Dixon Peters, a 28-year-old Yolngu man from the remote community of Gapuwiyak, jabs his boot into Northern Territory red dirt at the mention of Rio Tinto.

Peters works odd jobs as part of an NT employment program. Some days he mows lawns, other days he’ll do a spot of welding. He wants to train as a mechanic, but there are no suitable programs in the area. What he doesn’t want to do, he says, is work in the local mine.

“Rio Tinto has come in, destroyed our land and given us money for it,” he says. “I don’t want them coming in and digging everything up, destroying nature. They are affecting our water and killing all the fish. I think the country is more important than that.”

Peters’ home of Gapuwiyak is one of the small missionary-founded communities here, small specks dotted on the gargantuan tapestry of incandescent rocks, rivers and forests that make up Arnhem Land, an area larger than Portugal but with a population a little over 16,000.

This is Yolngu land, they’ve been living on it for more than 40,000 years. But here on the Gove peninsula, this is also a land shaped by mining, most recently since behemoth Rio Tinto bought into the area in 2007.

The Yolngu fought to stop the establishment of the bauxite mine and the associated alumina refinery – set up in 1963 by Nabalco, which was later renamed Alcan Gove and bought by Rio Tinto. Famously, bark petitions from the Yolngu of Yirrkala were delivered to parliament, where they now hang.



The totemic case, the first documented recognition of Indigenous people in Australian law, was an opening salvo in the ultimately successful push for land rights. But the court ruled against the Yolngu on the matter of the mine, and in 1963 the mine came, and an entire town – Nhulunbuy – was built to service it.

Since then a 22,000-hectare principality has been carved out – an area larger than Washington DC – in Yolngu land. Rio Tinto effectively runs Nhulunbuy, which sits on the same excised area as the bauxite mine, a hulking structure that shuttles 8.2m tonnes of rust-red dirt a year to the refinery via a snaking 20km conveyor belt.

A conveyor belt stretches for more than 20km, ferrying mined bauxite between the Gove mine and the refinery. The bauxite will now be sent directly to Nhulunbuy’s port for transport. Photograph: Monica Tan for the Guardian Photograph: Monica Tan/The Guardian

And now, despite their early opposition, many Yolngu have come to depend on Rio Tinto, or rather what flows from it.

This is why Rio Tinto’s decision to close its Gove refinery has sent shockwaves through the area.

While the refinery didn’t employ many Yolngu, it was the raison d’etre for vital services in the area, from the hospital to the electricity to the food that is shipped into the Rio Tinto-owned port.

The refinery closed in July; 1,100 workers were made redundant. People now worry about what Rio Tinto could still take away, because Nhulunbuy is a company town in almost everything but name. The power station, the port facilities, the warehouses, the fuel storage facilities and the airport all sit on Rio Tinto’s lease.

Vast chunks of infrastructure could potentially depart; there are concerns the supermarket and bank could follow suit, despite assurances to the contrary. People are worried the hospital could be in danger. The NT government says cryptically it will assess what the “impact of Rio’s decision is on the future health demands of Nhulunbuy and the east Arnhem region”.

“If they take things away from us, we’ll have no money,” says Peters. “I’m worried about everything going. I’m worried that they will take the principal away from our local school. He grew up here.”

It wasn’t meant to be like this. Just three years ago, Rio Tinto promised “long-term intergenerational benefits” from an agreement struck with Gumatj elder Galarrwuy Yunupingu and senior Rirratjingu figure Bakamumu Marika, representing the two key Yolngu clans.

It was the first agreement of its kind signed between traditional owners and a mining company – “Rio found its conscience”, as a negotiator for the clans recalls it.

For the previous 40 years, the federal government had compensated the Yolngu for having their land forcibly removed and then ripped apart by metallic teeth and arms. Payments amounted to $3m in 2010.

By contrast, the handsome new deal was to provide between $15m and $18m a year, depending on the price of bauxite, until 2053. The money was paid to funds run by the Gumatj and the Rirratjingu to fund medical, retail and residential developments, as well as forge employment opportunities.

But almost immediately the difficulties hit. The mining boom unhelpfully forced up the Australian dollar. The bauxite price then dipped and the NT government reneged on a deal to fund an epic 1,000km gas pipeline from Katherine to Gove to power the refinery, citing a $3bn risk to taxpayers.

Rio Tinto insists the agreement with the Yolngu remains in place after the refinery closure, although the confidentiality of the deal’s details mean it is unclear whether the payments will continue as before. All of this has left the communities here confused about what the future holds.

Then Indigenous affairs minister Jenny Macklin, Galarrwuy Yunupingu and prime minister Julia Gillard sit at the official signing of a historic 42-year mining agreement between traditional owners and Rio Tinto in 2011. Photograph: Peter Eve Photograph: Peter Eeve/Supplied

Effects of the exodus

Nhulunbuy is a slightly surreal place, a piece of white real estate in black Australia. Neatly trimmed, verdant front lawns sit beside boat trailers in the driveways. Parents usher their floppy hat-wearing children in and out of a neat primary school, while a few Rio Tinto workers mill about their rather spartan company accommodation camp in the centre of town.

The town’s population of 4,000 will slump by as much as half when all the Rio Tinto workers and their families leave, with most set to depart by January.

The effects of the exodus are already being felt. Qantas, which is to cease its regional flights to and from Nhulunbuy’s airport, has put up its company-owned houses for sale. A fabric shop open for the past decade will be shutting. “It seems like the right time to go,” the owner says.

Qantas, which is halting its Darwin-Gove-Cairns route, is busy selling company houses in Nhulunbuy. Photograph: Monica Tan for the Guardian Photograph: Monica Tan/The Guardian

A few houses lie empty. More will follow. Locals talk about a family spending $700,000 on a house that is suddenly worth $250,000.

Meanwhile Rio Tinto has committed 250 of its now-dormant properties to a project that aims to bring in new residents – namely, Yolngu people. If the town is to survive, it will be in an altered state, both economically and socially.

“Everything here is hooked up for Rio Tinto: the power, water, everything,” says a resident who has lived in the town for several decades. “They say the power station will stay but I saw them bring in diesel generators a couple of days ago. There’s a complete lack of information from the company.”

The resident fears the change to come. “If the Yolngu people come in, it will change things a lot around here. It’s 99% white at the moment … we’ll see the crime rate go through the roof, it’ll be like Alice Springs or Tennant Creek here.”

Racial divisions, and tensions, are hard to ignore here. Practically no Indigenous people worked at the Gove refinery, yet the Yolngu people have been on the receiving end of the benefits – infrastructure, and payments to the two main clan groups – and the ignominies – the alcohol dependency, the suicide – that have come with the mine, both directly and indirectly.

The Yolngu didn’t want alcohol to be on sale in Nhulunbuy, but it is. Now parts of the beach at nearby Yirrkala, a Yolngu-dominated township where alcohol is banned, have a shimmering blanket of used Victoria Bitter cans.

Charting a future

Klaus Helms is a stout balanda, or non-Indigenous person, with a shock of white hair. Having worked alongside Yolngu people since his arrival on the Gove peninsula in 1969, Helms is now the chief executive of the Gumatj Corporation.

“If Nhulunbuy is to survive, they will need about a 30% increase in Yolngu people in the town,” he says. “Some people will be very uncomfortable with that change. But you know what, it’s called tough luck. It’s Indigenous land.”

The clan that put its trust in Helms call him “detun”, or buffalo, due to his frequent, gruff collisions with Rio Tinto and its predecessors in the area. His job is to help plot a future for the Gumatj.

“We need to hold on to as much infrastructure as possible and we need to think about what we need to do to survive,” he says. “I say the word survive, not thrive. If we’re not careful we’ll lose what’s left. It’s OK for Rio Tinto workers – they’ve got a big payout and they’ve left. We’re still here.”

While Helms wants to ensure essentials such as electricity remain, he sees an opportunity to diversify into new areas, albeit still primary industries – forestry on Rio Tinto’s rehabilitated mine area, development of pockets of gas and manganese. The Gumatj Corporation has an exploration licence for its own bauxite project, in a bid to wrest greater autonomy over the benefits of mining for local people.

A $2.5m mining training centre, funded by Rio Tinto, will take on about 30 Yolngu to improve their skills. About 20 are already involved in the existing bauxite mine.

A fast food outlet in Nhulunbuy. Photograph: Monica Tan for the Guardian Photograph: Monica Tan/The Guardian

“What kind of deal can you do for a mine on your land if you don’t know anything about mining?” Helms says. “If you don’t know anything, you leave the deal to other people and that’s what we need to cut out – those middle people.”

Both the NT government and Rio Tinto have said they will not abandon the people left in Nhulunbuy. Rio Tinto says it will be increasing its bauxite mining, as well as ensuring vital services stay online and offering fresh investment into an economic development project to create new jobs.

In a speech at the annual Garma festival, Phil Edmands, managing director of Rio Tinto Australia, said the closure of the refinery was a “difficult but necessary” decision. “Rio Tinto remains committed to working in partnership with the traditional owners, businesses, governments and community organisations to help provide opportunities for Yolngu people in this region,” Edmands said.

Meanwhile, the NT government is continuing to talk up the prospects for north-east Arnhem Land, citing oil and gas exploration but also new opportunities, such as tourism. “The local community has shown that it’s resilient and adaptable,” a government spokeswoman said. “People in the region have worked together to support one another and that is expected to continue.”

With about 90% of the NT covered by mining exploration licences, however, it is clear lessons need to be learned quickly if Indigenous people are to reap the long-term benefits they’ve been repeatedly promised.

Rio Tinto Australia’s managing director, Phil Edmands, and Gumatj Corporation deputy chairman Djawa Yunupingu at the announcement of a planned new mining training centre in Arnhem Land. Photograph: Yothu Yindi Foundation/AAP Photograph: Yothu Yindi Foundation/AAP

Joe Morrison, the chief executive of the Northern Land Council, says: “A lot of other Aboriginal people around the country will have to deal with what happens when a mining company leaves.”

“We’ve seen the boom and bust that mining brings. Some people have done well, some have been marginalised and some have really struggled. In many places, during the mining boom Aboriginal people were left rotting in the streets.

“You can’t see mining as a panacea for Aboriginal ills when you look at the high rates of suicide and self-harm, for example. There are big, big social problems. It also brings pressure for people to live in two worlds – their Aboriginal culture and also the aspirations of the balanda.”

Australia’s grand experiment of handing dominion of remote towns to mining companies has social, as well as economic, implications. Ambitious visions during the boom years can lead to confusion and, sometimes, despair when the slump arrives. “The problem is that there is no plan to wind things down when the boom is over,” Morrison says. “I’ve got serious concern that there is no plan for Gove.

“The Aboriginal people haven’t gone anywhere for thousands of years. It’s the mining that came and went and the Aboriginal people are the ones left with the question of ‘what now?’ ”

There remains the possibility of a smart, diverse economy for Indigenous people, rather than simply tearing asunder the vast red dirt of the NT for minerals.

“There are things like tourism and cottage industries selling bush products such as soap,” Morrison suggests. “These kinds of things intersect with cultural knowledge and they involve women and children, which isn’t the case with mining. We need to think about our language and our customs as an advantage.”

Another legacy left by the refinery is an environmental one. Conservationists fret over whether contaminated wetlands can be returned to a semi-natural state, as well as the risk of a dangerous spill of the caustic soda used by the plant.

A Rio Tinto spokesman stresses that full-time staff will continue to monitor the ponds of toxic waste, with environmental management still a “key priority” for its operations.

But Dr Stuart Blanch , an NT environmental lawyer, says bauxite operations rarely leave behind a landscape that can be rehabilitated.

“The Gove refinery has ponds of toxic material and if that was released into the sea, from a flood or cyclone, that would be really bad news,” he says. “The real concern would be the marine environment, as the area is a relatively pristine one for sea turtles, dugongs and three species of endemic coastal dolphin.

“We want the refinery shut down and the toxins taken away, rather than it sitting there like an eyesore in the hope it may reopen.”

Peters, the young mower-cum-welder from Gapuwiyak, would indeed like to escape the tentacles of mining. But, for now, there is little opportunity to be fussy.

When I tell him of the new Rio Tinto/Gumatj mining training centre, he leans forward, his eyes wide. Instinctive hostility to digging up this storied, tropical terrain collides with expediency.

“What? They will train people there?” he asks. “Train Indigenous people, like me?”