By Clive Foss
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Additional resources for Byzantine and Turkish Sardis
The only up-front individual in the place was a dog - a mangy leather jacket with weeping eyes and a snout like a stubbed cigar which slunk up and sniffed my wheels. A minute or two crept glacially by. I took a look around. To the south was a row of rust-red hills, to the north the scorched yellow spinifex plains that would eventually crumble and fade into the Plenty Desert. The camp was nestled in between, its standout features a sidling windmill, a silver caravan, a long-drop dunny and a horse-yard made from lancewood posts.
He asked. 'Been to the city,' I answered, nodding politely. ' 'Adelaide. And Melbourne,' I added, remembering that he was said to have unpleasant recollections of the City of Churches. Lincoln, meanwhile, had climbed to his feet, and put a hand on Blakie's shoulder to draw him away from me. Blakie glared at him, yelled something I couldn't understand. The two men flew into a fiery debate - or rather Blakie did, while Lincoln tagged along behind, looking in turn puzzled, sceptical and finally concerned.
For the Warlpuju it meant leaving their homeland for the ten-year exile in boozy, brutal Bluebush. Still, I reflected as I relaxed at the wheel of my ute, knees on the dash, fag hanging off my mouth, they can't be doing too badly if they can enjoy themselves this much. Bindi's clutch had packed it in, as a result of which he couldn't change out of first gear. Nor could he stop, since he wouldn't be able to start again so he circled slowly around us like a great clanking buzzard, cracking jokes and occasionally flushing the old boys out of the bushes.
Byzantine and Turkish Sardis by Clive Foss