Riding the Black Cockatoo Page 15
An hour later a short, stocky fellow in a smart leather trenchcoat and black stockman’s hat came through the door. He nodded to the barman and dumped a heavy briefcase on the floor beneath our table. It was the first time Gary and I had met. Gary had the quick eyes and disarming charm of a wheeler-dealer; he immediately reminded me of an Aboriginal version of Arthur Daley, the lovable rogue from the television show Minder. We quickly warmed to each other and he seemed impressed when I mentioned my visits to the ‘sacred flame’.
‘Jeez, you don’t muck about do you,’ he laughed. ‘Two days and already you’ve got your finger on the pulse.’
We talked about family, Mary’s reburial, and politics. Later in the evening a couple of Jason and Gary’s friends joined us. As the jugs of beer steadily emptied, the laughter from our table became louder and the language fruitier. Gary held court and every so often banged his fist on the table to make a point or boomed out the word ‘Bullshit!’
I looked around the room a couple of times, expecting to see disapproving looks from the other patrons or from the publican. But no one batted an eyelid. This wasn’t one of those hard Queensland pubs where Aboriginal people were only let in under sufferance or relegated to a fenced-in beer garden. Here, Gary and Jason could make as much noise as anyone else; it might as well have been Gary’s private club.
Gary was a masterful communicator; he could tell a story and knew how to drop his voice to draw in his audience. At one point he was explaining to me what the Koori struggle was all about. He swept a hand slowly over the table. ‘Imagine that this table top is Victoria. Not so long ago it used to be ours, all of it. They tried to genocide our people and our culture so we wouldn’t be around to prick their memories. They dug up the remains of our people to try to deny our existence. This tabletop represents 270 000 square kilometres, and do you know how much we own now?’ He dipped his pinkie finger into the head of his beer and ever so gently placed the smallest drop of moisture onto the wooden surface. The entire room was hushed, as if each patron had been drawn into Gary’s story. ‘Not even that much. Less than 6000 hectares.’
It was a strange feeling sitting in that pub, which looked across at the Museum.
To Gary and Jason the Museum might as well have been an Alcatraz, imprisoning the remains and cultural properties of their people. And looking at those imposing floodlit walls surrounded by an empty no-mans-land of concrete I could certainly see their point of view. I mentioned that I’d had coffee with Simon earlier in the day and again Gary exclaimed, ‘Jeez, where haven’t you been! Two days and you’re all over this town like a rash.’ Then his voice softened, ‘He’s all right, our Simon, it’s his masters that need educating. It’s not just our ancestral remains they’ve got, I was in an advisory board meeting one day and one of the directors mentioned they had five hundred thousand of our spears in storage – five hundred thousand!’
As my mind wrestled with the concept of 500 000 spears, I felt sorry for those involved in this tug-of-war. Everyone I’d come into contact with seemed damaged in some way by it.
‘Why can’t there be a neutral burial place for the unidentified remains?’ I asked. ‘Like the shrine for the Unknown Soldier?’
‘There’s been talk of it,’ answered Gary, ‘serious talk, but you know how long it can take our mob to agree on anything, especially when it comes to country.’
A side door opened and a Koori man in his thirties walked in.
‘Ah, here’s our driver for tomorrow, Jida!’ announced Gary.
I’d heard Gary’s nephew’s name mentioned throughout the night, particularly when the conversation concerned dance and song. Jason had turned to me a couple of times and remarked, ‘Wait till you meet Jida. His dancing is up there, no one can touch him.’
Jida may have been a deadly dancer, but he could talk too! And every word was solid, convincing and powerful. Jida had visions; for himself, for the land, for his people, for everybody! With a mother from the Dja Dja Wurrung in Victoria and a father from Yolngu Country in the far north, here was a man with a sweeping outlook. Jida had the blackest eyes I had ever seen; they drew me in deep, and as he spoke I could see fire. At one point I said to him, ‘You know, Jida, I can’t help but get the feeling I’m talking to a future Prime Minister.’
‘Phhttt!’ he spat. ‘Don’t insult me, I’ve got plans!’
We both roared with laughter, but I knew I was in the presence of a future leader. I also knew I had made a friend.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEN
{ 19 APRIL 2006 }
A compact four-wheel-drive rolled up outside my friend’s house just after 5 a.m. Jida swung my overnight bag into the back of the Mitsubishi and we headed off through the early-morning streets of Melbourne.
‘We’re picking up Gary next?’ I asked.
‘Gary’s not coming,’ said Jida. ‘I just spoke to him. He’s crook, his gout’s playing up again, can hardly walk.’
Jida laughed. ‘It’s good in a way, we won’t have to listen to country music for the whole trip. Gary loves George Straight; plays him over and over.’
The drive to Swan Hill was over 400 kilometres and Jida talked for most of them. And like last night, it was good talk, not the ego speaking. If Gary was the natural communicator in the clan, Jida was certainly the natural educator. I asked plenty of dumb questions which he answered with patience. Once or twice, early in the trip, I asked him something a little too personal, something too direct, and he’d say, ‘Whoa, hang on brother, I can’t answer that, I hardly know you.’ But by the end of our 800-kilometre journey I felt I could ask him anything.
Every now and then Jida mentioned his father in Arnhem Land who’d met the Queen and leaders from all over the world. But it wasn’t until Jida mentioned his father’s work in the movie business that the penny dropped.
‘You mean you’re David Gulpilil’s son!?’ I asked, ‘I thought you were a Murray.’
‘I am, my name is Jida Murray-Gulpilil,’ he explained. ‘My traditional name is Wayiniarr Marn–darr, which means Lightning Thunder.’
I sat in silence for a long time. So many coincidences – or were they? The universe seemed to be contracting into tighter and tighter circles with every step I had taken in this journey to get Mary home.
‘You know that portrait of your father, the one that won the Archibald Prize,’ I said, ‘it’s hanging over my bed in the house where I’m staying. Your father has literally been watching over me for the last three days.’
Jida simply nodded and smiled. He also understood the power of not saying anything; of silence.
We passed through many pretty towns, including the goldrush city of Bendigo, but it was the natural features that were of more interest to Jida.
‘See that mountain over there?’ he said pointing to the east. ‘That’s Pyramid Hill. Our people used to light signal fires up there which could be seen by the people as far away as Lake Boort.’ Pointing to the west, he explained, ‘That’s almost one hundred kilometres away. They had a whole system of signals worked out; they could warn of danger, signal where the kangaroos were plentiful, invite neighbours to feasts, all sorts of things.’
As Jida explained the significance of each piece in the passing landscape, I began to see the country with new eyes. It was as if the European overlay was peeled away and I could feel the ageless, beating heart of the Earth. Wide open spaces were not empty voids; each part of the landscape had purpose and meaning. Jida explained all the things that had once been abundant in each area, and described the intricate trading routes that criss-crossed the country.
I realised that this man possessed a seemingly inexhaustible source of knowledge. Indigenous history, sociology, creation stories, customs, song, dances; and not just from the south, but from the far north country of his father too. The sheer depth and potency of Jida’s knowledge and understanding dwarfed anything a PhD doctorate could hope to offer. This was a learning that could only come through contact with the land a
nd culture.
‘We learn by listening, to Nature, to our elders,’ he said. ‘As a boy I travelled this road many times, taking our old ones home in my grandfather’s hearse.’
‘Not the one at the Museum!’ I exclaimed as the universe turned in one more tightening circle. I remembered how I had peered into the hearse windows only the day before, and when no one was looking I had run my fingers along its shiny black paintwork.
‘You know it!’ said Jida happily. ‘My grandfather was a great storyteller, but he was a trickster too. Once he stopped in a small town outside a milk bar. Two little boys were sitting outside and watched my grandfather go in; everyone knew the hearse, they knew his business. Then they watched him come out again with two ice blocks. He opened the back of the hearse and lifted the lid of the coffin slightly and handed one to the body, saying, “There you go, Uncle,” then he opened his own ice block, winked at the boys and said, “Hot day, isn’t it, lads?” before driving away.’
Jida laughed. ‘Of course there was nobody in the back, but every time he drove through that little town the kids would run a mile.’
Somewhere around Lake Boga, Jida began to look periodically to the sky. I asked him what he was looking for.
‘The Eagle; he’s my bird, he welcomes me when I return to my country.’
Minutes later Jida pointed skyward. ‘There, see him, he’s always here to greet me!’ Jida pulled off the road and drove down a little layby which ran to a creek. We got out and stretched, but this was more than a rest stop for Jida, he was home. He kneeled down and placed his palm upon the ground. Scooping up a handful of leaf litter, he squeezed it gently – not crushing it – and put it to his nose. I sat quietly on a log to let him get reacquainted with his country. He walked around, examining things I could not see. He placed a hand onto a tree trunk and called to me, ‘This is my scar tree.’
As we passed Lake Boga and the land deteriorated, Jida’s mood darkened. Whole expanses of countryside had been spoiled by salinity. I’d seen pictures of salt-ruined landscapes in books and on television, but nothing had prepared me for this. Whole paddocks were lifeless, poisoned, clapped-out.
We drove into Swan Hill, the bustling riverside town where my uncle – the one who had found Mary – once lived. Apart from the modern cars, it didn’t look as though it had changed much in the 40 years since he had worked there as a veterinarian.
Jida had an inter-clan meeting to attend that evening so we wouldn’t get to visit Mary’s resting place until the next day.
‘This place is really friendly,’ said Jida, as we pulled into the forecourt of the Jane Eliza Motel. He wasn’t kidding! The reception staff almost fell over themselves as they fussed over him. After dinner at the local RSL, he headed off to his meeting.
‘Catch!’ he called throwing me the keys to the car. ‘Go for a spin, check out the town.’
I drove around the sleepy back streets of Swan Hill and wondered which neat little house my uncle and aunt had lived in. I followed the riverbank, past the lurid, gaping statue of the Murray Cod, and past the historic Pioneer Settlement that I had visited as a five-year-old. Within this re-created theme-park settlement, there sits a sundial dedicated to the pioneers who ‘carved a nation out of nothing’. Heading north, I crossed the narrow bridge that spans the Murray and drove for a few kilometres; I was on Mary’s side of the river now. As the sun dropped I pulled over on the deserted stretch of road. Jida had given me a CD of his traditional music, which included a song he’d composed for the recent reburial of Mary and his kin. I opened the car doors wide and sat on the roof listening to Mary’s funeral song as it spilled from the speakers out into the purple Wamba Wamba dusk.
Yangurr waletya waletya aty
Werreka aty lar
Kayi kuthup
Yangurr waletya waletya aty
Ngaliyuk wawinpa kutnyuk
Werraka aty lar kumba
Nguteyuk kurruk pa yemin-yemin
Kayi kuthup kayi kuthup kayi kuthup
We come near you, approach you
To carry you home
I’m sorry
We come near you, approach you
Our brother and sister
To carry you home, to lie down and sleep
Your country and burial ground
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry
WARRPA WOY!
Reburial Song
Jida Gulpilil
{ 20 APRIL 2006 }
Mary is buried on Menera Station, a 1600-hectare property a few kilometres east of Swan Hill on the New South Wales side of the Murray. The property has seven kilometres of river frontage and cost the Wamba Wamba over two million dollars. The Wamba were also interested in the adjoining property when it came up for sale, but when the property owner discovered that the interested buyers were Indigenous people, the price suddenly doubled, putting it beyond their reach. Menera is traditional language for ‘we’re all friends’.
‘Welcome to Menera, brother,’ said Jida as he turned off the road and through the gates of the property. We drove down the long central farm road. Jida waved to a harvester in a distant paddock and the driver waved back. Properties of this size cost a lot to maintain and Menera is still a working enterprise, but the best land has been set aside as a cultural sanctuary, a place to conduct spiritual business and as a final resting place for Wamba Wamba ancestors. We pulled up at the shearers’ quarters, a long, well-kept, corrugated-iron building. At one end was a basic kitchen and an adjoining room containing a few worn-out lounge chairs. The rest of the rooms contained beds, holding bare mattresses that looked almost as old as the Dreamtime. Jida took me to the last room and opened the door. ‘This is where we housed the remains for a few weeks while we made preparations for the burial. Mary waited here before going back to Mother Earth.’
We continued across the property to the river and parked at the main house. The farmhouse was surrounded by a green lawn and rickety, vine-covered fence. The station manager was out. Looking for a suitable place to store the camping supplies and equipment he had brought up from Melbourne, Jida wandered in and out of machinery sheds and outbuildings. The smells of fertilisers and feed bags brought back memories of my childhood, when I followed my father into sheds just like these.
When Jida found the right spot he backed the car into a shed and unloaded his gear before carefully covering everything with an old canvas tarpaulin. ‘I’ll be back in a few weeks doing some cultural business, this is some of the gear I’ll need,’ he explained.
We wandered up onto the levee bank and sat watching the river slide past. An ancient aluminium houseboat, no bigger than the smallest caravan, sat tethered to the great root of a river red gum. A lone shirt dried in the still air and a fishing line ran limp into the water, but no one was home.
‘Who lives there?’ I asked.
‘Can’t remember his name,’ answered Jida, ‘but he’s a good fella, a Vietnam veteran. Hardly leaves the river; spends all his time travelling up and down in his tinny pulling rubbish from the water. Collects garbagebags full.’
I followed Jida along the riverbank. A neighbouring farmer eyed us suspiciously from the far bank before Jida disarmed him with a wave and a smile. He walked though the scrubby bush easily, silently, while I crashed and crunched behind.
‘We’ve got big plans for this place: ecotourism, bush tucker, an education and training centre for our young people.’
‘See this dried-up billabong,’ he said, pointing to a large patch of ground which to me looked just like a hollow. ‘I want to pump water back into it and create a living water stage where we can put on night-time creation stories and concerts. It won’t be like some fake Disneyland; I know how it can all be done so it blends in naturally. My family knows all the contacts to do it right: lighting people, sound people. I want people to come here and learn, so that when they go away they’ll see the country the way we see it.’
As I looked about I could see it. And I believed that I’d one da
y return to see Jida’s vision a reality.
We drove on through a desolate expanse of the property in silence. It was sparsely vegetated with stunted saltbush – not even weeds grew here. It reminded me of the badlands from a Western movie. Decades ago, some farmers along the Murray learnt that the ‘camp ovens’ or middens – some of which were up to two kilometres long – made inexpensive and fast-draining road surfaces. Entire middens, which often included burial sites, were excavated and turned into service roads. I wondered if we were driving over one of the infamous ‘oven roads’ now, across the ground-up bones of Mary and Jida’s ancestors. Considering our destination, I thought it prudent not to ask. We parked at a dried-up creek crossing; across on the other side the land softened into green again.
‘The burial site is on the other side,’ Jida explained. ‘We need to be smoked before we can cross over.’
As Jida built a ceremonial fire I looked around at the surrounding trees. They were ancient trees and in their gnarly knots and bark bunions I saw their spirit faces. These were the sentinels of the bridge and our observance of Law determined whether we would receive their benevolence or suffer their wrath. White smoke curled skywards and Jida came towards me with a smoking sapling. I stood with my arms outstretched, as if I was passing through an airport security gate. I let the smoke pat me down and remove bad spirits from my pockets, from my soul. The air began to vibrate against my skin, as if the atmosphere around us had changed to a higher, faster frequency.
‘It’s okay, we can cross now,’ said Jida quietly.
We climbed into the car and drove across the wooden bridge. The faces on the trees were close, watching us as we passed. I felt their breath.
‘Those trees had faces, did you see . . .’
Jida drove on slowly without answering.
As we rose up out of the dip the atmosphere returned to a more familiar frequency. I say ‘frequency’ because that is the only way I could describe it.