by Di Morrissey
‘It can be a hard concept to grasp, especially when people like me come along and want to date rock samples and pin down time periods and ages and formative chronological history,’ said Palmer.
‘So how do you adjust to this two-way interpretation?’ asked Sami. ‘The intuitive and the academic.’
‘There comes a time when you surrender and trust in the big picture. Then it starts to make sense. Give it time, Sami. That is if you’re interested,’ he added.
Goonamulli spoke to Bridget, who turned to Sami. ‘He wants me to try to explain a little bit more about the sacred, which to us means that we are alive, spiritually, forever.’
‘It’s a totemic system,’ interjected Palmer.
‘It simply means unity,’ said Bridget. ‘Unity between all living things and the natural forces that affect everything in life from belief to function, behaviour, philosophy and mythology. Everything is connected through time, like a circle. We are part of the land and go back into the land and are reborn.’
‘It seems such a huge concept,’ said Sami. ‘Really hard to grasp instantly.’ Until now she had regarded Bridget as a practical and professional woman who happened to be Aboriginal. Her explanation of the paintings revealed her spiritual sense and knowledge.
‘I think of it like this – where we are born defines us, where we choose to die confirms who we are.’
Now Sami saw how Bridget operated in two worlds, used two kinds of thinking, had two ways of approaching life. ‘Do you think about all this in your everyday life?’ she asked.
‘Sometimes. Mostly it’s just part of me, who I am. I’m more aware of my culture because I work in this field. And talking about work, we’d better do some.’
As Bridget, Goonamulli and Palmer focused their attention on a section of the wall, Sami studied the images more closely. One in particular caught her attention. It was of a small boat carrying five stick figures holding what looked like paddles. ‘This is amazing . . . are these local people? We’re so far from the sea,’ she exclaimed.
‘What I find interesting is that not much of the secular, everyday events are recorded in rock art, more the sacred,’ theorised Palmer. ‘So the travellers must have made quite an impact.’
‘We know there was pre-European contact along the coast from southeast Asia – Macassan trepang traders and the like. But this goes much further back. It is a highly contentious debate,’ said Bridget.
‘In other sites there’s a dog-like creature but with its stripes it bears more of a resemblance to the thylacine. This was before dingoes appeared in the artwork.’
‘The Tasmanian tiger?’ said Sami.
‘Yes. And there are figures with great grinning, heart-shaped faces. Very strange,’ said Palmer.
Bridget nodded in agreement. ‘It’s what makes this work so intriguing.’
‘That’s something we can chew over after dinner, perhaps,’ said Palmer. ‘Trying to explain and gain acknowledgment of ancient Aboriginal history in the context of white anthropology and historical acceptance is a challenge.’
‘And not just ancient stuff,’ added Bridget, putting away her notebook and pen. ‘Recent history presents even more challenges. Now, let’s move on to the next site.’
Goonamulli caught Sami’s eye. ‘You come and see spirit country. Learn more.’
After spending several hours at the shelter, they set out across country once more. This time Sami walked in front beside Goonamulli. She was getting used to his accent and fractured English, and she listened carefully as he pointed out landmarks and even seemingly minor aspects of the environment that were significant. Under his instruction, her eye was drawn to the physical details of the landscape in a completely different way from how she had observed them before. It was as though she had to see inside the physical protrusions to know and read their significance.
They stopped for lunch – damper, pickled beef and the last of the over-ripe tomatoes left over from breakfast – on a large flat rock above the gorge. In the wet season the waterfall that dropped to the river far below had cut smooth rounded channels into the rock face. There was something about the dry creek bed and rock ledge at the waterfall site that made the whole scene feel timeless, and the idea of attempting to calculate the great age of the setting was utterly ridiculous. It was enough to be aware that it all felt very special. That it had always been like this, and, hopefully, always would be.
‘When did you see the ocean for the first time?’ Sami asked Goonamulli.
‘Oh, little fella first time. Over Broome way. Up the coast past them missions. Big sea.’ He grinned then pointed to the distant range. ‘All that, part of big sea. Gondwana Sea. Like big reef, made with little sharp stones. Shells still there, in the rock. All the land change in big flood. Many old, old special places under the sea now.’
‘Flood, like in the Bible?’ Sami asked Palmer.
‘There are a lot of analogies with Christian religion if you are prepared to accept them,’ he said, finishing his damper.
Bridget took up the point. ‘There are stories of the Beginning People before the Ice Age when all the islands and land were joined up. The sun, stars and moon all lived on the earth before they went into space. So we are always connected to the stars, joined by the Milky Way, like a bridge.’
‘There’s a lot to learn,’ admitted Sami. It seemed everything around her, things she’d taken for granted or never thought about, all had a great story or a lesson, an interpretation or an associated ritual in Aboriginal culture. And while it was all fascinating, especially experiencing it for herself rather than reading about it or going to a lecture, she didn’t see that this awareness had any relevance to her life or her studies. But she was enjoying the field trip, anyway.
‘A lot has been lost, many things we’ll never know,’ said Bridget. ‘Not just in the knowledge and stories that were handed down, but even physical things have been lost. The equivalent of whole art galleries out here have been found, then lost. Some never found.’
Palmer had a few quiet words with the Aboriginal elder then spoke to Sami. ‘Now, I think you’ll be intrigued by the next site. It’s where we’ve been working. It’s a bit of a hike away.’ He gave her a warm smile. ‘You’re doing well.’
They left the gorge and walked on to open country. The grass was high, dotted with small palm trees and occasional jutting boulders. They skirted around patches of bull spinifex grass with its sharp needles, and were soon in rougher territory that was bulging with humps and hillocks. Here they came to a narrow split in the ground which grew wider and deeper until it formed a very narrow canyon. The track skirted around it, and ended at a pile of rocks. Goonamulli pointed to an opening at this point, just wide enough to crawl into.
‘Are we going in there?’ exclaimed Sami. ‘Is it safe?’
‘Quite safe,’ Palmer assured her. ‘It eventually opens out into a cave that goes right through that hill in front of us. There’s plenty of daylight on the other side. But it’s a bit dark in the tunnel and we have to crawl.’
Goonamulli led the way, followed by Palmer shining his torch behind him. Then came Sami, with Bridget behind with her torch. The tunnel was low and narrow and Sami found herself crawling on her hands and knees in the flickering torchlight. She began to lose her sense of perspective, what was rightways up or down. It smelt earthy and her chest began to heave and she was short of breath. This must be what claustrophobia feels like, she thought, trying to control a rising sense of panic.
Palmer seemed to sense her fear. ‘Nearly there, Sami. There’s air and light up ahead. Just count aloud each time you place a hand forward. Follow me, we’re nearly there.’ His voice was cheerful and steady, and it calmed her. After about five minutes they came out into a light airy cave and Palmer helped her to her feet. ‘It’s worth the trouble. Look around.’
The cave was lit by sunlight streaming down a narrow arching crack that spread across the roof. There was a huge rock pillar at one side and when Sam
i stepped around it she gasped. The cave entrance was like a huge frame filled with nothing but vivid blue sky. No one spoke, it was as if the whole experience demanded silence. Side by side they walked towards the arching stone entrance and as they did the view changed from sky to a stunning panorama of the valley and the riverbed, now only a series of deep waterholes. At the mouth of the cave they stopped, one step more would take them past the edge.
‘My God,’ gasped Sami.
‘Quite a view, isn’t it?’ said Palmer casually. ‘From way down there you’d never spot this place. It’s a great hiding place for anyone not wanting to be caught. I wonder what it’d be like to play the pipes up here.’
Bridget dug him in the ribs. ‘You’re incorrigible, mate. You really are. C’mon, Sami, and see what we’re studying.’ They walked back into the cave and scrambled over rocks to one of the many walls of art. Maybe because she was expecting paintings it hadn’t hit Sami at first glance, but the walls were covered with carvings. Most were geometric designs and as she looked closer she realised they were all variations of a sun pattern.
‘We call this the sun cave,’ said Bridget, as if reading Sami’s thoughts.
Sami nodded and leaned forward to run her hand over the deep lines of one of the carvings. She thought she felt a slight tingling in her fingers as they gently touched the ancient work. ‘How old are they?’ she asked softly.
Palmer spoke in professorial mode. ‘Fundamentally, this is among the oldest manifestations of prehistoric art in the world. The Palaeolithic period of Stone Age man.’
‘That’s one objective of our study, to ascertain the geological age and hopefully help answer a swag of anthropological questions,’ added Bridget. ‘Some of the oldest rocks in the Kimberley are up to two thousand million years old.’
Goonamulli touched one of the scratched sun symbols. ‘Mother sun stays here on mother earth. She knows many secrets.’ He tapped one finger on the side of his forehead, confirming that he knew the secrets, too.
Sami pointed to the sky. ‘So who’s the sun up there?’
‘That daughter sun. We tell you more stories tonight,’ said Goonamulli.
‘Round the campfire after dinner is story time,’ said Palmer lightly. ‘Now let’s earn our keep and take some photographs and samples.’
Bridget dug into her haversack for the camera and tripod, then handed Palmer and Sami some small jars with blank labels. ‘We’ll take soil, wall and pigment samples. The high-tech scientific stuff happens down south, here all we need is a spoon and pocket knife.’
They worked quietly together while Goonamulli sat cross-legged at the mouth of the cave, staring out at the distant, seemingly deserted landscape. Sami did little more than hold samples as Bridget and Ted Palmer carefully scraped, dug, measured, made notes and took photographs. She found it impossible to stop her mind drifting, trying to imagine what it might have been like right here at the time the work was originally done. The creation of these suns must have been a painstakingly slow process by people who had lived their lives observing their ritual and culture thousands of years ago. In the silent gallery all that remained of their civilisation were small scratchings in rock, their meaning a mystery to the scientists. To Goonamulli it was part of the Dreaming. Part of him.
That night Sami curled into her sleeping bag and stared up at the Milky Way. It seemed very close, the sky was so clear. The dot of a distant satellite moved slowly, shooting stars flashed, the constellations were sharp and clear. It was an awesome sight. She could now understand the fascination people had with the stars, the universe of which we are such a tiny part. And having heard Goonamulli’s campfire stories of the connection between the earth, the stars, the planets and the sun, these galaxies in outer space seemed close and less mysterious. For the first time, Sami didn’t feel she was a lonesome dot on a planet, but part of a cosmos that had meaning and continuity.
She was trying to piece together the concept of everything having meaning – from art, to songs, to dance, to the belief that everything was connected to a place of belonging. This was not her home, but she felt peculiarly at home. It was a strange feeling, but also comforting. This trip was worth it, she decided, just to be part of this incredible experience and to see the things she’d be shown that day. But she was glad Palmer was there, he was part of her world.
In the morning they packed up camp and set out again. Palmer took a back seat, literally. He and Goonamulli bounced in the back of the ute amongst the gear as Bridget drove and talked over the noise of the rattling engine. ‘What did you make of yesterday?’ she asked.
‘There’s a heck of a lot of art out here. And it seems to be integrated as part of everyday life. Sure beats a uni lecture hall.’ Sami thought for a moment. ‘It’s not like going into an art gallery or a museum and seeing old stuff on the walls. It’s so much in your face. I really felt there were spirits, the old artists, whatever, reaching out and grabbing me.’
‘And telling you what?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Sami fiddled with the buttons on her shirt. ‘Come on, be fair. This is my first experience of all this. I’m still trying to get on top of it all.’
‘That’s fine. It will sift into your system and you’ll find the bits you need to know.’
‘Goonamulli keeps saying I have to learn about my country. What does he mean, exactly?
Bridget didn’t answer for a moment as she concentrated on driving along the rough track. Finally she spoke quietly and Sami had to strain to hear her words. ‘Goonamulli means you have to pay your dues to your people – your family and the land, the part of the country they came from.’
Sami didn’t answer but leaned back in the seat, mentally retreating. How would the old man know about her family? The spectre of her mother’s knowledge of the story of their family returned, unbidden, unwanted, to confront Sami yet again.
It was almost light. Lily opened the door onto the balcony and stared at the silvery sheen of the bay. How she loved being so close to the sea. A Piscean, the proximity of water calmed her soul. She could never tire of watching the colours, moods and shifts of the water that travelled from the Indian Ocean to the bay, through the mangroves and mudflats to lap gently below the lawns around the apartment.
Hidden under these waters along this coast were ugly creatures that lured men to their death – the mud grey, barnacled, Pinctada maxima oyster. But inside its plate-sized shells, nature produced the world’s most glorious, exquisitely beautiful pearls.
On an impulse, Lily dressed in her swimsuit and sarong and flung her grandmother’s magnificent rope of pearls around her neck. The instant they touched her skin they felt warm, glowing with life. Barefoot she went to the car deciding to swim into the day at Cable Beach, and let the old pearls return briefly to their world of water.
There was very little traffic, and the mellifluous voice of Enya filled the car as she drove. All was peaceful, though she kept a sharp eye out for grazing kangaroos that might leap into her path. Then in an instant she was taken by surprise as, from seemingly nowhere, two rocketing, screaming cars were road raging behind her. An old red station wagon with three local boys inside was being pursued by a green Falcon, two white faces grinning, shouting and waving beer cans.
The road was not wide enough for three abreast and she swerved into the shoulder, red dirt and gravel flying as she struggled to control the car. But even as she concentrated on her own driving she had an accelerated image of the green car nudging, pushing, baiting the red car, which was fishtailing dangerously as they disappeared around a bend.
Lily had resisted the urge to brake suddenly and now she came to a stop. All was still and silent once more. But her heart was beating. She took deep breaths. The road was empty. Driving slowly, she continued toward Cable Beach. Had it been friendly rivalry, high spirits fuelled by booze, or was it more sinister than that?
Around the next bend everything dissolved into slow motion. Steam from an exploded radiator was rising. The car
s had collided, one was off the shoulder in the bushes, the other faced the wrong way on the other side of the road. The red car was closest. Further down the road she saw a figure staggering from the other vehicle.
She pulled up and stumbled in her haste to run to the red car. A torn dark arm, white bones revealed, dangled from the driver’s window where the car door had been hit. On the other side, the door was hanging open and a young man lay sprawled on the dirt. Even before she reached him, Lily felt something clawing at her throat and when she rolled him over she saw the scratched and ripped face of a local boy, Eugene, who she recognised from his visits to Rosie and Harlan. His eyes blinked open. They were glazed but he was conscious. Then he appeared to recognise her.
‘Don’t try to move. Can you feel your legs? Your arm?’ He groaned weakly as he pointed to his thigh. The leg of his jeans was seeping red. ‘Lie still, breathe deeply. You’re going to be okay. I have to see to the others.’
The boy with the badly injured arm who’d been driving was now struggling to get out of the passenger door. She leaned in and helped him out as he collapsed beside the car, cradling his ripped arm.
Lily then ran down the road to the other car. Oh God, why had no one else come by? Dawn would soon break, surely others were out on the road this early? Please God, don’t let anyone be badly hurt, she thought. Please God, don’t let this car burst into flames. The smell of petrol, of beer and of blood washed over her.
‘Lady, lady. Help . . .’
One boy had got out of the car and she reached in to pull out the semi-conscious passenger. ‘Oh Jesus. Oh no.’ Lily recognised Simon, Dale’s son.
A car coming in the opposite direction stopped. Suddenly there was a man beside her helping pull Simon from the car and lay him on the road.
‘I’ve got a mobile, I’ll call for help. We’d better warn any approaching cars.’ He hurried to his car.
Quickly she examined Simon and felt for a pulse, reciting aloud to herself his vital signs: ‘Blood pressure high, heart strong. Hasn’t lost a lot of blood. He’ll make it. Hopefully no serious internals. They’re all moving, no spinal damage.’
