Black Duck, page 17
Sometimes the best energies of humans are used to fuel foolish disputes. Wars in Sudan and Ukraine are fueled by many things but the contest between male egos seems to be uppermost.
We stood on the plain as the wind whistled around us. That story and its relevance to all men today was given to Cooma by a man who was raised by his grandmother, Granny Tongiai, a woman who was born around the time of the first entry of white people into her country.
Granny was the keeper of the magical beetles, another story about which I have to be circumspect, but let’s just say that Granny was a soothsayer. To have her stories relayed to us by impeccable authority is a great blessing for the lore of the land. That group of men standing beside the road in the glacial wind were as solid a group of men as you will find, but Dharama’s message cautioned us to consider the difficulties we had encountered since Uncle Max’s passing. Those divisions happened, but to what purpose, and at what expenditure of energy? We survived the rancour because of dedication to the instructions left to us. That diplomacy has to be protected and sheltered by grace.
Cooma brought us to that plain to help us understand where we had been and why we must hold the lore sacred above all else.
I left my brothers as they prepared to drive north and I drove south toward southern Yuin land. I watched in my mirror as they huddled together digesting the lore of the land. I can’t remember too many more important moments in my life.
I had plenty of time to think about it as I drove on the lonely road to Bobundara and Bombala. There was an iron frost descending on the alps and the window lights of the very occasional house spoke of a welcome domesticity, the weak flicker of life.
The brothers’ story haunted me all of the next day but Lyn wanted to investigate a section of the Genoa Creek Track where we might recommend some mosaic burning to reluctant local authorities. Nudging them toward a consensus on cool burns is time consuming and largely unprofitable but that is no excuse to stop trying. This is our Country we are defending.
When I got back to the farm I found more Nodding Greenhoods and Caladenia catanata up near the tiny houses. The season has changed.
As proof of that change Birran Durran Durran now has chicks. We tried to count them but the plovers were refusing close inspection.
Next morning the currawongs were calling look where, look where, with an upward inflection at the end. They have various calls and one of them is Baracello, Baracello. I have never known as many in the valley at once and I hope they are not predating the plover chicks as well as my soap.
They have a particular flight pattern for long swoops over the valley. They flick their wings and glide in slow loops before switching their wings again like a desultory boy playing slowly with a flick knife.
As Yedding (Moon) rose in the east we listened to the frogs’ great and insistent orchestra. Using the FrogID app Lyn estimated that we were hearing Common Eastern Froglet, Brown Tree Frog, Whistling Tree Frog and Peron’s Tree Frog. I like to be able to distinguish one bird from another, one frog from another, they are so miraculous they deserve the dignity of a name.
Twin Nodding Greenhoods: Pterostylis nutans
I was about to sit down for a cup of tea when I noticed a Mudlark lying on its back on the other side of the glass screen that protects the language table on the verandah. As I put my cup down to inspect the bird I disturbed a Collared Sparrowhawk that must have been trying to get to the dead bird. It swooped away and gave me a good old fright. I wondered how long the hawk had been studying the Mudlark, confused as to why it couldn’t get to it. Had the hawk stooped on the lark and killed it or surprised it midflight so that the Mudlark veered away in panic and into the glass?
The sparrowhawk is such a shy and wild animal it was a privilege to see up close the flare of its marbled wings. I tossed the old lark out on to the lawn so that someone could make use of it.
I think that poor bird was the one who had been tapping away at the glass trying to fend off a rival. Well, both were dead now but, as Uncle Max would have said, nothing is really dead. The lark would fuel another life.
I had a busy afternoon planting my spring vegetables; tomatoes, cucumbers, pumpkins and chillies. I love the Old People’s vegetables but old habits die hard, the food of my childhood impossible to resist. I was about to get to that cup of tea at last when Clive Blazey of Diggers nursery turned up wanting to talk about bushfires. Just as Clive left, a German environmental student arrived to talk about sustainability. I boiled the kettle again and was about to sit down when Billy Mack, Aboriginal actor, rang to mourn the death of the great Jack Charles.
The following morning was cold and frosty but, typically, was followed by a glorious day. A galah got itself caught behind the glass screen on the verandah. Is it something to do with the light at this time of year? As I approached the bird to help it out, two other galahs sat on the verandah rail and screamed and screamed at me. They performed a violent display of flashing out their wings full stretch.
The trapped galah freed itself but I wondered if the shrieking was to praise me for my assistance or admonish me for laying a fiendish trap.
Galahs are such interesting birds. If there is a summer shower they will perform high wire gymnastics on the power lines, hanging upside down and screeching, complete circus idiots. I have seen them competing to stand on lemons in the front yard of our bed and breakfast Riverbend, to see who can stand the longest while the fruit rolls beneath them. Tell me that birds don’t play! But what is the purpose of such antics?
Fly West, Drive North
Lyn and I flew west for the Quantum Words festival in Perth, but Lyn became sick straight away. I did a big gig with other writers to 300 school students and then other events in a crowded schedule.
It was a lovely hotel but Lyn was crook as a dog. We met up with Noel and Trish who were touring the west as part of their fire healing. We had a few beers in a chaotic restaurant on the waterfront where some public holiday was in full swing.
A lot of my work was in and around the museum so we could go anywhere we liked. I was a child again, peering into glass cases, trying to get the animated displays to work.
I fell in love with some replica planets at the bookshop. They are powered by magnets and appear to revolve in space. I literally watched one for half an hour. I bought one for my son-in-law who, I hoped, would appreciate the scientific artistry.
Years ago, I was at the Margaret River Reader and Writers Festival and an old Nyoongar bloke drove up from Albany to tell me a story. He wasn’t at all interested in the festival but insisted on talking to me about whales. He took us down to where the river ran into the ocean and his son sang and danced the story of how the whale left the land and became an ocean mammal. It is one of the great stories of the world and meshes so closely with our Yuin whale story. I will never forget stepping out of the car and having the hair creep on the back of my neck. I felt like I knew exactly what the young man, Zac, would sing, and I was right because I recognised some of the words in his song as Yuin.
Not only were they singing a similar song to ours, they were using some of the same language. Did that song come from the east to the west or west to east? Whichever way it travelled it showed the strength of Aboriginal connection across the continent. It was one of the great moments of my life and, as a result, the family who shared the story are never far from my thoughts.
I rang Uncle Max and told him of what I had seen and heard and he was quiet. I waited. ‘So,’ he said at last, ‘what do you think?’ ‘I think you should see it for yourself, make sure I’ve got it right.’
He agreed and we made the preparations to meet the Webbs on their Country near Margaret River. Just as the father and son began to tell, sing and dance the whale story, I was overcome with a wave of horror. What if the old man thinks this is nonsense? I forgot to breathe until I realised it was hurting, but right then I saw the old man smile and cast me a glance of affirmation.
What a relief. If I had dragged the old man all that way for something he thought had no consequence I would be guilty of several lore crimes. But as the whale’s western story was revealed, Uncle began to shuffle in time with the dance and I knew that my instinct was correct; all these old stories are connected.
While we were there, Uncle and I travelled to Albany, Perth and Broome discussing the linkages of whale stories. So much was revealed but there is much more to come. The story is so important to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people because it binds us together, parts of the one story. The story can bind Australians too and I am planning to visit a dozen communities where I have been invited to listen to elements of the great story encompassing us all.
It was years since I had seen Wayne and Toni Webb, old friends who introduced me to their people’s whale story a decade ago, so while I was in Perth I arranged to meet them at Margaret River. Lyn was still too sick to travel so I met them at their new place. They told me a tale of woe about being dudded in business and it sounded so much like our recent experience. They were reduced to living in a little old house thanks to the kindness of a white person they had worked with for decades.
Wayne has been a warrior for his people all his life so I found this story deeply depressing. But the fire in Wayne was undimmed and it made me wish he could have met Noel Butler. They would have recognised the culture man within each other; and the pain they had each endured.
I got Lyn to see a doctor because she was getting no better and we had to fly home the next day. It was a long flight and Lyn suffered whereas I love those flights because I get three hours of uninterrupted work. Nevertheless, we were both feeling pretty wrecked by the time we got to Sydney.
Lyn flew on to the south coast and I flew to Coffs Harbour and hired a four-wheel drive so I could work at a festival with Gurandgi brothers Jeremy and Barry. I stayed overnight on the way to Murwillumbah and the only place I could get was the pub at Coramba. Interesting. But comfortable. I had a countery at the bar and a couple of schooners while the locals raffled chooks for the sports club. Of course, I practised my trade by listening to the conversations around me and absorbed the stories revealed by clothing styles and the fingers frittering beer coasters or turning wine glasses in tight circles.
I love nights like that. I am the stranger, just some anonymous old dude at the bar, but I am surrounded by story and because I know none of them it can find its way into my fiction. I remember whole slabs of dialogue from those human intimacies.
I retreated to the accommodation warren and was able to wash and dry some clothes. The place was full of voices but no bodies. Food was cooked in the kitchen and instant coffee drunk but I saw no one. Pub of ghosts.
It rained all day and got heavier overnight. Roads went under across the district and the track I took out of that Country had to be deeply convoluted. It took its toll and I had to sleep in the car. I got to the festival in Murwillumbah eventually and did my gigs and yarned up with the Gurandgi brothers including Dakota, a serious young Gurandgi man and poet.
I also met up with my sister Melissa Lucashenko and her brother, John, whom I had been working with on his biography. There were loads of Blackfellas everywhere and the yarns were long but I was about to head off on my biggest adventure so I had to haul myself away so that I could get within striking distance of Windorah.
I watched the AFL Grand Final in some big beer barn at Toowoomba where no one else had the slightest interest in the game. It was luxury. I had a huge screen to myself and had to talk to no one. I slept in the car that night somewhere near Dalby.
I got up early and drove and drove through several different geographic zones and rolled in to Windorah just on dusk.
Australia’s First Miners
I had been dreaming of this trip since 2018. Fires, Covid and floods all conspired to thwart every effort to get there until now. Queensland University archaeologist Michael Westaway read Dark Emu and wanted to test the hypothesis that Aboriginal people led semi-sedentary lives and engaged in economic and agricultural activity.
A few academics and right-wing journalists were scoffing at these ideas. And not just scoffing, but attempting to eviscerate the very idea of Aboriginal accomplishment.
When the controversy erupted I was bemused because the facts speak for themselves and the outrage seemed to be confected. I think when people look back on this period they will wonder what all the fuss was about. It seems to have more to do with academic pride than scholarship.
European terms like ‘farming’ cannot accurately describe Aboriginal food propagation methods but hunting and gathering is even further from the truth. It seemed that some in the press were desperate to deflect the idea of economic and agricultural activity in order to maintain the myth of peaceful and justified invasion. The rest of Australia seems ready to accept the obvious.
Mithaka Country is between Windorah and Birdsville in the south-west corner of Queensland. Early colonisers called it the Corner Country because of its location at the junctions of New South Wales, Queensland, the Northern Territory and South Australia. Michael was working with local man Josh Gorringe, on a site where established houses were common and intense systems of trade seemed to have been conducted.
Michael Westaway gathered together a team to investigate, not just the raw archaeological material but also the sedentism those things were suggesting. What did people eat, how did they live, with whom did they trade?
The results reported widely in the media showed that the Mithaka had mined the area intensively for grinding stones. Three million stones had been removed from the site and the vast bulk of those had been traded. Not only were the Mithaka grinding grain crops into flour but many thousands of others were doing it too. The study now hopes to find out how far the Mithaka stones were traded and over how many years.
Grinding stones wear out so groups of people would need replacement stones. But how frequently? We don’t know the answer to that yet. Which is why I was so keen to see the sites for myself.
It was an emotional day for me to see the houses. There were many of them, and so beautifully made some still stand today, but seeing the scale of the grinding dish mines was a shock. I was expecting two or three mines but they were everywhere and we still don’t know how many there are or over what area. One scientist estimated that 3 million stones had been mined and dressed from these mines alone.
Mithaka house site
It seems the Old People were mining a reef of suitable stone that expressed itself at the surface frequently over a vast area. When I was there the archaeologists were examining a group of mines but, by wandering away from the site by a mere kilometre, I came across a building feature for which we could find no explanation. I imagine that every time the researchers go there they find something new. People will learn a lot about this Australia in the coming decades long after the federal Opposition decided to vote against the proposition that Aboriginal people should be recognised as the First People of the continent. It makes you cringe with embarrassment at the petty malice of this view.
Many people are shortsighted but few deliberately blind themselves. I was reminded of this recalcitrant nastiness when we posted online about our harvests of Aboriginal foods at Black Duck. These foods will have an enormous impact on Australian farming and diet but the trolls wanted to question the extent of my Aboriginality. I find it so depressing that the level of debate about the old Aboriginal society descends so often into churlish contempt.
This story is huge, the world is beginning to know it, but some Australians seem frantic to prove the Invasion did no harm, simply dispossessed a lazy and unproductive people. Three million stones! Lazy?
For me this journey was to honour, not just that story, but an old man and a country for whom I have so much respect. I had been to Birdsville in 2018 and Don Rowlands and I found a site which showed intricate settlements and linked to other similar ‘towns’ by art.
We had the advantage of travelling in an ABC helicopter while we filmed the documentary, The Dark Emu Story, and Don had taken me to the site where he had buried his grandmother. That little oasis is etched in my mind as a paradise, but Don wanted to show me some of the old dome houses and places where others had been before they were burnt down in recent years by pastoralists, or as a lawyer would say, those known to pastoralists.
The trip was so long and convoluted that we had to cross a piece of Country unfamiliar to Don. Suddenly we found ourselves looking at a complex of architectural shapes for which we had no explanation. It was almost dark and fuel was low but we were determined to come back and investigate properly. But life intervened. Fire. Disease. Flood. So, here we are in 2022 and we are packing the ute to visit this site which, for us, has huge significance.
On the way out there, Don was telling me a huge story of two boys and all the while I was thinking of the two brothers in the Australian Alps. And the seventh sister and her Platypus Baby. But that’s another story. In fact, it’s another book.
We walked across the site and it was shocking to see how intact it was. I have never seen so many tool workshops. I have never seen so much construction. The stone building is breathtaking. We visited two sites but standing on a ridge we could see another four, and just in this valley alone.
We had our lunch in the shade of a Coolabah tree and afterwards Don went to muse in the structures of his old family and his wife, Lyn, and I picked our way through the sites, trying to understand the scale and complexity of the society which had built them.
Lyn called me over to look at something she had found. Someone had arranged stones in a design no bigger than a hearth mat. I looked at her for understanding. ‘Someone has drawn the village,’ she said.
We looked down at the design in awe. There was the shape of the structures we had walked around and there was the art that linked them to the neighbouring structures 3 kilometres away.
