Daughter of the Territory

by Jacqueline Hammar

  CHAPTER 53

  Bauhinia Downs Station

  ‘Along the Old Coast Track to Bauhinia Downs, where vigilance was the price of continued existence.’

  OBSERVATION OF W. MILLAR, WHO TRAVELLED THE OLD COAST TRACK EARLY LAST CENTURY TO TAKE PART IN A MUSTER AT BAUHINIA DOWNS

  Thirteen kilometres along the valley from the Bauhinia homestead, the Limmen River tumbles over the high western range into one of the largest rock holes in the north, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs that glow a searing red in the late afternoon light. Over all is a bush silence that can stir a sense of uneasiness in the lonely and superstitious.

  Out beyond the tumult of the waterfall, the surface is as smooth as glass. Freshwater crocodiles mass there, their hooded eyes and the tips of their snouts visible over the wide dark water. When endeavouring to measure its depth, a line was run out at about 80 metres, but the bottom was never reached—just as the Aboriginals were certain it never would be; for them it had no bottom, no end. They called this place Manaparoo.

  Billy Miller, an old bushman friend of my father’s, knew this country, had mustered cattle there, and wrote of Manaparoo as the most sinister and lonely place he had ever been.

  Travelling through with a young Aboriginal boy in 1890, he suffered a bout of malarial fever and was forced to camp, too ill to mount his horse. On the high escarpment above the water, armed tribesmen stood silhouetted against the evening sky, and the boy shook with fear and pleaded with Billy to ride on, although this was impossible. He then begged Billy to do without a fire, for it would alert the hovering tribesmen to their whereabouts, but the shivering and cold of Billy’s fever put fear from his thoughts and a fire was lit beside his swag. Early next morning, they were mounted and away before daylight.

  Billy wrote of Manaparoo:

  It is a place that fills you with instinctive dread. Even now, if the name Manaparoo comes to mind, I shut my eyes and see it, and feel again the weird sensation down my spine, and the irresistible urge to look back as though something unseen and malign was following.

  In the enclosure of high cliffs was deep shade, moist and chill even on hot days, and there was always an air of unnatural stillness. With the roar of the waterfall beyond, it could heighten imaginings as to what might linger there unseen, as indeed it did for the Aboriginals.

  But for our family, Manaparoo was a favourite place to fish for barramundi; a place to take visitors to the station; a place our children knew and loved all their young lives. With the house lubras we came for picnics, lit a fire, cooked big catfish on the hot coals, collected sugarbag from hives among the rocks.

  We swam in the deep water among the huge number of quiet fresh-water crocodiles, whose call could be imitated with a deep drumming sound in the throat; often an answering call would float back over the water. But never would the Aboriginals venture into those dark waters, nor peer down and see a face mirrored back, for that would tempt the evil within.

  When our children were learning to swim, Ken would row them out into the central depths in a dinghy and off they would tumble to splash happily about. He might row off some distance, then call out loudly, ‘What’s that behind you?’ Small arms and legs would thrash the water with lightning speed to reach the boat.

  Fanny objected strongly to her charges being left to battle the dreadful magic of those spooky waters, and raged about at the water’s edge. Dominique and Kurt both became excellent swimmers!

  This is a country of thermal springs that stretch in a long line between Borroloola and the Roper River. Geologically speaking, they’re pretty old and haven’t always surfaced from the same orifices. Water travelling its underground passage breaks through in places where the crust is thin and a thermal pool is born.

  Some springs cascade down through high rocks in waterfalls to create pools below. One of these pools—its Aboriginal name Erekini—was about 300 metres behind our homestead, and no resort swimming pool could compete with it.

  Deep within a stony escarpment, water gushes up from a depth of about 1000 metres, so hot that a lubra’s dog was scalded when it splashed in, and afterwards its hide peeled and fell in shreds. Crystal clear, pure as water can be, it rushes down a rocky gorge and falls tumultuously into a perfect circular rock pool, gnawed out of stone by thousands of years of pounding water. Fifty metres wide, 9 metres deep, the pool is encircled and shaded most of the day by high cliffs, pitted with bat caves and dripping ferns.

  How many can boast of a thermal swimming pool with waterfall in their backyard? The very soft water was tested and found to contain some soda, no other minerals at all. The great depth from whence it came accounted for its heat. It flowed hundreds of thousands of litres an hour, all year round.

  With such an abundance of water situated so high, no pump was necessary for our water supply. Instead we had a siphon hose that continuously carried water to our garden and tanks.

  To the local Aboriginal people, Erekini was a waterhole of special significance, as Uluru and other ancient places are special, and they would not enter the water.

  In 1912, when Dr J.A. Gilruth, administrator of the Northern Territory, made his epic overland trip in a chauffeur-driven motor car, he came down through Bauhinia. In his written report, he predicted Erekini would become a major health spa and tourist attraction in years to come. All those years later, it hadn’t progressed further than our family swimming pool.

  We kept Erekini as pristine as it had been for centuries, so I was distressed to learn that, presumably for the benefit of tourists, a plaque with the name ‘Poppy’s Pool’ had been cemented into rock. I trust someone will care enough to remove it. When Gosse climbed Uluru, he did not cement his footprint and chisel his name there. Who is Poppy, anyway?

  High above the valley on a quartzite plateau, almost directly above where our house and spring were, hot water oozes out onto an immensely wide, flat area of black peaty soil, fed from several orifices.

  This soil is densely covered in rich, succulent green grass—and is most treacherous. One step onto this deceptively inviting lawn is a step into a hot morass; steaming water wells up in the indent of a footprint. I know of no one who has taken more than a step or two onto this emerald stretch.

  The atmosphere is humid and oppressive on a still day, and there’s no obvious rock on this oozing sponge of earth; no bubbling or flowing water visible. Huge paperbark trees grow on the periphery, in spite of water so hot a hand cannot be held there for more than a moment.

  But the most peculiar feature of this strange sheet of water is that although situated close to the highest escarpment, it lies like a huge, steaming green blanket and doesn’t overflow in any sort of waterfall to the valley below.

  The old bush Aboriginal called this place Umbaloorama. After moving to Bauhinia, we cleared what was termed a ‘jump up’ road—a steep ascent from the valley through to the plateau above—to Umbaloorama. Past here a further 2600 kilometres of our country fanned out, which was called Broadmere.

  In the late 1870s when Nat Buchanan brought cattle through the Old Coast Road to Glencoe, the Territory’s first cattle station, his party made camp by a spring in the Limmen Valley. One afternoon all the men went out to collect stock, save for a young stockman, Travers, who remained to settle camp and prepare a damper for dinner.

  Returning in the evening, the stockmen found him beheaded with his own axe, his sightless eyes staring up at them from the dish of damper dough. The Aboriginal raiders were gone with a good deal of their supplies. They buried Travers at the foot of a stony hill, although no sign of his grave remains today. The local Aboriginals called the spring where Travers was murdered Gorrialladotgowaloo—place of the flying-fox dreaming.

  The stony hill where Travers was buried has another tale to tell. It looks like any other along the valley, not unduly high, but it rises immensely steep with a narrow horse pad ribboning up to its summit.

  I once rode up this track with Ken, our horses slipping and scrabbling for a
footing through a loose gravelly surface. Up, up we rode to reach the top where, unexpectedly, an amphitheatre opened before us. Well grassed, with a spring running water through its interior, it was a splendid place to hide a small mob of cattle—and a chap by the name of Skuthorpe once did just that, with a mob dodged from under the nose of Tanumbirini Station. He also erected a camp at the foot of this hill, where a patch of flat stone is all that remains today.

  Few of life’s ventures run true to plan. Skuthorpe and his ill-gotten cattle were found by a Borroloola policeman; a wandering tribesman may have told of it, or played out the story from start to finish in corroboree. Or perhaps George Conway, Skuthorpe’s partner in this duffing crime before they fell out, talked too much. It was George who told Ken of it and directed him to the exact location of the hidden pasture. However it came about, this truly secret sylvan pocket was discovered. It still bears the name Skuthorpes Pound, but I doubt there is anyone who knows its whereabouts today.

  Tom Hume, the half-caste son of a teamster, knew this country and the few who travelled it better than anyone. He told quite opposing accounts of local happenings than those recorded in official reports; his first-hand accounts sure beat dusty written reports any day. Tom told us that Skuthorpe lay buried near my garden fence—just another of those forgotten men who lie wrapped in blanket or swag-cover out under the dry grasses of the Territory.

  George Conway was an old cattleman who, like Bullwaddy, Bathern and others of early Territory days, contributed enormously to opening up northern cattle country. He came over the Territory border in around 1902. He married a European woman and lived in wild country with his wife, who sickened and died suddenly. He told us bush lubras had poisoned her. He never remarried and ever after had a lubra as a companion.

  Years on, his home was a bush camp where he lived with two lubras called Rooney and Florida. Such liaisons were illegal, co-habiting with Aboriginals was a definite no-no as far as the law was concerned, but there were few single men in the bush who did not turn to native women for companionship.

  Rooney and Florida ruled the old man’s life, dealt him terrible punishments when they saw fit, but generally took good care of him. His life had always been harsh and not short on danger, and George bore a galaxy of scars from old wounds. On his head were healed craters and white tracks, evidence of past encounters with humans, animals and nature.

  George would take you on a tour of his anatomy, explaining in detail the origins of his battle scars, and the exciting dramas that accompanied each one. ‘See this one,’ he would say, ‘nearly finished me that time, a gin [native woman] waddied me from behind, but Rooney stitched me up orright.’

  Most years he mustered Elsey Station, and later had his camp rigged in bushland on Moroak Station. With his own Aboriginal stock camp he mustered cattle for Les MacFarlane.

  George owned an old blue cattle bitch, of which he was very proud. Her pups were much sought after, and one day George wanted to show off her latest litter of new pups to interested visitors. The old bitch had settled her pups under George’s camp bed, and had wandered off for a brief respite from the demands of her family, so the pups were quite alone.

  With his audience standing by, George proudly threw back the blanket covering his bed, to reveal his prized pooches. But instead of six new pups under the bed was a mammoth boar pig which belonged to the station and was allowed to roam free. Huge and ugly, he lay there smiling and replete, having eaten all the pups.

  George’s fury was something to behold and the big pig, getting a clear message of his displeasure, jumped up and took off. George snatched up his pistol, his bandy legs in full flight, his shots flying wildly after the huge porker, which was running for its very life with George’s bed balanced precariously on its back, mosquito net somehow still attached soaring out behind, like a sail in high wind.

  George had another occasion on which to unsheathe his pistol in a hurry. Mustering in the bush, his horse bolted, took the bit in its teeth and was away. With no chance of halting its wild flight, and with his horse flying straight towards Lancewood scrub (terrible stuff Lancewood, treacherous to ride through its dense splintering growth), which loomed ever closer, he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance in there. Out came his pistol and he shot his horse right between the ears. As it crashed to the ground George, only a little fella, flew through the air and skidded to a halt, wrapped around a slender Lancewood tree – another case of quick thinking, another scar to display.

  George was once accused (whether true or not) of shooting an Aboriginal man and was taken into police custody. Ever loyal, Rooney’s steadfast defence of his innocence prevailed and he was released.

  Rooney was not to be dominated though and once, while hugely angry with George, she devised a unique punishment for the old man that ensured she was safely away from any immediate reprisal. After climbing the tree above his camp-bed, she balanced on a limb, and interrupted a nice nap George was enjoying below by copiously urinating upon him. He waved his arms about in terrible rage and made awful threats but she knew there was no way George could climb the tree in his feeble state. Rooney sat it out for a time until all was calm, then descended, and life continued in its usual benign way.

  George greatly admired Ken, and told me once he thought him the finest young horseman he knew who put up the best rough ride out in bush he ever saw. High praise from an old bushman who had seen it all.

  George lies today in the Elsey cemetery near the town of Mataranka in the Territory.

  CHAPTER 54

  Money is Like a Sixth Sense

  ‘Money is like a sixth sense without which you cannot make a complete use of the other five.’

  W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM

  We had borrowed very little money, having lived thus far with a certain frugality and believing that doing so a bit longer would do us no harm. However, we did need breeders to build up our herd, and for this a bank loan was necessary. Our application meant that the pastoral inspector from the Development Bank was due for a visit, and of course we took steps to impress him as to our worthiness.

  Visitors were rare beings at that time, given we were so far out at the end of a dead-end bush road, so the inspector’s arrival caused quite a stir, with children and dogs all coming out to stare, and lubras hiding shyly and peering around corners with curiosity. He came to the door and was about to enter when he stopped, startled at the sight of our borzoi hound. The Russian was an unusual sight to be sure—lean as a greyhound, taller than a calf, and coolly aloof and unwelcoming.

  ‘Your dog looks like a garfish on legs,’ he said, then almost collapsed with amusement at his own wit.

  Ken, never greatly enamoured of the Russian, who was under suspicion as a sneaky calf-killer, was nevertheless offended on her behalf. ‘You’re not so hot yourself,’ he observed. This wasn’t a good start to a meeting where the granting of a loan was as yet undecided, and it brought Ken my sternest frowning look.

  Curiously, not only was the loan granted, but the pastoral inspector was also insistent that we take a loan of additional funds to build a larger homestead. We decided against this because it wasn’t a pressing priority and could wait.

  Soon after, the Russian was caught red-handed and had to go.

  It was unfortunate that the old law exempting Territory cattle stations from paying income tax had been withdrawn just before we settled Bauhinia. It was also unfortunate that the 1000 breeders we’d signed, sealed and contracted to buy were sold to a higher bidder.

  So instead we purchased a bulldozer and fencing materials. We also bought a 12-volt lighting plant and everyone gathered around to hear its first rackety sound. ‘Might be good un ghish un,’ said the lubras, and there were smiles all around. The lighting plant provided power for a few lights only and was the first engine, apart from the Blitz truck, ever to be heard on Bauhinia.

  In the 1960s the market for bull meat was thriving, with ground beef for hamburgers much in demand in the United States. Early on at
Bauhinia, our bush bulls were still thrown from horseback, then walked 30 kilometres to where they were loaded on trucks and sent off to the Katherine abattoirs.

  On these trips to the loading yards, two old bulls took the lead. Alexander knew exactly where to guide his mob and strode out with real purpose, quite like that other Alexander (the Great) leading his army forth.

  But on reaching the yards, there was no way Alexander was about to be loaded onto a truck; he turned around, put his head with its great sweeping horns down, and set off right back home. This went on for several years, until one day Ken announced, ‘Well, old Alexander made it to Katherine. I saw his carcass hanging in the meat works.’ Such heartlessness!

  Alexander’s mate was a great ragged old bull whom the stock boys called ‘Tongue-go-round’ for his incessant bellowing as he took the lead to the yards. He was somewhat more crafty than Alexander, for it took quite a time longer to cajole him into a truck and off to the same sad fate.

  ‘Nine. S. M. W. Nine, Sierra, Mike, Whisky, calling Victor, India, Delta. Do you read me? Over.’

  In my father’s day, a message from the doctor, if considered urgent enough, could be tapped by Morse code over the telegraph line. ‘Enough quinine and citrate of iron to cover a sixpenny piece’ was prescribed for general bush illness. As few carried money in the bush, the amount was a guess.

  With the arrival of outpost radio and antibiotics in 1963, the days of bush medicine and long treks over unpaved roads to see a doctor ended. Instead, stations were issued with large metal medicine chests, the contents of which were numbered and named, as in a pharmacy. The doctor had only to advise the patient, ‘Take two Number 4s every two hours.’