by Di Morrissey
‘I think they’ve moved into a new era. It’s now we chaps who are supposed to raise our consciousness and relate to our feminine energy. Or something like that,’ grinned Alistair.
‘Rowena is a bit flaky,’ said Beth with a shrug. ‘But underneath the southern Californian new-age baloney is a mind like a steel trap. I don’t know how much is real, and what’s not. She’s moody and you won’t be surprised to know she doesn’t like me at all.’
Lucky, enjoying the airconditioned comfort of the van, was discussing matters related to gears and the relative merits of four-wheel drive vehicles which, Billy had decided long ago, was the greatest gift white society had come up with, in Aboriginal eyes. Four-wheel drives and cowboy films, Billy told himself. The thought led him to ask, ‘You ever been in movies, the films, Lucky? Lots of blackfellas get parts in films nowadays.’
Lucky’s eyes shone and he sat tall. ‘Yep. Me movie star all right.’ It was a line the others couldn’t ignore and all attention shifted to the old man. With an actor’s appreciation of the moment, he turned to face his audience. ‘Yep, Lucky in movies long time ago. With Mr Chips Rafferty.’
‘Chips Rafferty,’ gasped Mick. ‘The man’s a legend. Knew him back in the early days. He had a house near mine, I gave him some legal advice once. Well, Lucky, you were certainly among the stars then. What part did you play?’
‘Stockman. Me muster cattle, go on long cattle drive,’ he said with pride.
‘You do anything important in the film, Lucky?’
‘Nah. All important things done by white fellas. They paint whitefellas black for important stuff. Dat very funny, ‘cause whitefellas pretendin’ be blackfellas do funny things.’
‘Did you tell Chips?’
‘Yeah. He try to fix up, but they still keep paintin’ dem black.’
‘Oh, how things have changed,’ said Susan. ‘Have you been in any other films, Lucky?’
‘Nah. Savin’ meself for Hollywood,’ he said, grinning broadly.
As the Oka headed towards Bungarra, Digger, Rusty and Barwon drove off in the opposite direction to finish the hunting that they’d interrupted to return for the meeting. As the old truck rumbled over the bush track, Digger hung out the passenger side, peering at the ground. Suddenly he banged on the side, and Rusty slowed down.
Digger pointed ahead. ‘New track come up.’
Rusty hit the brake and stopped where the track they were following had been crossed by an obviously heavy vehicle. They sat still, letting the dust settle.
‘What is it?’ asked Barwon. Since they had set out, he had been unable to get much out of his travelling companions, except that they were going to cross a property called Boulder Downs. The truck moved on.
Barwon had enjoyed the early start and the experience of seeing the country come alive as the sun rose. He found the landscape more appealing the further they went. He began to relax in a way he had forgotten lately, as if a strong sense of security and tranquillity was protecting him from the turmoil that seemed to constantly tear at his insides. The country was seeping into him . . . the colours, the shapes of the trees and the rocks and hills, the sandy dry beds of creeks, the sounds of the birds. In the beginning he had been swept up by the broad spectacle of what he was seeing. Now he was increasingly noticing the detail, and delighting in each new discovery of something small, but beautiful.
He felt a sadness that the Barradja people no longer owned the lands they had roamed for so many thousands of years. Obviously it wasn’t good cattle country, they hadn’t seen one head today, but at least the land still looked the same. Not like the coastal developments, heavily stocked farms and chemically polluted crops.
He was jerked from his thoughts as the truck stopped. Indeed, it was a little disappointing to find his companions had discovered only another set of vehicle tracks.
‘Where does it go?’ he asked, as they got out. He received no reply so he stayed silent as Rusty and Digger squatted down and carefully examined the dust, chatting to each other in the language Barwon didn’t understand, and wished he did. They pointed at things that Barwon couldn’t see.
‘This Boulder Downs?’ he asked, and both men nodded in confirmation.
‘We take a look,’ said Digger, and Rusty climbed on the tray of the truck and stood with his hands on a steel frame that ran over the cab. ‘See better,’ he explained to Barwon, who decided to join him.
Digger had driven slowly along the new track for about half an hour when Rusty banged on the roof. Barwon had seen it too, up ahead, a spiral of dust suddenly rising from the bush close by the line of hills that the truck was now following. It was clearly a vehicle on the move.
They got out and climbed up the ridge a little, and soon, in the distance, they could see it. They could hear it too, the steady throb of generators and drilling equipment. A row of tents and huts lined the clearing and a rough airstrip had been carved from the bush. ‘Jeez,’ exclaimed Barwon. ‘A bloody mining camp. What would they be looking for?’
Digger and Rusty squatted under a tree and Barwon sat down with them. ‘Gold. Diamonds. Minerals. We gotta take close look, Barwon,’ said Digger. ‘We not supposed to be here, off the track. But we got sacred paintings in this area, like the ones you saw yesterday.’
They walked back to the truck and as they reached it Barwon suggested an idea. ‘Look this could turn nasty if the miners get mad at your sudden appearance. But if I turn up, saying I’m from Sydney and I’m lost, they mightn’t be so upset. And I can probably find out what they’re up to from talking to them. So why don’t you both wait here and I’ll go in alone, and when I come back, then we can decide what to do next.’
‘Good idea, Barwon,’ agreed Rusty, and Digger nodded. Barwon climbed behind the wheel and headed the truck towards the mining camp.
Three men worked at a lightweight drill rig on the back of a Land Cruiser. They paused in their task to squint into the glaring heat at the track that had suddenly disappeared under a cloud of dust. Over at the camp kitchen, a man in a cook’s apron, with a tea towel hanging from his trouser pocket, watched the truck approach. None expected an Aborigine, but the man who stepped from the truck sure looked like one, though certainly not a local. He was too slick, too tidy, his clothes too citified, thought the head driller, Kevin Perkins, in silent assessment. Only the truck looked authentic – dirty and battered. ‘Who the fuck is this?’ he hissed to his workmates.
‘G’day? How yer goin’?’ called Barwon affably.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Perkins growled.
‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling through. Heard the racket. What’s going on?’
‘None of your business.’
‘Hey, no need to be nasty, mate. I’m just a tourist. And I’m a bit lost. Sorry if I’ve upset you or something.’
The mining boss gave Barwon a curious look. The Aborigine’s clear voice, good manners and groomed, handsome looks really set him apart.
‘Er, we just need to check a few things. We thought for a minute you might be one of the locals. They’re not allowed around here. We’ve brewed a pot, want a cuppa tea?’
‘Thanks. That’d be great. Terrific country out here.’
‘Where you from?’
‘Sydney . . . last stop. I’m just looking around. What about you people? You local?’
‘Nah, we go where the work is.’
‘And that is . . ?’
‘Mining exploration.’
‘Gold? Diamonds? Minerals?’
The men looked at each other. This articulate Aborigine was asking too many questions.
They had barely finished their tea, with Barwon still asking questions they didn’t want to answer, when another vehicle arrived. A short man, with a large beer gut that looked cement solid, jumped out bristling immediate animosity.
‘Who the hell are you? What’s going on?’ he shouted as he stormed up to the men.
Barwon put down his mug and rose, offering his hand, which the man ignore
d. ‘Nigel Barwon. Just travelling round the place. Taking a bit of a look-see at this part of the country.’
‘Well, you can take yourself right off my property. I’m Giles Jackson and you’re on Boulder Downs, which I own and I say who comes onto.’ He walked over to Rusty’s truck. ‘Travelling round you say? Bullshit. Where’s your gear? Who sent you up here?’ He moved close to Barwon, looking menacing.
‘Hey, man, you don’t have to be so threatening.’
‘I’m not threatening. I’m telling you.’ Jackson turned back to the open door of his vehicle and brought out a rifle. ‘You’re with those fucking Barradja people. You’re a fuckin’ city Abo, here with those lawyers everyone’s talkin’ about. I heard Steele let you lot take the local Abos onto his land. But you’re not coming on my bloody land. So you can stop snooping around. You go back and tell them to mind their own bloody business.’ He took a step forward, poking his finger in Barwon’s shoulder.
‘Listen, mate, there’s no need to carry on like this.’
‘Don’t call me mate, yer fuckin’ Abo. Yer not even the real thing. Yer trespassin’. Now fuck off.’ With his free hand he shoved Barwon backwards. Barwon swung wildly, his right fist connecting with Jackson’s ribs, causing him to drop the gun. In seconds, the two men were exchanging blows. Jackson’s huge fat fists jabbed at Barwon’s eyes and belly. He ducked, holding his arms in front of his face defensively until his shock was replaced by seething anger and he flung his fists in turn at the heavily panting Jackson.
The mining men stood by unsure of what to do, until Barwon landed a sharp jab to Jackson’s jaw and as he staggered the men leapt in, separating them. As they held Barwon, Giles Jackson lunged forward, flinging two heavy blows at Barwon’s head.
‘Hey, the man can’t defend himself,’ protested one of the miners.
‘Then let him.’ Jackson half grinned, his fists raised.
Kevin Perkins stood between Jackson and Barwon. ‘Get in your truck and get out fast, lad. Bloody fast.’
The two men holding him marched him to the truck and watched as he climbed in. Barwon said nothing and put his foot down in anger.
He drove fast, dangerously fast given the narrow, winding, dusty track. He was blind with fury at Jackson’s insults that jabbed at him worse than the assault and the way he’d been bundled out of the mining camp. ‘Bastard,’ he kept muttering. ‘Bloody bastard.’
A near collision with a kangaroo slowed him down, but the anger didn’t abate until he started to look for Rusty and Digger. Then it dawned on him that the two old men would have been putting up with behaviour like that all their lives. In the city he had been protected, remote from the worst aspects of white-black relationships, secure in his well-paid TV jobs. Even his looks, which this bastard said stopped him from being a real Aborigine, had made it easy for him to be respected by his professional peers and the social circles he’d mixed in. He wiped a film of sweat from his lips, then spat out the window, trying to get rid of his anger in the dirt and blood that mixed where his teeth had bitten into his tongue.
Billy pulled up to Max and Judy’s house as the artists were having lunch. Ardjani was already in the yard, greeting friends, as Judy pulled out a chair for him in the shade and sent a teenage girl off for a plate of sandwiches. Queenie joined the other women to report about the trip and its consequences.
Beth embraced Judy and Max, Susan got a big hello from them both, and quick introductions were made for the first-time visitors to Bungarra.
‘So where is she?’ asked Beth.
‘Out looking for what she calls locations, with her guide,’ said Judy. ‘Art sites, places where the artists set some of the paintings. Checking things out. She doesn’t miss a trick, that one.’
Beth made more introductions around the table of women artists.
‘Sit down. Cup of tea, soft drink? Have you had lunch?’ asked Max.
‘We have tucker we brought with us. But I wouldn’t say no to a cold drink,’ said Beth, as they settled around two tables. The Bungarra men were seated on the grass in the shade of trees in the front yard eating their lunch in their laps.
As Max took cold drinks from the refrigerator, standing under the house, Alan fired questions at Judy about Rowena.
‘Well, we’d never heard of her,’ answered Judy. ‘But she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s, met him in LA. She had been to Marrenyikka before and was on her way over there next to finalise arrangements about some film she’s making. It all sounded reasonable till she went a bit funny one night and . . .’
‘What do you mean, funny?’ interrupted Susan.
‘She got up in the middle of the night and was walking around outside, talking, almost crying, to herself, holding her head and carrying on. Max kept an eye on her until she went back to bed.’
Max continued, ‘Next morning she got up as if nothing had happened. Started talking to the artists about filming their work, taking them out to the places they’re painting. To the Bungle Bungles and so on.’
‘Did you express some concern at this?’ asked Alistair.
‘Of course,’ said Judy firmly. ‘We stepped in then and started asking her for a few more details. We explained we’re the art coordinators here and we’re responsible for the production of the work and what happens to it.’
‘How did that go down?’ asked Mick.
Before Judy or Max could answer, Beth gestured to the legal team. ‘Alistair, Mick and Susan are lawyers. We figured under the circumstances we might take advantage of their kindly offered expertise.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Max exchanged a frown with Judy before she answered. ‘Well, Rowena didn’t like us butting in.’
‘Did she show you any documents, say she had rights or anything?’ asked Alistair.
‘She told the artists if they signed a contract like Ardjani had, they’d get lots more money for their paintings. That’s when they had a meeting and decided to send Lucky and Queenie to talk to Ardjani.’
‘Rowena sounds devious and dangerous,’ said Alan. ‘We want to know exactly what she’s after.’
‘So ask her,’ said Judy. ‘I want her out of here, she’s pretty disruptive. We let her stay when she said she was a friend of Ardjani’s. And she played up to Lucky no end, but he’s a canny old bugger and he figured she was up to something.’
‘We just want to piss her off,’ said Max with a shrug.
‘I don’t believe it’s that simple,’ said Alistair.
Judy gave a questioning glance at Alistair and the others and turned to Alan. ‘So who’s this mob? These the people you said were going to stay at Marrenyikka?’
‘Yeah. A sort of cultural experience under Beth and Ardjani’s tutelage,’ said Alan.
‘Hang around Rowena for a bit, that’s what I call a cultural experience.’ Max rolled his eyes.
‘Well, until she returns, can we look at some of the work?’ asked Alistair, eyeing the canvases.
While lunch was laid out under Billy’s supervision, the others went under the house for a look at the finished paintings. Alan selected the works he felt were worthy of extended comment, keeping to issues of artistic merit and technique.
Over lunch the group settled down to a vigorous discussion about the art when a late-model four-wheel drive wagon pulled up beside the Oka. A handsome Aboriginal man in his thirties jumped down from the driver’s seat, tucked his designer safari shirt into his moleskin pants, adjusted the large shark tooth on the leather thong around his neck and strode round the vehicle. As he held the open passenger door, a woman stepped out in impractical black, the stretch jeans too loose for her slim frame. A T-shirt with gold writing on the front read, Chanel. A black baseball cap was pulled low, but strands of red hair fluttered around her face. She was wearing sunglasses, studded with coloured stones. A hand, festooned with scarlet nails, swept off her glasses with a flourish, and she gave a wide smile. ‘Well, hellooo, we have company.’ She walked briskly into the front yard and seeing Beth, her smile t
ightened. ‘Ah, ha. Beth.’
‘Ah, ha. Rowena. We heard you were here, we’re visiting from Marrenyikka. Come and meet our friends.’
Beth did a round of introductions and Rowena introduced her flashily dressed Aboriginal driver. ‘Hunter Watson. Found him in Darwin and what a gem of a man,’ she gushed. ‘Guide, adviser, tour organiser, very bush savvy, and all round Mr Cool. Especially with that shark tooth I bought him. Very Crocodile Dundee, don’t you think?’
‘G’day. I’m very pleased to meet you all,’ said Hunter in acknowledgment, clearly a little embarrassed by the effusive testimonial.
‘Ardjani you know, of course,’ said Beth, as he came down the path from the shelter of the house.
Rowena spun around and walked towards him slowly with arms outspread. ‘Ardjani, dear friend,’ she said with great passion. ‘How lovely to see you here, and what a wonderful, wonderful surprise.’ She grasped his extended hand lightly in both of hers, lifting it up to almost chin level. ‘I’m here, I told you I would come. I’m on my way to Marrenyikka . . . to be with you. We have so much to do, Ardjani. So much.’
The white spectators watched it all in amazement. Bizarre was the word that sprang to Susan’s mind. Alan barely disguised his disgust. Mick and Alistair grinned with delight at the first appearance of the vampire lady. Ardjani extracted himself from her grasp, tipped back his hat and scratched his forehead. ‘Rowena, we gotta talk about your film . . . and other things.’
‘Absolutely, but we have to show the world, Ardjani. Tell everybody. Otherwise how’re we going to make money? We are going to save Barradja songs and dances and ceremonies for generations to come.’ She spread her arms wide. ‘Your culture will circle the earth, embrace the world.’
Ardjani turned his attention to a plate of sandwiches. ‘Mebbe.’
It was the trigger for everyone to move, breaking up the tableau that had been almost hypnotised by Rowena’s arrival performance.
Alan walked over to Rowena and held out his hand. ‘Alan Carmichael. I represent most of the artists here. I understand you’ve been talking to them about using their work in some way . . .’ Before he could finish, she had wrapped her arms about him. ‘Oh, this is fantastic. Fortuitous. What they’re doing is glorious, amazing, so prophetic. They have to be in the film. It’ll be a great promotion for their work. Everyone that sees my film will want to own a Bungarra picture!’
