Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea

by Marie Munkara

  A few fluffy clouds scud across the sky and I try to think which way the houses were when the plane was coming in. Come to think of it, where did that plane go? I was so absorbed in arriving that I didn’t notice it had even left. I am weighing up whether to open another ‘apple juice’ or to go in the direction of the horses when I hear the sweet sound of a vehicle, and a ute approaches at great speed before pulling up in a cloud of dust. It parks next to the boxes and two men alight and start loading them into the back. I approach them warily as they are black and I can’t stop thinking of the old bat’s dire warnings of the dangers of shifty black people. On closer inspection they don’t look too shifty to me but then what would I know.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I say slowly and clearly while they look sideways at each other and then back at me.

  ‘Yes,’ says the skinny one in perfect English.

  ‘Um, can you help me?’ I ask.

  He looks at me and when I don’t say anything he goes on picking up boxes with the fat one as though I wasn’t there. I note that the boxes are nearly all picked up and I start to panic. They might drive away and leave me here to die.

  ‘Can you give me a lift?’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ says the skinny one as the fat one picks up the last box. I give them my mother’s name.

  I’m not happy as I have been consigned to the back of the ute with the boxes and must sit there hanging on to whatever I can to avoid being flung out as the driver takes the corner on two wheels. He’s no better on the straight as he lines up every pothole and bump in the road. The totally fucked suspension bounces me into the air and I’m wondering if I’m ever going to make it there alive when the driver slows. We have reached the turn-off and some houses. I am thankful for my discussion with an anthropologist at the Melbourne Museum who assured me that nobody lives in the bush anymore like when Captain Cook arrived, that Aborigines are civilised now and live in houses. But I am astounded at what I see and gape open-mouthed. This is not the tropical island I had imagined with luscious vegetation and cute little palm-frond houses. It is a dump. I have never seen so many dogs, they lie around or wander or sit scratching in the dust while kids chase each other, lost in their own world of play. I feel myself blushing at the sight of their bare arse cheeks and private parts. Although I saw my sister naked in the bath when we were kids the sight of this exuberant and mass nudity embarrasses me to the core and I modestly attempt to focus my gaze elsewhere. Groups of black people sitting on their verandas and under trees watch us go past. I’ve never seen so many black faces and I’m feeling very uncomfortable under their curious and scrutinising gaze. The houses look like they should be condemned, with missing windows and doors hanging off their hinges, but there are people wandering out of them and washing hanging on rope lines so they must actually be lived in. Unpleasant and unfamiliar smells pervade the air and I put my hand over my nose to block them. I’m wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into when we pull up in front of a house. It’s no better than any of the others we’ve passed except that the front yard has been recently raked and a small pile of soft-drink cans and assorted detritus sit near the forty-four-gallon drum rubbish bin. There must be some mistake and I tell them so, no mother of mine would live in a house like this. But they sit there waiting for me to dismount so I climb out and they drive off, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  I tentatively survey my surroundings and then turn to see a woman coming down the stairs. She walks over and stands beside me.

  ‘Who are you?’ I say in my most imperious voice, affronted by her boldness. How dare she approach me unbidden. This one definitely fits the shifty category and I take a firmer grip on my bag.

  ‘I’m your mummy,’ she says. ‘Come in and have a cup of tea.’

  I am flabbergasted and stand there staring at her. My mother! I glare at this impertinent woman. My mum can’t possibly be shoe-polish black like this and my mum hasn’t laid eyes on me for twenty-five years so how could this black pretender make such a ludicrous claim. And I’m disappointed by the tame response. I’ve read how they all start wailing and prostrate themselves on the ground when a lost member of the tribe returns but she certainly isn’t showing any signs of doing that. I take in the scruffy-looking houses and dry grass. Suddenly that shithole Darwin looks a whole lot brighter than it did an hour ago. I decide to play along with things until I work out what to do next.

  We enter the house and I’m surprised to see that there’s absolutely nothing inside. The room is devoid of furnishings and fittings, with just a bare lino-covered floor. I am instructed to sit down while she disappears into a side room, presumably to make the tea. I sit on the floor but I’m not liking this, it is dirty and I’m careful to keep my hands in my lap so I don’t touch anything that might have germs. The tea is presented to me in what appears to be a small metal bucket that doesn’t look like it’s ever been washed. I’m worried about who might have had their mouth and hands on it last and look for the cleanest spot from which to drink. There isn’t one. She is drinking out of a corned beef tin and I wonder if she’s a bit loopy and this is some strange practice of hers or she’s poor and doesn’t have another cup. I can feel her watching me so I take a deep breath and then a swig. The tea tastes like shit and wild thoughts of herpes and E.coli swirl around in my brain but I manage to get the mouthful down and the next. I think of the old bat in her twin-set sipping her Earl Grey or Orange Pekoe and feel a momentary pang of nostalgia.

  When she’s not looking at me, I inspect this woman who is supposed to be my real mother but I’m still not convinced. Apart from her being as black as the ace of spades her nose is much larger than mine and she bears absolutely no resemblance to me at all, and she’s short. She is wearing a skirt patterned with blue flowers and a mismatching pink top with a peace sign on it while a beige petticoat with lacy trim peeks out from underneath. Although she is better endowed than I am she isn’t wearing a bra which seems a bit incongruous considering she’s modestly wearing a petticoat. I wonder if she wears step-ins to keep her guts flat like the old bag back home. I decide I must try to find my real mother tomorrow.

  I think the woman masquerading as my mother has sensed my discomfort at our seating arrangements and she suggests we go outside under the tree. This is better, sand has been spread out under the shady branches of an African mahogany and despite the austere surrounds it’s really quite pleasant here. We sip our tea and make small talk about nothing in particular while we discreetly size each other up. Meanwhile I have devised a way of pouring the tea into my mouth instead of placing my mouth on the rim of the cup, in the hope that without direct contact I have eliminated a potential source of bacteria. And if there are any germs floating around in the tea my stomach acids will take care of them. I dig my toes into the sand and in doing so suddenly remember our mother’s warning about cats and their fondness for shitting in kids’ sandpits. This is why I was never allowed to have one.

  ‘Do you have a cat?’ I ask tentatively.

  ‘Oh no, just them,’ she replies, indicating a group of dogs nearby. I breathe a sigh of relief and dig my toes into the sand again.

  ‘But aunty down the road has big mob, they come ere all the time,’ she says.

  Oh fucking great.

  The bucket of tea has found its way to my bladder and I ask for directions to the toilet. It’s a nightmare. The window is missing entirely so anyone out the back can see your head and shoulders as you sit on the throne, and the smell of raw faeces, even with the missing window, is so strong that I can virtually taste it. Some sort of brown algae is growing in the toilet bowl and I can’t see any part of the bowl below the water line. There could be all sorts of wildlife living down there. The rest of the bowl has shit streaked down the sides. I’m feeling quite nauseous at this point but I’m busting for a piss so I do as per ‘Mother’s Instructions for Public Toilets’ and hover over the seat instead of sitting on it hoping that no one outside is watching me wobbling around. Alth
ough our mother’s disposable paper toilet seat covers which she carries around in her handbag have always been objects of great amusement to me, I find myself wishing I had some. I make a silent promise to myself that I’ll never laugh at this habit of hers again. Someone has written ‘Fuk off’ and ‘GS luvs nobody’ on the wall with shit. My mind conjures up graphic images of the artist at work. I’ve pulled my T-shirt up over my nose with the hope of filtering out any airborne bacteria that might be floating around in this rarefied and noisome atmosphere. I finish peeing and escape as quickly as I can.

  ‘Who made the mess in the toilet?’ I ask on my return, but all I get for my question is a blank stare.

  This woman who is supposed to be my mother asks me if I’m hungry. ‘Oh yes, I could eat a horse,’ I say, and instantly regret it as I cast my mind back to the two horses wandering along the road earlier. She disappears inside and I hear her rustling around. The dogs wander over to check me out. One of them is virtually hairless, its skin coarse and leathery, and I wonder what this interesting species is called as I’ve never seen dogs like it before. The others except for the big male have varying shades of hairlessness, so I assume they must have interbred with the hairless one. In fact there’s quite a few of them wandering around and I think they must be a special breed that’s evolved in isolation from the mainland, like the finches of the Galapagos Islands. They are curious and want to sniff me but I flap my hands at them to try to scare them away while my heart thumps loudly in my chest. I’m shitting myself but they ignore my protestations and hover around like a swarm of flies.

  ‘Ere,’ she says and I look around.

  What the fuck! I stifle a scream as I am momentarily startled by the sight of the singed furry forearm of a wallaby just inches from my face, its little claw clenched in defiance at the miserable bastard who is about to make a meal of it. I can’t believe I’m actually expected to put it in my mouth and eat it. The events of the day suddenly become all too much for me, and I feel my stomach start to heave. I lurch towards some nearby bushes and falling to my hands and knees disgorge a gutful of plane food and wine. It smells like fermented cabbage which makes me dry-retch a few times and my eyes water. But somewhere through the haze I look up and see three old men coming down the road. Despite my blurry vision I instantly recognise the middle one. He’s my grandfather, my aminay. Although the years have separated us I still remember him and by the smile on his face he still remembers me. His feet come into view and he crouches down beside me as a gassy belch hisses out of my mouth.

  ‘Ngintamalinga, you grew so beautiful,’ he says, and I look at him and start to cry. I can’t stop blubbering and to make it worse people have materialised from nowhere and are watching me make a spectacle of myself. I get up with my aminay and walk back over to the woman who says she is my mother. She is sitting there picking her teeth with a piece of dried grass and making some weird hand signals to a woman at the house next door. The woman signals something back and disappears.

  We are sitting on mummy’s veranda and I am worn out by the passing parade of strange faces who have come and said hello and shaken my hand. Although Father Fallon wrote in his letter that I had two brothers, it appears I have three brothers and a sister, Louis, Mario, JJ and Lorraine. JJ and Lorraine are adopted. In addition to that I have two sisters-in-law, Louis’ wife Gemma and Mario’s wife Theresa Anne, and their baby Casmira, and they all live at mummy’s place. Aminay has assured me that the woman who is supposed to be my mother actually is and I am to call her mummy. It is shocking news as I was expecting an older version of myself and I digest this piece of information while I sip on another much-needed bottle of ‘apple juice’. At this rate I’m only going to have enough for the night so I make enquiries about the nearest bottle shop. To my horror I am told there is no bottle shop. The only place alcohol can be bought is at the club, but only by men and widows and you have to sit there and drink, you can’t bring anything home. I am devastated and I savour every drop of my last bottle.

  Because my brothers are black and I’m a few shades lighter it’s obvious we don’t have the same father so instead of asking directly about my other parent, I ask mummy where her husband is. But everything goes silent and everyone looks around awkwardly and fidgets and then Aminay tells me he passed away and we aren’t allowed to talk about people who have died in case their spirit hears us and comes back and hangs around. I bite my tongue and anxiously scan around for ghosts.

  Eventually the sun goes down and the streetlights come on and mummy yawns. It is a magnificent yawn, wide and expansive like a lion and showing all her teeth, and she doesn’t put her hand over her mouth either. Such freedom, I would have been flogged if I’d yawned like that as a kid. She declares it’s time for bed.

  ‘Where am I going to sleep?’ I ask. I’m quite curious about this because I noted earlier on that there were no beds to be seen.

  ‘Ere,’ she says as a bed-roll appears out of nowhere. I wonder how much English she can speak as she seems to have a fondness for the word ‘ere’. She pats a spot beside her for me while JJ and Lorraine make themselves comfortable on the blanket as well. With no other options I reluctantly lie down. There’s nothing to cover myself up with and I feel exposed. We are situated in front of the window right next to the front door and in full sight of anyone who wants to come and look. No one shuts the front door and when I mention it to mummy she says to leave it open as it’s too hot. I guess she doesn’t have to worry about her possessions being stolen as she doesn’t have any, but I can’t get the thought out of my head that someone might watch me or do me some harm while I’m sleeping. I hear JJ scratching next to me. I have noted both JJ and Lorraine were energetically scratching their heads earlier and I crawl at the thought of what might travel over the blankets in search of greener pastures during the night. Then I hear mummy scratching her head too. I am surrounded.

  My restless night is punctuated by dog fights and after a particularly nasty one right out the front of the house, Panacua, mummy’s dog, wanders into the kitchen. I hear him rustling around in the dark. He walks past a few minutes later with a hunk of damper in his mouth and disappears down the front steps. I can’t wait for the dawn.

  The next day Aminay has decided that no one is to speak English to me, but everyone rolls around pissing themselves laughing when I try to copy their Tiwi words. Arseholes, I think, as I march off to sit on the front steps while they look sideways at each other and try to keep straight faces. Then I hear Lorraine and JJ mimicking me and sniggering behind their hands while mummy joins in. I wonder if I have been born into a family of sadists.

  I have no pen or paper to write words down so am forced to consign any new ones to memory and I’m finding it a real struggle. Mummy has taken Aminay literally and if I don’t ask for food in Tiwi she ignores me and leaves me to go without. I’m starving and have been eating scraps of bread and chips that JJ gives me when no one is looking. But hunger does strange things to the memory and in the middle of the night I find myself suddenly remembering the word for food.

  ‘Mummy,’ I say proudly as I shake her awake. ‘Yinkiti.’

  She grunts and rolls over and goes back to sleep.

  ‘Yinkiti, yinkiti, yinkiti,’ I say to myself over and over as I fall asleep. But morning comes and I’ve forgotten it again.

  ‘Can you teach me some swear-words?’ I ask mummy, but she indignantly declines. She says something in lingo to my brothers and I know by the smirks on their faces that she’s telling them not to teach me either. When mummy goes for her afternoon nap I pay JJ twenty dollars for swearing lessons. It’s amazing how words crucial to my survival go straight in one ear and out the other, but swear-words are instantly absorbed. My little brother is really pleased as I practise my swearing out on him and his friends who stick their thumbs up and nod their heads in approval. I feel like I’m finally getting somewhere.

  A few days later Aminay decides that we’re going camping and I’m excited. He has also l
ifted the ban on speaking English which makes life a little bit easier for me and with the pressure gone I’m beginning to get the hang of Tiwi. Mummy isn’t impressed with my progress though, telling me that English was my fifth language by the age of three and I should be speaking Tiwi ‘propply’. JJ has forgiven me for the flogging he got for teaching me to swear and we sit together in the back of the ute looking for wallabies and bird nests as we cruise along the road heading west that I’d seen from the plane. I’m glad to be leaving Nguiu behind for a few days and am looking forward to seeing the beach and the ocean and eating fish cooked in the coals. Everyone says this is the best ‘tucker’ along with mud crab which doesn’t sound too appetising. Mummy has brought some of her dogs along who I have discovered are hairless because they suffer from a skin condition caused by some type of bacteria, and not because they are a particular breed. They also have things called ticks which hang from their ears and off their bodies like bunches of grapes. Thankfully the dogs are travelling in the other ute.

  As soon as the vehicles come to a standstill everyone leaps out and rushes down to the sea with the fishing gear while mummy and Aunty Blanchie set up camp next to the trees. But the beach isn’t what I was expecting. There are no toilets and no shelter. We have to sleep out in the open under the stars. No one else looks bothered about it but I’m feeling really stressed. Mummy gets the billy boiling and while aunty is out of earshot I ask her where I go to the toilet. She looks at me for a moment as if assessing my stupidity and then at the bush all around us. Deciding not to dignify my question with an answer she turns her attention back to the fire.

  For our evening meal we eat the much-lauded fish cooked in the coals. Enough fish has been caught for everyone to have a nice big one for themselves and along with Aunty Blanchie’s damper it’s delicious, until JJ rushes past and kicks sand over my plate. I manage to wash most of the sand off my food but the crunch of grains between my teeth puts me off and the rest of it goes to Panacua who has been salivating on the sidelines. Mummy makes JJ give me some of his fish but I notice he kept the best for himself and my bit is full of bones.