White Cliffs – Outback and Laid Back

White Cliffs was once an opal mining mecca in the southwest of New South Wales. Today there are a couple of commercial scale operations but most of the mining appears to be in the “Heritage” area where miners have tiny claims and are limited to using “heritage” methods; basically a pickaxe and a wheelbarrow. That whole area is covered with death trap holes surrounded by “mullock”. We were told that most of these plots cost A$87 a year and were worked as a hobby. Not easy to see the fun in this at all.

About 80 percent of the people of White Cliffs live in dug-outs; underground houses made from expanding opal mines or simply augured into the hills to make dwellings that are a respite from the heat. The first solar power plant in Australia was built here because some professor calculated it had the highest solar exposure. Our motel was built this way with caves as rooms about 20 feet underground.

There are about 100 citizens in town and, when we pulled up to the pub for a quick beer, we never left, stayed for dinner, and ended up meeting about half of them. Do you all come to the pub every day? “Oh crikey no mate that’d be silly. Only 5 our of 7 days usually”. It must get lonely in the dug-outs.

Add to that, Central Darling Shire, within which this town lies, is the largest Shire in NSW and yet has the smallest population. It covers an area about the size of the main island of Tasmania and yet has a population of less than 2,000 people. So White Cliffs is a big percentage of the Shire.

Most at the pub were older folks who had moved here for the “White Cliffs lifestyle”. I asked what that was and one lady told me it meant things get done according to their importance and everyone knew everyone and looked out for each other. Most showed up in a small old ute with a dog in the back. One lady showed up with her two kids and a rescued lamb being bottle fed and cavorting with the dogs. They all had stories to tell and plenty of time to tell them.

We met Ken Davis who pulled out his driving license for me to prove he was actually 80. There was absolutely no need to do that; Ken looked like he had lived every bit of every one of those years. He’d been a sheep shearer for 20 years and worked as a mechanic in various mines the rest of his working life. He’d been to America and enjoyed it but couldn’t “understand why your bloody revolving doors go the wrong way round” and then said “And what’s with all that tipping everyone? Why can’t you just pay everyone a living bloody wage and not make them beg for tips all the time?”

No argument from me Ken.