The Silent Country

by Di Morrissey

  Len turned towards a nearby low escarpment that had a deep overhang as though a bite had been taken from the solid orange rockface. As the rest of the party followed him through the crushed grass, they could see a thin plume of blue smoke rising from a rough camp where a group of Aborigines and several skinny dogs waited.

  There were two women, one of whom had straggly white hair, a teenage boy and an older man whose bare chest showed deep initiation scars as if witchetty grubs had burrowed beneath his skin. Both men wore loincloths, the older woman wore the remains of a faded cotton dress, while the younger woman had a small woven apron strung from her hips as she sat cross-legged, cradling a baby at a drained and sagging breast.

  ‘Who these people?’ said Topov as they stopped and watched Len greet them. ‘We make film with them. Where big hunter warrior men?’

  ‘Come ’n meet the mob,’ said Len. ‘These’re my mates. They’re hunting with us.’

  ‘Do we share the profits with them too?’ asked Johnny.

  ‘Ah, bit of tucker and tobacco is all,’ said Len as he shook the hand of the broadly smiling older man. ‘This is Clive, his son George. And that’s Mary and Violet, his wives and little baby. What piccaninny name?’ Len asked Mary, the older woman.

  ‘Lisabet. Like queen lady.’ And she burst into giggles.

  Marta and Helen laughed too, peering closely at the chubby, long-lashed infant.

  ‘You hunt old man croc?’ asked Clive.

  ‘Yep. We want special big fella for these people. Seen any?’

  ‘Plenny big one. Some little fella,’ said Clive.

  ‘Do they attack humans?’ asked Helen.

  Len began to pull some of the gear off his truck. ‘The crocs are well fed round these parts, no humans to bother them. They’ve been living off the land here for millions of years, mate, but it don’t mean that they wouldn’t try.’

  Clive signalled to George to help Len take down the camping equipment and the boats. ‘We bin walkin’ down river, long way. Big croc took one dog. We get ’im, eh?’ said Clive.

  ‘You bet. My friends want to see plenty catch ’em big croc for pictures. Click, click.’ Len mimed holding a camera. ‘Don’t think they know about moving pictures out here.’ He turned to Topov. ‘These Aborigines very good actors. You tell ’em what you want them to do. And you should see ’em dance!’

  ‘I take scene of family walking along river,’ said Topov. ‘Maybe they do something? Get food, make something?’

  ‘Let’s get our camp set up first, eh? By the way there’s some fantastic old cave paintings up there in the shelters if you want to take a look.’

  ‘I’ll help you set up,’ said Johnny. ‘I’m not into art.’

  The others pulled out their tents, sleeping bags and personal bags and left them in a pile as Len, helped by Clive and Johnny, directed where to set things up.

  ‘You blokes go up the hill, there. Take Clive and young George with you, he’ll show you where the cave paintings are. They’re real old, special creation ones apparently,’ said Len.

  ‘What about the ladies?’ asked Peter, looking at Violet and Mary. ‘Do they want to come?’

  ‘Some of them pictures can’t be looked at by their women. If you climb up the side of that escarpment and to the top, it’s pretty precarious, but amazing paintings. Clive has to come and touch ’em up every so often. Traditional business.’

  ‘What do you mean, touch them up?’ Helen turned to Clive. ‘These paintings, are they old ones? Have they been there for, say, many generations?’

  Clive nodded emphatically. ‘Them old, for sure.’ He made a curling movement with his hand as if waving across hundreds of generations. ‘We keep painting ’live one. Keep ’im story going.’

  Helen turned to Len. ‘But surely they are not defacing ancient rock art?’

  Len glanced at Clive who was smiling proudly. ‘Look, Helen, they have their ways. I don’t pretend to understand what it’s all about but these people have kept a culture alive for centuries. It’s not our place to tell them that what they’re doing ain’t right. As a matter of fact, they did a lot better before the white man came along, if you ask me.’

  Johnny smirked. ‘It’s a Pommy thing, init? Gotta be in control, tell the natives that what they’re doing isn’t how it should be.’

  Helen bristled. ‘Think what you like. I am trying to learn and understand these people. I do believe they have a far more sophisticated culture than we give them credit for.’

  Surprisingly, Topov came to her defence. ‘Helen is right. Native people wild, dirty, no clothes, but up here, big brains.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Smart people. And here, also very big.’ Topov touched his heart. ‘They live wild life, free life. Good life.’

  ‘I just want to know more about this rock art,’ said Helen.

  ‘Let’s go see it then,’ said Marta.

  ‘We saw paintings at Katherine Gorge,’ said Peter.

  Len shook his head. ‘Not like this. This is magic stuff. And I mean magic. Some of the caves are burial sites. The Abos bring the bones back there after they’ve been picked clean by birds.’

  ‘Ouch, that’s awful. Birds eating your flesh,’ said Marta.

  ‘No worse than being cremated,’ said Len. ‘It’s all a ritual. The body is taken to their home country and hidden in a tree tied to a bark frame. Then a year or so later they go back and get the bones, wrap ’em in paperbark and sometimes they’re painted and then there’s a big ceremony when they get put in their secret burial place.’

  ‘Can we film this?’ asked Drago.

  ‘Who’s to know, mate?’ Len shrugged. ‘You should get Clive to take you up when he does his touch-up painting. That’s one of the reasons they’re camped here, as well as helping me. Then they’re going walkabout. They can take some croc meat with them.’

  Topov listened to all this, nodding his head. ‘This good. Topov take Bolex and make pictures in cave. Topov go hunting too, sometime.’

  ‘Yeah? For buffalo? Crocodiles? Emu?’ said Johnny disparagingly.

  Topov stomped away to the battered yellow caravan and rummaged for a while before emerging with a large canvas-wrapped parcel. Throwing off the canvas, he revealed a machine.

  ‘This Geiger counter. I find uranium,’ he said triumphantly to the startled group.

  Johnny was the first one to react. ‘You’re crazy! Uranium! What for? Damned needle in a haystack, mate.’

  ‘Where did you get it?’ asked Peter.

  ‘I buy in Darwin.’

  ‘We’re making a film and trying to make money, aren’t we?’ said Drago with some heat.

  ‘Who says there’s uranium out here?’ asked Len.

  ‘Topov great geologist. I find uranium here. This is good place for uranium.’

  ‘What would you do if you found it?’ asked Helen.

  Peter just rolled his eyes then muttered to Drago, ‘Keep him away from the filming. He’s not going near crocodiles.’

  ‘So you go hunting minerals while we hunt crocodiles?’

  Len saw the same opportunity. He’d been concerned about having the large and erratic Russian in a tiny boat at night with a big dangerous croc close to them. ‘Plenty of work for everyone. We don’t all have to be in the boat and hanging about. Crocs can take off and cause problems. Might be best if the ladies hung around the camp at night.’

  ‘No, Marta is star, she must be in boat with hunter,’ insisted Topov.

  Drago stepped in. ‘I understand what our director wants. I’ll follow the action in the second boat, Peter can hold the spotlight, Johnny can steer,’ said Drago soothingly.

  ‘Colin and Marta can come with Clive and me,’ said Len.

  Marta hissed to Colin, ‘Unbelievable how Topov gets out of the work.’

  ‘Sounds like keeping Topov out of the way suits Len,’ answered Colin.

  ‘Y’know, Topov, you can’t just peg a claim anywhere,’ said Len. ‘You gotta have a licence and register it.’


  Topov dismissed their talk. ‘I make find, we film it and government know I discover uranium.’

  ‘Steady on, mate. Do we want another Rum Jungle out here?’ said Len in alarm. ‘Leave it there.’

  ‘He’s not going to find any minerals,’ said Helen. ‘Let him go and play.’

  Topov dug into the pocket of his baggy pants and pulled out a folded paper, smoothed it out and waved it at them. ‘Topov have licence. We find money in this ground. Lots of money.’

  Helen snatched the piece of paper. ‘What’s this?’ she glanced at it and looked at Len. ‘It’s a fossicker’s licence.’

  ‘So let him fossick. Come on, let’s get this camp sorted out and you do a bit of rock climbing while I get the gear ready for tonight,’ said Len.

  The group ignored Topov as he fiddled with his Geiger counter.

  ‘These dogs are pathetic,’ said Marta as the skinny dogs hung around them.

  ‘They look like dingoes, don’t they?’ said Colin.

  ‘They’ll keep you warm at night,’ Len explained. ‘That’s why this mob keep ’em around. You’ve heard the expression, it’s a two- or maybe a four-dog night?’

  Marta burst out laughing. ‘Really! I’d rather have something else keep me warm.’ And grabbing Colin’s hand she picked up her small bag and headed for their tent.

  Eventually the group, without Len and Johnny, set off, wading through waist-high, brittle, sun-faded grass towards the small escarpment, led by Clive and his son George. Topov came with them carrying his Geiger counter, a stills camera and a notebook. As they neared the rocky outcrop Clive lit a small fire then smothered it with green branches and, as the smoke rose, he called out, chanting to his ancestors.

  ‘Maybe he’s telling them we’re here and asking permission so we can go to the caves, that sort of thing,’ suggested Colin.

  The group stood quietly, while Topov signalled to Drago to use the Bolex to film the ceremony. Clive then set off again but, at the base of the rise, everyone looked up wondering how they were going to reach the craggy overhangs. Topov paused to wave the tube of the Geiger counter over a pile of rocks.

  It was a tricky climb, very steep, but there were obvious footholds that helped them reach the first level. They crouched in the first overhang where smoke from centuries of fires stained the shelter. There were paintings of animals, large kangaroos, emus, birds and lizards as well as hunting implements which retold the tale of successful hunts. Several white handprints walked over the roof. But the main painting, winding across the shelter, was of a massive crocodile.

  Drago was glad the shelter was so open as it allowed in plenty of light and, with Clive’s nod of agreement, he filmed the paintings and the view from the shelter across the landscape to the river in the distance. Down below, Len and Johnny were just specks in their little campsite.

  But when Clive indicated that they had to squeeze through a crevice and climb further up, it became more difficult. Clive led the way, his semi-naked body scrambling with sure-footed ease, while George helped the rest of them by placing their feet onto tiny footholds that they couldn’t see in the dark. When they reached a slightly more level, if narrow, ledge they edged along it following Clive until he ducked under a low overhang and wiggled out of sight.

  ‘Where’s he gone? This is scary,’ said Marta, holding onto Colin.

  Colin went through first and soon there was a muffled call. ‘It’s not too bad, you can stand up.’

  One by one they inched through the narrow labyrinth of passageways until they found themselves standing in an extraordinary domed gallery lit by a narrow funnel that let in light from the sky above. It acted as a foyer to a series of cleft shelters going back into the rockface. On one side was an opening that had a view of the landscape, unseen by those below.

  Once they’d all squeezed through, even a surprisingly agile Topov, they stood in silence and looked in awe about them. High above, narrow slits were decorated with stylised symbols and strange stick-like figures. They were so high that it was hard to imagine how the artists had reached up to paint them. The impact on the party of the hidden gallery was as powerful as though they had entered a temple or a cathedral. Each one felt that they were in a sacred space, with a feeling of aloneness, of privilege, with the innate knowledge that they were seeing something unique that was the embodiment of a spiritual and living culture. It was not a museum, this was a space that had been lived in, with discarded shells, bones and blackened fire rings showing that here was a seasonal place for feasting, celebration, mourning and artistic endeavour to ensure future good seasons.

  Clive, familiar with possibly every inch of this internal landscape, was nonchalant. ‘Up there, that old one paintings. See old boat, come here, ’fore whitefellas.’

  ‘It looks like a canoe with a sail, or a kind of raft,’ said Peter. ‘They must have come from Asia. I know my Dutch people explored this part of the world. Arnhem Land is named after a part of the Netherlands,’ he added.

  ‘I’m going to sit near the opening,’ said Helen. ‘I feel I’m being smothered in here.’

  ‘Drago, take shots of Marta and Clive with paintings,’ ordered Topov. ‘I look outside, at view. Maybe I see good place to find minerals.’

  They spread out through the monastery-like complex while Drago had Marta and Clive stand in the best available light. Marta gazed up at the dramatic figures etched in white ochre.

  ‘They’re strangely flat. And these look like they’re fresh, newer,’ she said to Clive.

  ‘We touch ’im up. Paint over for ceremony.’

  ‘So you said,’ exclaimed Marta. ‘But some of them look very, very old.’

  Clive nodded in agreement. ‘White school fella say mebbe forty thousand.’

  ‘Years?’ Peter looked amazed as he wandered over.

  ‘Look at the ones back here, they’re a deep colour, like old wax,’ said Colin, joining them. ‘The patina has almost become like the rock surface.’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ agreed Drago. ‘I hope Topov appreciates this footage.’

  ‘He’s so preoccupied with the minerals and that infernal machine,’ said Helen, reappearing.

  ‘If I’d known about Topov’s obsession with geology I might have thought twice about this trip,’ said Peter.

  ‘We’ll talk about that later. Let’s look around a bit more,’ said Marta. ‘There’s so much here.’ She glanced at George, who must have been eighteen years old. ‘You come here very often with your father?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not much.’

  ‘So this is a secret place?’ Colin asked Clive.

  Clive nodded. ‘Some of our people forget ’bout here. They forget ceremony, painting up, look after old people. They no hunt, they want whiteman tucker. You take good picture dis place. So we can keep ’im, eh?’

  ‘This be big scene in movie,’ agreed Topov enthusiastically.

  Drago checked the film in the Bolex. ‘Yes, we’ll take good pictures. Then when you’re an old man and can’t climb up here, you can look at them,’ he smiled.

  Clive gave a huge smile. ‘Ah, my bones come back here. Sleep long time. George den do painting, eh.’

  George nodded, looking down at his feet, but somehow the group of visitors were not convinced. They saw a future in which young people would not be carrying on the traditions in the same way.

  The climb down didn’t seem as precarious as they chattered about the amazing art gallery in the escarpment. They walked back through the long grass to the camp and Clive took them on a detour past a crystal, glittering lagoon where Mary and Violet, with the baby in a sling on Violet’s back, were wading amongst the waterlilies pulling up tubers and putting them in pretty woven dilly bags.

  After dark they all crammed into the Land Rover and Len’s truck and drove down to the river where Len had set up the boats. Topov, who’d spent the rest of the afternoon fossicking, nervously accompanied them although he complained his eyesight at night wasn’t very g
ood.

  ‘I be director on the shore,’ he decided.

  ‘It’s too dark and we’re going down river,’ said Drago.

  ‘I wouldn’t be standing on any river bank in the dark with crocs around, mate,’ said Len.

  ‘You can watch from the back of the truck with me,’ said Helen. ‘I know I can help out in some way, but there’s not much room in the boats.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll put you to work one way or another when we have to skin ’em,’ said Len cheerfully.

  ‘You can have my place in the boat. I’ll join Helen,’ joked Johnny to Topov.

  Topov squared his shoulders. ‘Topov go in boat.’

  ‘Fine by me. I’ll call the fire brigade if something goes wrong,’ said Johnny.

  Len wasn’t happy with Topov’s decision but he settled the director next to him in the stern while he held the tiller of the small wooden dinghy. Clive, holding a roughly made metal harpoon on a rope, squatted in the bow. Marta, pale and quiet, sat in the middle.

  ‘We’ll motor quietly up to where I’m pretty sure the old bloke hangs out. We might row a bit too, so as not to disturb him. If there’s an unusual noise like the motor or if the spotlight upsets him he can sink and keep out of sight. They’re cunning buggers.’

  Drago, Colin and Peter were in the slightly bigger runabout. Drago sat in the bow with the camera, Peter steered the boat, which also had an outboard motor and he handed Colin the spotlight as he sat in the middle.

  Len gave them all a quick briefing on running the boats and suggested the best angle for filming. ‘Wait till I give the signal before turning the light on,’ he said to Colin.