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their country. And the Japanese aren’t the only ones fenced in around here. Erambie,’ he says, and the white men roll their eyes. For the first time, Fat Bobbo starts to put his hammer to a nail. ‘All I’m saying is that, as far as I’m concerned, there are two prison camps in Cowra. And neither of us want to be where we are, living under someone else’s rules.’
    â€˜At least the Japs get fed well,’ George, another Aboriginal builder, says. ‘They’re not on rations, are they? They get more than sugar, flour and tea. I’d rather be in that camp than ours.’
    The men stop work and listen. Even Fat Bobbo, who’s already tired from two swings of the hammer.
    â€˜How do you know that?’ Banjo asks.
    â€˜Jim told me. And apparently most of them are fatter than when they arrived. And the Japs, they get rice with most meals and their fish is from New Zealand. Our fish from the Lachlan isn’t even good enough for them.’
    â€˜So they are treated too good then!’ Fat Bobbo says. ‘They should be on rations too.’
    â€˜No one should be on rations!’ Banjo is furious and forms a fist that he wants to put into Fat Bobbo’s head. ‘Everyone, including the prisoners of war, should be treated like human beings.’
    â€˜But look how they treat our men!’ Fat Bobbo yells.
    â€˜I know what you’re saying about our POWs, but you’re missing my point, Bobbo! My argument is about how we are treated like prisoners too, at Erambie. We shouldn’t be on rations. We should all be paid the same for the same work and have enough money to buy food for our families – not just flour, tea and sugar rations and whatever we can hunt or manage to grow. It’s not fair for anyone. The prisoners of war are just like us.’
    â€˜There used to be heaps of camps around town when I was young,’ George says. ‘The football ground in West Cowra was a camp. So was Taragala and there was another in North Cowra.’
    The other workers – except for Fat Bobbo – nod in acknowledgement; they all know the truth, they just don’t talk about it much.
    â€˜And then Erambie was created, to round up all the Blacks together.’
    â€˜Oh, come on, it’s not all bad,’ Fat Bobbo says. ‘I thought you liked living together.’
    The truth is they do. And people follow other family members to Erambie to live together.
    â€˜The thing is, Bobbo, Erambie was my family home before we had to live under a Manager. My grandparents were born in Brungle but my parents were born here. This was home for them before it was turned into a reserve twenty years ago. It’s home for me, it always will be. Even if we are trapped by the Manager.’
    â€˜What the hell are you saying, Banjo?’ Johnno asks. ‘Sometimes you speak in riddles.’
    â€˜I’m saying that this government treats its prisoners better than it treats us and so we should be angry at the government, not the Japanese POWs. These fellas are just doing their duty to their country, like Aussie soldiers are. War is not any soldier’s fault.’
    â€˜We get rations given to us out of an old horse stable and what gets handed out is very little,’ George adds.
    â€˜It was only a few years ago that Erambie was overcrowded with over two hundred people living on thirty-two acres.’ Banjo is rubbing his lower back, which is sore from being hunched over, sanding. ‘Our life is different to places like Cummeragunga; they had the same number of people living on a twenty-seven-hundred acre station.’
    Fat Bobbo, obviously bored with Banjo’s history lesson and the Blacks complaining generally, changes the topic. ‘Did you hear the story about Walter Weir’s missus at their farmhouse at Rosedale?’
    â€˜Nah, what happened?’ Johnno asks, equally disinterested in Banjo talking about Erambie’s