ANTHROPOLOGICAL ANTICS
“How we kick him out, that silly bugger …”
Truly, I cannot understand how those who call themselves anthropologists – those who study (?) the origin of man – can honestly call themselves scientists, not after what I saw of them in Arnhem Land (circa 1970-74).
Take, for example, the American anthropologist who we will disguise as “George.” In the USA he noticed that all the indigenous peoples of the planet shared a common myth concerning the umbilical cord. The African Negroes had one, he said, so did the Eskimoes, the Polynesians, Asians, etc. Therefore, he concluded, the Australian Aborigines must also have such a myth, and it was his solemn duty to track it down and document it so that his pre-conception would be validated.
On this basis, George was given a substantial grant of funding by the Smithsonian Institute, in Washington, to pursue his “research” among the remnants of the Roper River tribes in south-western Arnhem Land.
Stepping from his chartered aircraft armed with his trusty tape recorder, the visitor wandered at once around the various camps asking to hear their myth about the umbilical cord.
The Aboriginal men shrugged and shook their heads, saying: “Me no more savvy that one.”
The Aboriginal women giggled and conveyed much the same message.
He even addressed his question to the permanent European staff, asking if they had ever heard tell of such a myth.
“No,” they said. “Never heard them talk about anything like that.”
“Maybe then it’s secret business,” wondered the American. “I will just have to be persistent. I’ll wear them out in the end, you wait and see.”
So, every morning just after sunrise, George would amble down the hill from the superintendent’s house, tape recorder loaded with fresh batteries, as he started his wanderings around the various family camps on the river flats. Persistently, boringly, he kept asking everyone the same question, over and over again, amazingly optimistic in the hope that he would erode the resistance against him. He even tried bribery, loaning money to the insolvent, offering cigarettes to the addicted, always accompanied by the same relentless query about their tale involving the umbilical cord.
Every day for about three weeks the American maintained his investigation.
The people in the camp were getting tired of him.
One night, as some of us sat around the campfire, one of the Aboriginal elders complained about their irritating visitor.
“Him proper silly fella longa head,” he said. “Him no more listen to we. How we kick him out, that silly bugger?”
I explained to the Aboriginal men that the American would not leave them alone until they have given him a story about the umbilical cord.
“We no more got ‘em story ‘bout that thing,” they said.
“Then you might have to make one up,” I advised. “Just dream up a story between you. Give it to him and he will go away.”
“Okay, maluka (old man),” they agreed. “But you gotta help us with it, give it right words, eh?”
I agreed.
For a couple of hours we yarned over the campfire, concocting a tale of the sacredness of the umbilical cord, how it originated back in the dreamtime (creation), and was still perpetuated in the modern cultural practises.
Carefully writing, and revising, in pencil in my notebook, we formulated a believable myth, using the correct terminology, and giving it fanciful and even poetic flourishes – in a typical Strehlow style – and finally had the finished product ready to be preserved for posterity.
Early the next morning, when the American anthropologist appeared with his tape recorder in the main camp, old Wullagan approached him with the folded papers, saying: “Here, old fella. This one for you, that story you wanted, eh?”
George’s elation exploded gratefully and he emptied his pockets of coins and cigarettes into Wullagan’s hands.
“Thank you very much,” he beamed. “I knew one day you would see reason …”
Straight away he chartered an aircraft from Darwin over the superintendent’s phone and, with his umbilical story safely packed, George flew out of the settlement happily en route to Washington, and never again to be a bloody nuisance to the Aboriginal people of the Roper River area.
However, his memory still lingers, and in idle moments I frequently wonder if our fabricated tale of the Aboriginal umbilical cord is still being taught to American anthropological students in a strictly academic fashion.
On another occasion I recall two researchers in anthropology from a southern Australian university arrived unannounced in the Roper River area intent on documenting sacred sites.
They carried with them two backpacks loaded with incentives and rewards – such as cigarettes, tobacco, biscuits, cakes, lollies, etc – their motivation being that informants would receive gifts in return for information. A wonderful democratic gesture that was totally foreign to tribal comprehension.
They hired my aluminium dinghy with outboard to accompany two of the old men, Indilinyeeri and Lorborr, from one point of the river up-stream to another designated point down-stream. Along the way, armed with a detailed map, they pointed out various hills, creeks, features of the landscape, rock formations, and asked the old men for their tribal names so they could be written down on to the map.
One time the university fellow pointed at a bare hill on the southern bank, asking: “What is your name for that big hill over there.”
The Aborigines looked stunned.
In pidgin English, one muttered to the other: “That one got no name, eh?”
His companion nodded agreeably.
“No name that one,” said Lorborr.
“Stop the boat,” the university researcher ordered. “I think we might have to give them some sort of incentive, don’t you?”
His partner concurred. Reaching into a bag he took out two cigarettes, offered them to the Aborigines, offered them a flame from his lighter, and, when they were puffing contentedly, again the question was presented: ““What is the old-time name of that hill?”
Lorborr and Indilinyeeri glanced cunningly sideways at each other, a quiet gleam of humour in their reflective eyes.
“Jargul,” said Lorborr. “Him name Jargul.”
“Yowai,” Indilinyeeri agreed. “That one we fellas call Jargul.”
“Wonderful,” beamed the university men. Jargul … I suppose we can spell that j-a-r-g-u-l for the time being.”
And it was done.
I might have interrupted to let the white blokes know that jargul meant penis, but decided not to enlighten them.
Further along, we came to a great rocky pile on the northern bank.
“What do you call those rocks?” the white blokes asked.
The Aborigines, in unison, shook their heads, implying the rocks had no ceremonial significance or, at least, they were not obligated to reveal such information to the uninitiated.
Again the boat was stopped.
Again the university fellows grabbed something from their backpack, this time sweet biscuits, and repeated the question; “What is your name for those rocks?”
The ancients, unsmiling, remained mute as they thoughtfully chewed their latest offerings.
Then Indilinyeeri muttered: “Mungga.”
“Say it again,” he was instructed.
“Mungga,” the old fellow obliged.
Mungga means vagina, but I stayed dutifully silent, thoroughly enjoying this wonderful example of scientific research being undertaken by contemporary investigators of ancient truths.
And so, for several hours we chugged along with the current giving fictitious names (mostly vulgar) to all the prominent features of the landscape, all being dutifully recorded by the researchers of truth and historical fact.
At one point in the proceedings the university men enquired: “Do you have anywhere along here, places where there is gold or opals or anything precious?”
After I had elucidated this query to the old Aboriginal blokes, they at first said no, but after being bribed, pointed out places on the map (which they did not understand) where they knew were alluvial gold, rubies and copper.
“Good,” the university fellow said. “Just to be on the safe side, we will mark in these places as having sacred significance, too. It will be a sort of protection for the future.”
Everyone agreed this was a stirling idea.
The educational exercise completed satisfactorily, Indilinyeeri and Lorborr returned to their respective camps at Ngukurr loaded up with a bulging knapsack containing an abundance of tobacco, lollies, cream cakes, assorted biscuits and other tasty goodies, their reward for contributing selflessly to the documentation of historical data.
© – B.C.
