#Broken in Lanihuli Station

Australia has a secret history of preying on migrant workers or what they refer to as"backpackers", foreign tourists looking for temporary work to supplement their vacation funds or extend their visa by two years. My own story began before the internet, cellphones or computers...I traveled downunder, encouraged by a pal who had recently moved there herself.  It was, to all accounts, a beautiful land of opportunity.  Clean, safe, friendly...the antithesis of the "eat you alive" mentality of New York City in the 1980s. After a month long visit in 1987,  I decided to give it a go and packed my bags for an extended visit downunder.

In December  I purchased a round trip ticket to Sydney, Australia.  My plans were to roommate with friends in their two-bedroom apartment in a suburb of Sydney.  After a few disastrous job opportunities - one working in a roadside sandwich shop swarming with hand-sized cockroaches, the only other possibility was working for a palsy stricken artist who "hated Americans" I was open to expanding my options.  The Sydney paper ran an ad that said "ranch owner seeks housekeeper/jillaroo working on a large 90k acre cattle and sheep ranch in Lanihuli Station".  (Lanihuli Station is a small town outside the already small town of Bourke, NSW, Australia, and about 10 hours north of Sydney. Ironically, Lanihuli means swirling heaven in Hawaiian.)  It sounded like a possibility.  I was curious about the job, made the call.  The Rancher detailed housekeeping chores, and outdoor work like fixing fences, feeding chickens, rounding up sheep and cattle.  I asked him about the person who had the job before me. He told me his last housekeeper was named Annie, a wonderful girl, who recently resigned to pursue studies to be a veterinarian.  He was even financing part of her studies.  The job sounded like it had potential - challenging, fun, and a great way to see that part of the country.  Better yet, the salary was $400 a week, plus room and board, would not only save money on living expenses, but offered a decent enough wage too. Much better than what I was being paid for making buggy sandwiches.

I was 28 years old, no longer a kid, and had already held a number of full time positions in New York as well as plenty of part-time experience.   I was familiar with what I perceived as a “normal” interview process – one that would include a meeting,  qualifications and salary discussions, etc. Everything about this conversation seemed normal and did not signal to me that I would be walking into a risky situation. Even suggesting to the rancher, Les White, that we meet in Bourke, at a restaurant, to discuss the details of the job seemed like an intelligent move. He agreed, and said he would pick me at the bus stop in Bourke.   It seemed like a perfectly reasonable scenario.  

Nothing screamed that this position was not safe.  I figured, even if the job turned out to be a bust, my plan B was to overnight in Bourke and return  to Sydney  the next day.  I asked the few acquaintances I knew in Sydney what they thought. Everyone laughed and said I should go.  No one except my friend's mother-in-law had anything bad to say about the idea.  She said to "keep yer wits about you..." I chalked that up to the old woman's caution, and dismissed it. I remember thinking Bourke would be, in New York standards, as far away as Buffalo. And that, to me, didn't seem very far away at all.  

I traveled by train for several hours to a town called Dubbo.  There I caught a bus, for the rest of the trip to Bourke.  Dubbo is hot in winter and the light is blinding.  Fierce mid-day left the blue and white painted town brightly lit, and deserted.  Although I was hoping to see rugged outback residents and aborigines, there were few to be found on her empty streets. Deserted, sun bleached, and poor - Dubbo was far from an ideal tourist spot.  I boarded the bus a little while later, happy to continue on the journey.  Hopeful and optimistic about the next leg of the trip. The vehicle was not full, and far from a delux coach.  As the bus bounced along the small highway, each stop got more and more deserted as the trip wore on.  Looking out the window, I remember thinking this is what the plains of Africa must look like -  fields of browns, gold, and gray, grasses as far as the eye could see. 

I was dismayed to discover, on arrival, that the Bourke bus stop was no more than a simple shack shelter on an empty road. There was no town.  Nothing.  Just this crude basic shelter. That was it.  Even worse, when I got off the bus, there was just one person waiting with a flatbed truck.  A ragged tall, flat faced, hunched, middle-aged man, wearing a dirty wife-beater t-shirt over a back brace cast a long shadow in the sinking sun.  Light reflected off his balding forehead, the meager hair he had was in disarray and sprouted from tufts on the top of his head.  Thin eyes, and lips, that cracked to reveal a set of haggard misshapen teeth croaked out a garbled greeting.   I remember thinking "Jesus, this guy is a train wreck..." but berated myself for being judgmental. Before me stood a haggard Harvey Korman- Christopher Walken combo straight out of a downunder Sleepy Hollow nightmare.  I assumed/hoped that this was one of the ranch hands that Les White had sent to pick me up and bring me to the town.  

My hopes were dashed when the person in front of me introduced himself as Les White.  The back of his pickup truck was filled with old shoddy furniture and, after the briefest introduction, he told me to get into the car and said, what I understood to be, that we would be dropping the furniture off by his mother’s house.  I realized my options of where to meet to discuss the job were fading into oblivion.  He was amiable enough though, and I was not, at this point, worried for my safety.  Even if he was haggard and misshapen, he didn't seem dangerous.  And he really was quite cordial and chatty even if his outward appearance screamed deliverance. After a short jostling drive, less than an hour, red dust rising around us, we pulled in front of a house in shambles.  His mother was waiting outside for us.  Dressed in a dirty shift, she was a large woman with similar tufts of hair as her son. Red oozing archipelagos of cancer sores covering her face.  I was horrified to see flies landing on them, swarming around her head;  she casually waved them away unconcerned. A crooked smile, shattered by shards of teeth broke across her face.

In the same mumbling dialect, she invited us in.  The rooms were dimly lit and in a shambles.  Her sofa was the front seat from of truck captured the rooms ambiance.  I was really trying not be prejudiced by the shoddy attire and unkempt home, since both seemed chipper enough. The mother offered me a cup of tea, in a dirty cup.  I gritted my teeth and drank it, trying not to imagine what the bits of brown were that speckled the rim and handle. I thought it rude to refuse.   

It was starting to get dark and there was no town around, I didn’t see any other option than to continue forward and go with Les to his home to assess the situation further.  He seemed cordial enough, describing the 90,000 acres, the need for a housekeeper, his family – a son and his wife and new grandchild, who lived nearby, and outline of the things I would need to do.  Most of it involved housekeeping, cooking meals, fixing fences and that sort of thing. I convinced myself that anyone with that many acres, and that big a ranch, family nearby had to be a respectable business person.  I imagined that a large staff would be needed to manage that sized property and livestock.  I figured I could chat with other staff and make a determination from that.  I had no idea that the ranch itself was miles away.  It was literally, in the middle of nowhere, far away from any roads or towns.

On our drive to the ranch Les spoke about his family, son, wife and new grandchild.  He told me that he was divorced from his wife. He did not hold back in telling me how he hated her, she was a bloody bitch, that she left him.  There was a lot of animated description about her, most lost in translation,  but I could tell from his tone and his attitude that he harbored a lot of anger against her.  He was very spirited, driving along a bouncy, dirt road, dust flying around us, with the windows open.  It felt and looked very Mad Max, as we drove toward the ranch on unmarked, unpaved roads. I am not sure if there was an easier way to get to the property, or if there were actual roads that we could have taken, but it seemed at times we were just bounding along the prairie.  

As we approached the building, I could see it was one story, with wide windows.  There was a tree in front but not much else. He also had a chicken coop.  The ground was very dry and there were cracked fissures in the dried dirt. I immediately noticed that scattered around the entrance to the property were dried animal bones, and sheep skulls, with horns intact.  

It was when we entered the house that I realized that there were no other people working on the ranch. I asked him about other staff, and learned, to my dismay, that it was just him.  And me. Nobody else.  At all.  I tried not to panic. Convincing myself that he seemed (at this point anyway) perfectly safe, if a bit crude in person and in premises. I remember the nagging worry that I was alone, in the middle of nowhere - really, really, alone.

 

The White Ranch in Lanihuli Station, 1988

The front door went into the kitchen that was not particularly clean but better than Les's mother’s house.  The next room was the living room, a bare room, with a long sofa along the left wall and TV on the right.  He showed me to the adjoining that room, where he had his office and CB radio.  There was a telephone but it did not have a dial.  He told me that he did not have an outgoing line, only incoming... but that if we ever needed to make a call, he would radio a friend in town who would make the call and place it to the house. It was made clear that I would not be able to make any outgoing calls on my own. 

At this point I was starting to get nervous.  I regretted not demanding to be taken to a place in town, as agreed.  I regretted getting in the car in the first place, but since the bus stop was in the middle of nowhere, I really didn’t feel I had a choice in the matter.  Even though he seemed friendly enough, the entire situation seemed contrived and very isolated, and risky. I thought the best strategy would be to remain calm and express enthusiasm for the job. I asked a number of questions on what needed to be done, I asked about the housekeeping aspects and what he expected.  He described the cleaning of the house, where the cleaning supplies were kept, and how and what he expected for dinner daily. 

  

Lanihuli Station Today

The supplies in the kitchen were minimal, but there was a large freezer in a pantry filled with frozen meat.  On opening the freezer I was startled to see that there was a mix of animal parts, with and without fur, tossed into the freezer - legs, hooves, as well as unrecognizable piece, tossed together.  I was taken back by the sight of it, but chided myself that it was my own squeamishness, and this was life on a farm, where they ate what they raised. 

I don’t recall eating anything that evening nor making anything for him. The twelve hour ride, coupled with drive to the ranch and now edging fear, had me exhausted.  Les showed me my bedroom, which was off to the side of the living room, the nearby bathroom, as well as his room.  (He stressed that I did not need to clean his room and I was not to go in there.)  My stomach dropped when I saw that all the doors were hollow doors with frosted glass centers.  You could not see through with detail, but you could definitely see shapes and forms through all the doors, including my bedroom and bathroom.  I started to make note of all my surroundings, just in case I had to make a run for it.  The frosted doors were the give away.  Who has full frosted doors on every room?  Even if it was his ex-wife's design idea, it was still weird.  And creepy.

I did not spend much time with him that evening.  I remember saying I was tired, that I was going to turn in early to get a jump-start on work the next day.  Tired, anxious and worried, I sat on a twin bed in my room, trying to figure out what to do. I couldn't even make a phone call for help! As I surveyed my room, I noticed a rough blanket, old sheets, and a pillow on my cot like bed.  It reminded me of a welfare camp in Pennsylvania that my friends and I snuck into when I was a kid.  Stained mattress and sheets, itchy blanket, torn screens, stained walls.  It was obvious that this was not a successful ranch, and Les, not a successful businessman - and I was in a dicey situation.

I placed my duffle bag of clothes and camera bag on the floor next to the bed.  There were two large windows, with torn up screens, facing the countryside.  The only light in the room was a bare  overhead bulb.  As the night settled in, and the skies got dark, insects of every varieties started to fill the room.   Soon there were tons of bugs, large and small, flying and crawling all around the place. I knew that they were drawn to the light but, already feeling vulnerable, I hated the thought of turning it off, but I was starting to panic at the quantity and size of these bugs.  It reminded me of the bar scene in the first Star Wars movie, without the music.  To add to my distress, the silhouette of Les paced back and forth in front of my frosted door.  It was obvious he was hovering around my room to watch me.  I definitely did not want to go out by him - nor did I want to stay in the room with all these night crawlers.  As much as I hated to do it, I knew I would have to turn out the light. 

Nothing from city life prepared me for the darkness of the outback.I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.  I sat fully clothed in my jeans, t-shirt, jacket, boots and hat, on the bed.  Even though it was a hot summer night, I put the blanket over my head for extra protection from the swarms, foolishly hoping that the bugs would leave the room and go back outdoors.  

I realized then that I would need to remain fully dressed the entire time I was at Lanihuli Station.  I knew that I could never let my guard down, especially in case I needed to make a quick escape. There wouldn't be time to stop and put on shoes, if I had to make a run for it. 

 I remember the discomfort of the itchy blanket, the heat, hearing Les pacing back and forth; feeling the bugs crawling on me, and heard them flying around the room bouncing off the walls for what seemed like hours.  I am not sure how long I sat there before a new sound began.  I heard lots of scratching and screeching in the room around me.  It sounded like the patter of little feet going from one side of the room to the other.  I knew that there was no way I could stay on the bed, lights out, without checking to see what this new noise was.  I imagined hand sized cockroaches, or worse.  Thankful that I had kept my boots on, I carefully put my feet on the ground and quickly jumped across the room to turn on the light.  The entire floor was covered with a river of mice a half a foot deep.  They flowed over every inch of the floor, cascading out of open my bags, and swirled in a mouse eddy around the room.  A whirlpool of rodents, I watched as here and there one would leap above the rest, then dive back into the river mice.

Fortunately, I don't have a mouse phobia,  and was more curious than afraid.  With the light on, and my feet on the floor, they eventually exited the room leaving mouse feces scattered about, the only evidence that they were there.  I tucked the sheets, blankets, and extra socks into the holes in the screens, killed as many bugs as I could, sealed my belongings, and finally went to sleep, the light bulb glowing overhead.

The next morning, my first task was to clean the house.  Les left the premises, and I was so relieved seeing him driving away, I could have cried.  Alone, I began to snoop around the house, looking for clues on my best means of escape, cleaning as I went.  There were mouse feces on every surface: floor, table and countertop.  I opened a draw to discover a large knife, covered in bloody animal hair/fur, surrounded by turds.  After that, if only for my own benefit, I cleaned out every drawer, and washed all the utensils, plates, and glasses. I scoured the place with soap and bleach, scrubbing my hands raw.  I removed a small chunk of meat from the freezer, without a clue on what it was, and defrosted it for dinner.  My plan was to make a spaghetti meat sauce of sorts from canned goods and pasta.  I couldn't imagine a person who lived like this having sophisticated dining requirements and spaghetti seemed an obvious choice.

Mid-morning I took a cigarette break outside.  I knew I had to hide smoking cigarettes from Les, who vehemently mentioned yesterday how he hated cigarettes. Of course, his wife smoked too.  As I walked around the property, I again was amazed by the quantity of animal bones scattered about. Skulls and other unidentifiable bones, legs, etc. were everywhere.  I wondered did he slaughter them right in front of the house? Again, the creep factor was awful as I imagined the animal armageddon, but the animals lost.    

 I walked toward the shade tree in front, and saw a small flat body lying on the ground.  I thought it was another dead animal but on closer inspection, I discovered it was a small, starved, anxious female dog tied to a short chain.  There was a dry water bowl and nothing else around it.  It was very friendly and I immediately felt very bad for the poor creature.  It was obviously starving and very thirsty.  I went in the house and got it water, bread and eggs to eat.  It was ravenous.  I comforted it as much as I could, leaving it with a full bowl of water, when I returned to the house to work.   

I repaired, as best as possible the damaged screens in my room and took a shower while Les was gone.  After loitering by my door the night before, I had no intention of doing that while he was around.  

When he arrived home, later that day, Les was in a gruff mood, and was not friendly like the day before.  When I asked about the dog, he strode over to it, grabbed it by its chain, lifted it in the air, and threw her, saying I should shoot the fucking dog.  The yelping dog jerked on the chain,

hit the ground, and returned to its flattened position on the dirt.  Without thinking, I shouted what the hell did you do that for, what the fuck is wrong with you; it is just a poor old dog.  Les walked away muttering to himself.  After checking to see that the dog was okay, I went back in the house to get it more water and then returned to the kitchen, where Les was waiting.

Les was neither impressed with my cleaning or cooking ability,  and his rough mood continued during dinner. I was horrified watching him open a tub of margarine and flicking mouse feces off the  top with a dirty nail, and then spread it on his bread.  He asked me for pineapple.  I didn’t think I heard him clearly as pineapple is not the normal side dish served with spaghetti, and asked him to repeat himself.  I was taken back by his angry tirade about how he wanted pineapple.  He got up, grabbed a can from the fridge and poured it on top of his pasta. After eating, he brought out a bottle of Tia Maria.  He poured an inch or so in a glass, topped it with milk, and drank it. He offered it to me as well.  I told him no, at which point he went into the living room and sat on the couch and continued drinking Tia Maria and milk cocktails.  I stayed out in the kitchen as long as possible, avoiding him.  From the other room he called for me to come and sit next to him on the couch, to watch television with him, but I kept stalled, saying I wanted to clean up after dinner. 

When I finally went into the living room, he again started saying come sit next to me, reaching out to grab my arm. I thought oh Jesus this is how it is going to go...and what the hell am I going to do, how will I ever get out of here?  I pulled my arm back forcefully, and sat in a chair diagonal to the couch, trying not to seem overly anxious, and tried to change the subject, asking what other work planned for the week ahead.   My plan was to keep him talking, act business like, and stay away from him as far as possible. It was strictly to business until I could find a way out of there. I wanted him to know upfront I was not interested in any sort of sexual encounter with him, no way, no how, not in a million years. I was able to keep him talking about work around the ranch, all I wanted to do was to get the hell away from him and head back to Sydney. Les told me that the next day we would be going out to check/fix fences. That we would leave early. As soon as I could,  I excused myself, and went to my room, leaving him watching the TV and drinking glass after glass of his Tia Maria and milk.  Because of the repairs I had managed on the screen that afternoon, I was able to turn off the light in the room.  I propped the chair against the door, and laid on the bed again, fully clothed, just waiting for the inevitable.  It wasn't long before he started his pacing, back and forth, past my door; stopping occasionally right in front.  Earlier in the day, I found a chain out in the yard from some sort of pulley.  I kept that near the bed just in case he came through the door.  I figured a hard wack would at least give me enough time to escape out the window and make a run for it. Eventually all the booze and milk must have tired him out and he disappeared into the dark house. 

The next morning I was on edge as Les drove us to a large barn, a distance away, and not visible from the house.  He began collecting bags of cement and tools he needed to secure stakes into the ground.  He was standing on top of a platform, about 4 feet above me, when he threw a small but heavy bag a cement at me.  When the bag hit me, I went flying, but did not fall down.   He started to laugh, remarked at my strength for a woman.  I told him I did not appreciate it, which made him laugh more. The heat and the flies were as awful as the company, as they flew around our faces incessantly.

When we finally got in the car to leave Les placed between us, a large loaded rifle. I suppose it was a normal action given the environment but it was off putting right from the start to have this loaded gun between us as we bounced along dirt roads.  We were only on the road for a short while when ahead of us, a large flock of white Cockatoos appeared.  Swerving the car to intercept them, Les intentionally drove directly into the flying birds, blood and feathers smashed across the windshield into a blur of white and pink.

Les laughed as the birds and blood bounced across the windshield.  I was in shock and screamed as the birds continued to crash into the car.  It was unmistakable that Les enjoyed both my reaction and  killing the birds.  It was obvious he was thrilled to be shocking me  and  he was in a rambunctious mood afterwards.   After that he shot at everything he saw.  There was a hawk type bird in the distance that he chased for miles as well as a group of kangaroos, who managed to escape unharmed.  At this point, I was terrified of both him, and this violent and volatile situation.  Les was clearly enjoying killing things, and equally enjoyed seeing my distress.  I tried to remain as calm as possible and not freak out.  I had never seen anyone kill things with such glee. I was terrified.

After missing the kangaroos, his mood darkened, and he continued on his way. After a short time he spotted a large pig in the distance.  It set him on a rant about the evils of wild boars .  As he sped along,  trying to catch up to the fleeing animal, the car bounced across the fields.  Les was leaning out the car window shooting at the animal in the distance, screaming at me to take the wheel.  Finally, he was able to corner the animal in a ditch where he could riddle it with bullets.  The large pig lay screaming and thrashing in the dirt, Les shoves me toward the door, and tells me to get out of the car.   

I was, at this point, terrified and freaking out about what he would do next, and I screamed that I was not getting out of the car, no matter what.  He reached over, opened the door, and shoved me out into the dirt beside the thrashing pig. Still screaming and writhing in the dirt,  Les shot it again, in front of me. I could smell its excrement and blood, filling the dusty air.  The gunshot jolted me out of shock,  I scrambled in the opposite direction.  I remember wanting to throw up.  I remember wanting to keep running, but couldn’t, because my legs were shaking so much.  I remember thinking that he was going to shoot me next, and laugh about it.  I was completely terrified.

I don’t remember how long it was that I stood there watching the dying pig and the car in the distance.  Les did not shoot it again, and eventually the pig stopped moving and died.   I remember thinking, as the car drove toward me that this was it, I was going to be the next victim.  Instead, he pulled up beside me laughing, pushed open the door and said “get in”.  He was still chuckling and revved up, when I got in the car. I sat as far away from him as possible.  I don’t recall saying anything to him.  I just sat there thinking this guy is going to kill me next, and laugh while he is doing it.  I think it was at that point that I really realized serious danger I was in.

It's been a long time this happened and so much of it is so fresh in my memory it could have happened yesterday.  There are however large gaps in my memory after the killing of the animals.  I am sure I was in shock, from the violence, and from being shoved out of the car next to the thrashing pig.   I do recall that either that day, or the next, driving to his son’s home to discuss plans about moving some sheep for a sale.  By that point in time, I was pretty shattered.  I knew that this guy enjoyed killing things, and I knew he enjoyed causing me great distress.  I also knew that I had no way to escape.  I had no idea on how to escape his home. I had no idea where the town even was. All I knew is that I was in the middle of a very hostile situation that was not going to end well.  

In going to the son’s house, I thought that it might be a chance for me to escape or at least figure out where I was in relation to the town, and the bus back to Sydney. We arrived at the son’s home, a similar home to Les White’s.  His son and his wife met us in front of the house.  They weren't friendly; they wanted nothing to do with me.  I am sure, at that point, they could tell I was distressed and upset.   I remember Les and his son leaving me alone with the wife for a short length of time.  The woman was not friendly, and was very distant.  I asked her where the town was, directions, how to get there but getting only vague directions of north and south but nothing concrete that I could follow.  

When he was ready to leave, Les told me to get into the back of the pickup truck and sit in a car tire that was in the middle of the flat bed. When I was in the tire, he toss a small sized sheep in my lap.  Its face was right next to my face and I held its legs in my hands so it didn’t thrash around.  The sheep was bleating in my face, and as it squirmed to get loose, I remember trying very hard not to cry, for the sheep and for myself.  After driving a while, I remember thinking again how far we had driven, and not come across anything, no homes, towns, roads, etc.  Les stopped the truck, got out and came around to the side of the truck,  grabbed the sheep by the legs and tossed it on the ground.  The sheep rolled a few times, jumped up, staggering, and ran away.  I remember thinking that I was as vulnerable as the sheep, tossed out in the middle of nowhere, all alone. 

We drove back the house, and I immediately went into my room, and stayed far away as possible from him that night.  As Les sat drinking his booze and milk, and watching TV, I washed as much dirt off me as possible in the bathroom sink.  There was no way I was going to take a shower.  I changed clothes quickly and again took my position, fully dressed in the middle of the room.  I stayed there for the rest of the night and must have slept from exhaustion and stress.  I remember waking to the sound of Les walking back and forth by my door.

When I got up the next morning, Les was already up.  He told me he was going to collect sheep with his son.  I said I wasn’t going to go anywhere.  Surprised, he asked what was wrong with me, and  asked if it was a “woman” thing.  I thought that was as a good idea as any, so I agreed.  He told me that he was friends with the chief of police,  and that he and his wife were coming to dinner, I should make a nice dinner for them, and he left.

Once he was gone, and it was safe, I took a shower and got washed.   I took out a chunk of mystery meat to defrost.  I again tried to figure out the CB radio but I couldn’t get it to work.  I snooped around his office to see if I could find a map of the property or anything that could help me get out of there.  I walked around the property, snooped in all the rooms, trying to find a way to get out of there.  At one point, I even thought that it would be better to start walking. I would rather die from the heat or the wilds, than by Les.  I gave the dog some food and water, took her off the chain, and we started to walk.

I was grateful for the few packs of cigarettes I had stowed in my bag, we walked about an hour distance from the house while I tried  to figure out a plan.  I knew that the rainy season was ahead and once that hit, I knew I would really be stuck, flooded, on the property until the water subsided.  I knew that I had to get the hell out of there before that happened - I was grateful and surprised to have avoided an unwelcomed sexual encounter with Les, but knew that was inevitable if I was stuck there with him for much longer.

I remember thinking how very dry and parched the ground was.  Gaping fissures of dried mud and dirt were everywhere.  I had my camera with me and took photos of my surroundings. I figured if nothing else, if something happened to me, they might at least find my camera, and know I was there.  While walking the dog and I  passed  a group of large kangaroos about 50 feet from where I was walking.  They must have sensed we were no threat, as they just watched  casually as we passed by.  I was sorry to see them so close to the house, knowing that Les would shoot at anything that moved.   The dog stayed by my side the entire time, and I felt guilty knowing that at my first chance I would abandon her to this lunatic. 

After a few hours of walking, without coming across any road or signs of human life, I knew I would never make it out of there on foot.  My only chance would be to try and figure out that CB/phone and call my friend in Sydney for help, ask the police chief for help, and if that didn't work just take Les's car drive until I found someone to help me.

I returned to the house, prepared the meal for Les's friends, and tried to rest and gather my strength. I was anxious and exhausted from worry.  Soon after Les arrived that night, the middle-aged chief of police and his wife arrived as well.  Crass and hostile, they too had no hesitation telling me how much they hated people from Sydney and the city.  My heart sank when I realized these two were no better then Les himself, who was in the process of getting drunk.  During dinner I asked them about the town and where it was located. I asked them point blank what direction, how to get there, etc.  They didn’t give me any clear answers, but I gathered from the little they told me that the main road was miles away.   I could tell from their attitude toward me, they would be of no help whatsoever. 

After they left that night, I started cleaning up,  Les came back into the kitchen.  He was pretty drunk and in a good mood.  He kept grabbing my arm and trying to pull me inside.   I avoided him by saying go watch TV, let me clean up the place first. I could tell what he had in mind and I was horrified at the thought of it.  I decided to just come out with it, and say I wanted to leave.  I told him I wasn’t cut out for the work and that I wanted to go back to Sydney. 

As soon as I said I wanted to leave, Les went into a rage, screaming at me and chasing me around the room, that there was no way I was going, that I had agreed to stay until Easter (and Easter was weeks away.)  That was our agreement, and that was that.  I started getting upset, and saying how I wanted to leave, and I did not agree to anything. Over and over he shouted "we had an agreement".   

Fortunately, he was drunk enough to keep him off kilter so he couldn't grab a strong hold on me, as he chased me around screaming.  He accused me of going through his things, and going in his room.  He accused me of taking his “pictures of Anne and the cattle”.  I had no idea what he was talking about and kept saying no, no I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn't do anything, I just want to go home. As he followed me around the rooms, screaming,  I could only imagine what the photographs showed of Annie doing with his cattle.  I am sure that if I would have seen pictures of it, I would have taken my chances and started walking. 

Les grabbed me by my arms and started shaking me, screaming in my face to give him back his pictures. I was terrified. As he was pushing me around, knocking me about, when I started screaming at him that he had better not hurt me, that if he did he would be in a lot of trouble.  I lied, and told him that my uncle was a US Senator and my best friend wrote for the New York Times.  I screamed at him that they knew where I was, and if anything happened to me they would come looking for him. I told him that they knew where I was, and they would get him. It would be an international incident and he would be very, very sorry. He could kill me or rape me, but he would pay for it and they would come here and get him.  All the while, he kept screaming,  throwing things, and saying I wasn’t going anywhere.   

Thank god, my friend from Sydney called at that moment on the phone.  Somehow, she had managed to track down the telephone number of Annie who had worked there before.  She had expected to hear from me once I got to Bourke, and when I did not call after 3 days she was very worried.  She spoke to Annie’s mother who said she thought I was safe there but she could easily imagine that I would be afraid.  That prompted my friend to track down the telephone number, via the system set up with the CB radio, to reach the ranch. 

The call came in and Les answered it.  He was standing right on top of me when I took the phone. I could feel his breath while I was talking to my friend.  When she asked me if I was okay I said no, I was not okay and then I started crying hysterically.  She kept asking if I was okay, and I kept saying no, no, no.  She asked if she should call the police, and I told her No! Don't call them. Please don't call them. I knew the people who had just left would be no help to me at all, and would make matters worse.  I said  I wanted to leave and return to Sydney and but that he won’t let me leave.   

Eventually Les backed away, and left the room.  I was crying hysterically to my friend who kept asking what she should do, what should she do? I didn’t know.  I was terrified and really in a total state of panic.  Les came into the room and said he would take me to the bus tomorrow.  He left, went into his room and started tearing up the place in there.

This was the first I had heard of photos of Anne and the cattle, but I knew what they said about bestiality and farmers, and I was horrified at that thought.  I told Doreen the gist of the experience and that he just agreed to let me go.  She said that if she did not hear from me tomorrow she was going to call the police.  She and her husband were contemplating driving from Sydney but I told her that she would never find me.  She asked where I was and I kept saying I didn’t know.  And I didn’t know.

After hanging up with her. I went into my room. Pushed the bed against the door and laid down. I heard Les banging around for hours afterwards and I just sat on the bed crying.  I smoked a few cigarettes, not caring if he hated cigarettes.  The next morning Les was very hostile and still banging things around.  He said his friend the chief of police would take me to the bus stop, and left.

My belongings were never unpacked. I pulled my stuff together. Gave the skeleton dog one last meal and waited for the chief of police to come.   When the Chief arrived, he too was hostile and nasty to me.  Again berating people from the city.  He dropped me off at the same shack on the side of the road, and left.

I don’t remember how long I waited for the bus.  It seemed like hours and hours, but eventually it did come, and I returned to Sydney, and soon after New York. I was only on the bus for a short period of time, when it began to rain.

When I went back to Sydney, the few Australian acquaintances I had there thought my ordeal was funny.   They asked what was I thinking going back’o Burke anyway? They did a lot of laughing at my expense, especially with the story about “Annie and the cattle”.  I really was in a terrified state of shock for a long while after the experience, realizing how close I came to not getting out of there, and grateful for my convincing lie and my friend’s well-timed call.  

I have long blamed myself for being a fool, for getting into a situation like that in the first place. 

As time wore on, it became just a story to tell, about an outback experience gone really, really bad.  One friend said that his freezer was probably filled with the bones of old jillaroos who didn’t escape.  I had an inkling she could very well be right.  Most people who hear the story speculate what Annie was doing with the cattle.  I do not like to think of what could have happened to me, and the reality is that without my friend looking for me, and calling at that time to save me, I could easily have been dead for months before anyone noticed.  It is likely that  if murdered, my body would never be found.

Again, the weight of the blame for the experience was on me.  I was the idiot for putting myself in that vulnerable position, instead of  blaming this vile hillbilly dude who poached on women.

Flash forward thirty years later, I'm in the office talking about a mouse plague on the news and just for the hell of it, I googled Les White's name.  I never thought anything would surface on this dirt bag, living in this remote town, in the middle of nowhere, New South Wales, Australia.  It was then that I learned, to my horror,  that he was serving a short jail sentence, of only three years, for raping a young 18 year old German girl who was also lured to his ranch for the same jillaroo/housekeeper job.  Only three years for raping and 18 year old girl.  

I also learned after a bit of research that Les White has a decades long habit of ONLY hiring young women for his ranch.  I was told his neighbors thought him and his hiring strange.  But, I guess in those parts, people mind their own business.  There was an investigation after the rape, to see if there were others who suffered the same fate.  Given what I know now, I am sure there were many.    

I feel awful for not reporting the incident years ago...but who would have believed me?  No one.  I had no proof.  The local police and Les were in kahoots.  I would have been dismissed.  I know it. But maybe if I had done something, this young girl might have been spared.  

And who knows how many young women backpacker tourists, looking for work, were attacked by this fiend in these past thirty years?

I've shared my story with the police and lawyers in that town.  They said they would make note of the "historic" incident.  Since I mention that Les was in cahoots with the local law enforcement, I wouldn't be surprised if it gets tucked away in a trash can somewhere.  Perhaps, it is not Wolf Creek, but may be it was. Who knows? Only Leslie White, and the unfortunately women who worked for him in Bourke's Lanihuli Station.

Anyway, I am posting this story here, with as many tags as I can think of, to make it searchable.  Maybe I was  broken at the time, but I am definitely not now.

Ladies, if you are thinking of touring Australia, and working side jobs along the way, steer clear of Lanihuli Station and Bourke.  Actually, steer clear of the outback completely.  Les White, rapist, possibly serial rapist, is due out in a year.  And I am sure there are plenty of men just like him waiting for your arrival.

If there are any of you who come across this post and realize it is your story too, I hope you will let me know.

[Portions of this story have been removed at the request of innocent parties mentioned here.]