourke parrots, arriving in pairs but it’s too dark to see these secretive birds. 

At sunrise the sound of Bronzewing pigeons is quickly verified as I count seven adults and a few more hanging back in the shadows. Specular highlights of the Bronzewings, in green and bronze flash in response to the rising sun and family groups of mulga parrots follow, iridescent green head plumage competing for my attention.

A pair of galahs, several diamond doves and a family of crested pigeons appear on the opposite shore but their privacy is short-lived as a multitude joins the throng.

A tentative flock of thirty or so cockatiels completes a couple of circuits calling to one another and checking for danger before joining the reassuring grey of the crested pigeons.

Within a few minutes all are vastly outnumbered by the first waves of budgerigars.

In a discrete curve of the bank where “dead finish”, Acacia tetragonyphylla shrubs meet the waterline, small flocks of zebra finches arrive in nervous groups, drink hurriedly and return to safety within the spiky shrubs, their thirst momentarily quenched. A lone dingo approaches cautiously and it’s barely 7am.

Amongst other budgerigar fantasies, I wanted to photograph a flock and render them as soft green brush strokes passing across the flank of a dune with the desert receding to infinity.

Budgies in woodland.

A line of mesas hovered on the horizon, completing the theoretical photograph. But how to capture the blur of budgerigars moving across the frame? Was it a matter of patience, of returning to the same site at the prescribed time for several days in a row?

Frustratingly, I had a few near misses on the first two days as group after group flew past, behind me or above me or too far away, always just outside the perfect frame. Later that night, sitting on my swag contemplating the stars I had an epiphany. On the third morning I changed my shirt.

I had long since discovered that being open, conspicuous and moving slowly around wildlife was often better than sneakiness; swathed in camouflage while attempting and failing to hide.

On this occasion I reasoned that transparency was not enough. Could I intrigue even a few flock leaders to come for a closer look at this strange human and bring their minions with them?

Perhaps a modicum of heat stroke was informing my epiphany but I decided that wearing a fluoro-blue shirt might well appeal to budgerigars with their tetrachromatic vision, a feature that provided increased sensitivity in the ultra violet range. (For the record, I had nothing fluoro green or yellow to hand).

To complete my seduction, I resurrected a spindly broken Acacia where it had been thrust aside during roadwork, planting a tall and substantial branch into the roadside some five metres from my vehicle.

Certainly I’d watched budgerigars moving through landscapes often enough to know that they undulate up and down but also side to side, often veering within easy reach of shrubby vegetation either as a place to pause and rest or crouch and evade fast flying falcons.

For reasons unclear, luck or persistence, or the bright blue shirt that seemed to attract a marginally higher fly past of budgerigars, I finally managed to obtain a satisfactory image.

Drinking.

A few days later the budgerigars performed a mesmerising ribbon dance at dusk which I failed to capture in the manner I’d settled on.

The flock of perhaps two thousand followed the contours of dunes and swales moving in and out of sun and deepening shade, flying slowly at heights of between one and five metres above ground level.

This continued for perhaps 10 minutes whereupon the budgerigar ribbon moved to the tallest dune. Here, catching only the reflected light of the setting sun, the flock “ribbon” became a more rounded “serpent” following the dune crest for several hundred metres, and then abruptly angled skyward gaining height rapidly and shape shifting as it went.

No longer elongated, the mysterious cloud breaks into several smaller parts, folding over, coalescing and dividing once more, ever higher and then as light levels plunge, they vanish.

I know without reviewing any frames that my photographic attempts are unremarkable but there’s little time for despair and there’s always tomorrow.

Consoling myself I follow the flock’s trajectory, passing by the old railway ruins of Engoordina. When I saw the budgerigars settling into trees up ahead, I found a place to camp so I could enjoy their company at a respectful distance.

Ripening grasslands dominated by native oat grass, trembled in the evening breeze between the widely spaced dunes. The aggregation had chosen as their roost, a broad swathe of mulga with outlying desert oaks on all sides.

Collectively I believe there were 5,000 to 10,000 birds present but it’s impossible to know. I lay on my swag in a state of rapture listening to the chitter-chatter of so many voices and still after 9pm by the light of the full moon they continued to arrive in small flocks, guided to this precise place in a very expansive landscape, by what instinct? Wanting to make this time last I battled a strong need to sleep for several hours.

Euphoric in their presence, I gladly accept that most of the imagined photographs crowding my brain can never be realised in three life times.

Even in apparent failure I enjoy every photographic quest. With each attempt I move closer and closer to that elusive miracle of life and light, until on rare occasions I can literally bathe in something glorious. For some-one who remembers all too clearly a teenager’s existence in Melbourne, perhaps otherworldly is closer to the truth.

The alarm awoke me at 5am and I made preparations for the potential exodus, reasoning this would take the super flock west to the nearest water and conveniently past and over a blood red dune, one that had certain Saharan qualities.

I leaned against the trunk of a desert oak and waited patiently for the moment. At sunrise they rose in clouds and volleys, departing every which way except west.

In admiration I watched the bunched and disparate flocks unify and climb, steadily gaining height before flying south and then boomerang style they turned south-west and disappeared from view.

I did not take a single frame but my euphoria was unabated. Recounting this story back in Alice Springs, I cursed myself for failing to record their nocturnal voices on my phone.

AT TOP: Flight of budgerigars.