GULFS APART

One of the guys perched on the fence had turned towards me. ‘Hey!’ he yelled. 

I was in a small town called Gregory, far-north Queensland. I’d travelled here from Sydney, about a five-day drive. Well, probably shorter if you don’t get lost along the way. For that I blame my mate, Matt. He was also the reason for us being there in the first place. You see, he’s an aspiring artist, and came up with this plan to meet and paint Alec Doomadgee - an aboriginal ‘Waanyi’ man. Alec created the Frontiers Day Festival in his homeland of the gulf territory, and because I had decided to document Matt’s journey, this is where we found ourselves. 

Apparently Gregory (formerly Gregory Downs) has a population of 72. There’s a pub and a kiosk that also caters for the handful of campers down on the bank of the slow moving Gregory river. Other than that there’s the show ground that’s hosting the festival. Hailed as Australia’s largest indigenous arts, music, and cultural festival, it's also the home of the Indigenous Rodeo Championships. With most of the cultural and musical performances happening in the cool of the night, the rodeo is on during the glaring heat of the day.

I’ve been to a few rodeo’s, but this was different. I'd normally be attracted to the action in the arena, but this time it was the goings-on behind the scenes that got me. I was hesitant at first, staying well outside the ‘backstage’ corral. But then I jumped a couple of fences and was inside amongst the flurry of activity. The area was small, but the action frenetic and constantly changing.

I’d never seen a scene like it, let alone been IN one. Aboriginal cowboys and their Anglo counterparts either hurriedly preparing to ride on the back of a hoofed beast, or hanging on the fence just waiting for their turn. I felt like I was witness to something really special. The ‘city' in me was expecting a tap on the shoulder, ‘What are you doing here?' 'You’re not meant to be in here.' 'Where’s your accreditation?’ But no, nothing. I reminded myself of where I was. Far. North. Queensland.

The wind gusted and blew up dust. Riders strapped and wrapped bandages around hands to protect against the bull-rope, others taped up their boots. Some stretched. They laughed and appeared relaxed. Though you could also sense an apprehension. After all, it’s bloody dangerous, and they all know it. One guy emerged from the ordeal of riding a bull, clearly hurt. As he lay prone on the ground a can of VB was poured over his face as if that would fix him. And it seemed to.

Each animal was chased up the chute, literally a one-way street as its rider readied on the mount. One after the other, beast and man entered the barrier and were released into the arena by a swinging gate and a ‘yewww!'.

After, the cowboys wet with sweat and caked in dirt quickly changed back into their good clothes. Some young kids poured bottled water over the older guys. It was still at least 35 degrees but they were back into jeans and long-sleeved shirts. They threw their kit bags over the fence and I followed after them, still taking photos.

‘Hey!’, came the cry. One of the guys perched on the fence had turned towards me. ‘HEY!’ he yelled.

The tone was more desperate and I realised it was me being yelled at. The whole row of fence-sitters was turned in my direction as I looked at them through the viewfinder. They were gesturing and I looked to where they were pointing. 

That’s when I saw the bull. It was pacing in a tiny yard having just emerged wild-eyed from the arena, and I was standing in the race between it and the holding yard. The stockman looked at me from his perch on the gate like he was looking at an idiot. In an instant I spun and jumped, scaling the metal rungs one-handed as close to a tonne of horn-rimmed beef rushed past me. I landed on the other side and looked back only momentarily. Just long enough to see the cowboys laughing at the city guy with the camera.