The 'Boss Cocky'

By Abu Jameela

As the bus got closer to the town, I saw a sign alongside the road saying ‘Welcome to Wangaratta, The Gateway to the Mountains’. Sounds Indigenous, I thought, as I tried to spot an Indigenous person on the main drag … without success. Not one.

I was travelling up from Melbourne for a job interview. “Who in their right mind would give me a job?” I thought as I pondered my condition and appearance, and tried to imagine how I looked to others. The physical injuries had healed, but the mental scars were as fresh as ever. I was lonely, homesick, anxious, and very depressed. I had dark circles around my eyes, and my reflection in the window showed a gaunt and troubled soul. I had trouble focussing my thoughts and my eyes were glazed. I was trying to think through a thick mental fog. My eardrums were perforated and I was having difficulty hearing. Thoughts of my wife and my two lovely girls, who I had left behind, brought tears to my eye. I couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for myself.

I had fled my home country within a few hours of a state of emergency and martial law being declared. The country was in political upheaval, and the response of the state to peaceful protest was brutal. It was carte blanche for the police, army, and massive intelligence organization. So many were shot, killed, arrested, beaten or tortured. Many had simply disappeared, never to be seen alive again. There was no way I was going to let myself be arrested again. Political detainees were completely at the mercy of the system. Even common criminals enjoyed some rights, but political prisoners had none.

Now, as I was being led through the textile mill by Frank, the personnel officer, I prayed for a job. Any job. I was desperate. According to the conditions of my temporary visa I was not allowed to work until a decision was made about my application for political asylum or residence based on humane and compassionate grounds. Thus far I had survived on odd jobs, and the generosity of a few good people; I just could not bring myself to approach any of the charitable organizations.

During the tour Frank introduced me to various supervisors. I didn’t know what they were saying. I was desperately trying to read their lips. They managed to speak without opening their mouths. All I could do was smile and nod my head, and hope I didn’t come across as a strange and stupid foreigner. The buildings were huge and filled with massive, noisy machines. We came across a group of workers gathered around a supervisor. Frank introduced me to the supervisor who said something I didn’t catch. Everyone burst out laughing … except me. It was obvious he had cracked a joke. I was still staring intently at his lips trying to figure out what he had said. Till then I had not said a word. He looked at me and realized I had not understood. Then he very slowly and deliberately said “Do … you … speak … English?”, emphasizing each word with a wave of his index finger . I was so frustrated that I blurted, “Of course I speak English, I just don’t speak Australian.” It just popped out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “This is a bad start” I thought to myself. “I’ve blown it.” I was surprised when everybody laughed, most of all the supervisor. “You’ll be right, mate,” he said. I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded positive.

I scored my first job. I was so relieved and yet so apprehensive. I had never operated such huge machines. For the next few weeks I was shunted around the factory, working wherever an extra pair of hands was needed. On one occasion I was sent to the preparation plant to help the supervisor. The place was full of big and rough looking blokes. He was not in his office, so I sat down to wait for him. In walked a bloke in grubby overalls, looked me up and down, and said very loudly with a strong Aussie twang, “Hey, mate, you the new boss cocky?” Puzzled, I asked him what a boss cocky was. “Mate … don’t ya know what a boss cocky is?” he asked in amazement. He’s the cocky that sits right at the top of the tree … and shits on all the other cockies.” Well I knew what a ‘cocky’ was, and what a ‘boss’ was. I was trying to visualize a big bossy cocky sitting atop a very tall tree and maintaining the pecking order in the strangest of ways. “No,” I finally replied. “I’m here to help the boss cocky.”

This was my introduction to the colourful world of Australian idioms and the larrikin humour of country Australia . Within a few months I was speaking ‘Strine with the best of them, and well on my way to being a dinki di, fair dinkum, true blue aussie.