by Di Morrissey
‘Pull over there, I’ll show you where to camp later,’ said Len. ‘Come and meet Mrs Johns. Doris, get back here.’
As the girl ran to the horse, Helen, looking dusty but pleased with herself, slid from the saddle and rubbed her back. ‘I’m a bit stiff. Been a while since I had a long ride.’
‘You did good,’ said Len gruffly.
‘We’re not very respectable to meet anyone,’ said Marta looking at their well-worn clothes and unwashed faces.
‘Ah, the missus knows how it is travelling out here.’
They walked to the homestead with its high-pitched tin roof and wide screened verandahs. Len whipped off his hat as a small, middle aged woman came towards them, smiling warmly.
‘Hello, hello. Welcome. I’m Annabel Johns. Len has told me you’re on a filming trip. How interesting.’
Topov was the first to greet her, taking her hand and bending over it with a kiss. ‘Beautiful lady, so kind.’ He straightened and with a flourish added, ‘I am Topov. Maxim Topov.’
Helen who had already met Mrs Johns introduced everyone else.
‘Lovely to meet you all. Would you like to refresh yourselves and meet for a cool drink on the verandah? Len will show you where the amenities are,’ she said.
The basic wash house constructed for the stationhands had cold showers but plenty of water so everyone was feeling refreshed and cheerful as they gathered later on the verandah of the homestead where a table was set up with jugs of cordial and bottles of beer.
‘This is very kind of you,’ said Marta.
‘We don’t see a lot of visitors. And with my husband away, Len thought I’d enjoy meeting you all. Now, do please tell me more about your project.’
Len had tidied up and looked a different man with a clean shirt and slicked back hair. He hovered in the background, rolling a cigarette and sipping a glass of beer. Mrs Johns listened attentively to Topov’s extravagant description of their film plans, with Helen interrupting periodically to clarify a point.
‘Well, I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ said Mrs Johns. ‘Few people really have any idea of how the native people live – their dancing, hunting and riding skills. Of course, their ways are very different from ours, but my husband swears by them as stockmen. Isn’t that so, Len?’
Len nodded. ‘Yep. They’re natural horsemen and bushmen. Their bush ways don’t always seem right to white people but that’s how they’ve always been. And no matter what you think of their customs you can’t say that they don’t know this land and how to survive in it better than white men ever will.’
‘Could you explain some of those customs to us?’ asked Marta.
‘Ah, not my place to do that,’ said Len.
Mrs Johns clapped her hands. ‘Len, why don’t you go and talk to Samson and Joe and the rest of the boys. See if they’ll put on a corroboree for these people that they could film.’ She turned to the group. ‘They are wonderful dancers and they sing and tell stories that are quite dramatic. It’s very colourful.’
Len put down his glass. ‘I’ll go and ask. They can be funny about what they do in front of us. Specially women.’
‘Can I come with you? Perhaps I can explain to them what we’re doing,’ said Helen.
Len looked doubtful but he didn’t know how to rebuff Helen who stood up, attempting to smooth her crumpled skirt as she stepped off the verandah.
‘We’ll take the ute,’ said Len. ‘The camp’s down near the creek.’
Topov sprang to his feet and followed them.
‘I do hope your lady friend is prepared to visit the blacks’ camp,’ said Annabel. ‘She’s seems a rather high-class sort of person. Has she been out here very long?’
‘Long enough,’ said Peter. ‘Despite her airs and graces I don’t think Helen gets shocked very easily.’
‘This is a bit different,’ said Mrs Johns.
‘Could you explain a bit about this corroboree?’ asked Drago. ‘It’s a dance?’
‘Oh, it’s a shame that you can’t talk to my husband about these things. He’s very knowledgeable. It’s like a celebration, for an important event – anything from a funeral or initiation ceremony to something like a good hunting trip, or any occasion. There’s a lot of important rituals we aren’t privy to. But they seem to make up dances about anything. They’re wonderful mimics. I’ve seen them do a corroboree about things that happen around here. I swear you can pick the people they mimic, including myself. And of course the way they imitate animals is wonderful. Their stories are very special. My husband says I should try to get them explained and put them down in a book, but, really, who’d be interested?’
‘What sort of stories?’ asked Colin.
Mrs Johns smiled. ‘My goodness, they have a story about everything and anything. Why kingfishers have blue feathers, why rocks are in a certain place, how the stars came to be, why rivers go where they do, why the emu has a long neck and legs. Doris knows lots of them. I think she likes to tell me legends to pass the time and get her out of doing schoolwork.’
‘Who does Doris belong to?’ asked Marta.
Mrs Johns sighed. ‘She’s what they call a little bit mixup child. Her father was a white stockman who has moved on. Her mother is very young so her grandmother looks after her, but all the tribe feel responsible for her well-being, even though she’s a half-caste. And I have to say, I keep an eye on her myself. I can’t agree with the welfare people just snatching the light-skinned children, though some of them are well looked after. Her grandmother is a smart old thing and hid Doris when the welfare people came out to this station.’
‘So are you teaching Doris to read and write? Len mentioned a school,’ said Helen.
‘Oh, it’s very informal. Not all of the children want to do my little lessons. But Doris, she’s always asking me questions, but she’s equally curious about her traditional lore.’ Annabel straightened up, ‘Now, if you are going to stay overnight, can I direct you to the best place to camp?’ She turned to Marta. ‘My dear, of course you and Helen are welcome to stay in the Big House here. We have beds along the sleep-out on the other side of the house.’
‘A bed! How wonderful, thank you so much,’ said Marta.
There was an area that was used for rough camping near several large trees. Hessian sacks stitched together were suspended on poles to provide a rough awning. Under it were old chairs, several upturned logs worn to smooth seats and a fire circle, ringed with stones, held the remains of many fires. Further away, a primitive toilet, a seat over a hole in the ground, was surrounded by a few sheets of tin and screened by more hessian sacks. A forty-four gallon drum of water stood in the shade and several waterbags were hung from a branch of a tree in the shade to keep the water cool.
‘There could be excellent filming opportunities, if Topov and Helen don’t frighten the natives,’ said Drago.
By the time Topov, Len and Helen returned from the Aboriginal camp, the filmmakers’ vehicles were parked close to the campsite, bedding rolled out, extra chairs and a table set up and a campfire was burning brightly with a large blackened teapot swinging over it from an iron tripod. As the women were sleeping in the Big House, none of the men had bothered to pitch a tent as the weather was fine.
‘What did they say?’ asked Colin. He was feeling quite excited at the thought of seeing a genuine Aboriginal ceremony. ‘Are they going to dress up?’
‘Undress. Naked,’ declared Topov. ‘Big dance tomorrow night. All day making ready.’
‘At night? What’ll we do about lighting?’ said Drago. ‘A campfire won’t be bright enough to film by.’
‘You think of something. You fix,’ said Topov airily as he fell into a chair. ‘Johnny, where is rum?’
Len strolled over and glanced at the sky and Topov’s rum. ‘Sun’s not down yet. By the way, the blacks aren’t allowed any grog. Now, I was going to suggest we go catch dinner. You might like to film one of the boys bringing down a ’roo, spearing a fish.’ He looked questioningly a
t Drago and Peter but it was Johnny who jumped up. ‘I’ll be in that.’
‘If there’s any shooting I’d like a crack at it,’ announced Helen.
‘Not shooting,’ said Len. ‘Doing it the old way, with spears.’
They broke into two groups. Topov insisted that Marta go with the fishing party in her red swimming costume to film a sequence at the river. Helen chose to rest in the caravan parked near a tree. Colin and Peter took the Land Rover with young Doris between them in the front seat to show them around the property. She pointed out where the ceremonial dancing ground was, but shook her curly head when Colin asked if she danced too.
‘No good place for Doris. Grown-up business.’ Mischievously she put her fingers to her lips.
Peter, who was rarely effusive leaned back and stretched his arms. ‘My God, look at this country . . . it goes on forever.’ They had parked on a rise and before them stretched rich green and brown country with a small river twisting through it and ragged ranges on the horizon. Shining lagoons fringed with lush plants dotted the foreground. ‘It is beautiful but . . . empty. Why do these people live in such an empty, lonely land? It is not for me.’
‘It seems some of the stations that run a lot of cattle must do pretty well,’ said Colin.
‘It is too quiet. Even the native people live around the white people. I would not like to be lost out there. Inhospitable country,’ said Peter.
Doris, young as she was, had grasped the sense of what they were saying and she touched Colin’s arm and pointed to the distance. ‘Doris home. Longa time walkabout. My people take Doris special place.’
‘Out there? You walkabout out there? What special place?’ Colin asked the young girl, wondering what she meant by ‘home’. As far as he could see, the land stretched away to the horizon in a vast empty wilderness of soft muted blues, grey-greens and rusty red. The splash of river, the wetlands, the patch of dry earth, an occasional tree and the distant ranges looked as untouched as when it had been created.
Peter started the Land Rover and Colin patted Doris’s hand wishing Drago had been with them to capture the expression on her beautiful little face with his camera.
They arrived at the river to find Topov wading into the shallows, shouting at Marta who was posed lying on a rock. Above her stood Samson, a tall thin Aborigine with blue-black skin whose sinuous body was taut, poised, ready to throw a spear.
‘Topov, you’re frightening the fish!’ exclaimed Marta.
‘We pick up fish shot after. You lie down.’
Samson lowered the spear. ‘Fish all gone. No good hunt ’em.’ He made to leave.
Drago lowered his camera and waved at the Land Rover. ‘Bring Doris over here, let’s get some pictures of her.’
Marta sat up and the little girl scampered over and sat with her on the rock. They started talking as Topov waded from the river.
‘Colin, you write story of how little girl help Marta find fish.’
‘Ah, right.’ Colin joined Marta and Doris and squatted on the rock as Doris talked about the big fish that lived in deep holes along the bank. She took Marta by the hand and entered the water to show her how the women went searching for roots of plants and waterlilies, using their toes to find them in the muddy shallows.
Drago, noticing Samson walk further downstream, picked up the Bolex and followed him. From near a tree on the bank Samson pulled out what appeared to be a long piece of bark but as he pushed it into the water Drago realised that it was a very shallow canoe. He was amazed that anyone could balance on it let alone manoeuvre it.
Samson glided past the pandanus trees, their labyrinth of arched roots making a toehold in the river and stopped. Not a ripple from the canoe broke the surface as he stood, still and silent, spear poised until, with a sudden movement that caught Drago by surprise, he thrust the spear deep into the water, teetering but not losing his balance on the tiny leaf-like bark canoe beneath his feet. When he lifted the spear, a fat silver fish wiggled frantically on the end of the prong. He stroked the canoe to shore, flung the spear and fish on the ground.
‘How you cook this fish?’ asked Drago.
Samson picked up the still-quivering fish and handed it to him. ‘Cook ’im in fire. Good tucker.’
Doris and Marta had a pile of rhizomes that Marta had tied in her shirt as she and Doris squeezed into the Land Rover with Colin and Peter. Approaching the camp they passed a group of women out gathering food and Doris became excited, calling to them. Shyly the women halted and Doris jumped out, pulling Marta by the hand and chattering to them.
‘She wants you to go with them,’ said Colin.
‘All right. I suppose I’ll see you later,’ laughed Marta. Dressed in a pair of shorts over her red swimsuit and old canvas sandshoes and a hat, Marta gamely followed the women with little Doris bouncing beside her. Colin watched them weave through the tall grass and couldn’t help but notice that while the women walked with ease and grace, they did so very swiftly. He hoped Marta could keep up.
‘Where’s Marta?’ asked Helen, as the others returned to the camp. She looked hot and bothered.
‘You should go for a swim at the river, it’s beautiful,’ said Colin.
‘And we have dinner,’ announced Drago dragging the fish from the car.
‘Marta’s gone with the native women. Do you want to catch up with them and dig for food?’ suggested Peter. His normally dour expression had a slight gleam of mirth in his eyes.
‘I believe I can make myself useful in other ways.’ Helen turned on her heel. ‘Topov! What have you filmed?’
That evening Mrs Johns sent freshly baked bread, a tub of butter and a boiled fruitcake to the visitors. Samson, who’d assumed the role of guardian angel, showed them how to cook the fish wrapped in paperbark and sprinkled it with several leaves that gave the fish a tangy citrus-like aroma. The bulbs and roots that Marta had collected were baked in the hot ashes and spread with butter. It was all followed by billy tea and fruitcake and voted one of their best ever meals.
After dinner as they sat in a ring around the campfire, a group from the Aboriginal camp silently appeared to sit in the shadows. Doris quietly came and curled up next to Marta and Drago took photographs of her, the copper highlights in her hair lit by the glow of the fire. Len also appeared and, together with Samson, slowly negotiated plans for the corroboree the following night.
‘Y’see, they can only do certain dances, show you certain things. Lots of their ceremonies are taboo for whites and for women to see,’ explained Len.
Colin was deeply interested. ‘But they tell a story? These people have no written language so they act out their history in dance, is that right?’
‘Yep. And a lot of singing. The songs, chants even more so.’ Len scratched his head. ‘It’s how they read the country, their land, their law, their customs, ownership, ever since they can remember, way, way back. Right, Samson?’
The tall Aborigine nodded. ‘Yeah, boss. We sing ’em stories, we sing our country, we keep ’im strong. Alive. And paint up them pictures good.’
‘You mean the cave paintings?’ asked Marta.
‘They’re not just in caves, there’re carvings on rocks and they do a lot of drawings in the sand too. Keeping the stories going,’ said Len.
‘It’s so interesting,’ said Marta to Colin.
‘What is the story they’ll do for us tomorrow night?’ asked Colin. ‘Can I write it down?’
‘Just watch and listen, mate,’ advised Len. ‘Some of the ceremonies, like initiation for the boys, can go on for weeks.’
Topov was in his element. He leaned back sipping rum out of his tea mug. ‘Topov film native ceremony. This good, very good.’
‘Yes, thank you, Len, for your help,’ said Helen.
‘S’orright,’ he said modestly. ‘Y’know a lot of these old ceremonies could die out. You talk to the young Abos in Alice and Darwin and they don’t always know the old stories, or want to. Not a lot of the stations are like this one,
let the stockmen take off for ceremonies and stuff. And the missions . . . they try to wipe the old ways out. Make the kids modern.’
Samson frowned. ‘Mission people want piccaninnies. Welfare man take ’em piccaninnies.’
‘What do you mean by take?’ asked Helen.
Len looked at her. ‘Half-caste kids with light skin are taken away by the protection people to be assimilated into white society. They’re being “saved” by the missions. To my mind it’s just a way of training them up to be bloody domestics for the white stations and breeding the black out of them.’
‘But what we saw at the blacks’ camp, back before Tennant Creek you couldn’t let children live in those conditions,’ said Drago.
‘Maybe not,’ replied Len. ‘But not all Abos are bad parents, they just do things different to us. Some families hide their kids, rub charcoal on them to make their skin dark. But they get found and taken anyway.’ He glanced at the silent, listening faces at the perimeter of the fire. ‘I’ll be off then. Can I walk you ladies to the Big House? See the rest of you in the morning. It’ll be a big day. The paint ’em up for the corroboree will start early. See ya.’
After Len, Helen and Marta disappeared into the night, they left behind a quiet group at the fire.
Topov was the first to speak. ‘What does one do for little black children? Is not easy, eh?’
Practical Drago broke the spell. ‘Topov, this ceremony. There’s going to be singing and music with this dancing . . . We need to run sound.’
So far they had shot film that had no sound because synchronising sound with vision in these conditions was difficult. Topov had evidently planned that this would not be a problem because they could overlay a soundtrack with Marta later on, as she was an experienced actress. However, there was no way they could recreate the Aboriginal music, singing and sound effects of the corroboree. They had to use a sound system.
Topov, for once, was thoughtful. ‘Who will do sound?’
‘Do we have the gear?’ asked Drago. ‘I said we’d need to bring it.’