Born Into This

by Adam Thompson

  Adam Thompson is an emerging Aboriginal (pakana) writer from Launceston, Tasmania. He has won several local writing awards and has been published by the Australian Dictionary of Biography, Kill Your Darlings and Griffith Review. Adam is passionate about his community and has worked for the Tasmanian Aboriginal Centre for almost twenty years, caring for Aboriginal land and heritage, and preserving community history. In addition to short fiction, Adam has written for television and performance art.

  Praise for Born Into This

  ‘It’s not often a new literary voice seems to spring full formed from a world so unique and yet so achingly recognisable, and it’s a voice with its own gravitas and unique vision. A debut collection that leaps from the starter’s gate.’ Cate Kennedy

  ‘I knew from the first page that Born Into This was going to be something special. Adam Thompson is a world-class writer whose stories strike like lightning.’ Ellen van Neerven

  ‘The lives of the characters within these pages provide an honest, humorous and occasionally raw insight into the experiences of living in a country, and on Country, both shared and in contest. Thompson is a writer who knows that the way to our hearts and heads is through powerful storytelling. He delivers on every page, with each word.’ Tony Birch

  ‘A compelling new voice, tough yet tender, from the heart of Aboriginal Tasmania.’ Melissa Lucashenko

  ‘Adam Thompson’s stories from Aboriginal Tasmania are as beautifully written as they are evocative. Here is an outstanding new talent. Born Into This is compelling reading.’ Bob Brown

  ‘Born Into This is drenched in swagger and originality, the blows are head-on, but the comfort is swiftly delivered in the wit and delicacy of Thompson’s phrasing. He has the reader in the boat, on the shore and drowning in the sea at once.’ Tara June Winch

  In memory of my beautiful and loving mother,

  Deidre Jean Anderson

  ‘Dee’

  (1957–2008)

  Contents

  The old tin mine

  Honey

  Born into this

  Invasion day

  Jack’s island

  Summer girl

  Descendant

  Sonny

  Aboriginal Alcatraz

  black eye

  The blackfellas from here­

  Your own Aborigine

  Bleak Conditions

  Time and Tide

  Kite

  MORPORK

  Acknowledgements

  THE OLD TIN MINE

  It wasn’t my first survival camp. But when I struck at the damp flint and gouged another piece of flesh out of my knuckle, I swore it would be the last.

  ‘Fucking … cheap … rubbish.’

  Standing too quickly, I stumbled backwards, knocking one of the boys over in the process. He fell, sprawling onto the black sand like a four-legged spider. Kneeling too long by the fire had locked up my knees. Old knees. Too old for this shit.

  ‘I’ll have a go if you like, Ben?’ Chris took my spot next to the small teepee of sticks I’d stuffed with the driest bracken fern I could find. He took up the flint. I turned my back on them and made out I was checking my phone. Inside my pocket, I formed a tight fist, squeezing the pain out of my throbbing hand.

  ‘I’ve already done most of the fucking work anyway,’ I said over my shoulder.

  From the sound of shuffling feet and heightened positivity in the chatter, I figured Chris was having some success with the fire. Looking for somewhere to rest, I sought out his pack amongst those dumped in the middle of our camping spot and sat down on it, hard. Something gave under my weight, followed by a muffled tinkle of glass.

  Fuck him. Raytji has no business out here with us anyway.

  I looked over when I heard the boys cooing at the first puffs of smoke.

  ‘There we go, lads,’ said Chris. ‘Just remember what Uncle Ben showed you about making a fire. It can mean the difference between staying comfy and warm and being cold and miserable. Right?’

  ‘Not to mention being able to eat something now,’ added Jacob, the eldest of the boys. He had assumed the alpha role amongst the others – aided by the accounts of how many guys he’d ‘smashed’ recently – while we’d waited for the Cessna at the dusty airstrip.

  The boys stretched their hands towards the newborn flame as it reluctantly drew up into the apex of the sticks, teasing at warmth. There were six of them. Aboriginal teens. City boys. Three from Launceston, three from Hobart. Fair split, north and south, according to the organisation that had won the black money.

  ‘As long as they’re true mob, I don’t care where they’re from,’ I’d said, when the two in charge made contact. ‘But it’s fifteen hundred a day and you supply the gear. Take it or leave it.’ I’d shrugged as they eyeballed each other, like a husband and wife after opening the winter power bill. But, in this case, there was nobody to pin the blame on for overusing the clothes dryer or running a fridge in the garage. This was specialised work. And who else was going to do the job? Sure, there were other blackfellas in the game. But these people would ask around – whitefellas always did. Consulting the community, they called it. What it would come down to was reliability – in their eyes anyway. And I’d been getting the lion’s share of the heritage work for years. Plus, this group had been sitting on the money for a while. That was on the public record. Aboriginal survival camp – Clarke Island. State government grant from the previous year. With the acquittal looming, they had to roll it out, and they needed someone. Quick.

  When the letter arrived saying, Congratulations, I slapped my side. Piss weak. Fancy taking your hat off to someone holding you over a barrel like that. They did throw in a catch, though, and insisted on one of their people going along.

  ‘Occupational health and safety,’ they said. ‘Can’t avoid it nowadays.’ Chris Foster, their man, had all the certification, and a goddamned ‘Working with Children’ card too. I almost pulled out, but jobs like this were my bread and butter – and they were getting more and more infrequent.

  ~

  ‘You fellas want to get some firewood together, ay.’ The boys were still huddled around the fire. ‘Don’t just stand around. Lance, you’re helping me with dinner tonight. Over here, matey, please.’

  Lance left the fire and rummaged through some of the bags half-heartedly.

  ‘Can’t find the abalone, Uncle Ben.’

  ‘Fuck off, you can’t?’

  The boys turned at my raised voice.

  ‘I told you fellas to grab ’em, didn’t I?’ I pointed to each one in turn. ‘Don’t tell me youse left ’em back on that beach?’

  ‘All good. They’re in my pack,’ said Chris, coming to the rescue again, like the white knight he was. I visualised myself punching him to the ground.

  He placed the bundle of sticks he had gathered next to the fire and hurried over to his pack. ‘Umm, Ben, I’m sorry, but I think you’re sitting on my bag … I’ll just get the abs out, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Cheers, matey,’ I said, standing. The dry grind of arthritis made my movement jagged and slow. I raised my voice again so they could all hear. ‘You boys wanna remember: this is about survival. We’re blackfellas. We’ve survived for thousands of bloody years in the bush – without the need for any of this shit.’ I threw an accusing finger at the pile of bags and then let it linger on Chris, who had his back to the group. ‘Now, help Lance get them abs ready and we’ll cook ’em when I get back.’

  ‘Knee still sore?’ asked Chris, in a sympathetic tone. He was rummaging through his bag. ‘There’s some wrap in the kit, if you think that would help … Oh
, bugger, looks like my lamp is broken.’

  ‘Just chuck us a shit roll, will ya?’ I said.

  ~

  I rolled a joint after that, by the light of my head torch. I held on to each puff for as long as I could. Maximum benefit was a strong motto I lived by. So was work smart, not hard. And so the heritage game suited me: archaeological work, surveys, guiding. The work came in blocks but paid very well. And it was nearly always remote, so on top of the pay came allowances and accommodation. The money was good – great, in fact. But you had to make what you got last, even in the face of abundance. I wasn’t like some of our other mob in the game: two-bob millionaires while the coin was rolling in but who had Centrelink on speed dial for when the work dried up. I ran my thumb over the crumpled lid of the old spark-plug tin I kept my dope in. We were two days into the camp, and it was still pretty much packed.

  Fucking ripper.

  Of course, the old ‘drug-and-alcohol free’ bullshit applied – the usual thing. It was supposed to apply to everyone. But, in my eyes, that rule was for the young fellas – and Chris. I was supposed to be the role model. ‘Uncle Ben’, they called me. I’ve never referred to myself as that, though. The way I was brought up, the status of Elder was given by those who respected you. The self-appointed ones either had something to prove or something to gain.

  I’d been smoking weed for most of the forty-two years since the family moved to town in ’77, and no prick – black, white or brindle – was ever going to stop me. But, of course, I had to hide it. Hence my toilet-roll alibi, sitting on the granite boulder next to me, a glowing orb in the moonlight. I wouldn’t need to use one for days yet. Not after living on bush food and doing this much walking. But I’d need my dope. Even thinking about going without made my body ache.

  ~

  The night before, we’d cooked the abalone whole – upside down on the fire. They spun in their shells and lapped at the air like cow’s tongues until they died. The boys looked on like footy supporters in the front row at the MCG: not in the game, exactly, but close enough to feel like they had a stake in it. Jacob was the exception. He kneeled at the fire and poked the steaming shellfish with the glowing end of a stick until they were cooked. Said he’d done it all before – and probably had too. Hell, I knew my way around an abalone at his age. But I grew up over here. Some of the young fellas didn’t eat much. Said they weren’t hungry. It’s always the same on these camps – for the first few days, anyway. Eventually their hunger overcomes the need for the familiarity of their usual diet.

  We call these trips ‘survival camps’ because they are all about learning some of the old ways. Living off the land. To the old fellas, the tribal people – and even us mob who grew up on the islands – culture isn’t something we try to learn or reclaim. It’s what we are immersed in from the moment we are born. But these boys have been assimilated. Townified, we call it. Nothing to be embarrassed about. They may live in two worlds, but they are still mob. And they need to know what separates ’em from their Aussie mates.

  Tonight, we crumbed the abs and cooked them in garlic butter. Anyone would have thought we’d laid on KFC or something – they went that quick. These camps weren’t so hardcore that we couldn’t have a few non-traditional items, like a frying pan or some condiments. It was a condition of the funding, and something old mate Chris had a hand in. Couldn’t be too traditional. Survival camp sounds great on paper, but the survival of the kids can never really be at stake. Traditional food, yarns, roughing it – that was about as far as it went. They could bring a sleeping bag and one set of spare clothes, but no phones or electronic devices. Chris had a satellite phone that could get coverage anywhere in the world, apparently – another tick on his safety list. I had my trusty old Nokia, which I would bet my ballsack had better coverage than Chris’s fancy model. One thing I did insist on was that we found our own water, along the way. Chris was a bit cagey about that, so he brought some water-purifying tablets. We all had water bottles and filled them at every clear creek we came to. I have all the watering places mapped out in my mind. I grew up here, after all. I know this coast like most people know their backyard. But there wasn’t as much water as I’d anticipated this time. It had been a dry year.

  ~

  ‘Come on, boys,’ said Chris the next morning. He was at the fire, building it up. ‘Sun’s coming up. Uncle Ben’s got more plans for us today.’ The boys were all sleeping on the thin, grey tarpaulin we’d brought along, to keep them off the sand. It was so wrinkled and old it looked like elephant skin. I was the only one with a decent camping mattress, thin as it was. And I had one of those expensive waterproof sleeping bags. I insisted on it – another condition of my employment.

  ‘Mornin’, Chris. Damn, bruz, that smells good.’

  ‘What’s the plan today, then?’ he asked, a few minutes later, kneeling next to me and handing over a steaming cup. Survival camp or not, I wasn’t going without my morning coffee.

  ‘Gunna show the boys how to set a snare this arvo, when we set up camp,’ I said. ‘Hopefully we’ll get us a roo. Apart from that, we’ll walk up the coast and I’ll get ’em back in the water at low tide. They can gather some limpets and warreners.’

  ‘We’re pretty much out of drinking water, just so you know. I think the boys have finished their bottles,’ he answered.

  I did know about the water situation. And I was aware it was my job to keep on top of it. But I hated Chris pointing it out like that. Had the boys been awake and listening, I would have dressed him down, right and proper. He was a ‘plan man’. Organised. Always wanting to know what’s next.

  Well, that’s not how our fellas work.

  ‘There’s a good creek, just around the point,’ I said. I held my cup upside down, shook it a few times and looked over towards the coffee pot on the fire. He took the hint.

  ~

  ‘Which one of you boys has got my tin?’ I asked the group, as calmly as I could.

  They were lined up. All their gear was packed and we were ready to move on. The sun was still low in the east, but we should have been on the move before now. I was holding everything up, looking for my dope. The plan had been to get up before the boys and do my morning ‘business’, but my tin wasn’t where I’d left it, in the pocket of my pack. It wasn’t anywhere at all that I could see. I had even retraced my steps back to the last spot I’d had a chuff.

  Not a fucking thing.

  ‘What tin, Ben?’ asked Chris, after the boys didn’t respond.

  ‘Just a yellow tin. I keep my medication in it. Come on, I know one of you boys has it. I won’t be mad if you give it back now.’

  ‘Righto, crew! Let’s all pitch in and look around the camp for Uncle Ben’s medication,’ ordered Chris.

  The boys had a half-arsed look around the camp, kicking at the sand and leaves. I went through my pack again. The tin definitely wasn’t there. When I asked the boys to empty their packs too, they all did. Chris stood back, while I went through their gear.

  ‘I know one of you has it. It was in my bag last night and now it’s just magically disappeared?’

  ‘There is no medication listed on your registration form, Ben,’ said Chris, almost as a whisper. He was squinting down at his folder, flicking through the pages.

  Jacob spoke up. ‘Maybe one of your spirits took it. Kutikina, was it? The one you went on about last night, who you reckoned was gunna get us if we played up.’

  I caught his smirk. Smart-arse little fuck.

  I knew, then, that he was the one who had my tin.

  ‘Righto, you mob. If that’s the way it’s going to be … Let’s go, then.’

  ~

  We kept the beach on our right side for about an hour and a half, until we reached a rocky headland, and then we veered left, away from the coast. The track followed a natural cobble formation that was difficult to walk on. The boys were doing it tough –
as were my knees, although I didn’t let it show. The track gradually disappeared and soon we were picking our way through thick poa-grass plains, using the flat granite outcrops as stepping stones. It wasn’t exactly a straight line, but we were heading in the direction I wanted.

  ‘Looks like we’ve left the path you mapped out,’ announced Chris, after the boys had started falling behind. He stopped and turned in circles, using his body to shield his GPS screen from the sun’s glare. ‘Says here we’re supposed to hug the coast until we get to Deep Cove.’

  ‘I thought we could take a short cut, Chris. If that’s okay with you? Means we won’t be getting water for a while, though.’

  ‘Didn’t you say there was a watering place around the point back there?’

  A slight whine had crept into Chris’s voice, and I noted it with a smile as I powered on ahead. It would take me weeks to get my knees right, after this. But at least I wasn’t as dehydrated as the rest of them – I had an extra water bottle and was sipping on it secretly when I was out of sight.

  Chris was a fit-looking guy: one of those slim fellas who jogged regularly (in brand-name active wear, no doubt, and probably with a club or one of those wanky boot camps). Today, though, he was sweating for the boys. Their wellbeing was his responsibility, and nobody except me had had anything to drink since we’d left camp that morning.

  The waterhole up ahead, I remembered, was an old tin-mining site. A Chinese exploration team had dug out a creek bed back in the 1800s. When I was a kid, the old fellas said it was haunted, that it had caved in on some of the workers and their bodies were never recovered. But the old fellas thought everything was haunted, so I didn’t believe it for a minute. It was one of the stories I’d been planning on passing off as undoubtedly true, though, at that night’s camp fire.

  But between here and there was a large hill. And we were going to go over it.

  After that, if things went to plan, we would head back to the coast. It was about two hours’ walk from the waterhole. We would make camp there for the night and I’d smoke two joints to make up for the one I’d missed that morning. I hadn’t been this straight for years and my mind was racing, like a crazy bastard.