Teaching in the desert: Young Vietnamese teacher’s life-changing journey in remote Australia indigenous community

He had a piece of advice for her: "Go to the supermarket and buy whatever you can."

Then, to her surprise, the school had arranged for a helicopter to pick her up, making her trip even longer. She had flown from Melbourne to Perth, then two more hours to Broome and finally the 2.5-hour helicopter trip to Mulan.

This was in Oct. 2024.

As the helicopter descended, Phuong saw a small village with only a few dozen houses, surrounded by a vast desert. She understood why the principal had advised her to visit the supermarket before heading to Mulan, home to one of Australia’s most remote and isolated indigenous communities. In this remote setting, life is vastly different.

"I stepped into an unimaginable journey," the 23-year-old, reflecting on her first day there, says.

Phuong at the Mulan airport, a dirt field five minutes away from her school. Photo courtesy of Phuong

Phuong moved to Australia at the age of 16 to study. During her high school years in Melbourne she tutored students and quickly discovered she had a passion for teaching, which led her to pursue a degree in Early Childhood Education.

At the end of 2024 she came across a job opening at the John Pujajangka-Piyirn Catholic School in the deserts of Western Australia. Newly graduated teachers were offered an annual salary of A$85,000 (US$53,567), a A$20,000 remote area allowance, living support, free housing and utilities, and paid flights back to Melbourne during vacations.

In comparison, preschool teachers in Melbourne earned an average of A$75,000 a year.

"The salary was too good, and so I applied despite the geographical distance," Phuong says.

She outshone five other candidates over three rounds of interviews. In the final round, the employer asked: "What can you prove to show you won’t be mentally affected by living alone in this isolated place?"

This was their biggest concern since not everyone can handle the loneliness and isolation of the desert.

Phuong responded: "I’ve been away from my family, alone in Australia since I was 16, and I’ve moved houses five times by myself. Moving to another state is not a problem."

Despite being the youngest candidate and not a permanent resident, Phuong’s answer convinced the employer. An hour later she received the job offer.

After disembarking from the helicopter on her first day in Mulan, Phuong followed the principal to the school, where he led her to the classroom she would oversee. He told her he would return within an hour, but nearly two hours passed with no sign of him.

Surrounded by only the howling wind and scorching sands, with temperatures soaring to 45°C, her phone sim not working, and exhaustion from the long journey overwhelming her, Phuong broke down in tears.

A while later she composed herself. "I can’t be weak," she told herself, wiping away her tears and stepping outside to search for help.

Walking past a row of single-story houses, she spotted the principal cleaning in the kitchen.

"Are you okay?" he asked, and then suggested she should buy a new sim card online to reconnect with the outside world.

"Despite being mentally prepared, my first day was still a shock," Phuong admits.

The Mulan aboriginal community, like an oasis in the desert. The red circle shows the location of the John Pujajangka-Piyirn Catholic School and teachers’ houses. Photo by John Pujajangka-Piyirn Catholic School

Mulan seems trapped in a bygone era with its attendant challenges. Issues like trachoma, malnutrition and lice still affect the residents. Many live in dilapidated houses, and the population is mostly elderly people and children, with middle-aged parents rarely seen.

The community relies heavily on government subsidies for survival. Elderly women preserve traditional indigenous art through dot paintings. While most families own cars, they often abandon them due to the muddy desert roads, preferring to walk. There is only one store, and it gets fresh food twice a week depending on transport.

Phuong arrived in the second week of the final semester, with her school having just over 10 students, ranging from kindergarten to grade six.

By the start of the 2025 school year the student number had risen to 40 since many children from surrounding indigenous communities transferred to the school.

Now the school has three classrooms, each managed by one teacher and assisted by one or two locals. But there are no janitors or kitchen staff, and so the teachers also take on the responsibility of cooking and cleaning for the students.

Phuong teaches the youngest cohort of 10 students though daily attendance fluctuates: On some days all 10 children are present and on others only two show up. Some children are full of energy one day but sleep the entire next day. Many wear the same clothes for a week, reek of urine and are constantly hungry. They often exhibit violent behavior when anyone touches their food.

In this community, asking questions about such behavior is strictly taboo. But with the help of the indigenous teaching assistants, Phuong and her colleagues have been able to understand that these behaviors stem from trauma caused by the government’s Stolen Generations policy, when indigenous children were forcibly removed from their families.

These experiences have taught Phuong that education in this community is far from conventional. Rather than creating daily lesson plans, she sets weekly goals. Math lessons do not focus on complex calculations but emphasize essential life skills such as recognizing money, telling time and basic counting.

Phuong does not want her students to sit quietly and listen but instead designs activities that allow them to learn through play.

"I deeply care for these children, but I know I can’t do more than ensure they are happy, well fed and safe during the eight hours they spend at school," she says.

John Pujajangka-Piyirn Catholic School follows a "Two Way Learning" model, which respects and nurtures traditional language and culture while also helping children learn English and contemporary culture.

"Our aim is to equip students with a type of education that can prepare them to live and succeed in the contemporary world while remaining strong in their cultural identity," the school’s website explains.

Phuong (second from L) with fellow teachers during their visit to nearby communities. Photo courtesy of Phuong

The principal admits he was very apprehensive when he first saw Phuong step off the helicopter, fearing that the young woman, standing just 1.5 meters tall, would not be able to endure the difficult living conditions. But Phuong not only persevered but also actively engaged in all school and community activities.

"Since then I’ve gained a new perspective on Asian students," he remarks.

Nearly six months on Phuong reflects on the valuable lessons she has learned. She has mastered driving on dirt roads and changing tires in the desert and become less fearful of spiders and toads the size of her foot.

She has also embraced special education teaching methods, received heartfelt support from colleagues and is deeply appreciated by both the community and her students.

Just two months after graduating she was invited to apply for a work visa.

What Phuong cherishes most is witnessing the children’s vibrant lives, the resilience of the people in the face of adversity and the mysterious land itself. She takes great pride in contributing to the preservation of local culture.

"I’ve faced challenges with language, finances and cultural integration at school," she says. "But now I’m living my vibrant 20s in an indigenous community in the desert."