Into the Red Heart: A Chance Encounter
As I prepared to fly with my wife Tania into the heart of Central Australia, I felt more than just anticipation. I realised I didn’t want to merely record the landscape from the air; I wanted to feel its pulse, to sense the ancient stories. This was more than a photographic mission—it was an opportunity to connect with the country on its own terms, to let its vastness and spirit shape the way I saw and felt.
So I immersed myself in learning more about the areas we would visit. Albert Namatjira became an inspiration of how to capture the essence of the outback. The Burke and Wills expedition spoke of the harshness and unforgiving nature of the terrain.
The Dig Tree - Burke & Wills Expedition, Camp LXV, Cooper Creek, Queensland.
I listened to the low, ancient hum of the didgeridoo—echoing the pulse of the Red Centre itself. I played great Aussie music that spoke of country, culture, and resistance: Goanna’s 'Solid Rock', Icehouse’s 'Great Southern Land', and of course, Midnight Oil. Their song 'Truganini' stuck with me. The lyrics were haunting and raised questions I couldn’t ignore.
I’d heard her name before—'Truganini'— mentioned briefly in textbooks. “The last full-blooded Tasmanian Aboriginal,” they said. It sounded final. Like an ending that shouldn’t have happened. So I began reading more. And what I found was a life far more complex and painful than the brief summary offered by history books. I was soon to find out there was more to the story.
The Painted Hills - Anna Creek, South Australia
It was time to depart. Flying westward in our Cessna Cardinal through Queensland’s Channel Country, through Birdsville, and across the shimmering salt of Kati Thanda–Lake Eyre, the spirit of the land felt present and real. The further we traveled, the deeper I felt drawn into something ancient, something enduring.
A few days later, after departing William Creek for Uluru, we tracked via The Painted Hills for a lunch stop at Coober Pedy, South Australia. From above, it looked like a moonscape—cratered and raw, strewn with mounds of ochre earth. Evidence of decades of opal mining. The town, partially built underground to escape the blistering heat, felt like another world.
At the airport, a laminated sign taped to the wall offered local pickups into town:
'Call Barry'. So we did.
Ten minutes later, there was Barry. Sun-leathered face, a long grey beard, well-worn hands that had spent 40 years digging for colour. He looked every bit the quintessential Coober Pedy opal miner.
“You look like the classic miner,” I said with a grin. “Would you mind if I take your photo?”
He smiled and replied, “Sure—but there’s more to me than opal mining. You might not know who I am.”
“I’m a local Aboriginal elder.”
He nodded proudly. “Most people don’t think I’m Aboriginal because I have white skin. But I’m a Tasmanian Aboriginal.”
Something in me froze. I hesitated, unsure whether I should ask. But the moment felt too significant to let pass.
“I thought Truganini was the last…”
He looked me in the eye, calm and clear.
“She was my great-grandmother.”
Silence.
He then proudly showed me a certificate verifying his Tasmanian Aboriginal heritage.
I stood there, stunned, grateful for my sunglasses—because I was suddenly quite emotional. Just days earlier, I’d been immersed in Truganini’s story. Reading about her life—her survival, her strength, the grief she carried. The way her image had been mythologised, appropriated, and used to symbolise a false ending.
And now, standing before me, was her descendant.
A living thread stretching from the past. Flesh and blood. Human and real.
In that moment, time collapsed. The songs, the stories, the land—they all came rushing into the present.
I really wanted a picture with him now and he seemed really moved that we had cared to hear and recognise his story.
It was no longer just a portrait of a rugged miner. It was a portrait of connection. Of resilience. Of truth—quietly, powerfully—standing in defiance of everything I thought I knew.
We headed for Uluru with a new perspective.
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