Encounter with Aborigines, Escaped with a scare

Temperature - Day (maximum):
approx. 26-32 degrees

Broome – 11.06.2001

Tired, I lift my body out of the comfortable bed, walk carefully to the bedroom door and switch on the light. It’s five o’clock in the morning. It is still pitch dark. I open the curtains and look at the rainwater splashing from the roof for a while. It is reflected in the patio light, collects on the ground and then flows into a small lake that has formed overnight in front of our house. “Get up, my darling. We don’t have much time,’ I wake Tanja up with a kiss. I quickly get dressed and run across the spacious lawn to the team canteen. “Good morning, Chris,” I greet the gardener who is eating his breakfast. I quickly show him where the camels’ food is, because he will be looking after the camels again in our absence. At eight o’clock we leave the Homestate with our Holden in the direction of the Great Northern Highway. The heavy rainfall of the last two days has filled the recently dried up large lakes on Anna Plains with water again. “Hopefully the wet ground won’t cause us any problems when we set off at the weekend,” I say, pointing to the scrubland. Tanja looks dreamily out of the window. “Are you happy?” she asks. “Yes, I’m excited to see what awaits us in Bidjadangara,” I reply in a good mood.

The rain has now lessened and as we reach the asphalt strip of the Great Northern Highway, the first rays of sun peek out from behind the dark clouds. Shortly before nine o’clock, a road sign points west to a bush track. Bidjadangara Aboriginal community 10 kilometers can be read on it. “We’re well on schedule,” I say contentedly, because at nine o’clock we have to give a talk about our expedition at school. As soon as we turn onto the path, a jeep comes towards us. Only at the last moment do we realize that it is Annette who wanted to meet us here as agreed to show us the way. “Hello Tanja! Hello Denis,” she calls out, waving happily. Sitting next to her is Rose, the Aboriginal woman who was born on Anna Plains 50 years ago and who invited us to eat damper and fish on the beach. She also waves cheerfully at us. We follow them until the first houses appear. I am surprised at how well-kept the village of 800 souls looks, as we were told that most Aboriginal communities are totally run-down. We receive a friendly welcome at the directorate. We sign the visitors’ list and have a brief chat with the principal and his wife, who speaks to us in perfect German. In the course of the conversation, we learn why she emigrated to Australia many years ago and now lives here with her Australian husband.

On the way to the classroom, children of all ages watch us with curiosity. A friendly, young teacher shows me the TV and the video device with which we are to show our movie. It doesn’t take long for the large room to fill up with children. The little ones can sit right at the front. “They are only between three and four years old. “If they lose their attention, we will leave the room,” says the friendly teacher. “Of course, no problem,” I reply. Ten minutes later, the room is filled with around 60 children. Tanja and I introduce ourselves and tell you a bit about us, expedition life and Australia. The children listen attentively and I am surprised at the interest even the youngest children show.

Then I switch on the video recorder and my eyes start to light up. We show a movie about the crossing of the desert of death, called Taklamakan. Excitedly, some children nudge each other on the shoulder and point to the camels with two humps that carried our equipment during the desert crossing. I watch their faces and emotions and ask myself whether I can give these lovely little ones something for life. A spark of hope, a goal, an idea, because I am aware that we whites have torn away the roots of this culture and are responsible for the fact that today many of them are addicted to alcohol. They often live a life without a future, without stability, and as I speak to them I feel a lump in my throat that I don’t usually feel. I talk about Mother Earth, about touching her, about nature as our teacher, and at the same time I think about how the grandfathers and great-grandfathers of these children could have taught me the real primal knowledge about the roots of humanity. I feel strange speaking as a white man to a race that is probably the oldest on earth and if I’m honest I would love to sit there and hear about the forgotten knowledge of the Aborigines. As I talk about the importance of water in the desert, about navigating the endlessness of the ancient continent and about the life of our dream, my own desire to meet one of the old men of the law whose disciple I am privileged to be grows greater and greater. Perhaps my wish will be granted and on the next 5000 kilometers we will meet a tribe or a group of people for whom I have so much respect and esteem in my heart. Who knows what the next few months will bring, where they will take us, what hurdles they will help us overcome and what Tanja and I will learn from them.

At the end of the lesson, we say goodbye to the children with mixed feelings of happiness and sadness. As is so often the case, these are feelings that are difficult to put into words. We talk to a few teachers who are interested in our travel life. I would like to ask why all the teachers I have seen are white. This fact alone gives me food for thought, but I would first like to learn more about the situation of the indigenous people in order to form an opinion.

Conversations with Edna, an Aboriginal lawwoman about her past

As we walk back to our car across the green lawn, accompanied by a few children and a teacher, the lovely Annette meets us. “The women have finished preparing the food and are waiting for you on the beach,” she says with a laugh. “Oh nice, we’ve been looking forward to this the whole time,” Tanja replies cheerfully. We get into Annette’s jeep. Rose, the Aboriginal woman we had already met on Anna Plains, is already in the car. “Nice of you to come. Edna, Myer, Maggie and MT are already waiting for you,” she says in her nice way. We drive through the Aboriginal community and notice that there is a fence between the white teachers’ settlement and the village. On the beach we meet the four women sitting around a small fire. Annette parks her car behind a bush. “Welcome Tanja and Denis,” the women call out, giggling and offering us a seat by the fire. We shake hands with Edna Hopiga, the woman who is considered very powerful and represents the law of her tribe. Myer, Maggie and MT also hold out their hands to greet us. Tanja and I sit down with our hosts in the warm sand. In the glistening rays of the sun, nothing can be seen of the embers of the fire, only light smoke testifies to the fact that the pollack is lying directly on the flames. Rose takes the damper out of the embers. She blows the sand away and knocks it off a little. Then she cuts up the delicious smelling bread, spreads butter on it and gives each of us a large piece. “Have some of that fish,” says MT with a laugh. With my bare hands, I reach into the fish lying on the embers and take a piece. All the women watch me as I pop the delicacy into my mouth. “Yum,” I say ecstatically, because the fresh pollock does indeed taste excellent. The women nod contentedly and are just as happy when Tanja grabs it as I do. “Edna, would you like some honey?” asks Mt. ‘No thanks, I’ve got sugar,’ she replies. I noticed right from the start that this woman is something special, indeed an extraordinary, highly intelligent person. I quickly get into a conversation with her that I wouldn’t have thought possible a short time ago. I tell her about my outlook on life first. About the fact that I am convinced that our Mother Earth is a living creature like all of us. That we are under their protection, touch them every day and live our dream of experiencing this land, exploring it for ourselves and enjoying it. She listens attentively to my words, looks me in the eye and begins to smile after a few moments. I am delighted by the look on her face and feel inexplicably connected to her. “You know Denis, this is our land, the land of our fathers and grandfathers. It was a free country until the whites started to separate and cut it up with fences. I am fighting to win it back for us. They want to build a cotton farm here. That would take the groundwater out of the soil and destroy everything on the surface. That must not and will not happen. Hopefully we will win in court. I worked on the stations when I was young. I was a slave for most of my life. I had to do the hard work of men. I had to mend fences, paint houses and round up animals. It was work I didn’t want to do and a woman in our tribe never had to do, but I had no choice. My parents also lived on the white man’s farm. I am glad that we have our own community and rights here on Bidjadangara. “Are you angry with the white man for the things that happened?” “You can’t turn back time and not everyone is the same.” “Are you happy now or do you still think about the old days of your parents and grandparents?” “I am happy but sometimes my thoughts wander to the past.” “Do your old customs and laws still live on like they used to?” But yes, I make sure that they don’t forget my children. We haven’t forgotten anything,” she replies in an open and friendly tone. I could sit there for hours and talk to her about the old and new times, but the sun has risen higher by now and it’s getting warmer by the minute. “If you like, I can show you the place where our ancestors lived,” Edna offers. “I couldn’t imagine anything better,” I reply happily.

Water holes of the ancestors

We leave the fireplace and walk a few hundred meters along the beach. As always, Rufus is happy about the waves and plays catch with them. Then we turn left and trudge over the dunes. Suddenly Edna and the other women stop. This is where they lived, they say, pointing to the sandy ground. At first glance, I don’t notice anything special. Only when Edna draws our attention to the thousands of shells lying around everywhere do I see the difference. Only here are they scattered over an area of several hundred square meters. “These are the mussels that our ancestors ate here and threw away,” she says. I examine the mussel shells and notice that many of them are porous and brittle. Lost in thought, I pick some of them up and try to imagine what it might have looked like here in the past. Once again I am overcome by the desire to take a look back in time. I would love to experience what it was like when people gathered here on the beach. I would love to go hunting with them and share my life with them for a while. “If you like, we can show you the water holes our ancestors drank from,” says Edna. I nod my head vigorously and the women continue on their way over the dunes to the flat plain.

Rufus lost?

Edna, who is already over 70 years old, has no problem climbing over the barbed wire fence. We now climb through high grass. Suddenly she stops and seems to concentrate. “It has to be here somewhere,” she says quietly. “Over there, there it is,” she says seconds later, pointing to a patch of tall grass that looks exactly like everything else here. “Careful, I don’t know how big it is,” she warns us as we wander through the meter-high, dense undergrowth. I slowly make my way forward and suddenly stop, startled. Directly in front of me yawns a deep dark hole that is perfectly camouflaged by the grass. “Imagine we were walking along here with our camels, one of us would have fallen in,” I say to Tanja, who is standing at a respectful distance next to me. We have not yet realized the extent of the hole when Rufus, as always, jumps joyfully and exuberantly through the tall grass. He plays with Annette’s dog. The two of them romp around like mad. Suddenly Rufus remembers to pay us a visit and he races towards us like a rocket. “Rufus no! Stop! For God’s sake, noooooo!” we all shout, including the Aboriginal women, but Rufus doesn’t listen. Before we know it, he disappears before our eyes into the deep hole as if someone had spirited him away. Petrified, we remain speechless and wait for the impact. We listen for many seconds but the hole must be so deep that Rufus still hasn’t hit it. With a tense heart, certain that I have lost our faithful companion, I kneel down, feeling my way inch by inch through the tall grass to feel the edge of the hole. Finally, I have a view into the dark nothingness and to my relief I discover our tail-wagging Rufus about two meters down. “Gosh Rufus, you were lucky my friend. You’ve given us a terrible fright. Come on, jump out of there, I shout. Rufus rushes to the clay wall of the hole and clings to the ground with his front paws. Tanja bends forward carefully and manages to pull him out. As soon as Rufus is back with us, his playmate discovers him. Annette’s dog comes racing towards Rufus, happy and upset. “Oh God! No! Stop! Nooooo!” we all shout, but it’s too late and he disappears into the waterhole just like Rufus. Annette is very upset. We quickly check how he is doing, but he is also unharmed, albeit a little dazed, standing on the sandy bottom of the opening and looking up. As he is bigger than Rufus, it takes a little longer to heave him out again, but a little later we are standing around the old watering hole, laughing our heads off. The Aboriginal women are most happy about the funny incident as they rub the tears of laughter from their eyes. Then I examine the waterhole and discover that it leads into a tunnel several meters deep that has been dug diagonally downwards. I take a few more pictures and film without noticing that the women have made their way back. I quickly pack up my cameras and follow them. When we are back in the car and on our way back to the village, Tanja tells me that the women thought I had crawled into the hole to explore it. “They were really surprised and thought you were a very brave man.” “Why, what’s the big deal about climbing into a hole like that?” “They say it’s full of snakes,” Tanja says dryly, causing my hair to stand on end.

In the house of the painter Annette

When we arrive in the village, we say goodbye to Myer, Maggie and MT. Edna and Rose accompany us to Annette’s house. “Do you want to come in for a drink? You must be thirsty?” Annette asks us. “Gladly,” we reply. There is a pleasant atmosphere in the house. Tanja and I admire the beautiful paintings hanging everywhere. “Who is the painter of these works of art?” I want to know. “Uh, me,” replies Annette. I look at her in amazement and she says: “I’ve loved painting since I was a child and I’m in the fortunate position of being able to make a living from my art. My husband works here at the school as a teacher and supports me wherever he can. I live a life in paradise. In the beginning I taught at the school here, but I was unhappy with the school system and stopped. Now I’m devoting all my time to painting again.” We talk about her interesting life, art, the Aborigines, politics and could exchange our thoughts for many more days. As Annette shows Tanja, who has also been painting for several years now, around the house, I talk to Edna and Rose, who belong to the Karagarri tribe. “Why is this place called Bdjadangara? Is there a story behind it?” I ask with interest. “But yes,” Edna replies. “Would you like to tell me about it?” “It’s a long story, but I’m happy to tell it to you,” she says, takes a deep breath and begins to lead me into another world: ‘Warakurti, my grand-grand-grandfather was a good hunter and lived in a place called Lalurrjartiny. As he often did, he went hunting and was successful. He killed an emu with his spear. The hunt made him very thirsty and he found a waterhole not far away. After quenching his thirst, he went back to Lalurrjartiny and told the tribal chief about the hunt and the waterhole. “What should I call this place?” he asked Jimirti, the head of the tribe. Jimirti thought for a while and then said: “If you have caught a Bijarta (Aboriginal word for emu) there, just call it Bijartadangara.” (Dangara or danga is the Aboriginal word for place). Since then we have called this place Bidjadangara (white man’s spelling). It was long before the white man was here. Later they came and robbed us of all hunting grounds. Jimirti, our guide, my grandmother’s first cousin, whom I always called grandfather, went to see one of the white men called Mr. Knight. He spoke to him and asked him for help. “You take away all our hunting grounds, put fences in our land and we have nothing to eat. We need something to eat or we’ll starve,” he said to Mr. Knight. Mr. Knight promised to help him and our people. He traveled to England and spoke to Queen Victoria. “Give them tobacco, flour and tea when you get back,” the Queen ordered him.” I look into Edna’s eyes and feel the sadness in her for a moment, but moments later she laughs again and the hint of the past is gone. Edna tells me how her people took in other displaced tribes from other parts of Australia, with whom they still live together in peace today. I would love to spend a few weeks here and hear more about a time that is one of the roots of humanity. I would love to record the stories of a lawwoman of the Karagarri tribe for posterity, because I am absolutely convinced that we can all learn from them. But at the moment we have other plans. Who knows, maybe one day I will be destined to live for a long time with a tribe that has retained its connection to the old world to this day. Perhaps I will be able to experience this and share my and our experiences with many other people on this earth.

At 2 p.m. it really is time to say goodbye to these lovely people. We shake hands and hug each other. I feel touched in a strange way when Edna and Rose hug me. “I hope you find more tribe members in the desert to tell you about our origins and our lives,” Edna says at the end, giving us her gentle smile. “If you are ever in Perth again, Jean and I would be delighted to invite you on a boat trip on the Swan River,” says Annette and wishes us good luck on our expedition. We wave to them for a while until our old Holden disappears around a bend.

Escaped with a scare

Back on the Great Northern Highway, we drive towards Broome. Lost in thought, I sit behind the wheel and review Edna’s stories and tales. The landscape glides past and the rough strip of asphalt runs like a ruler through the green scrubland. Suddenly, I am torn from my thoughts by a violent blow. Black shreds fly past me, hitting my ear and right arm, which I have lying comfortably on the door frame. “Shit, shit!” I curse. “Oh God, what’s going on?” Tanja exclaims with horror in her voice. At the same moment, I jerk the steering wheel and our car swerves to the right. I instinctively steer against it and avoid stepping on the brakes. Like an airplane making a belly landing, we skid across the black tar strip with a terrible screeching noise. I try to keep the Holden on track with the utmost concentration. Smoke and sparks seem to shoot upwards from the engine compartment. As if we had been hit by a huge tread, the old vehicle struggles along with its snout tilted to the right, until we finally come to a halt on the left-hand side of the road. Silently, I lean my head on the steering wheel for a few moments to digest the shock. “We were really lucky that we didn’t roll over, hit an oncoming vehicle or try to overtake one,” are my first words. It tore our right front tire,” I say and get out with trembling knees to look at the damage. “Oh dear, look at that,” I shout in horror, because there is absolutely no sign of a tire. The spoiler has disintegrated into its individual parts and lies scattered with the tire shreds on the Great Northern Highway as far as I can see. “It looks terrible. Do you think the car will ever drive again?” Tanja asks, touching her forehead. “I have no idea. I don’t know whether the axle, steering or the engine have suffered any damage. We skidded on the rim and the engine block for many hundreds of meters.” While I take out the spare tire, Tanja collects the parts of our Holden scattered on the road. More than desperate, I examine the rim and the engine when a vehicle stops. An elderly couple gets out and asks us how we are. “Oh… that looks horrible. I’ve really never seen anything like it in my life,” says the woman, covering her mouth. While the two of them stand in front of our car in amazement, Tanja comes back with the parts and introduces herself. “I’m Pat Edwards and this is my partner Lloyd Fenner. Do you need any help?” asks the friendly lady. “I can’t tell yet,” I reply and try to push the old jack under the Holden. Unfortunately, due to the missing tire, the car is too low on the road so that our jack does not fit underneath. In the end I use the jack from Pat and Loyd and a little later the tire is replaced. Then I check the engine and steering and after a short test drive I realize that we’ve obviously got away with it. We say goodbye to the two nice and helpful people and continue our journey to Broome.

Broome

We reach the tourist town of Broome in the late afternoon. Exhausted, we park our now battered-looking Holden at Cable Beach. We arrive just in time to enjoy the spectacular sunset. People from all over the world lie on a lush green, well-kept lawn to watch the natural spectacle. The village is located on a coastal rock formation raised from sea level and offers a view of the eternal, gently curving and undoubtedly beautiful sandy beach of the northwest coast of Australia. The sun makes every effort to live up to its reputation and transforms the evening sky into an inferno of color. Crowds of people stand there and capture the picture-book atmosphere with their cameras. Our gaze falls on a huge camel caravan that looks as if it is on fire in the late light. Tourists ride on the backs of the animals for a special experience. After the sun has set, we sit down in one of the restaurants. It’s a strange feeling to be surrounded by so many people again after almost two months in the bush and the isolation. As so often, we realize that our home-cooked food tastes much better and although we are on vacation here, we feel like we have been robbed by the high prices.

After lunch we drive to Rowena and Peter, who visited us on Anna Plains a few days ago and are interested in producing a TV series about our expedition. We receive a friendly welcome, are given our own room and talk about our plans until late in the evening.