by Arthur Groom
After nearly three miles of twisting and turning, the canyon opened onto the grassed plain country about ten miles long and several miles wide, known as Bowson’s Hole, the beautiful and fertile Manjura of the natives. The camel pad was now wide and prominent, and soon joined by old disused pads from the west, and the old faint tracks of a large dray impressed deeply into the clay. Towards sunset I passed by MacNamara’s hut, well built of sandstone blocks by W. H. Liddle, but now silent and deserted, the tragic monument of an attempt to breed cattle in the wild hill country. MacNamara had worked on a theory that the walled valleys would act as secure paddocks and attract heavier rainfall, besides being blessed with some good natural waterholes, but his theory failed in practice. A few hundred yards out on the plain north of the old house a sandstone cross stands above the lonely grave of P. O’Leary, and wandering natives use the old stone house for shelter.
Illara (Illarara) Creek, now containing the Areyonga, ran wide and clean beside the old buildings, and then turned in a grand sweep beneath tall gums towards, and through, the cliff walls flanking the south of Bowson’s Hole. I went on, making good time through further gateways of red stone, and looking for a suitable place to camp.
During the night several horses wandered by and commenced to nibble at the end of my sleeping-bag. Attempts to scare them only sent them beyond the circle of light to shelter temporarily behind a spreading mulga. They took no notice of loud protests, which merely echoed across the creek and back from a cliff. Eventually I found more peace sitting up by the fire.
A daylight start and a couple of hours’ steady walking brought me to running water and bulrush pools, continuing until they ran the river for several miles. The place is known as Illara Water, and has its parallel in the better-known and more accessible Parke’s Running Waters of the Finke River, forty-five miles to the east. It gives credence to the theory that the vast sandstone masses of the Krichauff Range rest upon an immense underground reservoir, from which the surplus waters emerge at the tilted crest of the reservoir’s base on a broad plane, running east and west.
The pools of Illara Water were long and deep, and ducks were plentiful. I climbed a sandstone bluff where the river widened to nearly quarter of a mile between it and the cliffs opposite, some hundreds of feet high, in an impressive formation of vertical slabs separated by deep and narrow cracks. My bluff also was of vertical sandstone. One slip, and I would slither a hundred or more feet into the pitch darkness of one of many cracks several feet wide at the top, but narrowing down to a few inches. It was a thought that brought caution. In one slit the carcass of a bullock or cow had become wedged; and I found two more skeletons in a cave that had been reached by wandering cattle unable to get down again.
It was obvious that the Krichauff and James Ranges were tapering off to the south, with fertile plains some distance beyond, then more scattered hills, and, low down, far away to the right and south-west, the Levi and George Gill Ranges, clear-cut and distant red. Another large sandy watercourse, the Walker, with its lines of large dark-green trees, came down from the west and joined the Illara, to continue as the Palmer, which in turn joins the mighty Finke another hundred miles or so farther on, beyond Henbury Station.
Tempe Downs homestead was hidden in the low hills to the south-east. I plotted a course by landmarks, and walked on beneath a hot sun. The walking was tough and tiring, over and round sandhills, and through groves of tall desert oaks, across the running stream of the river again, and through untidy mallee scrubs where jumbled sandhills had no order and no pattern. It was a rubbish dump of sand and trees, and the most monotonous bit of country I had ever seen.
A tiny person with pigtails, looking no more than a small schoolgirl, emerged from Tempe Downs homestead, stood in astonishment, then raced away to bring out her mother-in-law, Mrs de Brenni, sen., and W. H. Liddle, the pioneer grazier of Angas Downs. He had driven a ramshackle camel-buggy sixty miles across the desert to southward to return a heavy plough. Explanations and introductions, and invitations to lunch and overnight stay were all simultaneous, while black faces peered round corners of the natural stone building to see the person, who might even be a policeman on patrol, who had walked and carried his own food and water.
Tempe homestead is well laid out, and the main buildings are solidly built in coloured sandstone, which was quarried by a master craftsman and shaped to size out in the hills. Little Mrs de Brenni quickly mounted her pedal radio transceiver, listed as Station OE, contacted Reginald Pitts, the Flying Doctor Service radio officer at Alice Springs – one hundred and fifty miles away by road – and arranged a ‘sked’* to enable me to talk over the air with Hermannsburg, Station XH, at 7 o’clock that night. This amazing little woman, wife of the station manager, Bert de Brenni, who was absent trying to bring a loaded truck through bog from Alice Springs, was running the whole show, cooking, administering and controlling several native stockmen and women, and looking after her two-year-old son.
The sked came through as planned. Mrs de Brenni worked the pedals and manipulated the switches. She was like a doll before a large sewing-machine, pedalling away with the action of a trained bike-rider to generate sufficient current to send the messages out, yet finding breath to say: ‘Tempe Downs calling Hermannsburg. Tempe Downs calling Hermannsburg. Can you hear me, Hermannsburg? Can you hear me, Hermannsburg? Over to you. Over to you.’ Then she switched a lever and the broadcasting set became a receiver; and back came the voice from Hermannsburg. ‘Hullo, Tempe Downs. Hullo, Tempe Downs. This is Albrecht speaking. I can hear you, Tempe Downs. I can hear you quite well. Good evening, Mrs de Brenni. Is Mr Groom there? Is Mr Groom there? I should like to speak to him. Over to you, Tempe Downs. Over to you.’
The miracle of the ages; marvel of space conquered in a wilderness!
Then little Mrs de Brenni again:
‘I can hear you, Reverend Albrecht. I can hear you quite well, Reverend Albrecht. Yes, Mr Groom is here. He is listening ready for you to speak. Over to you. Over to you.’
‘Albrecht speaking, Mr Groom. I hope you are well. We have been worried about you. As you know, we have had heavy rain – four inches here, more at Haast’s Bluff, which has been cut off. Our trucks are bogged; and we have not been able to get supplies out. However, last Tuesday, Tiger left here with another lot of camels and supplies for you, and should be at Areyonga by now. He is a good man. I repeat, he is a good man. He will guide you to King’s Creek and Ayers Rock. You can rely on him. He will receive further instructions from Pastor Sherer and follow your tracks to Tempe. You must wait there for him and one other native who will come with Tiger from Areyonga. I received your letter by native messenger from Areyonga. You must not walk across the desert alone. Stick close to your camels. Take them wherever you go, and do not attempt to travel without your water canteens well filled. We have done our best here. You have our good wishes. Trust Tiger. He is a good boy. If you have time to continue south to Ernabella, you may take Tiger and the camels. We are very sorry for the delay….’ Then the voice gradually faded, leaving dramatic silence. I was speechless for a moment.
Bert de Brenni arrived before midnight from Alice Springs. He had been bogged many times, and had mail and fresh supplies and promise of an early trip to Alice Springs for his wife and mother. Late into the night the two women talked of nothing else but what they would buy soon. The big truck was unloaded slowly on the Sunday morning by Jimmy the Pig**, a husky native, whose lone grunting efforts were cheered on by his dark mates.
While I was out watching the play of light on the leaning razorbacks of the Arulba Hills to the east, a small cloud of dust drifted up among the tall trees lining the Palmer River, dark pink in the sunset behind me, and a string of four camels emerged in black silhouette and came slowly in. Six native boys were with Tiger. He handed me a note from Pastor Sherer, whose small handwriting was unreadable in the failing light. Tiger’s introduction was wordy.
‘I’m Tige,’ he commenced, and patted an expanding ch
est. ‘Talkajyerie my name. Mr Albrecht send me – take you Ayers Rock – long way. King’s Creek we go, too. Lake Amadeus, too – right up – cross him – I know good place. Last year I take Ol’ Man Thommasin an’ Misser Borgell from Adelaide, and Metingeri he come, too – lazy beggar, nearly losem everybody.’
We shook hands and immediately his six mates lined up for the same procedure.
‘Who are these men?’
For a second there was awkward silence.
‘These men all like to come too,’ Tiger announced. ‘All good boys. I know ’em long time. Good boys. Everybody catch kangaroo – plenty fresh meat – catch pappy-dawg, too. Look about for camella not get lost. Look about for camella not eat poison bush.’
‘Only one more boy come,’ I said firmly. ‘Mr Albrecht tell me that. Mr Sherer write me a note here and say a boy called Tamalji is here with you. Which one Tamalji?’
There was a shuffle in the sand, and I looked into the bearded face of a savage whose eyes gleamed white in the dusk, whose teeth were also white and flashing. At first glimpse he was the wildest-looking man I had ever seem
‘This one Tamalji?’ I asked Tiger abruptly.
The man grunted, muttered rapidly to his mates; and then put his head back and laughed with high-pitched, rollicking, demoniacal guffaws. He could not speak a word of English; but in the dusk he looked powerful, almost frightening, and my acceptance of him only was because Pastor Sherer had chosen him; but I was also facing a common problem in Central Australia. A small camel team had set out with rations in the charge of one trusted native; but others had joined; and so strong is the socialist instinct that they must share with all who came along. I knew that the main rations given in trust would be safe; but I knew, also, that the rations actually distributed and given to Tiger and Tamalji for the journey from Areyonga to Tempe probably had been consumed by the whole group on the first night out.
‘Tiger,’ I announced firmly, ‘you and one boy only can come to Ayers Rock. All other boys must go away now. We start tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.’ Then I stumbled through the darkness towards the homestead, hoping the problem would solve itself.
_______
* A pre-arranged conversation.
** Manimani.
CHAPTER XVI
WESTWARD INTO A
BLOOD-RED WILDERNESS
Tiger was ready beside his four camels, grinning widely. Tamalji, who looked even more savage in the daylight, stood beside him. A few feet behind were three more natives and behind them again another half dozen.
‘Ready, Tiger?’
He hesitated.
‘These men like to come, too,’ he said.
‘No!’ I snapped. ‘Only Tamalji come.’
Tiger was disappointed, though he appeared to be acting a part arranged by others. He looked at a fat youth of about fifteen who stepped forward.
‘This one boy belong to me,’ he announced. ‘Maybe he come?’
I made a rapid mental calculation of what an extra hand might mean to the ration supply and equipment.
‘He is a properly good boy,’ Tiger continued. ‘He only eat little bit tucker. He catchem pappy-dawg, and kangaroo and euro for tuckout and fresh meat for everybody. Good camel boy. Help me a lot.’
I agreed with some misgiving, and roughly ordered the rest of the wanderers away. Tiger soon put the camels up before more relatives waylaid us, and we moved off slowly across the sandy river, heading dead west.
It was my intention to walk at least during the cool of the day, and perhaps ride at midday; but there are few things more monotonous and trying than the first day of a long camel journey. We proceeded half a mile to the first sandhill, then stopped to repair a broken nose-line. Another few hundred yards, and another stop to readjust packs, and so it went on for several miles in a staccato procession of stop and start, only to stop and adjust again. Only one camel had the usual nose-peg inserted in the fleshy part of the nose. The other three were linked in line, eight or ten feet apart, with lengths of thin cord and frayed rope. They were quiet, painfully slow, obstinate, smelly; and snuffled, belched, groaned, dribbled, and spat. The saddles were old; but the large wooden food-boxes and six five-gallon water canteens were substantial and good.
Tiger obviously understood the camels; and avoided their vicious biting and spitting with the agility of an acrobat. His main problem was to nurse them into agreeable marching order, and to get them all moving at the same easy pace at which they will swish-swish quietly on through sand and over clay-pan hour after hour. By midday we had travelled about five miles along a sandy valley and through the rocky Intulkuna-iwara* Gap, to a large clay-pan filled with fresh yellow water. Tiger unloaded the camels, and pointed to numerous recent tracks of natives heading south towards Ernabella Mission. Tiger was becoming voluble and cheerful, though anxious to impress and tell all about his previous trip with ‘Misser Borgell and Ol’ Man Thommasin’. Tamalji had remarkable energy, and was ready to scout along on foot over sandhills, rocky ridges, or up steep hillsides. Through rocky gorges and valleys his terrific laughter echoed like the devil let loose. Fat little Njunowa watched every movement I made, obviously amused; and gave a running commentary in Pitjentjara dialect to the other two. When he wasn’t doing that, he was eating anything he could lay hands on, or dozing drunkenly as he rode.
At the midday halt the three boys threw raw beef straight on the ashes, and Njunowa added a lizard two feet long. I grilled a pound of juicy steak on a green stick, and baked some onions. No chef could have prepared a better feast. Njunowa was amused and watchful, and Tamalji laughed outright until Tiger called them to order, shed his hat, and bowed. There was immediate silence while he repeated grace in the Pitjentjara tongue. It was a simple tribute that I did not forget throughout the journey. The little ceremony was repeated quietly before and after every meal.
The track led into a broad valley separating the red Levi Range, two miles southward, from an unnamed and lower parallel ridge running across the north. There were acres of golden cassia-bushes in bloom, white daisies up since the rain, and odd parakeelia in bright purple points over the light-pink sandhills. On clay-pans and in shallow gullies there were light-blue bell-shaped flowers on bushes waist-high, and a dainty white heath. Black cockatoos circled above us and flew in wavering formation into the west, just as they had flown over me in the Macdonnells some weeks before. It seems to be an evening habit. Strings of Tempe Downs cattle started up at a distance, ran closer in, circling and sniffing, then with a sudden snort and flurry, and up-flung tails, they would wheel and thunder away half a mile or so, to turn quickly and stand in simulated anger awhile before feeding quietly away. The camels travelled steadily at about two and a half miles an hour. It gave me time to wander off with cameras and water-bottles north or south of the route, up on to the low hills and outcrops, or over the few sandhills that seemed out of place against the red walls of the Levi. Tiger called loud commentaries and advice with much pointing and waving of battered hat.
‘Everything going all right. We all right. Tiger knows good track. We go a long way today – allaway. Make camp – thataway,’ pointing well ahead up the valley with a small mulga camel-switch. ‘You want to ride? Maybe you get tired walkabout all day.’
But I preferred to walk. I had plenty to think about, and plenty to see. By mid-afternoon I had named the four camels. The leader was a small hairy cow camel with sudden temperamental turns. I gave it the name of Cranky Beggar, with variations. The second, a large, lumbering brute, was already known as ‘Ol’ Man’; and Tiger declared he was very old, very reliable, and that his filthy habits and noises were harmless. The third camel was a timid, dark-eyed cow, quickly christened ‘Darkie’; and the fourth, moving along slowly and heavily, at the rear, breaking the leading line every mile or so, was named ‘Lady-in-Waiting’ (the second). Tiger was worried about her. ‘Maybe tonight little camel come up belong to that one. Maybe she go two, three, four days. I dunno; but I think little camel c
ome up sometime all right. No good. We can’t travel with baby camel. Must kill him – we go long way today – allaway – thataway!’ And another pointing into the west with his mulga switch. ‘Come on – Ol’ Man! you’m good camel; not cranky feller. You know me – you know Tige. You know – I’m take you an’ Misser Borgell and Ol’ Man Thommasin, las’ year. Come – on! You know this road.’
Tiger’s definition of a road meant anything from a dingo track to a highway.
We camped about eighteen miles out from Tempe Downs Station, within a great red-walled bay of the Levi** Range. The heavy rains had swept the floor of Petermann Creek clean, and the fresh marks of birds, snakes, kangaroos, and some other creatures I could not recognize, were clear and numerous in the rippled sand. Tiger found fresh water beside a large gum-tree, watered the camels and turned them towards the towering cliffs. They hobbled off, nibbling at the mulga-shoots, and were soon silent in the dusk. I took stock of all our food and utensils. The missionaries had sent out tinned fruits, tinned meats, sauces, jams, honey, syrup, dried fruits, bacon, a large bottle of brandy, and first-aid equipment, many packets of biscuits, potatoes, a bag of onions, beetroot, carrots, kohlrabi, nuts, cheese, oranges, prunes, plenty of tea, and not much sugar; but somewhere along the route, eating utensils had been forgotten. Between the four of us we had two plates, one large Bedourie camp-oven, one iron pot, three mugs, one spoon, and one large knife as the only cutting implement in the whole turn-out. It was with an inward sense of humour that I realized that I had two valuable cameras and many films that filled one whole camel-box; but no clock or watch between us, no compass, pocket-knife, needle, string, mirror, or axe; we had no tent or cover in case of rain! no lantern, torch, or means of artificial light.
In some ways we were a ragtime show; but what of it?