Ultimately, all diaries are a road trip. Sometimes physical, sometimes emotional, sometimes both. This one is no different. It is both.

••• 

I left Melbourne (where I’m working at the moment) and boarded a plane to Rockhampton. I’m heading up there for the opening night of The Sapphires, a film that is directed by one of my best mates, Wayne Blair, which I’m also in (for all of about ten seconds). Wayne has asked me to come up to Rocky and MC the evening. Now this is kind of  a big deal, as Rockhampton is Mr Blair’s hometown. His mum and dad will be there, as will all of his relatives, school mates, ex-loves, former team-mates: in short, all of the people we judge ourselves by, or at least the people you know aren’t afraid of blunt truth. There was a lot at stake. The Sapphires had received a ten-minute standing ovation at Cannes, which is great, but it’s not Rocky. Here was the test.

••• 

So I leave Melbourne, that  food-wise, self-reflective, slightly self-important but ultimately decent town. I fly over Canberra (my home town), that indecent, pornography-filled, hotbed of dissatisfaction, ennui and strange melancholic beauty. I fly over Sydney, that beautiful, uncaring, scar-faced whore, and land in Brisbane. AKA Campbelltown.

••• 

I watch the mothers of Queensland being checked at security for literary prizes and other such Southern Stalinist nonsense. I see relief in their eyes as they go through security, knowing that’s the only breast screening they’ll get on Campbell’s watch. Then I’m back on the small-propellered plane to Rocky.

••• 

The bloke I’m sitting next to (it’s Queensland, of course he’s a bloke) is, it turns out, a cameraman for the local TV station. He proceeds to point out every fatal car crash and murder  and piece of local intrigue, indeed  every noteworthy story he had ever covered, all from the perspective of above. It wasn’t dull, it was fascinating. It was a history lesson at 20,000 feet. The tone of every tale was of wry sorrow, with a breath of humour. It was,  I thought, the way God must look at humans from even higher up.

••• 

We land at Rocky. Wayne is there to pick me up. Fresh from his success at Cannes. Fresh from his meetings with all of Hollywood. Fresh from the kind of success that only comes to a few. ‘G’day Wayne,’ says my flying companion, as we disembark. ‘G’day Kent,’ says Wayne. They know each other. Of course. We get in the car and head to our accommodation, Wayne’s mum and dad’s.

••• 

Wayne’s dad, Bob, is the first black regimental sergeant-major in Australian history, and is, in my opinion, the finest of men and one of the main reasons Wayne is who he is. He also reminds me of my dad, who also has  a military background. It’s a mix of hard-arse and decent. And a man’s man. I like that. He also calls Wayne ‘boy’, which  no one else could. ‘Good to see you, boy’  is the greeting.

••• 

We put our suits on and head to  the opening. But first we’re  stopping by the RSL and the footy  ground, as the Fitzroy Sharks are taking  on Brothers in the local rugby league grand final. I’ve never felt so far away  from Melbourne. I’ve never felt so over-dressed. I’ve never understood Bob Katter so well. North Queensland is its own nation. The boys at the footy, were big, drunk, black and white boofheads together, but profoundly friendly and decent. There was no trouble. It always felt like there would be, but it never came. Despite my suit. (Sharks won by the way. First flag in 23 years)

••• 

We then head to The Sapphires’ Rockhampton premiere.  Wayne’s mate Scott is on the door. There’s a red carpet, popcorn and  beer. Scott holds a beer as he checks tickets. Lots of Aunties turn up. (Aunties, when I was growing up, were any woman that wasn’t your mum. Blackfellas still get that, but in a more profound way. The respect for elders in blackfella-land is As Things Should Be.) All sorts of people turn up. Lots of people who don’t go to the cinema very often. Lots of people wondering if the red carpet ‘would work in the spare room’. Lots of rough and ready Rockhampton has turned up. The cinema feels like a slightly recalcitrant lounge room, until the ‘welcome to country’. I’ve heard many, many, ‘welcome to countries’, this one was, slightly halting, shy and beautiful. It  was so humble and quiet and simple, it smelt of burning gum leaves and eternity. No, really, it did.

••• 

And then the film begins. Tears and laughter, then tears of laughter fill the cinema. And then, a standing ovation. This wasn’t just enjoyment of an entertaining film, this was acknowledgement of the fine ideological dance of the film. It acknowledged the blackfella struggles, but never wallowed in misery. It was about joy and strength and music. It was never didactic. It said, ‘You know what I’m talking about.’ And this unseasoned group of cinema goers said, ‘Yes, we do.’ It was about a hometown boy done good, who had bothered to make a film for his family, for his country and, in  a happy coincidence, the whole world. Soul food never tasted so good.

••• 

Blair and I have a little bit of a chat to the crowd, and say thanks and drinks are on us. We start to file out into the foyer. I see Wayne’s dad, Bob. He’s trying to avoid eye contact, as their may be a little excess moisture in his sockets. Wayne says, ‘How’d you go?’ Bob takes a little while to find words, looks up at his son and says, in a slightly halting voice, ‘You did good boy.’