A chant rose from the front and it spread like a Mexican wave. Missing the first word, I broke in on the next. I could hear my voice, clearer than those around me — making me self-conscious. I wondered if the other chanters experienced the same effect. A fat man with slick hair and a business shirt leaned against a traffic pole, shaking his head and clapping his hands slowly. He yelled at us to ‘get a job.’ Two police motorcycles barricaded the intersection and a string of cars waited. A horn bleated.

A half-full plastic water bottle swung in my hand. Lifting the bottom of my protest shirt, I eyed the padded bulge in my pocket.

And I shivered under the biting sun.

You’re not going to chicken out, I told myself.

The chink-chink of clap-sticks gave rhythm to the chant. The hypnotic metallic ring echoed off the shop facades and the townhouses facing the street. I bounced along on the balls of my feet for a few steps, looking over the banners and bobbing heads for the dancers I knew. Streaked in elemental paint, they broke away from the front and, bent low to the footpath, wove their way back through the opportunistic spectators, with their phone cameras and takeaway coffees. One of the dancers, from my hometown, carried a spear and feigned a throw at an old Chinese couple, who clutched at each other and giggled, not wanting to lose face.

A short woman with a jowled face approached me from the side. I knew her through the community. She was from up the coast. I had been observing her as she started conversations with other marchers. She was uninterested in the protest, but she was there. She was a number.

‘Did I tell you I’ve stopped drinking Coke?’ she shouted into my ear and then waited for a response.

I gave her a thumbs up, then pointed at my ear and frowned. I hate chitchat during protests. It kills the mood. The chant heightened, and I took it up heartily, leaving the woman and her poor social skills to be swallowed up by the masses.

The lady in front of me must have been expecting cold weather: she was wrapped in a black puffer jacket and carried a small plastic Aboriginal flag on a wooden stick. I can always pick whitefellas at our events; they come with their banners and flags, but rarely hold them high enough to really stand out. A young girl ambling along beside the lady turned back to look at me and a bubble of watery snot burst from her nose and clung to her top lip. I bent down and straightened her oversized beret, which had slid down over one eye. She clung to her mother’s leg, rubbing her face into her jeans.