Sam's Year
Chapter 1: Setting Out

Copyright© 2018 by Peter H. Salus

“You want what?” Rachel cried. “You want what?”

“I want to do a ‘gap year’,” Sam repeated. He’d known this wasn’t going to be easy. “In a few months I’ll be done with Barker. I’m nearly done with my paper for modern history. They won’t like it. But I know I must pursue it. I don’t want to go to University. I want to visit more people.”

“I thought students went abroad on ‘Gap Year’,” Patrick said.

“Usually, they do.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve been to several bands in Queensland [Nockatunga and Kulilla] and NSW [Armidale and Tibooburra]. I thought I’d take the train past Broken Hill into South Australia. I’d visit the Pitjantjatjara and then go on to the Spinifex and the Wangai. Then, perhaps north ... wherever my eagle takes me.”

The Pitjantjatjara people are an Aboriginal people of the Central Australian desert. The Pila Nguru, often referred to in English as the ‘Spinifex people’, ... were the last Australian tribe to have dropped the complete trappings of their traditional aboriginal lifestyle ... They maintain in large part their traditional hunter-gatherer lifestyle within the territory, over which their claims to Native Title ... were recognized by a 28 November 2000 Federal Court decision. [Wikipedia]

“You should talk to your grandfather about this. He was in the Great Victoria Desert forty years ago. And to Uluru more recently.”

“I cannot go to Uluru. I am not yet ready. As I was not ready to visit the Mutitjulu. But the Wallaby said that my namesake was vital in an older transition, and is mentioned in the Old Testament, the New and in the Quran.”

“Patrick! Are you going to encourage him?”

“What can I do? I followed my snake, he follows Bunjil. Gordy can help somewhat. He’s retired, but not inactive. And I am not unknown. I was warned when he was in elementary school. We kept him home and now he’s boarded at Barker. Once an eagle has fledged it finds its own way.”

Sam let his father explain. What could he say? He had seen his future in his dreams. He would learn about a different world in the deserts. He knew the animals there – the real ones and the Dream-beasts.

In the Australian Central and Western Deserts there are roaming Ogres, Bogeymen and Bogey women, Cannibal Babies, Giant Baby-Guzzlers, Sorcerers, and spinifex and feather-slippered Spirit Beings able to dispatch victims with a single fatal garrote. There are lustful old men who, wishing to satiate their unbridled sexual appetites, relentlessly pursue beautiful nubile young girls through the night sky and on land – and other monstrous beings, too.

Importantly, in Aboriginal Australia, these figures and their attendant narratives provide a valuable source of knowledge about the hazards of specific places and environments. Most important of all is their social function in terms of engendering fear and caution in young children, commensurate with the very real environmental perils that they inevitably encounter.

“Is this a private fight or can anyone club their way in?” asked 11-year-old Weena.

“Hi, runt,” Sam said. “Mum’s giving me a hard time?”

“What about?”

“Gap year.”

“Oh, mum. Don’t resist! The longer and harder you resist, the worse you’ll feel when you give in.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because that’s how it works: Sam knows how it’ll work out so he just sits there and when the right time comes, he pounces. Anyway, it’s time for him to go on his quest.”

“Quest?”

“Like Galahad or Aeneas. Galahad had to seek the holy Grail – he didn’t need to bring it back. It was that bloke in Wagner who had to fetch the spear. And Sam’s older than Holden Caulfield, anyway.”

“What’s he hunting for, sis?”

“Oh, for a sense of purpose or reason, I’d guess. You’re going to search for knowledge, just not in a lab or a library.”

“The deserts of Australia are my lab and the environment’s my library.”

“See, Rachel, they’re your kids. Both of them.”

“You had something to do with it, too.”

“Yes. OK, kids. We succumb. Sam, try to think through what you’ll need.”

“It won’t be much. Some dosh, a credit card, though it might be useless. Boots, socks, underwear, a good knife, and my hat.”

“You’ll take a small first-aid kit, too,” said Patrick.

“If you insist.”

“And a compass,” added Rachel.

“The stars are more reliable, mum.”


That discussion ended, for a while. But in October Gordy asked “When’s school over?”

“First of December?”

“Will you stay around for Christmas and the New Year?”

“I think so.”

“I’ll tell some people to let others know that you will be travelling.”

“That will be good.”

“Be careful that though you come from Sydney and New South, you are not seen as heralding Wati Nyiru.”

“No. They needn’t fear that. I will go first to the Murray.”

Among sorcery figures that feature in “Dreaming” is Wati Nyiru (“The Man Nyiru”, the Morning Star). Wati Nyiru chases the Kungkarangkalpa, the celestial star sisters comprising the constellation known to the ancient Greeks as the Pleiades, through the night sky, with sexual conquest (among other things) on his mind.

Such narratives are first and foremost about social control with respect to the specific dangers of the desert where, in the summer months, people can die horribly tormented deaths from thirst within a matter of hours. Such monstrous beings and their attendant narratives exist to impress upon and to inculcate into young children the need for obedience to older members of the family, and especially not to wander off into the desert alone, lest they meet a fate perhaps worse than that of encountering a ravenous Pangkarlangu.

Sam left Sydney on the 0618 (the Outback Xplorer) for Broken Hill on Monday, the 8th of January, arriving at 1740. He was heading for Ngaut Ngaut on the Murray River. He was sure he could thumb a ride on the A32, the Barrier Highway, running from Sydney to Adelaide. So he had booked a night at the Hilltop Motel and walked there from the station. It took under a half hour. He had a pleasant dinner, but learned that there’d be no breakfast yet at six or six thirty. He could get a cuppa, though. He purchased two Cadbury bars from a vending machine, showered and went to bed.

He was up by six, dressed and at the desk. He had a cup of rather weak tea, ate a “Dairy Milk,” and walked to the highway. Several utes and passenger cars passed, but he waited for a big rig. The first whizzed past, but the second pulled over.

“Where to?” Sam asked.

“Central Market.”

“Can you drop me in Burra?”

“No problem, matey. I’ll fuel up there, anyways. Where ya headin’?”

Sam climbed in. “Around. I’m not certain. I thought I’d look at the Murray.”

“D’ya know the history of the Murray?”

“You mean Ngurunderi?”

“Yep.”

Sam began: “In the Dreamtime

Ngurunderi travelled down the Murray River in a bark canoe, in search of his two wives who had run away from him. At that time the river was only a small stream, below the junction with the Darling River.

A giant cod fish, Ponde, swam ahead of Ngurunderi, widening the river with sweeps of its tail. Ngurunderi chased the fish, trying to spear it from his canoe. Near Murray Bridge he threw a spear, but missed and it was changed into Long Island (Lenteilin). At Tagalang he threw another; the giant fish surged ahead and created a long straight stretch in the river.

At last, with the help of Nepele (the brother of Ngurunderi’s wives), Ponde was speared after it had left the Murray River and had swum into Lake Alexandrina. Ngurunderi divided the fish with his stone knife and created a new species of fish from each piece.

“That’s a good beginning, lad.”

“Thank you. I am Samuel.”

“Call me Wheels.”

“OK, Wheels. You’re drivin’ – want to hear more?”

“‘Course.”

While the fish were being created, Ngurunderi’s two wives (the sisters of Nepele) made camp. On their fire they were cooking bony bream, a fish forbidden to the Ngarrindjeri women. Ngurunderi smelt the fish cooking and knew his wives were close. He abandoned his camp, and came after them. His huts became two hills and his bark canoe became the Milky Way.

Hearing Ngurunderi coming, his wives just had time to build a raft of reeds and grass-trees and to escape across Lake Albert. On the other side their raft turned back into the reeds and grass-trees. The women hurried south.

Ngurunderi followed his wives as far south as Kingston. Here he met a great sorcerer, Parampari. The two men fought, using weapons and magic powers, until eventually Ngurunderi won. He burnt Parampari’s body in a huge fire, there are granite boulders there today, and turned north along Coorong beach. Here he camped several times, digging soaks in the sand for fresh water, and fishing in the lagoon.

“You’re doing a fine job. You might be a teller of tales. You might be a singer of songs.”

“I’m not sure what I will be. This trip may tell me.”

“You’ve told me a lot to the tale of Ngurunderi. Do you know more?”

“Some.”

Ngurunderi made his way across the Murray Mouth and along the Encounter Bay coast towards Victor Harbor. He made a fishing ground at Middleton by throwing a huge tree into the sea to make a seaweed bed. Here he hunted and killed a seal; its dying gasps can still be heard among the rocks. At Port Elliot he camped and fished again, without seeing a sign of his wives. He became angry and threw his spear into the sea at Victor Habour, creating the islands there.

Finally, after resting in a giant granite shade-shelter on Kaike, Ngurunderi heard his wives laughing and playing in the water near King’s Beach. He hurled his club to the ground, creating the Bluff (Longkuwar), and strode after them.

His wives fled along the beach in terror until they reached Cape Jervis. At this time, Kangaroo Island was still connected to the mainland, and the two women began to hurry across to it. Ngurunderi had arrived at Cape Jervis though, and seeing his wives still fleeing from him, he called out in a voice of thunder for the waters to rise. The women were swept from their path by huge waves and were soon drowned. They became the rocky Pages Islands.

Ngurunderi knew that it was time for him to enter the spirit world. He crossed to Kangaroo Island and travelled to its western end. He cast his spears into the sea, dived in after them, and rose to become a star in the Milky Way.

“That was very good, Samuel. We are nearly to Burra. I will stop and let you off at iOR Petroleum. They have good chops. Surely another driver will be going down the Goyder Highway.”

“I hope so. You have been very good to bring me so far.”

“And you have paid me with a tale of wisdom.” The rig stopped and Sam climbed down, took his swag and walked a few steps. When he turned, the rig was gone.

Sam looked at the sky. “Gods laugh, don’t they? Were you my dad’s serpent? Or my eagle? Or just a jokester? Oh, I know! Kaa, the crow, the opposite of Bunjil.”

He went and had early lunch. There were three workmen joking at the next table.

“Day-ee,” Sam said. “Where are you heading?”

“We’re for Blanchetown, but Jock’s gettin’ dropped in Morgan, at the Overland Vineyards.”

“Can I get a lift to Blanchetown?”

“Slong as you don’t mind ridin’ in back with Jock. Only room fer two inna cab.”

“Sounds good to me. I’m Sam.”

“We’re Ben an’ Ken. Thet’s Jock. Where you goin’?”

“I want to visit Ngaut Ngaut near Nildottie and visit the ancestral home of the Nganguraku people, see the ancient campsites and the rock art. I’m told that the scarred river red gums reveal the ancient practice of canoe making.” [Ngaut Ngaut (‘Devon Downs’ to the Europeans) Conservation Park is located along the west side of the River Murray approximately 12 kms south of Swan Reach and close to the Nildottie Township.]

“Still in school?”

“No. I got out a few months ago. I’m wanderin’ for a while.”

“You’ll get a ride from Blanchetown ter Nildottie, ain’t but a half hour down the east side of the Murray,” said Ken.

Ben added: “An’ it’s a walk to the park. If’n the nigs let you in.”

“Shut it, Ben.”

“Waal. It’s restricted, ain’t it?”

“When we leavin’?” asked Jock.

“Right now,” said Ken, tossing a twenty onto the table.

The ride wasn’t too bad: Jock reeked of tobacco, but we were in the open and the heat wasn’t extreme – no more than 30. But it would get worse, the highs in the south had been increasing for twenty years. He liberated his hat. It was too noisy to converse, so he just looked at the scenery. When they got to Morgan, Sam caught his first sight of the river. A century and more ago, Morgan had been a major river port. Now it had a population of well under a thousand. They made a few turns onto local (unpaved) streets and stopped.

“Here I go,” Jock said, picking up his swag. “Good luck to you.”

“And to you,” Sam said,

Jock walked to the right side of the cab, thanked Ken and Ben, and made his way up the drive. Ken drove onto the Thiele Highway and south to Blanchetown where they crossed the Murray on the Sturt Highway (Sam recalled that his grandfather’s grandfather had travelled with Sturt) and headed south on Hunter Road. A few minutes later, Ken pulled over onto the left shoulder and got out.

“This is as far as we’ll take you. We head east to Notts Well from here.”

Sam climbed down. “Thank you.”

“You ought to be able to get a lift from here. Just walk south. It’s about 50 klicks to the park.”

“Thanks again.”

They drove off in a cloud of dust. When it had settled a bit, Sam settled his hat, hefted his swag, and began walking south. After about an hour, the road veered away from the river (or, perhaps, over the decades the river had veered away from the road), and there was another dusty track, labelled “River Road” to the right. Sam was wondering which option to choose when he heard a motor and an older Toyota ute pulled up.

“Need a lift, fella?” The driver looked about Gordy’s age.

“I’m heading for Ngaut Ngaut.”

“I’ll take you all the way, youngster. I live in Wongulla.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know where that is.”

“Waal, toss your swag in back an’ git in.” Sam did. “Wongulla’s a tiny shack town on the River. There are also a few holiday homes and a boat ramp. Thet’s mine. Once the kids are back in school, I only got business onna weekends. I go down past the preserve to Forster, cross to Walker Flat, an’ back on the west side.”

“I see.”

“You runnin’ away?”

“Oh! No sir! I’m taking a year to travel around before I go to university.”

“You gonna be OK with the abos?”

“I hope so. I’ll find out.”

It seemed like only a little while til they were off Hunter Road and near some buildings that appeared to be purpose-conducted. “Office along here. You can get guided tours. There are folks who tell stories and explain pictures.”

“Just what I wanted!” Sam said. “Thanks ever so much!”

“Pass it on. Pass it on.” And he drove off.

Sam saw an older man sitting on a barrel and walked over to him.

“I greet you,” Sam said. “My Bunjil brought me here.”

“We await you.”

“I seek permission to view, to listen, to learn.”

“Do you know how the great river came to be?”

“I have heard of the hunting of the wives and of the cod.”

“Our leader is a son of Ponde.” the man said.

“I am Samuel Hollister, a child of Bunjil.”

“I am Paul Callop.”

[A callop (Macquaria ambigua) is a bottom-feeder and has been known to attain a weight in excess of 11 lb. They are highly respected by fresh water anglers for their ability to fight strongly until the end. When handled by an unwary angler the callop can inflict severe wounds to the fingers because the edge of the gill cover is razor sharp.]

“I will not fight you.”

One story about Ngaut Ngaut tells of a gigantic man who lived at a place called Witjawitj, a rockhole where water would be collected as they travelled between Nildottie and Loxton. This was fresh water until farmers put down a bore and broke Witjawitj, making the water salty. We no longer tell farmers where there is fresh water.

“I will not seek the waterhole.”

“I will show you where to eat and sleep. There will be more talk in the morning.”

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