Western Reflections: Part 2
There are easy places to live in this world: Western Queensland is not one of them.
Please understand, I don’t mean it’s unappealing— far from it. However, it can be demanding. If an Australian were to not pay very much attention, and simply drift along through their life without caring especially where they lived, I suspect they’d usually settle in the gentle swathes of suburbia, close enough to the amenities of the city, but still distant enough to be affordable. As a native of Toowoomba, I think of it as such a place — somewhere that’s extremely convenient, pleasant enough, and above all, unchallenging.
Longreach, however, is none of these things.
Living Beyond the Black Stump
There are many aspects of living here that are supremely inconvenient. The goods and services you can purchase from the shops are limited. The prices can sometimes be outrageous, a combination of the legitimate difficulty in getting goods out here, as well as a small town’s natural tendency toward market monopolies. When the ATM is out of order, there isn’t another for 100kms in any direction, and the bank seems to be closed whenever there’s an ‘s’ in the day. The mobile reception is fine, except between the peak hours of 6am until midnight, when it seems to go back to dial-up speeds. Of course, that’s only a problem so long as you’re close to town — if you’re venturing the vast expanse between one town and the next, there’s no reception at all.
People in this area quickly become numb to the inconvenience and cost of long trips, accepting them as a necessity. I have family who live in the region, so I already knew that people on remote stations might sometimes have to drive for hours for basic supplies like groceries or fuel. However, I was blown away by how often people would travel hundreds of kilometres for social events like race days, rodeos, and sporting competitions. This, in stark contrast to my former life in Brisbane, where I routinely cracked off events if it meant changing buses.
Neither is the West straightforwardly pleasant or unchallenging. To the contrary, the perpetual cycle of droughts, dust storms, floods, locust plagues, and bush fires roll ever forward, routinely crushing the fortunes of stockmen and townspeople alike. However, for every time it tests you, it will also offer up a series of golden moments, be they beautiful sunrises, starry skies, or the serene quiet of the open plains. To live here in the long-term, I suspect you must be capable to seeing and holding onto these sublime memories, and forgetting the others: The West is foremost a land of optimists.
Pioneers, Prospectors & Desperados
Indeed, I’ve come to think of these long-time locals as ‘Pioneers’, something akin to the scrappy yet noble stereotype in old cowboy films; the rugged trailblazers who love the country, and couldn’t stand to live anywhere else.
They stand in contrast, of course, to the ‘Prospectors’. These are the people who don’t especially love the bush, but have come to the West for the opportunities it offers — when they can, they’ll move “back East”. Although the Pioneer group naturally views them as carpetbagging opportunists, the Prospectors are essential to the area. Without them, there wouldn’t be nearly enough services to sustain the community (especially in healthcare, education, and hospitality). Without these outsiders, there wouldn’t be a community for the locals to belong to.
The third group, also leaping straight from the silver screen, are the ‘Desperados’. These are the people who move to places like Longreach, not for the community or opportunity, but for the lack of scrutiny — they can simply get away with things out here they couldn’t under the glare of city lights. If the Pioneers love the freedom of the outback, the Desperados love its license. Please understand me, I’m not just talking about people who like hooning on country roads —there’s also more than a few desperados in comfortable offices, enjoying the fact that the #MeToo movement largely petered out as it crossed the Great Dividing Range.
A Farewell to Anonymity
I have lived in small towns before, but I’ve never lived in a place which feels so much like a small town. It’s not that Longreach is overly small (~3000 people) — what makes it feel different is that it’s so remote and close-knit, like an enclave unto itself. Longreach is a place where everyone knows your name, for better or worse.
Let me provide an example. Yesterday, after I had finished work, I decided to go for a bike ride (there’s a bike path leading to the Thompson River, about 10km there and back). As I walked down the stairs, I saw my neighbour Tanya, as she took clothes off the line. As I buckled my helmet, I waved to my boss as they drove home (they live around the corner from myself). As I crossed the intersection down from my house, I saw Sue (a distant relative, actually) from the service station talking to a customer. On the next block, I overtook Craig, the partner of one of my co-workers, who was taking their collie for an afternoon walk. As I rode through the park, I saw Jack, a fellow I recognised from my weekly pottery class. As I pedalled through the town centre, I saw Jacen, a fellow Rotarian, as he was closing up his law offices for the evening. Once I got onto the path to the river, I passed a whole gaggle of acquaintances, also out for an afternoon stroll.
Obviously, this closeness can be quite pleasant. I’m greatly comforted by the fact that if my car was to break down, or I was forced into seclusion from COVID, my friends and neighbours would quickly notice, and be ready and willing to lend assistance. Of course, it isn’t always so gratifying — there’s no chance of embarrassing moments going unnoticed, or being quickly forgotten. Gossip is the favoured local pastime, no question. Even when locals occasionally decry it, they’re not truly refuting the game, merely a few of the rules or crueller plays. The people who thrive in the West are those with big hearts, but thick skins.
Poverty and Riches
In the city, there are rich surburbs and poor ones; elegant cul-de-sacs of wealth and privilege, and elsewhere, dodgy backstreets where the downtrodden are forced to make their home.
Not so in Longreach.
A small town like this simply isn’t big enough to enable much in the way of wealth and class stratification. Whether you’re making $30k a year, or $300k, you’re forced to shop in the same grocery store, the same bakery, the same hardware outlet. You’ll see the same doctors, drive on the same roads, and live on the same streets. Why? Because you have no choice.
I work with medical professionals, and I was struck a few weeks ago when I overheard a doctor and an orderly chatting together about the childcare centre they both send their children too (in this case, bemoaning an outbreak of COVID that was running rampant through the town’s toddlers). Where else would one see the highest and lowest paid person in a workplace able to bond over common experience?
Personally, I think this is the best part of living out West: A community bonded by immediate knowledge of your neighbour, no matter who they are or what they do for a living. Empathy is being able to see things from another person’s perspective, and frankly, its a lot easier when you have a lot in common. And for all the wild and wonderful people who call the West home, the adversities and simplicity of this lifestyle provide a unity, and an inherent generosity, which I will always cherish.
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For Part 1 of this series, please follow this link.
