On the station platform, the phone rings, but nobody answers. Inside the Station Bar, a South African is sitting talking to an American. They are laughing at each other’s accents, when a dark cloud treks over the town and changes the mood. On the platform outside the bar is a phone booth connected to the rest of the world. An Australian gets off the last train to Taroon, looks up and down the platform, then walks to the phone booth. In the bar, the two men have started to argue about the killing of their indigenous peoples. “ You killed the Bushmen”, says the American. The South African is angry and says, “ You are one to talk, you guys killed half the Red Indians”. Another dark cloud treks over town and dulls the mood even more. The Australian walks in, takes off his sweat-rimmed hat, and joins them. “ Ha-ya doin’ mate, you two are not from here?”, he says, swallowing half his beer and waving away the flies around his face. “ No mate, we’re from two countries that murdered most of our indigenous peoples”. He looks at the two men, finishes the other half of his beer and says, “ then you must be Australian, mate”. Outside the sun comes out and lightens the mood. On the platform, the phone rings. “ Must be my German girlfriend”, the Aussie says, leaving the table. “ German —- hey?” the other two say.
