Chapter 9

Patrick sent off his report to Ken Wyatt an hour later. Sam had had only one quibble: he felt that “destroyed by the Rainbow Serpent” was inaccurate and that it should read something like “destroyed by Galaru, the more dangerous aspect of the Rainbow Serpent.” He also felt that there should be a note that a decade ago the Ministry of the Environment had noted that under the Aboriginal Heritage Act of 1972, “There are several important Aboriginal heritage sites around Lakes Argyle and Kununurra, which are protected under this act including ceremonial, mythological and burial sites, associated with the Ord River.” Patrick had made the changes after they had a brief, yet serious, conversation.

It seemed that Tessa was eager to return to Kununurra. They both felt that they could contribute to a new, egalitarian community. Perhaps they could teach. Perhaps Sam could be the community nungungi.

“Wait a few weeks. Let’s see what, if anything, is effected. First by Jos, then by the Minister.”

“You think Wyatt will do something?”

“He’s a politician. He’s from Western Australia. He’s an aborigine. He’ll try to show beneficial activity. This won’t be costly. It’s what’s referred to as ‘unallocated Crown land’ – a protected area of sorts. Rebuilding the dam would take most of a decade and cost billions. Reimbursing for losses will run a million or two.” [$1.5 billion was spent on the original Ord Irrigation Scheme, which opened in 1973, for a return of 17 cents on the dollar, and only 260 jobs created, by 2015.]

“So you think we should wait a bit?”

“When is your lease up?”

“End of next month.”

“Then wait two or three weeks. Come and visit.”

“I’ll talk to Tessa. Thanks.”

Noontime in Kununurra a beat-up ute stopped at boobook’s and a man and a gin got out.

“Good day, boobook. I am Henk and this jane is Tadum. We are danjoo.”

“So. Tadum is a star, and you are betrothed. You have not married?”

“Not the whitefellas way.”

“Sit. This is Jos and these are Zeke and Susan. They will soon be goordar.”

“Frogmouth told us that Jos will make a new place. We would be part of a new place.”

“The new place is not yet. Perhaps it never will be. It may be but a dream,” said Jos.

“Tomorrow is not yet. It may be but a dream,” Henk responded. “If we do not build our dreams, how can tomorrow be?”

“Do you work?”

“I’ve been a carpenter for NE Sheds off’n River Farm Road.”

“And Tadum?”

“She cleans house for a whitefella family.”

“Are other Wijilawarrim interested in a new place?”

“‘Bout a dozen.”

“Jos, tell of your dream.”

“This will take time. Let’s get something to drink, first.” Most fetched water or tea.

“All of us know the story in the Bible, how Adam and Eve were expelled from Eden. That’s the whitefellas looking back at a world without any troubles. A utopia. There are many kinds of utopias all over the world. And there have been many attempts at forming ideal communities. In India, an ashram is a spiritual monastery or a hermitage. The hippie communes focussed on back-to-the-land and free love and drugs. The stories of the Dreaming, the teachings of boobook and of frogmouth aren’t pictures of then. They are images of the lessons we should be learning. Like that of Christopher, carrying the Christ-child across water. We learn that the strong should aid and carry the weaker. Our stories of the Dreaming are not histories of gigantic serpents or of talking animals. They are like Aesop’s fables, truths expressed to all of us.

“Another thing. Our world today is founded in gaining money and prestige and position. On gaining at the expense of others.” Jos paused.

“I want a place where I can live away from whitefellas’ takings. I want a place where people cooperate, where they work together and care for each other. I think what I want is the sort of ‘anarchic distributism,’ the thing that Dorothy Day might have advocated. Not quite Kropotkin. But I think I am in opposition to both state-sponsored capitalism and to Leninist state socialism.”

“I don’t know those folks,” interjected Henk.

“That’s OK,” Jos responded. “Kropotkin wrote of mutual aid. ‘The means of production being the collective work of humanity, the product should be the collective property of the race,’ he wrote. ‘In the long run the practice of solidarity proves much more advantageous to the species than the development of individuals endowed with predatory inclinations.’ Since 1788, the whitefellas here have been those with predatory inclinations.

“We will build us a collective in the redeemed land. If any in our community is hungry, it is because we are all hungry. If one is without shelter, we are all sleeping under the sky. But mutual aid must go further. The community must educate the children. The community must ensure that there is food and water, fuel and shelter. Mutual aid. But we will not be bound by band or tribe, by color or language. Only a few days ago boobook introduced me to a whitefella-nungungi. I never heard of such a thing before. Our community must be open.”

“That was a good teaching,” said Zeke. “I will tell it to others. But remember, most whitefellas are stupid.”

“But not all.”

“On March 29, 1987, an American 24-year-old model named Ginger Meadows was killed by a crocodile while standing under a waterfall near Broome,” said Zeke.

“True.”

“Yet I will tell the gins of Josiah’s teaching,” murmured Susan.

“You cannot tell inaudibly. You must talk with a man’s voice. That is another thing: we must not be women and men, but a community. You, Star, must not walk behind Henk, but beside him. Henk. Tell us why you would leave Wijilawarrim.”