Black Duck, page 18
Who would go to that trouble? An older person instructing the young or a young person playing house? It was an extraordinary thing to see and its fragility makes your skin creep. It could be destroyed by a kid on a motorbike. And we could see the tracks of a dirt bike driven by some station worker looking for stock. If he had driven 80 metres to his right he would have masked that story forever.
Andy’s gone with cattle and he don’t know where he are.
Which is why Don can’t countenance archaeologists visiting this site just yet. He wants his own young people to learn it first, to know it, to remember it, to protect it. It’s certainly related to all the other archaeology I had visited in the previous days, but there’s a probability these sites cross the borders of three states and a territory. It is vast. It is Australia’s to know and contemplate, but first it is for Don and his people to explain for us and in that explanation to declare a plan of protection and honour.
I left Don and drove through the gathering darkness to Windorah to catch up with the archaeologists. I wouldn’t mention the new site to them because it wasn’t my business to do so.
There were three house lights on the whole journey of five hours. I will never forget the journey. I had to concentrate so hard to avoid cattle musing quietly in the middle of the road and all the time I was trying to understand what we had just seen.
Can Australia give Don the time and support he needs? Can Australia help Josh and the Mithaka protect a site which is more important for the understanding of humans than any other on Earth? Here people lived and traded and performed ceremony for that trade. And perhaps they performed those complex operations before any other humans and all of it within the arch of spiritual codes.
Yes, there is a massive ceremonial site above the mines where trader and buyer gathered to honour the trade. I think of that interaction all the time. The ceremony site extends for over 2 kilometres.
A testament to the bond between those on both sides of the transactions are the standing stones marking the sites of each mine. They signal a proprietary interest to indicate to other miners that this site was occupied.
Of course, the words buyer and proprietary are not suitable, but what words do we use for a trade where the miner wanted to trade with other people in a comfortable exchange instead of enriching him or herself. There is no castle here, no moat, no treasure hoard, no army, and the mines themselves, of such obvious importance, are protected by a simple standing stone. No razor wire, no alarms, no guards, because in this society theft was unthinkable. Think how that one social rule would reshape the bible.
I rolled into Windorah well after dark and the affable archaeologists were deep in conversation and beers. There was talk of their vegetation studies, bird and animal surveys, test cores, population estimates; all fascinating stuff, but I was thinking of a little girl playing with pebbles as she replicated the living pattern of her people.
Australia, the world, you will be astounded by that little girl’s vision because she was able to replicate the boundaries of her existence where there was no army, no prison, no poverty. Does the world need to consider the possibility that humans have the ability to live like that? Does a kangaroo jump?
I slept fitfully in the caravan park, rocked to the core by the little girl’s vision of life. I got up at four and began driving south-east, unnerved by the cattle and roos looming out of the dark. I think I saw a bilby or was it a large bandicoot? I have never seen a creature with such disproportionately large ears. It comforted me to know that, whatever it was, it existed. I was hungry as hell because I had been too late for the pub’s kitchen last night.
I arrived at the quiet little town of Quilpie, but nothing was open except a tiny coffee caravan. The affable owner served me coffee and a lovely toasted sandwich which I enjoyed in the company of a whimsical couple who seemed not to have a worry in the world.
Drove on, drove on and eventually made it to Charleville where I saw a sign for Golders of Roma. To watch football and cricket at my house I have to use a satellite which means I get Alice Springs Imparja TV and all their ads are for cattle drench, water tanks, mine supplies and instructions to wash my face and blow my nose. I also get ads for Golders of Roma. The owner and his daughters are legendary dags, so I made up my mind I had to shop there.
I left carrying a bag with shorts in Queensland Origin rugby colours, a shirt in a maroon the colour of a mad steer’s eyes and pants charcoal enough to allow for bushfire wood collection without totally destroying their newness. Little remembrances make me very happy. At last I have been to Golders of Roma, even if it was in Charleville.
I got as far as Dalby and collapsed at a motel where Jane Grieve, the motel manager and author, recognised me and wanted to talk Aboriginal history. She had written a book, In Stockmen’s Footsteps, about the Stockmen’s Hall of Fame, so it was a difficult conversation, but they are the conversations we must have. Building trenches is not a viable human discourse.
Jane served me a lovely curry and seemed generally interested in Aboriginal opinion but my eyes were dropping out of my head and I slept soundly, dreaming of Don’s stone walls and his Coolabah tree.
I had to get driving again early to hand back the car in Coffs Harbour. I stayed that night in Sydney’s very forgettable airport hotel. The suburb is a tangle of highways and disconnection but, fortunately, I had the desert memories to sift and understand.
The journey was the most important in a life of many journeys and I’m hoping my mere words can tempt Australians, black and white, to care for the country and the spiritual significance her First People had built upon her.
Lyn picked me up from Merimbula and when I got to her place all I wanted was rest and reflection but a kid went missing in Gipsy Point so the whole town turned out for the search. He was found safely but the buzz of adrenalin seared for hours afterward.
I went to Lyn’s fire control meeting to support her and brother, Graham Moore, but the caution and defensiveness of the authorities makes you feel that nothing will happen unless people start it themselves. Thank goodness for Lyn’s grace and persistence. She is a good person and loves her Country so much she is prepared to attend a dozen boring meetings a week to try and make Mallacoota safe, copping all the bickering and meanness in return.
Next morning, she wrote about Jitti Jitti’s insistent conversation at dawn. ‘Are you sure, Jitti Jitti, that you need to drag us from our sleep or are you just spreading rumours? The wattlebird is demanding, “Wake up, wake up.” Might as well get everybody moving as it’s too early to sip nectar. Now, who’s upset the plovers? They’ve been alarmed half the night but are still offended as the gentle kangaroos move through the mist. There will be no return to sleep now as the currawongs chorus begins, the call and response a cheery barachello.’
The Jitti Jitti is certainly persistent at this time of year, as if protecting, or contemplating, a nest. It calls tut twitty twit it over and over again, quite distinct from its usual call. The currawongs have flocked in a big group and the plovers are excitable, so I think their young are down near the horse paddock. Every time they call Pippin goes on alert and scans the farm for threat.
Possum Skin
I did the dreaded 4 am drive in the dark to catch the first plane in a series of flights to Adelaide. The early Merimbula connection was late, making the whole travel a tense rush.
I helped Damo and Bec from Warndu launch their new cookbook with the irrepressible Costa Georgiades. It would have been nice to share some yarns and a few beers but I had to creep off to bed.
It was Lyn’s birthday and I left her a present, a rug I bought at the South Australian Museum last time we were there. It’s an ochre rug and reminded her of her beloved desert. She bought me a book on Australian animals so we could identify a strange creature leaping around my barbeque.
Possum skin rug
On day two of the Warndu gig, Costa and I did an early show at Plant 3 in Bowden. I dobbed in a couple of good jokes, well they cheered me because I felt I had been dragging my feet. That night we did a job for the Kaurna community but it was freezing cold and I was propped up on the back of someone’s old ute. It had been set up beautifully but the wind was freezing my back.
Someone saw what was going on and jumped on to the ute and draped a rug around my shoulders. I looked down at the hem and saw that it was a possum skin and that the inside had been inscribed. It was the first time I had worn one. I have seen plenty of people wear them but to me it seems a bit stagey and disrespectful. My family made me one for my seventieth birthday but I don’t wear it out of respect. It is my winter blanket and I get so much joy in the knowledge that my family are keeping me warm.
When Aunty Joy Wandin, senior Wurundjeri elder, wears one I feel pride in her right to do so and I have seen Ken Wyatt wear a kangaroo skin with rare dignity, but sometimes I see people posture in them and it turns my stomach. The garment has huge spiritual significance and needs to be respected. It is not to be used as a political tool like a prime minister donning a hard hat and high vis vest to demonstrate his allegiance to the working class.
When I got back to the farm from South Australia it was another misty morning and Lyn and I watched Bunjil circling the top of the south paddock before it landed on something and struggled to lift it into the air. After many attempts it was able to get the creature aloft and disappeared. It looked like the catch, Bodalla (wallaby), was dead before capture but it made us wonder if there was already a young Bunjil in the nest. Well, that meal would certainly keep it busy for a few days.
We went to Merimbula and had lunch at the aquarium to celebrate our birthdays. A beautiful meal and a chance for us to catch up on each other’s news after such busy days.
I was asked to do a program for SBS on identity but Blackfellas warned me against it. They suspected a contest between dark and pale Blackfellas. But I thought that it was a chance to set the record straight. I spent about four hours talking through my family history with SBS researchers. They seemed genuinely interested so I sent photos and documents and felt that nothing could go wrong.
Off I went to Sydney, but SBS used none of what I gave them, instead preferring the rumour and assumption of the right-wing press. I was really devastated and disappointed that with all the work that needs to be done in our communities we would waste our time on this trivia. I felt sorry for some of the other participants who also thought it was a chance to have their say.
How wrong we were. The ‘real’ blacks were on one side of the room and we were on the other. I wonder if I have ever been more disillusioned. I gave really precise information about my family, so proud am I of their survival, but sadly they used none of that.
I also calculated the percentage of blood in my family and the difficulty this raises in community. These are important points to consider because as more and more Australians find black relatives these issues have to be considered before we become a bunch of wannabes, but no, SBS chose a sensationalist and divisive path. Trumpist.
Definitions of Aboriginality need to be understood by everyone. I don’t believe in self-identification, I think people ought to be able to provide some documentary evidence of their identity, but I also know that some people who were taken away have not one skerrick of evidence. A man approached me at a function in Perth last month to share his identity confusion with me. What he didn’t know was that I identified him as Aboriginal the moment I entered the room. There was no mistaking it, but he had no birth certificate and wasn’t even sure of his birthday. Stolen Generation.
All of these issues could have built a really constructive documentary, could have drawn people toward an understanding of identity, not urged them toward scorn and contempt. And what will happen to Aboriginal people who are made afraid to identify, will we lose their contribution to the Aboriginal family? I feel the same way about non-Aboriginal people; they are not going away so they have to be encouraged to identify with the land or otherwise how can they care for her? They will be restless spirits forever feeling at a distance from their home.
I knew the show’s director so was doubly broken by the way an important opportunity was lost. Never again. There are people who reckon we should sue when this sort of thing happens. What, and spend the rest of our lives in court to change nothing? The tethered bear being drained of bile to please a conspiracy myth! No thanks.
The day after the SBS show I went to see performances of my play at the Barracks in order to support the cast and company, but it meant I had to change my flight from 2 pm to 6.30 pm and of course it was late. One of the passengers went through the wrong door so we had to wait for her. She’d just had a hip operation and so it was a long wait. Once on the tarmac we waited for clearance but time crept toward Sydney’s air curfew and eventually the flight was cancelled and we were ushered off the plane and had to walk back to the airport. Which was locked.
Once we were let into the terminal we were told to leave the building. No help whatsoever. It was midnight by now and no motel rooms left. One passenger rang a number on a hotel website and was put through to Los Angeles where a cheery person told us that there were three rooms left. It was news to the hotel clerk but those rooms were found and nine of us were able to bunk in them.
It seemed like a horrible way to punish passengers for Rex Airlines’ failure but, once again, the human spirit showed itself. In the middle of all this travail and uncertainty we were waiting helplessly in a motel lobby and the lady with the crook hip looked around at the decor and said, ‘This is nice, isn’t it?’ You had to love her spirit.
Once I got back to the farm I spent days doing interviews with earnest university students wanting to talk permaculture, Aboriginal sovereignty, agricultural sustainability and climate change. I work one day a week for Melbourne University and it gives me the opportunity to work with this generation and it inspires hope.
I had to leave the farm once again to do the commemoration at Beth Gott’s memorial in Melbourne. Beth did all the early work on Aboriginal use of Yam Daisy and was important in helping me get elements of Dark Emu botanically correct. She was gentle but persistent in her corrections and I appreciated her stern support.
The room was full of researchers and Blackfellas whose names were lit in neon for me as their work had also contributed so much to Dark Emu. When the wine and Saos were being passed around I collected a group of them together and asked what they thought of the idea of Aboriginal accomplishment.
I was prepared for them to nitpick their way through my work, as some others have done, but one said Australia had a problem with the words village and digging when it was applied to Aboriginal people. It was a very concise way of showing the gaps in the history accepted by many Australians. Other researchers chimed in with news of the most recent research and archaeology and I was shocked at the amount of new information supporting Aboriginal technical expertise.
I asked about Jim Bowler’s research. Jim has just finished an excavation at Point Richie, Warrnambool. Jim was at the forefront of the Mungo man and Mungo lady research which had transformed science’s understanding of the age of Aboriginal occupation of Australia. Jim’s new science, however, was suggesting an occupation of a site at Warrnambool of 120,000 years.
Once again, I was prepared for the gathered experts to scoff but, instead, they gave intriguing commentary that only insiders could give. They pointed out the quibbles that some scientists have about the theory, but also suggested that a lot of that hesitancy comes from a race wedded to the idea of Western superiority. Beth would have loved it because it was right up her alley, but she will have to settle for the fact that we were doing it at her wake.
The Starling
Starlings arrive at the farm around mid-October every year. I am not welcoming. I shoot at them with an air rifle. I don’t hit many but they are aware of my displeasure. They are such beautiful, character-filled beings, but so were Governor Phillip and Captain Cook according to their mothers.
A small group arrives and usually sits in surveillance mode on the old dead tree for an hour before venturing to feed on the pasture.
The way the birds strut is very distinctive and assertive, they are a wonderful creature, but I know that if I let them stay there will be a few hundred arriving the next day. I have to make them feel unwelcome or it will be Captain Cook all over again.
On the road again. I had to fly to Sydney to help Dean Kelly, Aunty Barb Simms and other La Perouse mob run some whale tours outside Sydney Harbour. I had a chance to talk with Gurandgi Del Ella and his new partner Chelise. It is always so inspiring to hear about the work our young people are doing on behalf of our communities. It is truly the highlight of my life.
Aunty Barb was really complimentary about my books and after the SBS horror it felt like I was living in two opposed universes. We saw whales and we sang their songs to the other passengers, many of whom were from other countries. I look forward to the day when all Australians will be familiar with this Country’s songs for the whale.
The eye of Gurawul (Image reproduced with permission from Yuin Gurandji senior men)
Spring
Dingo
The vigour of spring is all around us: the unfurling tree fern frond,
the energy that pushes the orchids delicate stem through hard crust,
the arrival of cuckoos. The urgency of growth and desire.
Red in Tooth and Claw
No problems getting home for once and got straight into picking up rotted eucalyptus mulch from Gipsy Point and spreading it on my house gardens.
I feed a male King Parrot irregular meals of sunflower seeds because he asks so politely, talking to me in such a conversational and confiding tone.
He might be polite but he doesn’t like it when another male tries to intrude. If the Rainbow Lorikeets scare him away from the seed he will search the windows of the house until he finds me and asks for intercession. It is such a peculiar relationship. The Rainbow Lorikeets screech like urchin bandits while the King Parrot whispers secrets. I value the company of all of them.
