Kingsley

I wondered what Michael Muldune’s first impressions of Kingsley were, this desolate arid town, population 200-300 fluctuating from time to time. Surely it must have been an impossible place for any white man to settle in. Many preferred to live in the cities or the coastal towns.

In the summer the temperature is between 35°C and 40°C in the shade, the humidity making conditions unbearable. Whirlwinds or willy-willys, those twisting columns of spinifex, red dust and scraps of paper, are seen frequently as they blow through the town.

Dust storms are frequent at certain times of the year. The unwary stranger may look up and see brown and red clouds and mistake them for rain—that is until it comes closer. You certainly know you’ve been in a sandstorm—it’s an experience you’ll never forget. These sandstorms have been compared to mini sandstorms of the Sahara Desert.

There’s a big panic on when it is sighted. The whole town comes alive and becomes a hive of activity; neighbours warn each other to be prepared for the worst. In a few hours the town will appear to be deserted—the whole population of Kingsley will remain indoors until the storm passes, then the cleaning up operation begins.

The average rainfall is normally between 12mm and 15mm and is often uncertain and erratic. Violent thunderstorms are exciting at the onset when the heavy downpour reaches the town. It comes down in torrents. The parched dry land is transformed into a muddy brown red lake in a matter of hours. The creek beds around the town fill to overflowing, spilling their contents across the stony flats. The joyous shouts of excited children echo all over the town as they play in the muddy creeks.

The town of Kingsley was founded by an early explorer named Martin Kingsley in the early 1800s. The Kingsley ranges run north to northwest of the town. In the foreground is the largest creek with the growth of large shady gum trees, some acacia shrubs and spinifex grasses. To the south are dry stony plains, known as gibber plains that reflect the shimmering heat in the hot dry summer months.

The vivid sunsets behind the Kingsley ranges are one of its best features, the brilliant red, oranges, pinks, browns and mauves are something you don’t see in the cities and towns in the south of the state.

It was these features and the rugged environment that attracted Mick Muldune, the bogside lad born in a village steeped in tradition and superstition. He was adamant when told of earlier explorers’ attempts to introduce the flora and fauna of Europe to this remote part of Western Australia: “You can’t change this country with its rugged, tough landscape and make it into the green fields and meadows of Europe,” he said. “You have to learn to adapt and live with it, like I have,” he told all newcomers to this town, and being an Irishman these were issues he could relate to. He came from a country where bluebells grew thick in the woods of beech, pine, oak, hazel and ash; where hillocks were covered in yellow gorse bushes. His people had a history that went back centuries. From his ancestors he inherited a stubbornness and an unwillingness to be subordinate to colonists who tried to force the original inhabitants to change their lifestyle by destroying their language and culture, then condemning them and persecuting them for being different.

When “Mad” Mick Muldune arrived in Kingsley he had no special skills but he had a willingness to learn and to do any kind of work available. He wasn’t afraid of hard work. So the first thing he did after alighting from the “Old Rattler”, the weekly goods train, was to go down to the Kingsley Arms Hotel and enquire after work prospects. “The best place in town to wait. You’re sure to find something,” the railway workers had assured him.

When he reached the hotel, he met a young man—a lean half-caste seated on the bench outside. This wiry lad was dressed like a local, in white riding breeches, check shirt, high boots and a brown felt hat covering his black curly hair. Mick suddenly felt out of place and uncomfortable in his city clothes—the grey suit, shoes and battered suitcase containing all his worldly goods.

Mick introduced himself to this young stranger and explained his intentions and his reason for being there.

“The same here, I am Jack Donaldson. What sort of work are you looking for?” the young man asked Mick.

“Anything, I’ll try anything,” Mick replied.

Jack informed Mick that he was waiting to catch the mail truck driven by Bob Brown every fortnight from Kingsley right up to Mitchell’s Crossing 600 miles north, calling in on all pastoral stations, or their turnoffs at least, on the way.

“Come with me,” suggested Jack, “you never know, we might find something. There’s always someone wanting workers, somewhere. You’ll need a proper swag though,” he added, bending down to touch his own for emphasis, “Like this, see.”

Fifteen minutes later Mick had a swag—a blanket roll consisting of a light coconut hair mattress, two unbleached calico sheets, and two bush rugs all rolled up in a canvas ground sheet and tied tightly with binder twine.