Snake Circle

by Roberta Sykes

  I shared these thoughts with Marjorie, who ‘pooh-poohed’ them immediately. Marjorie’s people came from around that area, and she had a special place in her heart for that land. ‘Yes, Strelley has a hard reputation, and it got that way when old Don McLeod became a spokesperson for the rightful owners. With someone to speak English for them, and to speak true for them, they were able to stop the onslaught of white culture and hang onto their own ways. They are the strongest mob in the west, and other communities from all over go to them for advice and assistance when they’re trying to restore traditional law in their areas.’

  The more I heard, the more fascinated I became, but would I be allowed to enter, to see for myself what headway they were making in the field of education? Marjorie gave me names and phone numbers, and said she would ring ahead to ensure me of a welcome.

  ‘Well, as a rule, people are supposed to go through Don McLeod, who lives in Perth, to get permission to enter. The old men of the tribe trust him. But since you’re arriving from the opposite direction, you go right on in and talk to Don McLeod later. The Elders will make you welcome, you’ll see. They know one of their own when they see one,’ Marjorie reassured me.

  I had other ports of call on my schedule before I was to reach Western Australia, and took off next for Alice Springs. Years ago, with Germaine Greer and her photographer friend, I had been appalled by the racism in this town, and was looking forward to seeing what changes had transpired since that time.

  The first difference that hit me was virtually upon my arrival. I took the airport bus into the township and went straight to the nearest phone box and opened the phone book. Where, less than a decade earlier, there had been only one entry under ‘Aboriginal’—the Aboriginal Inland Mission, under the direction of white church people—now there was a whole page and a half of Aboriginal organisations listed. My heart sang. My phone call, to an Aboriginal woman, Freda Thornton, led immediately to a van being despatched to pick me up. Accommodation? No worries, she had contacts all over the place, and I was soon found a bed. The word was sent out to Yipirinya Community School, and Elders sent back messages of their availability and willingness to show me their projects and participate as a group in interviews.

  ‘Would I,’ asked Freda, ‘give the local Aboriginal radio program an interview myself?’

  Next morning I was taken to the radio station, which consisted merely of a few tiny air-conditioned cubicles on the edge of a barren, very dry and dusty block. Two quite young Black women stood outside, drawing patterns in the dirt with their bare feet and toes. After a short discussion, I was asked to step forward and meet them. They were the language experts who broadcast radio programs for the several language groups in the catchment area.

  On air, I was asked, ‘When we began broadcasting that we were going to interview you this morning, a listener rang in and said you aren’t an Aboriginal. What do you have to say about that?’

  ‘What do you have to say about that?’ I inquired. ‘How did that make you feel?’

  ‘Well, I thought he was saying that Aborigines aren’t smart enough to go to Harvard, and . . . that made me feel very bad.’

  ‘That’s what I think people who say things like that really mean, too, and I know it’s not true, so I’m not going to even bother answering his question. Is that okay with you?’

  The interviewer gave such an enormously relieved sigh and a quietly conspiratorial glance that it was obvious she felt we had put that listener right in his place. The interview continued about more local issues, creating an opportunity for me to learn of the social and educational difficulties still being experienced in the area and what the Black community was trying to do to counteract them.

  I was taken on a tour to look at how the outreach program was attempting to cater to the educational needs of those young people who lived in camps scattered throughout the town, without access to proper housing, water or electricity. This was followed by an extremely fruitful and open meeting with Elders on the Yipirinya Community School Council. Then I was on the plane to Darwin.

  Peg Havnen, Curriculum Development Specialist and lecturer at Darwin Community College, and Barbara Graham, a graduate of the Aboriginal Task Force in South Australia and, at that time, working with the Department of Community Welfare in Darwin, arranged for me to meet and talk with a host of people about their myriad situations and difficulties. I learned of several Black students who had excelled educationally only to have their—and their family’s and community’s—hopes dashed by barriers which prevented them from being appropriately employed. ‘We can keep our kids in school,’ said many of the parents, ‘but we can’t give them jobs when they come out the other end. Some of these kids do well in school and speak several languages, but they still aren’t able to even get a labouring job.’

  I had confided in Barbara that my next step was to go to Strelley, which pleased and delighted her. She came to visit me again on the eve of my departure and said she was envious of my freedom to travel to this place which she had heard of and yearned to visit. She slipped a slim bottle of white wine into my bag so that I could have a toast to the future there upon my arrival.

  I had been assured that I would be met at Port Hedland airport, which was tiny and located quite a way out of town. On my arrival I waited for someone to collect me. Eventually, the last of the workers, whose hours are based around the arrival and departure of the few aircraft that land there, pulled away leaving just a trail of dust lingering in the twilight. Then I found myself sitting on my case, all alone.

  Oh, well, there were bound to be a few hiccups, I thought, quite pleased with myself and all my colleagues to date that things had actually gone so smoothly. In the distance I could see the silhouette of a building, and, gradually, as external lights came on, I realised that it was a motel. I hauled my case over my shoulder and picked my way through the loose rocks, sand and stubby bushes towards it.

  My efforts to contact anyone on the numbers I had been given for Strelley went unrewarded. So I booked myself in, had a meal and went off to bed, trying to contemplate what I should do next. I understood Strelley to be at least two or three hours of rough travelling time away, and there was no sign that a hire car was available, although I could not have afforded to rent one, even if there was.

  I spent a restless night. I was so close, and yet so far away, from an educational setting and traditional community which was the envy of many, and which seemed to have struck fear into the hearts of people across the country. Had my best laid plans to visit there gone astray?

  What a relief then, to learn from the front desk in the morning that I would be picked up in a few hours, though I had no idea by whom. I checked out and waited around outside this lonely outpost, alternately sitting on my case and standing, watching carefully the few passing cars to see if any of them was looking out for me. A big shining eight-cylinder sedan cruised past, turned around, came back, and a white middle-aged man stuck his head out the window.

  ‘Want a lift, luv?’ he asked, with a thick European accent, and I knew instantly this was definitely not the person who had been sent to get me.

  Another hour passed and the day was beginning to heat up, when a dusty big old four-wheel drive lumbered into the driveway of a little building right next door. An elderly Aboriginal man, dark as midnight, peered out from beneath a battered hat pulled down low over his brow. As I walked towards the vehicle, I could see there were others in the cabin—another man, a woman holding a child on her knee. The second man, also Aboriginal, spoke and room was made for me in the cabin while my bag was hoisted under the cover on the back.

  We went into Port Hedland, where there were obviously errands they had come to take care of. The woman and child took off, I thought towards a clinic, mail was collected from the post office, and boxes and bags of supplies loaded in the back. Throughout, no one actually spoke directly to me, and the brief discussions that took place amongst themselves were low-pitched and in their own languag
e which I did not understand. I just sat quietly in the cabin, glad of the company, happy at the thought that eventually we would be moving towards my destination, Strelley.

  Once again on the road, and we stopped at a road-house, where the old man indicated I should purchase a drink if I wanted. It was the last store we would pass.

  Although I am usually very alert when I’m being chauffeured by anyone whose driving skills I am not familiar with, the old man obviously knew every inch of the road and could have safely navigated our way wearing a blindfold. After a comparatively short distance, we turned off the bitumen highway and onto a dirt track. The old man weaved the truck around dips and potholes in the road, boles almost unseen jutting out from the sparse undergrowth, without slowing down and with barely a movement of the steering wheel. The heat, my restlessness the previous night, the speed at which I had been hurtling, combined with the tranquillity, confidence and self-centredness emanating from the driver, lulled me to sleep, my chin on my chest.

  I awoke with a start to find the truck stopped at a gate stretched across the roadway. From that point on, I sat up alert, drinking in my surroundings. We travelled on a few more miles before a scattering of low-set buildings could be seen in the distance. Then the man drew the vehicle up beside a long building which consisted of an open breezeway with prefabricated steel rooms at each end. Near one of these rooms stood a caravan.

  A whole lot of laughing, shy children came out of nowhere at the sound of our arrival, frolicking around and eyeing me curiously. One or two white people also came out, introducing themselves as teachers and resource people, and explained where I was to sleep. The traditional Aboriginal people lived beyond this area. Everyone else had to stay in the mobiles and cabins that had been built to accommodate them.

  It was already late afternoon, and some of the older children toted my bag to the room where I was to stay. I was to freshen up and come back to eat at one of the staff houses.

  It was great to be away from the strident noises of the cities and towns, with the more gentle sounds of the bush massaging my ears and my heart. Although June, and therefore mid-winter, the intense heat had afflicted me with a sense of torpor. Now it was lifting, and evening came on gently.

  I had barely begun exploring the digs I’d been allocated when there was a knock at the door. A tall white man about my own age introduced himself, Adrian Sleigh. He was a friend of Marjorie’s, he said, a doctor and also a Harvard graduate, and he flew the Strelley plane.

  The Strelley plane? Yes, he told me, this was a unique place, a special community, and they had bought themselves a plane. The government had refused their request for funds for a plane, which they required to cover their large area, especially for medical emergencies, so they had bought it themselves. No one had known how to fly it, and there wasn’t money to hire a pilot. So the community had advertised for a doctor, which they could afford, stipulating they wanted a medico who also had a pilot’s licence. Adrian had come up from Melbourne.

  He waited while I tidied myself and my few belongings, before escorting me to the house where we were to eat. Should I, I asked as I was rummaging through my case and came upon the bottle of wine Barbara had given me, bring the wine to dinner so we could all have a toast?

  ‘If I were you, I’d just put that back in the bottom of the bag and forget about it until you’re back in the city. This is a dry reserve, and the Elders would be very unhappy to even know that you’ve got it with you.’ Chastened at my own ignorance, I carefully wrapped and returned it to the bag.

  As we walked through the dusk, Adrian explained how the Elders ruled their lands with wills of steel, demanding complete sobriety, travelling long distances to haul back any of their members who fell victim to this vice. Alcohol had caused a lot of problems for some of the traditional groups in the area, and the Strelley mob were determined that these problems would not take hold there.

  Over dinner, the teachers and resource people explained their roles. These teachers didn’t actually teach the children, there were young Black adults who did that, and these positions were places of honour. The teaching advisers met with the Aboriginal teachers each morning and worked with them on their teaching plans for the day. Elders dictated what they wanted taught, how it was to be taught, even ensuring that they make their own books, in both traditional language and English. The students learned their culture and their own history as well as being trained in English literacy and numeracy. There were no white people at Strelley who were not directly in the employ of the Aboriginal community, and the respect and adherence to traditional Aboriginal wishes and directives flowed quite naturally through this relationship.

  How refreshingly different, I thought as Adrian escorted me back to my digs. What a turnaround from the contempt, powerplays and hypocrisy I had seen elsewhere in Aboriginal education providers. Things can be different, and here they are different.

  Next day I was shown around, and found the long building with the breezeway to be not just the school but the centre of most community endeavours. The community functioned around the training and education of its young people. The caravan housed technical equipment for the production of the school books based on stories generated from the past. I was given a selection of these books from a store room at the end of the building. Some Elders came by during the day and, through interpreters, I was able to further my inquiries.

  That night I again met with the white staff to discuss my observations, and the conversation turned to the teaching of English. The Elders, I was told, were very keen to have the young people learn English so that they could deal directly with the white people, particularly the police and government officials, who came to the gate to try to force their will on the local community.

  ‘Is this the sort of English skills you are teaching the young people?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, no, not yet. We’re teaching them English, and that’s what the Elders want us to do.’

  ‘But you and I know that the mere speaking of English is not the same as having the skills to deal with white people. Those interactions are about power. The students would need to learn about stance, attitude, nuance, as well as things that run counter to Aboriginal culture, such as looking people who might be older than yourself in the eye and staring them down.’

  ‘That’s true—but how can we tell the Elders that?’

  ‘If you don’t, then by your silence you’re be deceiving them, wouldn’t you? Letting them think that the language skills you’re imparting will enable the next generation to stand up to the negative and culturally destructive forces outside, which are trying to get in and force their will on people?’

  ‘You mean the Department of Aboriginal Affairs?’

  ‘I mean anyone, insurance salesmen, mining companies, government officials—all those people outside who think they know better what should happen to the land, and to the people, than the people who have lived here for thousands of years.’

  ‘God, if you could tell us how to teach that sort of English, the English of the powerful, we’d be glad to try’

  I cherished those teaching advisers for their genuine and sincere desire to work with the community through the very difficult transition that was being forced upon them. The Elders could feel the pressure of the intrusion of a rapacious and insatiable European presence straining just beyond the gate to take over. And they had resisted—were resisting—with all the skills and energy they could muster. They had my deepest admiration, but still I worried for them for the future, their future and my own. Could they, as I hoped, hold out? Only in concert, these Blacks in their remote, far-flung homelands, together with others who worked in Canberra and the capital cities, only if all these people kept their eyes on the prizes of respect and equality, could the two ends of the circle—the past and the future—be drawn together. Only this would ensure the continuity of the relationship between the eternal spirits, the timeless land, and the custodians.

  What a deep and moving place
, I thought as I picked my way along the path back to my room. Adrian had flown out that afternoon, presumably to make a medical call at one of the out-stations. I was being delivered back to Port Hedland airport to continue my journey next morning. I regretted the brevity of the time I had available to spend here, in this environment so ideal for the contemplation of the larger questions. The night sky, with its thick carpet of stars, seemed endless, blending gently and easily into the landscape of grandeur, trees in silhouette, night birds calling in the distance. I stood outside for a long time, reflecting on the peace and magic I felt there. Yet I was acutely aware that one wrong paper signed in Perth, or in some distant part of the globe, could set in train the machinery to destroy that which had withstood the forces of man and time over all these centuries. Will I, I wondered, next time I come through this way, hear the shudder and clang of mining equipment booming repetitiously throughout the night, disembowelling this peaceful world—or will the Elders hit upon the exact combination of words and power to prevent the destruction of their place?

  Perth glittered in the afternoon sun as the small plane came in to land. The city seemed to have grown enormously since I had last visited in 1972 for the Lionel Broekman trial. Geraldine Willesee had moved back from Sydney to the west, and she had invited me to stay with her for the few days of my stopover. Gerri had a car and cheerfully drove me to appointments with Oriel Green, who worked in Basic Childcare at the Aboriginal section of the state Education Department, and other venues, such as the Aboriginal Medical and Legal services.

  When speaking with Oriel, I happened to mention Strelley. Oh, are you thinking of going there? You won’t get in there, you know. They don’t like anyone coming in.’