by Kylie Ladd
‘Hello, mermaid. I thought I’d find you here, on the beach.’
Janey looked up and smiled, though more out of triumph than pleasure. The boy from The Mangrove loomed above her, his broad shoulders almost blocking out the sun.
‘What took you so long?’
‘I couldn’t just get up and go—they watch us like hawks. Told the coach I didn’t feel well and had to go to the bathroom.’ He snuck a look at his watch. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’
‘Coach?’ Janey asked.
‘AFL development squad. It’s our end-of-season trip—we play a few games against the local teams, pose for photos, do some “team bonding”.’ He made a wry face at the term. ‘God knows why though; in a few months we’ll all be fighting each other for the same few spots.’
He wasn’t just tanned, Janey realised. His lips, that hair . . . he was Aboriginal, at least partially. A thrill went through her. This would spice up the story back at school. None of her friends had ever had an Aboriginal boyfriend. Hardly any of them had had a boyfriend at all, but that was beside the point.
‘Are you enjoying it?’ she asked. ‘The trip, so far?’
He shrugged, then looked at his watch again. ‘It’s OK. Hey, I really do only have a few minutes.’
Janey eased herself back onto her elbows, the white sand soft beneath her. ‘How should we spend them, then?’
‘I can think of a way,’ he said, dropping lithely beside her. Before she knew what was happening, his mouth was on hers, his tongue pushing its way between her teeth. She put her arms around him and let her body go limp. He tasted of beer and fried food; every boy she’d ever kissed had been the same. She should get a photo of him, Janey thought. Proof to show her friends, plus maybe he’d actually be famous one day. She could friend him and put the picture on Facebook, and then if he got drafted she could say she knew him first. She hoped he’d play for Carlton, who her father barracked for, or even Essendon, or Richmond. Then he’d be in Melbourne and she could go and watch him and tell everyone she was going out with an AFL player, and invite him to the formal once she was in year eleven. She kissed him passionately, turned on by the thought, then froze as she felt his hand slip beneath the waistband of her shorts.
‘Are you wet, mermaid?’ he breathed against her lips. ‘You should be.’
Janey fought the impulse to sit up, to push him away. Instead she arched her chest towards him, hoping to divert his attention to her breasts. Wasn’t that the way it was usually done? Kissing first, then if she liked the boy she’d let him feel her tits through her clothes, and once, with Bryce Jennings, even under her clothes . . . No one had ever touched her below the waist before, never mind without asking. Maybe if she could undo her bra . . . She made an attempt, but the clip was at the back, and the boy’s weight was pushing her down, pinning her arms. She held her breath as his fingers moved between her legs, pulling aside her undies, the first person other than herself to stroke the soft skin. Or her mother, Janey thought, mind racing, back when she was a baby and needed changing—but why the fuck was she thinking of her mother right now, as the boy’s fingers slipped inside her, one then two? She opened her eyes and stared up at the sun. It didn’t hurt, as she’d feared, but it didn’t feel like much either—no more than inserting a tampon.
‘God, you feel good, mermaid,’ he sighed against her ear.
Janey forced herself to relax, to keep her legs open. He probed further and she took a deep breath, up from her diaphragm, as she’d been taught in squad.
‘Touch me,’ he commanded, pulling her hand to his body.
She fought against flinching, against pulling away, repulsed and then intrigued by the swelling in his shorts. It was harder than she’d expected, and warmer too, almost burning through the fabric. She grasped it tentatively, frantically trying to remember everything she’d ever read in Cosmo. Hold his penis like a tennis racquet, with a firm grip, but not too firm. That was all very well, but she’d never played tennis.
There was a fumbling at her middle, and Janey gasped, realising he was trying to undo her shorts with his free hand. This was getting out of control, going too fast. She took another deep breath as she felt the first button pop, the second—and then a piercing whistle rent the air.
The boy sat straight up, pulling his fingers out of her and wiping them on his shirt.
‘Shit. The coach must be looking for me.’ He smiled down at her, a lazy, self-satisfied grin. ‘You can let go now.’
Janey looked down and saw her hand on his erection, still determinedly aloft.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and removed it as if burnt.
The boy stood up, smoothed down his clothes and picked up his thongs from where he’d kicked them off. The ghost crab was gone, Janey noticed. She could hardly blame it.
‘Thanks, mermaid,’ he said. ‘I might see you around.’ Then he turned and jogged away up the beach, a surprisingly small figure against the rust-coloured cliffs. Janey lay back and watched him go. Some boyfriend. She didn’t even know his name. He hadn’t bothered to ask hers.
How did they do that? Morag wondered. The Indigenous man was positioned in a deep squat with his haunches just a couple of inches from the ground, yet he looked as comfortable as if he were sitting in an armchair. Morag was fit and flexible, but there was no way she could maintain something like that for more than a minute or so, never mind the quarter of an hour he’d already been there. Maybe Aborigines were built differently, she pondered; maybe their muscles were longer or more supple. The theory had merit. It was always black men and women winning the sprints at the Olympics, wasn’t it? Caucasians were lucky to make it into the finals, and when they did there was never more than one or two of them, looking pasty and anaemic next to their glossy competition. She remembered once watching the Commonwealth Games with Andrew, and him jokingly suggesting that to make it fair there should be two divisions in the athletics events: one for the black runners, and one for the white. At least she hoped he’d been joking. If Fiona had said the same thing Morag would have called her a racist.
‘We’ll start today with a demonstration of the didgeridoo,’ said their tour guide, a caramel-skinned girl in her twenties dressed in neatly pressed khakis bearing the Wajarrgi logo. She held up a long hollow piece of wood, then passed it to the squatting man. ‘No two didgeridoos sound exactly the same. That’s because no two are formed in exactly the same way—unless, that is, they’re made in a factory, and those aren’t didgeridoos, they’re pipes.’ She smiled, and her audience—their Kalangalla party, plus another five or six tourists—smiled back. ‘Real didgeridoos,’ she went on, ‘are created when a living tree, usually a eucalypt, is partially eaten out by termites. They’re not just logs picked up from off the ground—the trick is to find a branch before the termites have chewed all the way through, then to cut it off and cure it so it doesn’t develop cracks. This can be done by leaving the wood in a billabong for a week or two, or up here, among us Bardi people, the ocean.’ She grinned. ‘This is saltwater country. We reckon our didgeridoos have the strongest sound of all, because they’re formed in the sea, like we were.’
Saltwater country. Morag repeated the words to herself, liking the sound, the way they conjured up exactly what was in front and behind and all around her: sand and scrub and the constant blue glimmer. Wajarrgi, as Amira had told them, was situated on the point of a peninsula. Everywhere you looked there was ocean, flat and sparkling in the afternoon sun, spread like a carpet of sequins to the horizon. She was glad she’d come. The laughter-filled lunch with her friends, the cultural tour—all of it was calming her, renewing her, taking her mind off Andrew’s appalling decision. She was grateful they weren’t still at Kalangalla, where she probably would have sat and brooded all day; she was enjoying being somewhere new, learning something about this country she’d washed up in.
‘Now, many people think that the didgeridoo is just like an overgrown recorder—you blow into it and the sound comes out. Well, I’m h
ere to tell you that the didgeridoo is nothing like a recorder, thank goodness—and I say that with authority, because two of my kids are learning the recorder at school.’
Two of her kids? Morag started. The girl didn’t look old enough to have one child, never mind more than two. And why on earth were they learning the recorder when they lived in an Indigenous community?
‘For a start, the recorder is much more high-pitched—and irritating,’ the girl continued. ‘More importantly, the didgeridoo requires a special technique called circular breathing, where air is breathed in through the nose at the same time as it is blown out the mouth. It’s quite difficult—try it yourself.’ She stopped while they all attempted the method, wheezing and gasping like a conference of asthmatics.
‘That’s not difficult,’ Fiona panted, red-faced. ‘It’s bloody impossible.’
‘It is tough,’ their guide conceded, ‘but it’s what gives the didgeridoo its unique sound, that drone that everything else is built upon.’
As if on cue, the Aboriginal man still squatting in the red dust positioned the didgeridoo between his thighs, raised it to his mouth and began to play. A long low note emerged, hanging in the still air like a mirage, then transformed seamlessly into another, and another. The guide was right: there were no gaps, no breaks, just one sustained tone. Morag listened, transfixed, as the music hummed between them, snaked around their ankles, crept beneath their skin. She had heard didgeridoos on the TV and in the occasional pop song, but never up close, live, like this. This was something else; it was an incantation, a spell. The sound that thrummed through the small clearing where they stood wasn’t a tune as such, it had no melody or refrain, but it held something richer, more resonant, something as ancient as the land itself.
‘That’s so cool!’ exclaimed a large auburn-haired woman standing in front of Morag. ‘Can I have a go?’
The didgeridoo cut out abruptly, and its player and the guide exchanged a glance.
‘Uh . . . I’m not too sure about that.’ The guide shot another look at her colleague, but he stared straight ahead, still crouching on his haunches. ‘Traditionally, the didgeridoo is a male instrument,’ the girl stammered. ‘Women are prohibited from learning it.’
‘Well, that’s pretty sexist,’ the woman said. Was that an American accent Morag could hear, or was she just imagining it, projecting her own prejudices?
‘I guess some women probably do play, but not at any of the ceremonies or corroborees . . .’ The guide’s voice trailed away uneasily. Dark patches had begun to appear under her arms, turning her khaki shirt olive.
‘We’re not at a ceremony now, are we?’ the woman said pointedly.
The guide dropped her head, gazing at the ground. ‘I guess not,’ she conceded, then turned and held out her arms to the man. ‘Leon, may I?’
For a moment Morag thought he was going to refuse, but then he passed it across without meeting the girl’s eyes. In turn, she handed it to the red-haired woman. ‘There you go,’ she said. ‘In through the nose and out through the mouth, just as I told you.’
‘Film me, Alan,’ the woman instructed her husband, then took an enormous breath, as if she were about to dive underwater. She lifted the didgeridoo to her lips and exhaled with a grunt into the instrument. There was no sound other than the air escaping from the bottom.
‘Try it a bit more gently,’ the guide suggested. ‘Remember, you have to be breathing in at the same time.’
The woman inhaled and blew, inhaled and blew, but still to no effect.
‘At the same time, Janet,’ her husband called out, camera wedged to his eye. ‘You’re doing it all wrong.’ She squinted at him angrily, took another lungful of air, and immediately began to cough.
‘That’s just stupid,’ she said, pushing the didgeridoo back at the guide. ‘You can’t breathe in and out at the same time. It’s not possible. And turn that bloody thing off, Alan,’ she shouted at her husband.
‘I’m told it is a difficult thing to learn,’ the guide consoled.
‘Or mebbe the spirits don’t want you to play,’ the Aboriginal man interjected, flashing the disgruntled woman a grin as if to indicate he was joking. Morag knew he wasn’t. She found herself glad that the woman had failed, glad that she’d made a fool of herself. Served her right for being so pushy. The guide handed the didgeridoo back to its owner, who wrapped it carefully in an old blanket. No one else asked to have a try.
‘Next we’re going to witness a corroboree,’ the guide went on, pushing her damp fringe away from her face. She had lost some of her poise, Morag thought, but she was still game, still determined to make the tour a success. ‘A corroboree is an Aboriginal ceremony that involves singing and dancing. The correct term is actually caribberie, but the first European settlers misheard that, and “corroboree” has stuck.’
Fiona nudged Morag. Six Aboriginal men had materialised about thirty metres behind the guide, their bodies adorned with yellow and white markings. Two held spears, and one cradled a didgeridoo. All were naked except for a tiny red loincloth.
‘Showtime,’ Fiona whispered. ‘Look at those chests. I’m glad you made me come.’
‘Corroborees are performed for different reasons,’ continued their guide, oblivious to Fiona’s comments. ‘Some are instructional, to pass on the stories or history of that particular group of people, their Dreaming. Others are to influence the weather, to celebrate an event, or as part of a traditional ritual, such as when boys are initiated into manhood. Corroborees also used to take place to ask the spirits to bless the land—to protect it and keep it bountiful, so the tribe would be nourished and strong. This was before supermarkets, of course.’ A few dutiful titters. ‘Corroborees always involve music—the didgeridoo, clapsticks and rattles, plus the voices of those who are performing and watching. Some corroborees are sacred to a particular gender, either male or female, and cannot be viewed by members of the opposite sex.’ The girl glanced towards the red-headed woman as if expecting her to protest, then hurried on. ‘The ceremony we’re going to view today tells a story from the Dreamtime, which is when the gods and spirits created the land and roamed upon it, sometimes getting up to all sorts of mischief, as you’ll see here.’
She stepped back and the dancers glided forward, flowing over the baked earth like lava. They moved lightly, barely appearing to make contact with the ground, the designs on their bodies writhing as their muscles flexed and leapt. As they approached, they held their hands up in front of their face as if shielding themselves from an enemy, and Morag was struck by how pink their palms were compared to the darkness of the rest of their skin. Pink, and somehow vulnerable, flesh that could be easily broached.
Next to her, Alan picked up his camera and began to film. Morag felt a second, renewed flash of irritation. Weren’t you supposed to ask permission before you took any images—a photo or video—of Aborigines? She thought she had read something like that once, that they thought it was akin to stealing their souls—or was that the American Indians? Anger surged inside her—at herself for not knowing, at Alan for filming on regardless, at his stupid wife, whom she still couldn’t forgive for insisting on her right to play the didgeridoo. The whole thing was a farce, she thought suddenly. Who knew if this actually was a traditional corroboree, or just something knocked up to appease the whitefellas, to make some money out of them? And who could blame the dancers if it was? The guide had been careful to use the word ‘settlers’, but really the Europeans were invaders, weren’t they? Trespassers, destroyers. Morag’s friends didn’t see it like that, but then they had been born here, they had no perspective. Her mind raced. Their white ancestors had stolen the land, had corrupted the language, and here they were, still invading—filming a ceremony they probably had no call to even be witnessing; trying to peer beneath the men’s loincloths as they jumped and spun.
You could argue, Morag thought, that all of this—the corroboree, the tour, Wajarrgi itself—played an important role in education, in recon
ciliation, in the two cultures understanding and living alongside each other. But did it really? Or was it just entertainment—worse, exploitation? Complicit, maybe, the blacks wanting in on the tourist dollar every bit as much as the whites did, but exploitation nonetheless. Had the guide passed the didgeridoo to the red-haired woman because she didn’t want to offend or because she knew she had to do everything in her power to keep the tourists happy, keep the cash flowing in? The ululations of the didgeridoo throbbed in Morag’s skull, the clapsticks beat faster and faster, working themselves into a frenzy. Someone was making money out of these people. She’d bought into it because she’d wanted to learn something about Aboriginal Australia, but when it was all over would she know any more, grasp the issues any better, or was it just so that she could say she’d tried, shown an interest? You did the eco-tour, bought a dot painting, and then you could tick Indigenous culture off the list and go back to your sunbathing.
A dancer gyrated inches from her face and Fiona whooped. He looked like one of the young men who had been sitting in the restaurant at lunch—such graceful bodies, agile and powerful. And that was another thing, Morag thought. Aborigines were an accepted—indeed, admired—part of football, but did you ever see them anywhere else? Andrew had dragged her along to a few AFL games, and black faces were everywhere—taking marks, evading opponents, streaming down the wing with the ball moving like a yo-yo in their hands. Yet she’d never met an Aboriginal doctor in all her years in the health system, nor a solicitor, electrician or accountant. It was that tokenistic thing again: the souvenir boomerang, the black half-forward. Take the bits of the culture you like or can use, and ignore the rest. Wajarrgi was a prime example. If the Bardi people owned it, as Amira had said, how come none of them actually ran it?
The corroboree ended, the men whirling to a stop in a cloud of dust. Caro and Amira clapped, Alan kept filming, Fiona put two fingers in her mouth and gave a loud wolf whistle. Morag sighed. She was probably just still grumpy about Macy. Did any of her qualms matter? Working here was better than them living in poverty, or being completely dispossessed of their land and culture. And was it any of her business? Australia was where she lived, but it still wasn’t her home. The realisation chilled her, brought out goosebumps on her sunburnt arms. Torran had been born here, and so too Andrew. Finn and Callum had been naturalised, but she herself had never gone through with it. She didn’t have time for all the paperwork, she said whenever someone asked, but was it more than that? She’d lived here for almost a decade. Surely she belonged by now?