by Cara Shaw
There was no singing or storytelling that night and everyone retired early to preserve his or her energy for another full day’s walk. They rose with the sun and continued on until late with only a few breaks, which meant they could cover a good distance over a period of hours.
Balin had made this walk every year of his life and the route was permanently marked onto his mind map. The landscape around him indicated the changing season; flocks of birds headed east away from the chilly interior, looking for warmer places to roost. The bush animals had retreated to more sheltered areas, preparing to scrounge for food instead of wandering about to nibble on fresh shoots or search for grubs. Lizards and snakes sought places where they could be still – sometimes for weeks on end, occasionally venturing away from their safe spots to sunbake if the weather was warm enough. We are just like the creatures of this land mused Balin as he padded along, barely feeling the ground beneath his heavily calloused and scarred feet. He was looking forward to the winter camp, a time when he could sleep more and occupy himself repairing and replacing his weapons. The camp was located near a long rock shelf where there were good materials available to make stone axes, spears and womerahs. This was the period where all members of the tribe caught up on the domestic side of the tribe’s needs: cracked coolamons were discarded and the appropriate wood sought to make new ones. There were only a couple of tree varieties that were suitable for these handy shallow bowls that were used for everything, from transporting food and water to cradling new-born babies. The women usually went into the bush to locate the tree, and then came back to find a man to hack off the right amount of timber to carve and shape the utensil using hot coals and small stone axes.
Winter camp brimmed with all sorts of activities that were vital for Duradjuri survival, and included long teaching sessions to older girls for their initiation ceremony. This year’s group was particularly big, and Weena had charge of three girls for whom she set aside most nights for instruction.
By the middle of the next day the tribe arrived at the kalare. They had to cross it so they could continue their walk. Everyone sat down and began to prepare the midday meal while a few of the older men looked around for the canoe used for last year’s crossing. They found it behind a large gum, stacked on branches to keep it away from the ground and covered with a few more. They shook it off and carried it above their heads down to the river and held it in the water to test its buoyancy. They all watched gravely as it sank like a stone and then fell about laughing, their expectations wholeheartedly dashed. Then the men decided to make another, river-worthy raft instead. The old canoe had been made during a summer trip when the tribe had camped by the river some years ago. Balin remembered the holiday well. Fed up with the mid-summer heat and tired of the monotony at the camp, the tribe had upped and left and after a long day’s walk settled under a huge canopy of gums that ran alongside the kalare. From the moment they arrived an air of light heartedness blew through the tribe. A game of woggabaliri was started almost immediately and all the men joined in – boys and elders included. Some of the younger women had a turn as well, most just showing off to the eligible warriors who pretended to ignore them. The older women, mothers and children raced down to the river and jumped straight into the water to cool off or splashed noisily around in the shallows. Even while everyone was chatting and playing and shouting, collecting food was still the foremost activity. Someone had thoughtfully brought down the woven panniers that had been carried all the way from the main camp, and a couple of the men walked further up the slow moving river and stood knee-deep in the water spearing guuya, an easy task because the fish were fat and lazy from overfeeding in the river shoals. The children played while the women collected shellfish and yabis and even a few water-bird eggs were added into the mix. The people were always mindful to maintain sustainability in their environment and when one egg was taken two were left behind. The children were hauled out of the water and sent to collect yam daisies, cumbungi and little tubers that grew in abundance in the sweet productive soil along the riverbank. The men shouted each time someone speared a fish, and everyone cheered when they saw yet another one being strung to a long piece of sturdy reed, which the men would carry between them when they returned to camp.
There was a huge cook up at the camp in the late afternoon. The tribe was both hungry and lazy, so the women dug camp ovens instead of going to the trouble of building up fires and attending to turning the meat constantly in the coals. They lined the holes with stones and threw all of the food in, including possum and plain turkeys, felled by the hunters’ boomerangs. They covered the game with more stones and then set a huge fire over the top and went away to relax while the food cooked for hours in the consistent heat. In the meantime everyone had decided to paint up, the men, the women, the teenagers and the children. Even this activity became sillier and sillier. Normal protocols were completely abandoned, and soon people were chasing each other around with painting sticks and bark bowls of coloured clay mixed with possum fat. A group of girls had stolen a little boy and sat him on a rock. While he sat regally they painted him up and attached feathers and belts to him and ran clay through his hair as if he were a great leader. The older men walked by and the girls froze, assuming that that would be sorely chastised and sent down to the river to wash the little one off. Instead they came over and admired their work and even congratulated the boy on his fine appearance. The girls were amazed at this turn of events and carried on with their task, while the men left chuckling and bemused.
Soon the meal was ready and small campfires were built around the place while the stones were removed from the oven, and the delicious aroma made mouths water and bellies grumble. The dinners were duly handed out; haunches from possums, turkey legs, dishes of baked mussels and yabi, whole fish on bark platters that were arranged to serve three people at a time. All of this was accompanied by crispy bullrushes and river tubers, the snappy sweet taste contrasting deliciously with the slow-cooked food. When the meal was finished the tribe moved away from the eating area and sat in a semi-circle, painted-up faces glistening under the light of an early-rising moon and the small fires that were scattered about. The elders from both the male and female camps sang songs in turn and then in unison, and for a moment all was quiet until the little boy, now fully attired as a powerful head man, entered the dancing area. He proceeded to act out a special hunting dance that he had made up himself, and in it speared a yaba to take home to his mother. When he had finished he sat in his mother’s lap, and she squeezed him tightly to show her pride. The night carried on. It was a transcendent, magical evening and when it was over they all went to bed, exhausted and extremely happy.
The next day the decision was made to build a canoe, a project that would take at least a few days. The men departed into the bush to find a suitable tree and spent the day cutting the correct shape onto the trunk, and easing the whole sheaf of timber away from the tree. At camp, the women prepared hot coals and stones and when the men returned they placed them in the recess where the timber had come away. They let it rest overnight, and the next day assiduously removed the burnt wood from the hollowed-out recess with sharp edged rocks. The more knowledgeable women had collected gums and fibres to plug cracks and holes to make the craft watertight, and the children rubbed the exterior and interior with sand collected from the river bank to smooth out any irregularities on surface. The whole tribe contributed to this project, and Balin too rubbed wilay fat all over the craft for water proofing. Then it was time to test it. One of the leaner, younger warriors (who prudently, was also an excellent swimmer) was chosen to make the maiden voyage. He pushed the canoe, which was around seven feet long, into the smooth water and using his womerah paddled along, resting his good spear alongside him. He grinned and waved at those on the shore and they shouted and waved back. The craft was river-worthy and strong. He stood up, and balancing perfectly proceeded to spear fish and toss them into the canoe. He also speared an eel, which
he threw at the girl he was sweet on when he returned to shore. She screamed and ran away, and then picked it up to cook and offer it to him later when they were alone.
These were Balin’s memories as a new raft was lashed together to aid today’s crossing. He collected long narrow trunks with the other men to make up the new craft that would carry the tribe and their belongings over the river. They found a grove of paperbark trees and hacked down enough of the newer growth to make the raft. They lashed the slender trunks together and took turns in wading across by hanging onto the side and kicking their legs. When all of them had crossed, Balin and the others picked up the raft and leant it next to a large gum, ready for them to use on their return. It was another day’s walk to the winter camp and when they reached the stony ridge that sat above the ground, sheltered by a group of well-grown gums and acacia, they set down their things with relief. They spent hours preparing their new camp, building long winter huts and stacking the possum skins inside. This would be their home for the next twelve weeks, when the chilly weather dictated a change in their routines and provided the opportunity to make new weapons, weave dilly-bags, collect and sharpen the right stone to make cutting axes. The Duradjuri usually subsisted exclusively on nharrung and wandaywali during this time, which served to fatten everyone up nicely – another strategy to maintain warmth. nharrung oil was preserved in coolamons and used to mix all kinds of medicinal remedies and rubs to treat colds and chest infections which were more common in this season.
Narramaroo was glad to finally reach the winter camp. She could spend the last three months of her pregnancy in comfort, resting and preparing for the birth of her and Balin’s child. They were both excited, this child had been given to them on the night of their marriage and Balin was in high anticipation of the arrival. Wyomee asked endless questions about the new baby, which both infuriated and entertained the couple.
“Where is the baby?” asked Wyomee over and over again.
“In here,” replied Narramaroo patting her belly.
“No, no,” said the child crossly. “Where is she now,” assuming of course that the foetus was a girl like her.
“She is in here,” repeated Narramaroo patiently.
“No she isn’t!! A baby can’t fit in there Mummy! You have to go and get her!”
“Wyomee, if she isn’t in my tummy, where is she then?” asked her mother gently.
“Oh Mummy! I’ll go and look for her. When I find her I’ll come and get you and we’ll both put her in the coolamon like the other mummies do!” and off she would trundle on her plump legs, searching everywhere for the baby.
Narramaroo watched sadly, at a loss to explain to the little girl how everything worked.
One day she found Wyomee crying outside their gunyah and she rushed over to cradle her.
“Wyomee! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Wyomee clutched at her mother and wept into her soft breasts, “I can’t find her Mummy! I can’t find the little baby!”
Narramaroo hushed and soothed her. “Don’t worry Wyomee, the baby will find its way here, I promise,” and the child settled down.
Another time they were sitting at the campfire when Wyomee suddenly piped up. “Mummy, how will the baby get out of your tummy when it comes?”
Narramaroo looked around the campfire at Balin and Weena and Kooloona, who all sat with inquiring looks on their faces. Balin in particular was very keen to hear how she was going to get around this one.
Narramaroo decided that the truth would do, so she said, “The baby climbs out of the mun, like a joey out of a pouch”
Wyomee giggled, “Don’t be silly Mummy,” and she continued eating while the other two coughed loudly to hide their laughter.
All in all it was a close and special time for all the family and Weena fussed over Narramaroo as she would a beloved daughter. She and two of the other women scouted the area for a suitable birthing tree and eventually selected one that was near the river. The trunk was smooth and the ground beneath was clear of debris and rocks. Weena visited the spot to keep it tidy and to leave the things she had collected to assist in the delivery: a large coolamon, some native hop leaves and some digging sticks for Narramaroo to bear down on during labour. The winter weeks passed peacefully and as this season was extremely cool people stayed close to their gunyahs wrapped in their cloaks. They took turns bringing back firewood for the campfires that burned endlessly throughout the days. Camp ovens were in permanent use too, constantly baking the wallaby, kangaroo and emu that were brought home by the hunters. The women did little gathering as it was too cold to wander about, so the general diet was mostly meat and yams. The elders and the women made good use of this period of enforced idleness. Hair belts were completely re-made, axes re-cut and bound with strips of hide, grass fibres were rolled and woven into dilly-bags. Weapons were also refurbished. Long strong saplings were sought and baked over open fires until they became soft and pliable enough to be carved into shape. New shields, womerah, were designed and made, and a new addition to the traditional shape was invented by Balin. He added a pointed spur that aided in killing game and made the womerah even more effective. The practice was taken up by the other warriors, and the new style quickly became the standard for the whole tribe. The karandajin collected fresh eucalyptus leaves and crushed them into light coloured clays to apply as poultices for those with phlegmy coughs. Believing illness to be spirit led, he sang songs and burnt leaves around a sick person’s head to ease body pains, fevers and chills, driving the sickness spirits out by singing them away. He also collected the sap from the poisonous corkwood tree, which the warriors used to dip the ends of their spears to make them more lethal.
Early one morning Narramaroo awoke in a wet puddle, her waters had broken and her insides were beginning to clench in painful cramps. Careful not to rouse Balin she crept out of the gunyah and called out softly to Weena, who had been sleeping lightly for the past two weeks, aware that Narramaroo’s labour could begin at any time. Weena rose and told Narramaroo to wait while she fetched the other two women who had agreed to assist in the birth. They all walked to the birthing tree together, arms around Narramaroo, supporting her as the wretched cramps seared through her body. They settled her under the tree, and at once Narramaroo began to strain against it, legs wide apart and feet pressing heavily into the earth. Weena had made up a tincture by soaking native hop leaves in water overnight, which she gave to Narramaroo to sip on when the pain became intense. The tincture helped to relax Narramaroo and gave her some pain relief. The other two massaged her arms and legs and lower back, and held onto her tightly when her body arched with the contractions. A few times she bellowed loudly with pain, and Weena peered between her legs to check that the cervix had opened widely enough to allow the foetus passage down the birth canal. After about four hours Weena took one of the women aside.
“The baby is in breech,” she said in a worried tone.
Nerala an experienced midwife, shook her head. “It’s too late to turn the baby. It will have to descend feet first, and then we’ll just have to pray that it lives.”
Weena nodded in agreement and they returned to Narramaroo, who had begun to panic.
“What’s wrong? There’s something wrong Weena, I can tell by your face! Nerala! Tell me!!” she cried.
Nerala sat down next to her and held her hand. “Listen to me. The baby is in breech.”
Narramaroo cried, knowing that her baby could suffocate as she gave birth and she began to hyperventilate.
Nerala held her face. “Stop it Narramaroo! I need you to help us or your baby will die! Drink this and listen to me!” Narramaroo calmed down a little and squeezed Nerala’s hand as another contraction ripped through her. She drank the sedating tincture that Weena offered her and tried to concentrate on what Nerala was saying.
Nerala signalled the other two. “Get onto your hands and knees and face your botto
m towards us. Hold onto this digging stick and when the contractions come, don’t push. Can you remember that? Don’t push. When we are ready we will tell you what to do. Do you hear me?”
Narramaroo nodded, tears streaming down her face. At that moment, all she wanted was to be cuddled up to Balin while he stroked her hair and told her how much he loved her. She had never missed him so much. She did as Nerala said and rolled over while her huge stomach pressed against the ground. Weena moved behind her and felt for the baby’s leg in the birth canal and began to tug very gently, easing the foetus downwards bit by bit. The other woman massaged Narramaroo’s stomach while Nerala waited and watched.
The contractions were moments apart now, and Weena nodded to Nerala who said “Now Narramaroo push! Push!” and she pushed. The baby came out feet first and Weena caught it in her arms while the new mother collapsed on the ground sobbing. The other midwife held her and stroked her hair while Nerala and Weena looked over the new-born. It wasn’t breathing. Nerala opened its mouth and scraped the birth residue out, then pinched its nose to squeeze out the rest. Then she made a fist with her hand and holding the baby upright tapped it on the chest several times, the baby coughed and inhaled, then let out a huge cry. All the women laughed and cried in relief and Narramaroo sat up against the tree, holding her arms out for the baby.
“Thank you, thank you! Thank you for saving my baby!” and she wept with relief.