by Graham Seal
This edition published in 2011
First published in 2009
Copyright © Graham Seal 2009, 2011
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Foreword
Acknowledgements
Introduction: Telling tales
1 Stories in the heart
2 Pioneer traditions
3 Making monsters
4 Legends on the land
5 The haunted land
6 Tales of wonder
7 Bulldust
8 Heroes
9 Characters
10 Hard cases
11 Working people
Picture credits
Sources and selected references
ONCE UPON A time, in a far different Australia, there was no television, no radio and no internet, so families, friends and even strangers entertained each other with stories. Hard to believe but young and old sat around the kitchen table, lounged on verandahs and even around crackling campfires as they swapped tales, recited poetry and maybe sang a song; such poems and songs being part of the storytelling tradition.
As a young country, its people living predominantly in what we now refer to as ‘the bush’, we were keen to hear stories about the ‘old country’, usually England, Ireland and Scotland, and be reminded of times gone by. We were also curious to hear stories about the people who lived down the road, even if they were two hundred or two thousand miles away.
The stories played several roles other than just entertainment. They provided an obvious romantic link with the past, fuelled the imagination of their audience, provided a creative outlet for the tellers and, in a country with a dubious past, an opportunity to relax. More often than not, they allowed us to laugh at ourselves—and pomposity in general.
A lot of our stories were born in the bush. It must be remembered that the nineteenth century was a male-dominated society with a definite class-consciousness where the majority of men worked either as shepherds, miners, bullockies or drovers. This is where the campfire ruled as a neutral territory where all men were equal. Over a mug of steaming black China tea men discussed the ways of the world and, as the fire dimmed, talk would often turn to storytelling as an opportunity for escapism. Old tales were told but new ones were also created, in many cases told in the first person and bringing in fellow workmates as members of the cast. Humour has always been a great leveller and there’s no denying that Australia developed a unique sense of humour—often described as ‘dry’. There are several reasons suggesting why our humour is so laconic, including the immense size and isolation of the country and the reality that Australia was so blatantly different from Europe. It was (and still is) dry, hot, brown and tough as old boots. Many of the stories reinforced our determination to survive against the odds: fighting floods, droughts, bushfires, pestilence and, more often than not, the banks and authorities. In some ways many of the old stories could be described as ‘people’s history’ however, because the folk never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn, they are an unreliable history.
Back in the old days when we entertained each other rather than nowadays where we tend to get entertained, and mainly by the electronic media and fabricated popular culture, most people had a ‘party piece’—often a story that they had made their own. We also had the accompanying skills to ‘perform’ in front of an audience, large or small. We are rapidly losing this ability in proportion to the advancement in technologically delivered entertainment and, sadly, this passivity has a high price resulting in far too many social problems.
This collection is much more than just a bunch of stories retold for the umpteenth dozen time. Graham Seal has provided us with valuable keys to our national identity: why we are unique as a people. He salutes our past, including a good swag of indigenous stories, tales from the back of Bourke, Woop Woop and beyond the Black Stump, stories from our soldiers on the front line and also some ripper yarns from the cities. As a folklorist and fellow ‘road’s scholar’ my old ‘China-plate’, Graham Seal, has offered insightful observations on why certain stories were created, passed around and also down through the years. Great Australian Stories is true to its title as it wanders from bush track to spooky hollow, follows the path of yowies and bunyips, searches for Lasseter’s Reef, meets Dad and Dave and, on a different path, Henny-Penny, and then rambles into the cities where just as many entertaining characters are ready to tell their stories.
Warren Fahey AM
Folklorist
I WOULD LIKE to acknowledge the following people and organisations for providing information, assistance, advice, guidance or permission to publish stories in their care:
Jane Diplock, Warren Fahey, June Factor, Gwenda Davey, Hugh Anderson, Maureen Seal, Peter Sutton, Keith Pabai, Donald Banu, Eric Hayward, Rob Willis, Olya Willis, Phyl Lobl, Chris Woodland, Tim McCabe, Bob Reece, Peter Parkhill, Peter Ellis, Karl Neuenfeldt, the Oral History and Folklore Collection at the National Library of Australia, the Western Australian Folklore Archive in the John Curtin Prime Ministerial Library at Curtin University of Technology, the Battye Library of Western Australian History, the Queensland State Library, La Trobe Library and the New South Wales State Library. I would also like to thank Elizabeth Weiss of Allen & Unwin for taking on this project and the staff at A&U who helped turn manuscript into book. I am grateful to the Faculty of Humanities at Curtin University of Technology for assistance with research and pre-publication work. Finally, I hope this book honours the collectors and conservers of Australian stories, many of whose names appear in the text and notes. In particular, this book is dedicated to the legacies of Bill Wannan, Bill Scott, Roland Robinson and Ron Edwards.
AS FAR AS we know, humans have always told stories. The first inhabitants of Australia created a vast oral archive of myth and legend that explained their origins, the landscape, and its plants, animals and spirits. Before settling the last continent, Europeans swapped fabulous tales about what they imagined it to be like—a land of hermaphrodites, strange winged beasts and people who walked upside down. When they finally did arrive in numbers, they found the reality was sometimes as extraordinary as the fables. As the colonists moved out across the country, they began to make and share new stories about the Australian experience, sometimes blending these with indigenous traditions.
Today, these processes have produced a rich legacy of story that reflects the distinctiveness of Australia’s past and present. It is a legacy that includes the ancient stories of the f
irst inhabitants, those tales brought here by settlers from many lands, and those that have developed from the historical experience of modern Australia. There are legends of the Dreaming, yarns of pioneering, the bush, war, work and play, tales of the unexplained, the heroic, the monstrous and the tragic. They reflect the deep beliefs, fears, hopes and humour of those who tell and re-tell them.
The stories in this book are not personal anecdotes, although they may occasionally be told in this way. They are part of a national conversation held by many voices, often over a number of generations and across the country. As a collective cultural possession, they are part of the repertoires of folklore shared between and within social groups. They originate in and spread through the informal interactions of everyday life. As they develop over time and move from place to place, the stories pick up new elements, drop details that are dated or otherwise unintelligible, and adapt to the needs and attitudes of their tellers and hearers. It is these adaptations that keep a story tradition alive from generation to generation and provide its inheritors with a powerful sense of connection with earlier tellers and hearers. These communities of story can be as small as a family or as large as an industry, an army, or spread across a whole nation.
Most tales are the cultural property of their tellers and hearers. The stories of a certain group may be unknown to outsiders. This often surprises those who are familiar with them; they assume that everyone has heard this or that ‘old chestnut’. As communities change, so do their reservoirs of story. Some fall silent as their original sources dry up. Others are reshaped to suit new realities. Stories rarely die altogether. Like all forms of folklore, they may hibernate for decades, even centuries, before reappearing—as is the case with a number of ostensibly modern urban legends. Stories old and new are increasingly passed on through audio and video recordings and the internet, which vastly extends their staying power.
When it is possible to trace the evolution of particular tales, we often find out something about their meanings and their relationship to history and folklore. Stories not only tell what has been seen, heard or believed but also connect their hearers with the time, place, events and people about which they speak. They map real and imaginative landscapes, as well as documenting what happened, or is thought to have happened, in them. They help us, in other words, make sense of the world and of our place within it.
Part of the appeal of the stories Australians tell is the colour and vitality of their language. As well as a liberal sprinkling of profanity, there are typically shortened words like ‘wharfie’, ‘bullocky’ and ‘swaggy’, and uniquely Australian ones like ‘bushranger’, ‘digger’, ‘Speewah’, ‘bunyip’, ‘redback’ and ‘drongo’. Traditional tales also contain many Australian placenames, some of indigenous origin, like Coraki or Min Min, and others which evocatively combine the indigenous and the European, such as Ooldea Soak or Top Bingera. While some tales are versions of those told elsewhere in the world, their local renditions are well and truly Australianised.
While segments of this tradition, particularly indigenous myths and bush yarns, have been collected before, relatively little attention has been given to other types of tales. This book presents, for the first time, a reasonably representative selection of Australian stories in all their variety. The collective tale they tell is one of down-to-earth realism, tragedy and heroism, dry and cutting humour, an unexpectedly wide supernatural streak, a strong sense of place, colourful truths and even the odd lie. It tells us a good deal about what Australians value; what they fear, dislike, laugh at and wonder about.
The stories have been sorted into chapters by theme. The first chapter presents a small selection of tales from the continent’s indigenous tradition. These are all translations, of course, though many retain words and phrases from the original languages in which they were recorded. They explain the origins of people, animals and plants in the timeless spirit world usually known as the Dreaming. None of these stories are secret or sacred, so they can be freely told. Some of their themes recur in stories elsewhere in the book.
Pioneering was the central Australian experience of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. As settlers spread across the continent from landfalls on the coasts, a frontier was created along whose ever-moving edges Europeans and indigenous people came into often abrasive contact. In some frontier stories Aborigines appear as savage foes; in others they are saviours. Occasionally they appear in both roles in the same story.
Despite, or sometimes because of, these experiences, the story traditions of original occupants and incoming occupiers began to interact, creating such hybrids as the bunyip, the yowie, and other legendary creatures. Aboriginal belief and the actions of settlers merged in the mystery of the Min Min Lights.
The ‘Legends on the land’ chapter presents stories about particular parts of the country. Some tell how places got their names; others deal with strange events or treasure hunts. There may be different versions of how and when something important began or what happened—and why. Stories of this kind are part of a common fund of local knowledge that reflects the powerful bonds of shared experience.
Also closely linked with locality are Australia’s many traditions of ghosts and the supernatural. Considering its small population, the nation has generated a very large number of ghost stories, and continues to do so. The variety of oddities and apparitions involved suggests that Australia is a powerfully haunted land. Its indigenous traditions are rich with spirits of many kinds, and its settler history adds European ghosts and gremlins.
As well as the supernatural, there is plenty of scope for the fantastic. So-called fairy tales were widely told to children by adults and by adults to each other until at least the early twentieth century. In versions mostly derived from British traditions, accounts of giant-killers, pumpkin coaches and magical beanstalks have proved remarkably durable. Although Australian fairy stories generally lack fairies, they do have witches. These come in imported form from the rich storytelling traditions of Ireland. ‘The witch’s tale’, told by Simon McDonald, is a wonderful example of the Australian bush art of spinning tales.
A favourite bush tradition is the tall tale. Australia has giant mozzies (mosquitoes), hoop snakes and split dogs in abundance. Modern urban legends update the tall tale with funny fables that are highly unlikely to be true. Australians have generally taken their leisure at least as seriously as their labour, producing large numbers of leg-puller yarns about sport, pastimes and, of course, sex. They love a good lie, it seems, no matter what the subject might be.
All traditions contain heroes and villains, as well as a few figures who are a little bit of both. Outstanding men and women, mythical and historical, can be found in indigenous and settler lore. The bushranger is an especially ambivalent character, whose crimes—often violent—are cast in folklore as justified defiance of oppression. In this sense, Australia’s handful of celebrated bushrangers are its tragic heroes. The digger is a hero of another kind. Originally the volunteer footsoldier of World War I, the digger has become part of the mythology of Anzac. His larrikin ways are balanced by his sense of humour, his sceptical attitude to authority, and his reputation as a fighter.
Colourful, eccentric and plain crazy characters abound in Australian stories. They include numbskulls like the drongo, Dave in the ‘Dad and Dave’ stories, and the Cornish-descended Cousin Jacks. There are tricksters aplenty, from Jacky Bindi-i to Snuffler Oldfield. These named identities jostle for our affection with stock figures like the three blokes at a bar and the racecourse doper, among many others.
The frontier experience also produced a string of hard cases, such as the notoriously stingy pastoralist Hungry Tyson and the helpful but deep-drinking Wheelbarrow Jack. These were real people, as were the tough Eulo Queen and the sad Eliza Donnithorne. Others, like the tight-fisted cocky farmer and the world’s greatest whinger, are archetypes. Genuine or larger than life, their deeds and
sayings are remembered and relished.
A sense of shared experience motivates many stories of working life. These are usually humorous, often with a sharp edge of anti-authoritarianism, satire or outright ridicule of those who are supposedly in charge. The examples given here range from the nineteenth-century frontier farm to the present-day office or factory. While the forms of working humour have changed, the values and attitudes that underlie them have remained substantially the same.
Australia’s stories are of pioneering, farming, bushranging, war, hardship, triumph, loss and laughter. They are about the unexplained, the mysterious, the lost and the never-was. They tell of origins and endings, heroes and villains, ghosts and monsters. Some are humorous yarns and tall tales of tricksters, nongs and lucky ducks. Others speak of odd but believable things that might have happened to a friend of a friend. There are tales told by railway workers, soldiers, farmers, parents, sporting types, office workers and just about anyone else. We all have tales to tell. Some of them may even be true.
Whether these stories are fact, fiction or a little of both, it is important to note that tradition can preserve both the bad and the good. As well as humour, determination, resilience and healthy scepticism, Australian stories sometimes reflect attitudes—especially towards Aboriginal people and women—that we find distasteful today. As this book reproduces historical as well as more recent texts, readers should be prepared for occasional jarring notes. Understanding something of their context, however, may help us appreciate the role of stories in social change. The fusion between indigenous and settler traditions about bunyips and ghosts, for example, is a sign of positive engagement. On the other hand, the divergence between those traditions in stories about frontier clashes points to ongoing tensions.
In many of the stories here, it is hard to tell where fact ends and fiction begins. But the myths that form in the spaces between history and folklore exert a powerful spell. Many prefer to believe the myths because they speak to cherished ideals like mateship, freedom and the fair go. If these ideals are often dreams rather than deeds, they are no less beguiling for that. In the end, our stories tell us as much as we want them to.
