A disco in the bush

[Dateline: Parnngurr,

9.38pm, 22/07/07]

By Adam Gibson ©

There's a big mob

gathered in from

Punmu and Jigalong,

east from Warakurna,

over from Kunawarratji and

up from Parnpajinya,

here for the funeral,

having arrived in battered cars

that you can't believe

survived that road,

in dust-sprayed Toyotas

that now sit like emperors

in the hot late-July sun.

The red dirt is rusted,

no shade beneath the trees with

all the lower branches

ripped off for firewood and

dogs fight amongst each other

as the service is conducted

on the red flat earth

in the centre of things.

Then night falls

and the kids emerge,

creeping out

to the sound of music

pumping from DJ decks

in the community hall,

the new supply shop operator

spinning the tracks

while torches are flashed

in the dusty darkness and

dozens of faces line the walls.

The brave ones occasionally

dart out to

show their best moves

- American hip-hop,

busts of rap and breakdance -

and then dart back again

when the attention

turns to them too much.

The sound is of shouting and

the hum above the music of

massed laughter,

squeals of smiles and

the slap of bare feet

hitting bare floor

in a joyful syncopation

that is rarely reported on the

evening news of the world

or in the telegraphs which herald

the important things you need to know.

Then, on the dot of 9pm,

the DJ plays his final song

and wraps it up with little fanfare,

the kids,

without a single grumble,

file out in a rush,

disappearing in a dancing mob

towards their houses and camps

by the fires of 44 gallon drums

beneath a sky in which

the Milky Way shines

with bright buzzing light.