The Fruit Picker

by Bea Eschen

  They shook hands again. This time, Moore’s handshake was softer.

  Tjandamurra (Janda)

  Even with the big Land Rover it was difficult to drive on this road. They were on the way to an aboriginal outstation somewhere between Yirrkala and Nhumlunbuy, in northeast Arnhem Land in the north of Australia. The driver did his best to swerve around rocky stones, potholes and spiky shrubs. It was a bumpy ride, and Sebastian had a headache. The breaks outside in the humid heat didn’t help but made his headache worse. The air-conditioning was on high and Sebastian enjoyed the cold air blowing in his face.

  “Are you gut?” Dural was trying to throw in some German words.

  He looked wild and earthy with a grey long beard that covered half his face and almost touched his huge protruding belly. Uncombed fuzzy hair, intermingled with yellow bleached streaks, surrounded his head in a tangle. His facial features were those of an Aboriginal; he had a wide flat nose, and strong bushy eyebrows

  further evoked his deeply set black eyes. Dural’s father was Swiss and had come to Arnhem Land in the sixties to work in the bauxite mine near Nhulunbuy, then called Nabalco. Dural’s mother was an aboriginal woman who was employed in Nabalco’s office. She was from this area.

  “Maybe not. I think I am coming down with a cold or something.”

  Sebastian was stressed by his quick departure from the orchard. Everything had to happen fast, and he felt he hadn’t properly said goodbye to Aaron, who looked sad when Sebastian left. Nor had he found the time to write an email to his parents, so he had called them instead. They were shocked by what they were reading in the news, but relieved that the lawyer made sure their son was safe.

  “Yes, safety first,” the lawyer told Sebastian. Glenn Moore called him the day after their meeting to let him know Dural would pick him up the following day to take him to Arnhem Land, where Sebastian was due to meet a man by the name of Tjandamurra, who would look after him.

  “Tjandamurra must mix you a brew with nambara. It will help your cold.”

  “And what is that?” Sebastian asked annoyed.

  “Nambara are the leaves of the paperbark tree. The leaves are crumbled into hot water and left to steep. You inhale the aroma. And for headaches, the inner bark of the paperbark tree is pounded and soaked in warm water, used as a drink or wash and applied to head, neck and ears.”

  “Who is Tjandamurra?” Sebastian was getting curious.

  “His tribal name is Djiniyini Gurruwirra, but everybody calls him Tjandamurra.”

  “How did he get his nickname?”

  Dural loved to talk about his people. “The historic Tjandamurra inspires us, who was a famous guerrilla fighter − he was one of the few who fought the European colonisers in Australia. He lived from 1873 to 1897. Our Tjandamurra today is still young but respected by our community like an Elder.”

  “Why?” Sebastian was getting more and more interested in what he was hearing.

  “Well, he passionately lives the outstation life and by doing so applies and reworks the knowledge and wisdom of our ancestors, but also, he is reviving lost knowledge. It is important for us to keep our knowledge alive so we can pass it on to our next generations.”

  “Tell me about the outstation life!” Sebastian was keen to learn about the place to which he was sent. No one had yet told him anything and he was bursting with curiosity.

  “It was introduced to Arnhem Land as an initiative by the government in the 1970s. It is supposed to help Yolngu move back to and control their clan lands. You can also call it a homeland away from the pressures of life at Yirrkala and Nhulunbuy.”

  Dural continued after he left time for Sebastian to ask more, but Sebastian was listening attentively and waiting for Dural to carry on.

  “Tjandamurra leads rehabilitation programs for aboriginal young people who have been in prison. He helps them re-connect to our land by taking them into the bush after their terrifying ordeal. Through rituals such as dance, song and body paint he helps them access their dreams again. These rituals show episodes of the dreamtime. His half-brother is in Darwin Don Dale Youth Detention for aggravated robbery. Some of our people die in there for lack of connection to their people and land.”

  “Are dreams and dreamtime the same?” Sebastian asked.

  “Essentially yes,” Dural answered. “Dreams are more individual while the dreamtime comprises the whole.”

  “What about his parents?”

  “His ancestor bloodline is not clear because Tjandamurra’s mother was affected by the lost generation policy. As a young child she was forcibly taken away from her family and brought to a Methodist mission on Elcho Island. Her connection to her kinship is lost. Tjandamurra’s grandfather, his father’s father, was Yolngu who helped fight the Japanese in the 1940s, protecting the north coast of Australia. A Japanese soldier shot him dead. His father died young of diabetes.”

  Sebastian was surprised. “I didn’t know Aborigines fought in the Australian military at that time!”

  “There are many facts that are not known about Aborigines and many of these facts are kept secret.” Dural seemed to get upset as his voice became shaky and his eyes watered.

  “In 1941 a special reconnaissance unit of Yolngu men was formed to help repel Japanese raids on Australia’s northern coastline. It was then when Yolngu made contact with Australian and US service men. This was also the time when petrol sniffing began.”

  “Yes, I have heard about that. I guess they do it all over the world. Years of sniffing fuck up the brain.” Sebastian said.

  “It sure does.” Dural agreed. “Even I sniffed for a while when I was young. Shit, still don’t get why I did that.” He was getting more upset.

  Time to change the topic, Sebastian thought. “So, what about Tjandamurra’s mother? Is she still around?”

  “Yes, she’s a weaver. She is out in the bush a lot and collects pandanus leaves, which she dyes and then weaves into baskets, dilly bags, mats and strainers for leaching food. Sometimes she sells her products to the tourists.”

  “Where would she find tourists in this countryside?” Sebastian asked.

  “There are a few campsites around here, but the tourists have to have permits because this is protected aboriginal land with limited access.” Dural continued proudly: “If I catch tourists without a permit I fine them because I am a ranger.”

  “But how do the tourists know they have to have a permit here?” Sebastian asked, confused.

  Dural was resolute in his opinion. “If you travel the country of other people, you have to inform yourself. Not knowing the rules is not an excuse around here.”

  “I understand.” Sebastian was sensing hostility in Dural’s voice. He was amazed at his strong aboriginality despite his father being Swiss. Much later Sebastian found out that his grandparents had raised Dural while his father had played only a minor role in his upbringing. This was common practice among Aborigines as grandparents and extended family members played an active role in child care and in the education and passing on of cultural knowledge, customs and family beliefs.

  This was their second day of driving. They had left Katherine the day before in the morning and stopped in a small place called Bulman Weemol in Main Arnhem Land, four hundred kilometers east of Katherine. The road was red and dusty and when they got there, they thought themselves lucky to find accommodation and a store where they bought something to eat.

  There was a festival, called a corroboree, with aboriginal dancing and an art display run by indigenous women, with jewelry made of a variety of dyed seed pods, fabrics and scarves with aboriginal patterns, canvas and bark paintings, woven baskets and mats, and much more. When the flaming hot sun disappeared behind the horizon, there were more dance performances. The local Aborigines used white clay to paint each other with symbols and patterns. Dressed with red headbands and red cloth casually wrapped around their waists, they danced by imitating crane birds, kangaroos and crocodiles while others were playing the didgeridoo and c
lapping sticks.

  The community was in high spirits and when darkness took over, the children watched an animated version of The Rainbow Serpent, a story about the history of origins on aboriginal terms, on an outdoor screen. A feast was cooking in the earth oven that was covered with large sheets of paper bark and tended by several men. The smell of the roasting meat and vegies spread through the village making hungry mouths water. Another highlight was when they put a fish sculpture on fire. It was made of rope and thin wire that had been soaked in kerosene before and hung off a scaffold. Sebastian watched the rapidly burning flames, which were swept along by the warm evening wind. The flickering light reflected on the excited faces of the onlookers. They felt the deep relationship between them and country, and expressed their gratitude to nature that looked after them as long as humankind looked after her. The exchange of values, actions and products with the purpose of benefitting each other gave the Aborigines a sense of stability and trust.

  Sebastian was one of a handful of white fellas enjoying the various activities. The Aborigines were friendly with big smiles in their faces, inviting him to join them for the late meal and drink. The meat was so tender it dissolved in his mouth, and the taste foreign − earthlike and aromatic from the herbs and veggies it was cooked in. Their natural way of being and excitement to share their culture and tradition with him and each other delighted Sebastian. It was an experience he would never forget.

  Dural woke him from his thoughts.

  “We are almost there. Do you see the huge paperbark swamp in the distance?”

  “Yes, I see it. Is that grass in front of it?”

  “It’s sedge. Sedge grows in the wetlands. During dry periods we harvest the juicy corms.”

  Dural tried in vain to avoid a large pothole. The Land Rover went right through it, splashing up water and making the two passengers jump in their seats.

  “Your hideout is at the side just outside the wetland. There are a few cabins under a large banyan tree, surrounded by pockets of rainforest. They were built for tourist accommodation but we found the tourists too intrusive. So, now we are using them for people like you, and our young people who have lost their dreams. The cabins are self-contained. There is even air-conditioning.”

  “Great.” Sebastian was happy. He would have time for himself, read books and surf the net again.

  “What about Internet?” He asked with a sudden thought.

  Dural was amused. “Don’t worry young man. There is Wi-Fi but not inside the cabin. For that you have to walk up a little hill. You’ll get a signal for your mobile connection and Wi-Fi on top of the hill. For that we call it Signal Hill.”

  Sebastian had noticed a few times before that distances covering hundreds of kilometer in Australia were described as just down the road. It took another two hours of bumpy and dusty gravel road until they reached their destination.

  On arrival, Sebastian could hardly believe his eyes. They had reached an oasis after a long ride through a desert-like landscape. He stepped out of the Land Rover and was overwhelmed by the cool fresh air and the smell of earth. Bird song and buzzing insects filled the air like a melody. An old huge banyan tree had spread its aerial prop roots like a jungle over a wide area. The focal point was a hollow tree trunk over two meters in diameter that was surrounded by winding and tangled up prop roots, which must have earlier grown around another trunk that had rotted away. To Sebastian’s surprise, the space within looked inhabited. The banyan spread out sideways in all directions. The main trunk was hard to make out as the prop roots had developed into trunks themselves, the whole resembling a forest. Six wooden cabins were built into the various spaces of the banyan. Each cabin looked different, as their designs were adapted around the prop roots of the tree. One cabin stood out as it was built vertically along a trunk with a veranda reaching out into the forest. This was the community cabin for the tourists but was now used as an office for Tjandamurra’s rehabilitation centre. The crown of the banyan, comprising large, glossy green oval leaves, provided shade over the entire village. In the light breeze, filtered sunlight cut through the rustling leaves and radiated off the surfaces in an ever-changing interplay of light and shade.

  Dural pointed to Sebastian’s cabin. It was isolated from the others and almost screened off by a row of prop roots and new growth. A small staircase let up to the entrance door with a small seating area in front of it. Inside the wooden walls a self-contained studio apartment awaited him. A double bed tucked away behind a fabric

  screen, a gas stove, sink, fridge and a separate bathroom with shower and toilet.

  Each wall had a window that gave the room an abundance of light. It was clean and smelled of fresh linen.

  They unloaded the Land Rover and filled the fridges and freezers. Somewhere on the way they had stopped in a supermarket, and as shopping trips would only happen once a week, they had plenty of supplies. Sebastian’s cabin fridge was filled to the limit, and he was feeling all set and ready for his out-time. He could not have wished for more, and in this peaceful world away from it all he felt safe.

  The place was idyllic. The lush area around the banyan was covered with healthy green plants and grass. Sebastian walked a narrow stony path that lead to a small water hole with clear sparkling water. It was located under an outcropping of rocks − the kind of place snakes like. Water was splashing against the surrounding rock wall in tiny waves coming from a great depth. There was no creek that fed the pool, so Sebastian concluded the water was rising from a spring. On his way back he would go for a quick dip. He followed the path uphill and spotted a wooden mast with several antennae. This must be Signal Hill. A small wooden shelter − just big enough for two people, stood on the top. Under it, a wooden table with a bench provided for comfort whilst enjoying the panoramic view over the open country comprising a mixture of scrubland with sporadic tufts of trees, wetlands, and sandy coastline in front of the deep blue ocean in the distance.

  The setting was the perfect location for a long rest. Equipped with his laptop, Sebastian sat down and breathed in the clean fresh air. The light warm breeze dried up his sweat and the magic of the place let him forget his predicament. After a while of blissful contemplation he opened his computer and wrote a long email to Magda. He couldn't type fast enough to tell her about the events of the past weeks. Internet was fast too. Divine!

  In the corner of his eye he noticed a movement. With a sudden jerk he swung around. Tjandamurra was standing there, holding a beautifully handcrafted spear. He was smiling, exposing two rows of straight white teeth that stood in sharp contrast to his black face.

  “I pick you up. Soon there will be a thunderstorm.”

  With the spear in his hand he raised his arm and pointed to a dark brew of heavy clouds above them, his gesture hinting at a deep-seated fighter spirit. The spear was made of a wooden shaft with a pointed head at the end. The carefully carved barbs just before it terminated into the sharpened end took all of Sebastian’s attention. Then he looked at Tjandamurra, who personified a mixture of past and present. Carrying his spear whilst walking with earphones and the latest model iPhone showed pride of his heritage and culture, yet keeping up with trends and latest technology.

  His black curly hair fell casually on his forehead, partly concealing his wide twinkling eyes that gave an intense but warm gaze. G-star denim shorts and a red armband was all he wore. Sebastian liked him straight away.

  “Hi Tjandamurra, it’s nice to meet you.” Sebastian said.

  Tjandamurra kept smiling his bright smile but didn’t respond.

  With time Sebastian learnt that formalities weren’t Tjandamurra’s traits. Whatever he did was done with nonchalance.

  “We better hurry.”

  Again he pointed with his spear, this time toward the path leading down Signal Hill, reminding Sebastian of a warrior showing his army of fighters the way to safety.

  Tjandamurra led the way back with Sebastian following close behind. He moved fast and sleek like a
cat. His firm and chiseled calf muscles were the products of his life in the bush and doing everything on foot. There was not a gram of fat on his slim yet muscular body. Suddenly Sebastian realised how much he was missing the company of another man. Erotic thoughts entered his mind, which he tried hard to dismiss. This was not the right place or time to think of sex. Instead he said in a low voice:

  “Your spear is beautiful.”

  Tjandamurra stopped and turned around to face him. As if he could read Sebastian’s mind, he answered,

  “So are your thoughts.”

  They looked at each other and laughed, realising the ambiguity of their conversation. Their friendship was sealed.

  “You know,” Tjandamurra said after a while, “It’s my grandfather’s spear. He was a funny man, because he preferred his spear to his gun to fight the Japanese soldiers. In return they shot him dead.”

  Sebastian: “I’d say he was a proud man.”

  Tjandamurra: “Okay, proud and funny.”

  Sebastian: “Proud, funny and brave.”

  Tjandamurra: “Proud, funny and brave, but killed for being proud, funny and brave. Without the bloody colonisers he would have died a decent death. And so would have my father.”

  The mood changed from lightheartedness to the weight of Tjandamurra’s words.

  In the nineteenth century, when white settlers arrived in Arnhem Land, they brought along new animals and new foods, which triggered new diseases like tuberculosis, diabetes, and heart disease amongst Aborigines. Aborigines were denied their traditional search for food through hunting and gathering, and they were given instead flour, sugar, tea and eventually alcohol. Later, in the early twentieth century, they got used to living off the new welfare system introduced by the Europeans. Their physical exercise decreased to almost non-existing, many of them doing nothing but waiting for their welfare money to buy alcohol. From that time onwards, the health of the Aborigines deteriorated nationwide. Sebastian remembered the passing scenes on his way to Arnhem Land with Dural. Groups of Aborigines sat together under trees and in front of small supermarkets, drinking from bottles hidden in brown paper bags. Others were hanging around lazily while their children played around them. Their appearance untidy. The adults gave off an unhealthy energy - with the atmosphere as a whole kind of poisoned.