Too Close to the Wind

by Richard Attree

  Mandu woke me, gently. I opened my eyes and took in the landscape. The desert was bathed in the red glow of dawn. My friend, the wind, swirled around us kicking up the sand. The fire was still glowing and Mandu was making tea.

  “G’day, Nick. How ya feelin?”

  I shook myself awake, rubbed my eyes, and tried to work out what had happened.

  “I’m, not sure, mate” I replied, scratching my head.

  He gave me an impish grin.

  “Well, tell me what y’saw last night in the cave, then.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know if I really saw what I thought I saw.”

  He laughed—a big-hearted roar of amusement. I tried again:

  “I mean ... I’m not sure if I was asleep and just dreamt the whole thing?”

  “No, Nick, y’weren’t asleep. Y’were awake in the cave.”

  I nodded, reassured.

  “And y’weren’t dreamin’ …”

  He paused.

  “The paintings were dreamin’ of you!”

  I stared at him, unable to make sense of that, but he simply compounded my confusion, without compromise or concession to my feeble half-white brain processes:

  “What y’experienced was the Dreamtime, not a dream in yer head. We all shared it: you, me, the Ancestors, the beings in the paintings. And, by the way, as y’may ‘ave noticed … (a dramatic pause) … some of ‘em are not from this planet!”

  He paused, for a beat. Then he winked at me.

  I shook my head, slowly. There was clearly a cultural chasm to cross before I could get anywhere near understanding what he was talking about. I thanked him for showing me this special place and told him I would remember the experience for the rest of my life. Then I asked him how I could help his people in their struggle with the white man.

  Mandu was busy packing, preparing to decamp. He looked up and met my gaze.

  “Well, Nick, you must tell me. That’s why the Master sent ya. I’m just an old man tryin’ to ‘ang on t’what’s important before he joins the Ancestors in that cave.”

  I looked at him, drowning in those eyes.

  “My tribe depend on me and my knowledge. We’ve survived ‘ere in these hills f’thousands of years, but I know nothin’ about the Whitefella’s politics.”

  Suddenly I sensed his frailty and I was filled with compassion for this ancient shaman who just wanted to be left to rest in peace.

  “I hope I’ve taught ya somethin’ Nick, out here in the bush, in the cave. Now it’s time for you to teach me ...”

  We set off back down the steep trail, and as we walked I told him what I thought needed to be done.

  14

  This Land Is Our Land

  We arrived back at the camp late in the afternoon, to find that they’d had some unwelcome visitors. A gang of white men had turned up on quad bikes, belching fumes everywhere and throwing their weight around. Some had been dressed in paramilitary uniforms and armed with rifles. The two in charge had portrayed themselves as figures of authority—politicians or civil servants, but they could just as well be working for the Mob as the government. The others were probably hired heavies.

  The two big-shots had employed the classic good-cop-bad-cop strategy to interrogate the tribe, while their henchmen stood around looking menacing. Mister Nasty wanted to know about the Plant, demanding to be shown where the cactus was growing and threatening painful consequences if they didn’t comply. The tribe had feigned ignorance, telling him it was a secret known only to the tribal elder and unfortunately he was currently unavailable (although they hadn’t put it quite like that: “we told ‘im to bugger off!”)

  Mr Nice Guy apologised for his colleague’s brusque manner and announced he was there to negotiate about the land rights issue. He explained their “delicate situation” in the face of “market forces, political pressure, and the March Of Progress.” The tribe had shrugged and told him (truthfully this time) that only the elder understood stuff like that.

  The unwelcome visitors soon realised that nothing could be achieved without Mandu, so they strutted around the camp for a while issuing vague threats, before announcing that they’d be back to deal directly with the ‘head honcho’. Then they got on the quads and roared back down the track in a cloud of dust.

  I asked the tribe to describe these two reprobates and from their descriptions, I had a hunch I was acquainted with one of them. Mister Nasty sounded less like a bad cop and more like one of the big-shot criminals Robo and I had crossed—the Great Whites of the drug world. It looked like he was now in cahoots with a crooked politician, Mr Nice Guy, and planning to muscle in on the tribe’s land to get their hands on this lucrative new recreational drug.

  Mandu had already told me that a multinational pharmaceutical company were also after the Plant. They were interested in it as a potential treatment for bipolar, manic-depressive conditions. The pharma guys probably wouldn’t resort to tactics like these sharks, but they had almost unlimited resources to pit against the tribe’s complete lack of anything with which to fight them in the courts. Their traditional way of life was threatened unless they organised a fightback. The plan I’d outlined to Mandu on the long walk back from the cave must be put into action straight away.

  The next morning I woke with the dawn, full of enthusiasm for my new mission, determined to do whatever I could to help Mandu and his people. We arranged to meet in the nearest proper town, Broom1, in a week or two. He wasn’t specific about exactly when or where, but he said that he’d find me “when the time was right.”

  Before I left he gave me a parting gift: a pipe, carved from the branch of a eucalyptus tree, with markings that reminded me of the cave paintings, along with a leather pouch full of cactus seed pellets.

  “This is f’you, Nick” he announced, handing me the pipe. “My father gave it t’me before he left this world t’join the Ancestors. I want ya to have it, t’show yer one of us now.”

  I was overwhelmed with gratitude, but I told him I couldn’t possibly take something so full of significance for him.

  He laughed. “No worries mate, I can make a new one. It’s a lot easier than makin’ a new friend.”

  Then he gave me the pouch of cactus pellets, telling me:

  “Most of the time we smoke the Plant, not eat it. It’s safer like that.”

  I nodded—I could vouch for that.

  Mandu’s gifts meant a lot to me. The pipe and pouch of seeds were identical to those that Nicole had used the night we smoked the Plant together. Along with her painting, they were a reminder of the connection between us—a link running all the way from the remote Australian outback to the haunted Haitian rainforest, connecting her Vodou and his Dreamtime ... via the Master. As always, he was at the centre of things.

  I packed them in my rucksack and said goodbye, thanking Mandu with all my heart, and assuring him I’d be fighting to protect their land and their way of life. We embraced and I set off back down the trail to my camper-van.

  The rusty old VW splitty was still parked at the trailhead, with my board inside. We were just at the start of the windless winter season and it would be at least six months before she saw any action again. In the good old days, Robo and I would have been off on a search for wind and waves elsewhere in the world. Now here I was, in the middle of nowhere, with just my board for company and no chance of renewing our bond with the ocean any time soon.

  I sat in the van, in that desolate spot, wondering what on earth I was doing there. I’d committed myself to a hair-brained scheme to help some people with whom I shared a tenuous connection, at best. If my board could speak she’d be asking me: Why?

  I stared through the dust-encrusted windscreen at the maze of trails leading east, out into the empty desert, and the track that led west, back to the Great Northern Highway.

  “I’ll tell you why …” I muttered, startling myself with unexpected conviction. I was at one of those crossroad moments when you choose your next path—a coming-of-age moment.
This was my chance to do something that mattered in the real world—the grownup world of politics, business, the media; something that might change this world for the better, in however small a way.

  Perhaps, once again, this was what the Master meant when he talked about “fulfilling my potential”? Whatever. I’d made the decision myself, without him pulling the strings. It was my life, not his. I wasn’t his puppet. I’d told Alison that I had to “go bush” for a while and “sort my head out.” The time I’d spent in the desert, with Mandu, had sorted it. I didn’t need the Master, I had my own mission now.

  I put the doubts out of my mind and turned the key in the ignition. The trusty VW engine started first time and I set off west, on the tortuous journey back to civilisation.

  Twelve hours later I made it to Broom. I based myself there because it had most of the things I needed: an airport, local media, politicians, lawyers. The campaign would be fought on several fronts: media, political, legal, and possibly commercial. My strategy involved all of these:

  Make contacts in the local radio and TV stations and get some journalists onboard.

  Launch the political campaign with their publicity—organise protest marches, lobby politicians, and try to win over those who might support our cause.

  Argue our case in the courts.

  Take control of the commercial opportunities offered by the Plant.

  I began contacting local journalists and it was soon apparent that they were interested in the story. It had some popular ingredients: the ‘noble savage’ underdog struggling against marauding big business and greedy politicians, a whiff of corruption and scandal, and last (but surely not least) a charismatic spokesman.

  I might say so myself, but it turned out I was something of a natural in front of the cameras. The dreadlocks and tattoos got their attention, my mixed-race background gave me politically correct kudos and credibility, and I was surprisingly articulate for a domino dingo surf-punk. Even my assumed name fitted—the media loved the irony that a half-caste kid fighting for Aboriginal rights shared his name with an Australian prime minister. Within a week I’d established my media presence, kick-started the campaign, and moved it on to phase two: the political arena.

  Our first demo attracted a few hundred people—a fair sized crowd for Broom: a diverse mix of local blackfellas, white liberals, the curious, do-gooders, bandwagon-jumpers, and those who were just after a good knees-up. We marched down Main Street like warriors, with our banners and warpaint, and camped outside the mayor’s office chanting, singing, wailing with didgeridoos, and banging the drum for Aboriginal rights. The banners had slogans like:

  AUSTRALIA—A STOLEN CONTINENT!

  HANDS OFF OUR HERITAGE!

  THIS LAND IS OUR LAND!

  The last of these was a rewording of the famous Woody Guthrie protest song: ‘This Land Is Your Land’ and it became our rallying cry. As the TV truck arrived to film us we launched into a rousing version, which made the local news that evening. It was picked up for primetime nationwide coverage and the video went viral. The local airwaves, national networks, and international social media reverberated with a bunch of bizarrely painted Abos laying down a groove on didgeridoos and blasting out the lyrics to a white folk singer’s dustbowl anthem:

  This land is my land, this land is our land.

  This land was made for you and me.

  One afternoon, a couple of weeks after I arrived in Broom, I was sitting in the library researching stuff for the campaign. Since spending half my youth in BigFish’s temple of learning, libraries had always been favourite places to escape to, after the ocean of course. I was staring out of the window, planning our next move and thinking that it was time to involve Mandu, when I spotted something that made me drop the book I was reading …

  The Man himself was riding majestically down Main Street on a motorcycle that looked as ancient as he was, dreadlocks flying from beneath his classic leather helmet and goggles. He looked like a cross between Mad Max and Wallace & Gromit. It was a moving picture straight out of the movies, but there were no cameras rolling and this was no film set—just the gnarly old shaman rolling into town like Wyatt Earp arriving for the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.

  “Expect the unexpected when this bloke makes an appearance” a voice-in-my-head reminded me. When we first met, his presence in a library had seemed supremely incongruous. Since then Mandu had shown me how he was the master of his own world, expertly eking out an existence from the desert’s meagre resources. Now here he was, happily hanging out downtown, looking completely at home in his trendily weathered biker’s jacket and cutoff jeans.

  He pulled up outside the library and sat there grinning at me through the window. I got up from the desk and strode outside to greet him. He removed the Mad Max helmet and the Wallace & Gromit goggles and said G’day. We embraced and I gazed at the motorcycle, admiring its classic lines.

  “Yeah mate, it’s a Royal Enfield Bullet” he announced proudly. “They started makin’ ‘em in 1948 when the Poms still made the best bikes in the world. I’ve ‘ad ‘er goin’ on for what ... (he did a quick calculation on his fingers) ... fifty-five years now!”

  He added that he’d trained as an apprentice mechanic when he was a young man and he still did all his own maintenance and repairs.

  “But it’s gettin’ harder keepin’ the old girl on the road these days. Can’t buy parts no more. Me mates tell me about anythin’ I can scavenge and some of ‘em even make bits for ‘er. I give ‘em some cactus seeds in return. We ‘ave a smoke and everybody’s ‘appy. She’s still runnin’ sweet but sooner or later she’ll get crook—like me” he chuckled.

  I was impressed and mentioned that a classic bike like his Enfield might be worth a lot of money to a wealthy collector. He could sell it and buy a spanking new modern motorcycle. He chuckled, ran his hand lovingly over the Enfield’s bodywork, and asked me why the hell he’d want a fancy new bike when he already had one he trusted with his life?

  “Y’can’t work on these poncy new Jap cycles like y’can on my Bullet. Somethin’ goes crook with ‘em and y’just chuck ‘em away, like everythin’ else these days. No-one knows how to fix things no more.”

  I knew what he meant. It was in line with his whole philosophy: preserve rather than throw away; make the most of what you’ve got; don’t screw up the planet by wasting its resources; live in harmony with nature. Having said that, I knew, from our initial communication via computers, that he wasn’t averse to modern technology when it suited him, so I presented him with a brand-new smart-phone and told him that we’d need to be in regular contact as the media campaign got into gear.

  “OK mate, whatever y’say, but I doubt this thing’ll work out in the bush.” He looked at the phone sceptically. “Maybe we should get some homin’ pigeons and camels?”

  He winked and flashed one of his radiant smiles.

  Smalltalk over, we got down to business. I outlined my four-phase strategy and updated him on how things were progressing. He complimented me on my high profile media presence and added, sarcastically, that he hoped I’d still have time for him now I was a local hero and a TV celebrity.

  I blushed and replied sharply that I wasn’t interested in fame. The last thing I wanted was to take all the credit for helping to protect his tribal land, but the campaign needed a spokesperson and he hadn’t been available.

  I happened to have an interview with a local TV station arranged for that afternoon, followed by a meeting with the mayor, so I invited Mandu along. With hindsight, it was a mistake. The problem was: Mandu was a bit too ‘ethnic’ for both mainstream media and politics. It didn’t help that he’d smoked some Plant and then we’d had a few beers together before the live interview ...

  The presenter introduced me with the usual joke about my name and then turned to him:

  “So, Mr Mandu, tell us how long you’ve had the job of tribal elder?”

  “Job? Na mate, it doesn’t work like that ...”

 
Mandu stared into the camera, his smile posing questions only he and the Mona Lisa could answer. There was an uncomfortably long pause. Eventually, he continued:

  “The Ancestors were here first. Thousands of years before you lot. And let me tell you somethin’ else ... (he gazed into the camera) ... not many people know this ... (another long pause) ... some of ‘em weren’t from this planet!”

  He paused, for a beat. Then he winked, straight at the camera, straight into thousands of living rooms.

  The presenter coughed nervously.

  “Ahem. I see. Thank you for explaining your role, Mr Mandu.”

  He turned back to me: “Now, Malcolm Fraser ... (the usual snigger at my name) how does it feel to be the focus of so much attention?”

  I shrugged.

  “Some people are comparing you to other great freedom fighters: Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X ...”

  I blushed, swallowed hard, and avoiding Mandu’s amused gaze, attempted a reply:

  “Well, it’s a great honour to represent the indigenous people of the Karjaganujaru tribe and if I could just explain why we’re so angry ...”

  Mandu butted in: “We’re angry? Malcolm?”

  For a moment I thought he was going to blow my cover, then he remembered who I was supposed to be.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right mate (he giggled, and then pointing at me, addressed the presenter) ... he’s like a dingo with a roo bone. A domino dingo!”

  He guffawed, so loudly that the sound man had to remove his headphones. And so it continued, with me trying to keep the interview on track while Mandu sidetracked it with increasingly bizarre interjections and his stream of consciousness weirdness.

  Our meeting with the mayor didn’t go much better. In deference to the bloke’s status I scrubbed up and put on some smart clothes, but Mandu’s dishevelled appearance didn’t help. We were ushered into the Head Honcho’s office and he greeted me politely, but he could barely hide his distaste for the scruffy old blackfella with the matted dreadlocks and torn-up biker gear.