Wiradjuri elder ‘Riverbank’ Frank Doolan leads Indigenous vaccine push

Wiradjuri elder ‘Riverbank’ Frank Doolan believes it is his duty to lead the way and to encourage others to be vaccinated.

‘Riverbank’ Frank Doolan gets his vaccine at Manera Heights medical centre in Dubbo, western NSW, on Tuesday. Picture: Ryan Osland

“Battery low,” says the text message as we approach Dubbo. “Am at River. You can take me to get jab and record it if you like.”

Wiradjuri elder “Riverbank” Frank Doolan lives on the banks of the Macquarie, not far out of town, in an old caravan without power. His directions are vague but a friend from town takes us to a gate on the stock route and says if we drive through, he’ll appear.

And he does.

Riverbank is an articulate, dignified man who has enormous respect from both the black and white communities in Dubbo.

Having met him on a previous visit, I was keen to get his take on the arrival of Covid-19, here and in the river communities of Walgett and Bourke. “Brother,” he says, not long after we pick him up.

“I’m afraid. It’s not good. Not good at all. We’re ’roos in the spotlight when it comes to this.”

A couple of days ago, he tells me, he was walking through the Apollo Estate, an Indigenous suburb, when he got chatting with a masked young woman who was standing on her front step.

“It musta looked like I was gunna open the front gate and she shouted ‘No. No. No. I’ve got Covid’,” he says. She was masked and she was trying to do the right thing.” But he knows there are a many others living in the same house. How many? “Depends on what day of the week it is,” he says.

‘I’m a blackfella,’ says Uncle ‘Riverbank’ Frank Doolan. ‘You learn to live with pain, in one form or another’. Picture: Ryan Osland

In seven days, the number of known cases has risen from one to 130. Those numbers, he figures, are likely to explode.

We arrive at the Aboriginal medical centre in downtown Dubbo. Someone at the centre tells Riverbank that if he wants a jab today, he’ll have to go to the Manera Heights medical centre – a 45-minute walk away.

We drive him over and on the way he explains that he’d been hesitant about getting the vaccine but had changed his mind.

“Imagine I gave it to my elderly mum and she died,” he says.

He believes that, as an elder, it is his duty to lead the way and to encourage others to be vaccinated.

He has appeared on a video on Facebook, encouraging people to get the jab.

We arrive at the Manera centre. There’s not many patients, but there is a security guard on the door. The guard tells him he needs to make an online booking.

Riverbank becomes agitated and shows the man his phone, which looks like it came from last century. He explains he doesn’t have electricity, let alone a computer to make an online booking. The guard is unmoved.

“This is bullshit,” says Riverbank. I calm him down and we walk away.

“I knew I was in trouble when I seen him fold his arms. If you hadn’t been here, I’d have started arguing with old mate and the police would have turned up … or I’d have just gone home, demoralised.”

As we are standing outside, a nurse wanders out. She recognises Riverbank and I explain what has happened. She’s the nursing unit manager, Cath Raidaveta, and she explains that we need to book through a website and she agrees to guide us thought it. The first problem: Riverbank doesn’t have an email address. The second is that two days ago he turned 60 and is no longer eligible for the Pfizer vaccine.

It is only because we are standing next to the nursing unit manager and she is able to authorise his vaccine, that he can get it.

Cath, a Wiradjuri woman, says she’s been trying to organise for a walk-in clinic in one of the Indigenous housing estates where all a person will need to get vaccinated is their Medicare card.

Riverbank is angry, but not with her. “The Department of Health has known for 18 months that this day could arrive,” he says. “And now it has.”

Cath invites us in and takes Riverbank through the process. How are you going to go with the needle, I ask? “I’m a blackfella,” he says. “You learn to live with pain, in one form or another.” With that, the nurse plunges the needle into his arm.