12/05/2026
G’day.
Name’s Willie, Willie Mahomet. Or it was. Twelve years and nine months was all I got. But it was a good innings for a bush kid in my time, just old enough to climb fences, swing a rabbit trap, and think I was bloody invincible. I grew up in Farina, back when it still had a heartbeat, steam trains huffing through, camels resting in the shade, and all kinds of people crossing paths. Our town was rough, sunburnt, and stitched together with cultures from everywhere. Indigenous families, Chinese shopkeepers, old European settlers and us, the Afghan mob. See my dad was Gool Mahomet. A cameleer. One of the blokes who helped open up the guts of this country, with nothing but camels, sweat, and stubbornness. Came all the way from a village near Kabul, rode ships, worked in Colombo to pay his way, then made it to Fremantle, and finally out here to the dust and saltbush. He didn’t come for riches. He came to build something. And by God, he did. I was proud of him, still am. He carted copper across country where most wouldn’t walk. Took supplies to stations, rail camps, goldfields. Married my mum, Adrienne, she was French, worked in Kalgoorlie before trekking out here by camel to join him. Can you imagine that, a Frenchwoman crossing the desert for love? That’s my kind of romance. They made a life out here. Not flash, but honest. Raised us kids with sun on our backs and calluses on our hands. Taught us respect for the land, for hard work, for where we came from. That day I died, 5th of August, 1931, we were out shooting rabbits. Just me. A couple of mates, and the schoolteacher. Guns were normal out here. So were fences. It’s said I was climbing through one when the shot went off, accidental, quick and clean. I hope it didn’t scare ‘em too much, the boys who were with me. That sort of thing stays with you. Dad buried me in the Afghan section of the cemetery, under the same sky we worked under. He had a headstone carved in English and Pashto so everyone’d know where I belonged.
Might not seem like much, that stone. But out here, it’s a marker of love. A reminder that even in the harshest places, people remember their own. And you know what, I reckon our mob, the Afghans, don’t get enough thanks for what we did. We came halfway ‘round the world to a country that didn’t always want us. We weren’t handed land or medals. But we carved tracks where no roads existed, We brought water, supplies, life to places that would’ve dried up without us. And when our work was done, we stayed. We married, raised families and became part of the land. Like me. So if you’re out my way, near Farina and you feel the wind kick up a bit near the old cemetery, maybe give a nod. Not just to me, but to all of us who gave something to this country. And if you’ve got kids of your own, teach ‘em the stories. Show ‘em how to climb a fence safe. And remind ‘em that real pride doesn’t come from medals. It comes from knowing where you come from, and the people who walked before you. Catch ya down the track.
Willie
Australian Stockman’s Hall of Fame.
