INTO THE DREAMTIME
“ the impromptu farting sound was intended to block their bunji’s ears to obscenities “
The following account was written by a young Northern Territory journalist who, in the early 1970s, was invited by elders of several Roper River tribes to document their ceremonial life, mythology, legends, customs . This story forms part of a larger book length manuscript now awaiting publication …
About two weeks before the important ceremony was to begin, five of the old men saddled up horses in the stockyard and, with myself in tow, we rode away from the Roper River settlement in a north-easterly direction, right out into a hot heart of Arnhem Land.
In our saddlebags we carried tea, sugar and flour and one man had a .22 rifle, plus a sharpened butcher’s knife. Along the way we hunted our food: kangaroos, wallabies, flying foxes, goannas, etc.
“You gunna see very important place,” I was told. “We got to go this place every year before Goonabibbi start up to look at something.”
Our destination was known as Burrunjor, they said, the very nucleus of tribal culture that dated back over the centuries to the first people on earth, at the time of mortal creation, an era they called “the dreamtime.”
After some days of what seemed like pointless travelling, over sun-baked hills and plains, dry creek beds and patches of arid desert, we eventually came to the edge of Burrunjor. It looked like an abstract city: strange rock formations rising up like tall city buildings, with streets in between – a mysterious, forboding place asleep in an infinite wilderness. Following each other down a rocky incline, one horse ahead of the other, we finally alighted at a beautiful billabong fringed with palms and gumtrees and ringed with richly red ochred rocks. Cockatoos screeched from the branches overhead, announcing our arrival to the silence.
Leaving the horses unattended by the water to graze on lush grasses, Lorborr led us through a maze of rocky “streets” to a huge cave cut into the side of a cliff. Here we were instructed to remove all our clothing, everything European, and we squatted in a rough circle as the old men started singing.
One man whispered to me: “They saying hello to the spirits who guard this place. We get permission to go inside. When we go in, don’t talk English. Just watch …”
Very soon Lorborr led us into the cave’s mouth and soon we could feel a strange coolness in the air. As eyes accustomed to the half light, I could see that every inch of the walls and roof was covered in a conglomeration of drawings, all in four colours, red, white, yellow and black. Many of the paintings were of human male figures, each decorated differently. Other painting were symbolic. Still others were of animal figures, some recognisable, some unknown. Questions rose inside me like bubbles in a boiling billy, but I stayed mute: looking, watching, studying, memorising, wondering.
The men wandered around the painted walls, stopping here and there to concentrate intently.
After about ten minutes Lorborr gestured that we should leave the cave at once. Outside, I started asking them questions and the sat down in the shade of a rock to respond to my aching curiosity.
Who did those paintings?
“Old people bin do ‘em. Long time ago. Back in dreamtime.”
How did they get up high enough to paint the roof of the cave (roughly, three metres from the floor)?
“Them old mans bin big people in them days. Like giant. We just little fellas now.”
Most of the paintings were like new, as though they had been recently re-touched with fresh ochre. I wondered who did this mammoth chore.
“No one can touch them,” they said. “They were done in dreamtime. No one paint over them.”
The painting inside the sacred cave were depictions of how the Goonabibbi and Yabuduruwa dances were to decorate their bodies at every annual re-enactment. Prior to the ceremony taking place, the main junggaii travelled to Burrunjor to refresh their memories and to ascertain the ancient designs were never changed. Any infringements would automatically incur a death penalty to the man responsible.
Before setting off on the return journey, we camped overnight on the western edge of Burrunjor. During the night I was awakened by Garrnga. Shaking me, he pointed down into the darkness with his chin. Burrunjor was a blaze of lights. Millions of fireflies. Making it look like a silent, mystifying city illuminated at night. An eerie, unnerving sight to intrude on many of my later dreams.
“We bring you this country to do important job for Aborigine,” said Burool. “You write down in book all our sacred story.”
“Yowai,” his brother, Mardoo, added. “might be soon our people forget story about the old people’s ceremony. While you here, Aborigine treat you like we. You no more mununga (European). You black fella now.”
A dozen or more men watched my nod of confirmation as we huddled in confidence around a small night fire on the northern bank of the Roper River in south-western Arnhem Land. The Aboriginal men had brought me secretly to this place while the women and children slept unaware in the main camp.
An old man, Wulla, placed an affectionate hand on my shoulder, saying: “You are my son, my own little boy. You call me Ngababa (father). Your skin group in Bullayne. Your ceremony is Yabuduruwa … Savvy?”
I nodded silently. My tribal country was Ngandi. Then there was a secret word of identification to impart in confidence to other ceremonial men should there ever be any dispute over credentials: very much a sort of inter-tribal freemasonry.
“Now take off them mununga clothes,” Wulla ordered.
I frowned: “All my clothes?”
“Just that shirt,” said the old man. “I got to look your body.”
In the firelight Wulla searched my flesh with his fingers, running his hands through my hair to feel the skull shape, examining my neck, arms and chest. Turning me around, I felt his touch move across my shoulders and down the back to pause at a wart on the left side.
“This one him ‘dreaming’, he exclaimed excitedly. “Me savvy him properly now.”
Facing me, he announced: “Your Aborigine man’s name is Mullugararrnga.”
This new name took me a couple of weeks to learn to pronounce properly with its rolled r’s and ‘ng’ sound, both foreign to the English tongue.
Reincarnation, I soon learnt was the basis of all Aboriginal philosophy. Recalled to Wulla’s mind was a memory of a dead tribal relative who had had a wart on his back similar to mine. At death, Aboriginal names are taboo. They are never uttered, but firmly committed to memory. Wulla was therefore convinced the dormant spirit of Mullugararrnga had been re-born into my body, and so bequeathed to me his personal name.
On a later occasion I saw them cremate the swag and other belongings of a dead person, watching intently as the smoke rose high in a straight, unwavering column into the sky. When at last the upper air moved the smoke, the mourners said this was an indication of the area where the spirit would have its re-birth. The people observe the characteristics of their piccaninnies, and should any bear physical or even behavioural similarities to the dead, they inherit the appropriate name.
The following night, when the moon was high, a hushed excitement permeated the Roper River camp. Hurried by the jungaii (ceremonial organisers), the bare-breasted women gathered with the girls and children at a clearing in the bush, where they squatted in a compact group, bending forward and covering themselves with their blankets. Boomerangs rattled and men’s voices rose in a shrill chant. They lined up and shuffled in unison around their prostrate females. The song subsided into a series of animalistic grunts: strange, frightening sounds, like the passionate heavings of a bull in copulation. With it, the moving circle was broken and the men danced away towards the ceremony ground in single file, their grunting chorus gradually dying.
At the river bank site where the Goonabibbi (Kunapippi?) was to take place, I watched a man whirling a giant bullroarer about 1.5 metres long and 254mm wide, with a doubled rope attached to its end. Gripping the rope with both hands, he spun around, gaining pace as he went, the bullroarer spinning with tremendous speed, and issuing a deep moaning hum. The sound was intended to carry to the women, warning them the sacred ritual was soon to begin. The uninitiated must stay well clear; to infringe this law means instant death, I was told, and no explanations were accepted.
I asked Gummi the meaning of the weird grunting made earlier by the male dancers.
He explained: “That one the voice of the big animal that used to live in this country. He came on to the ceremony ground and eat up all the little boys.”
Here, possibly, was the racial memory of the alleged “pre-historic monsters” that modern archeology has proved stalked the earth many thousands of years ago. Lacking a written literature, the Aborigines obviously preserved such knowledge by incorporating memories into dance, legend and song, and these were bequeathed from one generation to the next, handed down from the most distant ages.
Gummi continued: “You look the bullroarer over there. That one the tongue of that giant animal. And that noise him voice.”
“All those animals have been dead for a long time,” I mused.
“No, no,” Gummi protested. “Him still alive. Aborigines know one place where big animal still live. When he walk about, the ground shake, and he eat you up if you go too close.”
The ceremony area is divided into three camps: one for the junggaii to prepare the adornments and paraphernalia required by the dancers; a middle camp where the dancers squat in the shade of a large bough shelter to have their bodies decorated; and a third camp, segregated from the others, occupied by the young boys about to be introduced to ceremonial life.
In the old days, I was told, the corroboree dancer’s body decorations were made from fluffy goose down adhered with human blood. Usually a female relative donated blood from a leg cut. By the early 1970s this custom had changed. Goose feathers were replaced with the cotton-type stuffing found in car seats; the “glue” was sugar dissolved in water.
The boys are virtually imprisoned. At the outset, the junggaii roughly gather the lads from the main camp, ignoring the sympathetic cries of their women folk, push them – some weeping, others pleading – out into the bush to the ceremonial ground; they are stripped naked, their heads clipped almost bald, and they are ordered to keep their bodies entirely smeared with red ochre. Total silence is maintained at the will of their guard, usually an elder armed with several spears and boomerangs. Any transgression can be penalised by a spear wound in the buttock, or burning with a fire stick. Tribal law becomes all-important and is ruthlessly enforced.
Probably for the first time in their young lives the 11-12-13 year old boys are subjected to strict discipline and indoctrination. They are publicly humiliated, shouted at, called obscene names, threatened with brutality, literally forced and browbeaten into submission. Raw fear shows on their faces as orders are screamed into their ears. They are pushed, jostled, jabbed, every belittling action designed to quell their spirit and crush them down into a state of receptivity.
For the duration of the ceremony the youthful candidates must be self-sufficient. As a lesson in survival, they are shown how to fashion their own spears and boomerangs and must hunt bush food for themselves. They are allowed no contact with females.
Before missionary influence disrupted the custom, this sex law applied equally to all participants, regardless of status. During the ceremony period, while the men and women were physically separated, a man could freely indulge in a homosexual union with his bunji (brother-in-law). Christianity abhorred such relationships, and since the early 1900s the practise has been officially banned. In some cases, though, it is still preferred.
Nowadays, I was informed, according to strict tribal law, a man is forbidden to speak to his bunji or to have any physical contact. Once, to test this taboo, I sought permission from an elder to say something of great importance to one of my bunji.
He told me: “You rub that bunji on the mouth with sweat from under your arm. Then you talk a little bit. But not much. When you finish, you walk away and don’t talk no more.”
The Goonabibbi – local pronunciation – ceremony has several parts. It is a place of education, a court of law, and an archive. Here the young boys, having undergone the initiation rites, are introduced to the ancient dances, songs and legends of their ancestors. Instruction in tribal law is also imparted and, with it, a sample of punishment to be expected should those laws be broken.
Each evening, at the end of daily events, the lads are roughly pushed together into a group. The junggaii encircle them, dancing around with fire sticks, sending showers of live coals spraying down to burn the boy’s unprotected bodies. For the inexperienced participants, should one or even several of the initiates happen to be their bunji, they are permitted to make an effort, or a pretence, of smothering the live coals, or brushing them away.
Throughout the activities (and this is one of the most mystifying aspects of their group behaviour), one could always hear a short, sharp, blurting sound coming from men’s mouths – almost like unashamed farts – followed by embarrassed laughter. Observing them more closely, I came to realise the farting sound was being created by quickly forcing a mouthful of air through compressed lips.
“Why do they do that?” I asked a junggaii. “Why do they make that noise with their mouth?”
“Oh, that,” he giggled, self-consciously, “that noise is done when someone say something dirty in front of their bunji …”
In short, the impromptu farting sound was intended to block their bunji’s ears to obscenities; it was meant as a sort of oral protection barrier to shield their bunji from corruption, or such was my understanding of the rather complicated procedure.
The elders decide penalties for all crimes committed, their severity determined by the seriousness of the violation. Some law-breakers are literally made to run the gauntlet between two rows of men armed with fighting sticks, each striking the culprit heavily as he passes. Few emerge with bones unbroken. For justifiable murder, the guilty party can be banished unarmed to the bush to be hunted like a wild creature. If caught, he is promptly speared and his body left for the dingoes.
The tribal system of justice seemed strange in many of its facets. Between ceremonies those who committed serious crimes might think they were left unpunished, as they are infrequently confronted on the actual occasion of the crime being perpetrated, or even following detection. Accusing eyes turn aside. No angry charges are made. The whole issue appears to lapse as though all interest has been lost in retribution. In reality, the matter is held in abeyance until the Goonabibbi or Yabuduruwa is re-enacted. Then, in the all-male precincts of the corroboree ground, before his peers, the offender is abruptly reminded of his unlawful behaviour and penalties are administered accordingly.
Sometimes tribal justice can be lingeringly cool and indirect. One man, in a moment of insanity, violently grabbed his wife by the hair and thrust her face into the coals of a camp fire, holding her there until she died in terrible agony. The killer appeared to go scot free until his young son was secretly poisoned and ran screaming into the Roper River where he quickly disappeared beneath the muddy, murky current. This was the murderer’s punishment: a life-long memory that his beloved son had died to atone for his killing of the boy’s mother.
“The dead girl’s brother did that, “ I was informed. “That’s the Aborigine way.”
The main activity, however, was the historical recollection of the dances, songs and legends of the Dream Time – or the creation of the Aboriginal culture. Every day for six weeks the old men recalled for me the ageless myths related to the Goonabibbi ritual, stories of the Giluri-giluri mermaids, the Catfish man, and the adventures of Wadabirr, the goanna. I felt very proud as I recorded these takes in writing for the first time, making the first written account of the mythology which had survived only by word of mouth over thousands of years.
Old Indilinyeerie – ironically, more than 65 years of age but my tribal nephew – was the most constant informant during the initial stages of the research. Friendly, unruffled, his memory for detail often faltered, and I quickly realised I would need to double and, if necessary, triple check his versions of the myths if I were to achieve maximum accuracy. So this became my system: as he talked in his thin, throaty way, I noted Indilinyeerie’s words, asking questions throughout to clarify misunderstandings and to maintain for myself a continuously vivid picture of the events being related. When the old man had finished each account, I repeated the story to him, guided by the rough notes before me, encouraging him to mention anything pertinent that had been overlooked or not understood, not to hesitate in correcting any errors or misinterpretations on my part.
Frequently, the old man went away satisfied, beaming with pleasure and reassuring me: “Him right. You got him right now,” only to return at later intervals with a worried frown, saying: “That story I bin tell, I miss a bit …” and then would follow additions or corrections which necessitated minor or drastic revisions on the typewriter.
Once the procedure became a regular pattern, I began triple checking Indilinyeerie’s narrative with two other junggaii, sometimes singly, sometimes together. As a final precaution, we gathered together a group of elders to listen to each story in turn. Occasionally, they also suggested alterations or detected omissions incurred by the three raconteurs.
On the opening night the young boys were lined up to watch the old men perform short dance sequences. Then the boys took turns to dance with an old man, persevering until each step and movement had been perfectly executed. It was a truly memorable scene. Dry gum leaf branches were dropped on to the coals of several strategically placed camp fires as the elderly teacher and his frightened student – both artistically daubed with cotton fluff patterns over their entire bodies – eerily emerged from the darkness, feet stamping and theatrically gesturing, gradually dancing into the circle of song men who were shrieking and rattling boomerangs. During the moments it took the gum leaves to brightly flare and die, the corroboree dance was performed before a crowd of critical observers. If there were any mistakes in the choreography, these were pointed out and verbally corrected. Then teacher and pupil returned once more to the darkness to prepare for a repeat demonstration of their skills. With the blazing fires, swirling red dust and smoke, and painted dancers moving through the haze, I ached for the feel of a camera in my hands, wanting to preserve such images for posterity. But white men’s cameras were not allowed. Neither was the suggestion even momentarily entertained.
“No more camera here,” was the verdict. “This place properly sacred. You look, that’s all.”
Between exercises, the jungaii stressed their tribal law to the youngsters, shouting: “You no sneak about young girl … You wait till you given wife … You no more talk your cudjin (cousin, female) … Or sit down in your sister’s camp … You no more copy white man way … You stay black fella … If you break black fella law, we catchem you ceremony time … We killem you no more little bit. Savvy?”
All instructions are delivered in pidjin English, while the songs are sung in the Wundarrung dialect, the tongue of a tribe now extinct. I asked Maala if the meaning of the songs was understood.
He said: “Some old man savvy that language, but no more we young fella.”
A parallel existed one time, I remembered, in the European Christian world. How many generations of Roman Catholics celebrated their Mass in Latin, which was also a dead language?
As the final week drew near, I helped the junggaii dig a long, narrow hole in the shape of a boomerang (but it actually symbolised a rainbow, I believe), about 1.5m deep and 4.6m long. The law decreed that this excavation was to be completed sunrise and sunset.
That night many small fires were lit along the floor of the channel and the boys were prodded at spear point into the hole and forced to dance through the flames, stamping the coals dead with their bare feet. As they whimpered and nursed their blistered toes, an old man yelled: “If you break black fella law, we put you in that hole with fire. You can’t get out. We keep you down there with spears and you die really slow.”
Again the fire was re-kindled and lit as the boys danced painfully through the flames, the junggaii hustling me along with them to stand on the mound of earth overlooking the hole. At once a piercing, terrifying yell burst from their throats, like the anguished lament of a soul in hell. Across the dark bush came a shrill response.
Gargu whispered: “That the woman calling out. That mob savvy ceremony close up finish now.”
During the proceedings one evening towards the completion of events I found myself on the sidelines alongside my old friend, Indilinyeerie. The old man only attended the ceremony infrequently and never seemed to take an active part. He was content as an observer – due to his age or lack of interest, I am not sure.
“Are you really interested in this thing?” he asked, leaning close to half whisper.
I nodded vigorously.
“They used to do this sort of thing in the old days. They had a lot of time then. Now it don’t matter much, might be. It don’t do no harm, eh? I don’t think ceremony like this one gunna last. Soon it finish up for good. Young people got other things on their mind now,” he mused without nostalgia or regret.
Indilinyeerie’s subdued and sober reflection was not at all matched by the intense, vibrating energy of life and purpose swirling around us in the restless dust, flaring fires and stamping feet.
Crouched over a camp fire when the evening’s agenda was completed, Lorborr, casting fearful shadows into the surrounding shadows, whispered: “Some fellas found dugout (log canoe) hidden in bushes today.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Them bosses for Goonabibbi, the really bosses, the dangerous men, they come from Numbulwar, or lo-o-ng way, paddle-paddle in dark so we can’t look them,” he said, his voice unsteady.
“Them fellas creep about in dark,” the junggaii continued. “They got no narka (pubic covering), no colour (ochre) on them, all proper black fellas. They sneak around up close when ceremony on. You can’t see them. They just like shadow.”
“But why are they sneaking around in the dark?”
“Them mans really bosses, the REALLY bosses,” he emphasised. “They make sure junggaii do everything longa Goonabibbi the right way. They look them mans painted up. They look them little boy. If they not painted right way, if them boy dance wrong way, they get killed. No more spear. No more boomerang. No more poison. They kill ‘em quick fella when him sleep. They grab him kidney fat. Cut ‘em out. That man wake up in morning. No blood. Walk ‘round little bit. Then him fall down dead. Finish!”
“How do you know they are watching us? Did you see their tracks?”
“No more,” he frowned. Them properly clever longa head. They don’t walk on ground like ordinary peoples. They can get right up close, kill you secret way, and no one can track them …”
During the initial preparation for the Goonabibbi ritual I remember drinking tea from an old tin and soon afterwards coming intensely ill, with simultaneous vomiting and diarrhoea.
Excusing myself from the daily chores, I retreated to my tent, hoping to rest and recuperate. I became steadily worse. Feverishly, I started hallucinating. My whole body seemed to be over-heated and I sweated profusely.
At one point I thought my friend, Gummi, was standing by the bed, emotionally expressing concern at my deteriorating condition. I imagined I heard his spirit voice saying: “I reckon one fella bin poison you, maluka (old man). Him no more like mununga being in the ceremony. I hear him talk.”
“Never mind about that,” I responded, his image wavering groggily before my eyes. “See if you can find one of them missionary nurses and tell her I’m properly sick.”
Through the waves of nausea tormenting me, I awoke at one stage to feel a cool female hand on my forehead. Trying to focus steadily on her face, I recognised a young blonde lass, Vera Verskonski. She was extremely shy, introspective, and said to be obsessively religious. Any time I had attempted to engage her in conversation had been futile; she would avert her eyes, become uncomfortable and nervous, then find an excuse to exit. I told the nurse, as best I could manage, the cause of my illness.
“You shouldn’t be messing around with that ceremonial stuff,” she quietly reprimanded me, “it is all linked with the devil. Didn’t you know that? It is evil. You have no right to be taking part in it in any way at all, even if your interest is academic … Now, take off your trousers. I’m going to give you an injection.”
Turning her back to prepare the needle by torchlight, I dropped my pants and undies and sat on the bed to wait. Turning abruptly, she spotted my semi-nakedness and gasped: “Oh, you’ve taken them off. I only wanted you to pull them down …”
“Sorry,” I apologised, and prepared to step back into the trousers.
“No, don’t worry about it,” she said, her eyes studying me with a strange intensity. “Turn around a little. I have to give you this in the rear. It will sting a bit.”
So I did. As I instinctively reached to rub it, Vera’s cool hand was already on the spot, softly massaging the painful area. Naturally, I did not object, but stood there enjoying her attention, turning to smile at her in a friendly fashion.
“It’s better,” I told her. “I’ll get dressed now.”
“No,” she briskly snapped. “I’m not finished yet. I will have to wait to see if there’s going to be a reaction.”
Suddenly, she was gone. Vanished from sight. Struggling into my trousers, I peered out into the night and could faintly see Vera’s slight figure retreating down the darkened track, her torch light searching the ground ahead.
Within ten minutes or so the fever and nausea had gone and I fully recovered my senses. I decided to walk across the settlement to a friend’s house to share my latest adventures. A short way down the track I could see in the moonlight the missionary nurse, Vera, on her knees beside the track, her head bowed and muttering something unintelligible.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, assisting the girl to her feet. “Did you trip over something in the dark?”
“No, I was praying to God,” she replied, modestly. “I had impure thoughts and I needed his forgiveness. I’m terribly sorry …”
Leaving her torch behind, she ran up the hill towards the mission church, her sanctuary from the real world.
Much later, when the incident was nothing more than a curious recollection, I casually broached the subject with Gummi, telling him of the hallucinatory moment while being delirious of having a conversation with him as he appeared by the bed in my tent.
“No more, maluka,” he replied. “I was at the ceremony all night. That wasn’t me you dreamed about. Might be you saw my ghost, eh?”
“How do you mean?” I queried, again bewildered by mysterious Aboriginal logic.
“When me sleep sometimes my spirit goes walkabout,” he explained. “Don’t you white fellas know about that yet? When I sleeped that night when you sick I worried for you. Might be I visit you in my dream. That can happen.”
Going along with his reasoning, I questioned him to the effect: what if it was only his spirit form standing by my bed that night? Who alerted the missionary nurse to my predicament?
“Might be me again,” he shrugged. “That girl might be asleep, too, so my ghost can speak in her mind and tell her you are sick in your tent and need medicine. That would make that girl get up and go straight away. Ask the girl, maluka. She can tell you how she found out you was poisoned.”
Poisoned! Why poisoned?
I said: “It’s no good asking her about something like that. Even if what you say is true, there’s no way in the world she would admit to it. Things like that would be against her religion, and she’s VERY religious … Why do you think I was poisoned? Who did it?”
“You know that old man, Muru?”
“Yes, of course, I do. He’s one of the old blokes who brought me to the Roper River.”
“Yowai. You look his finger nails yet?”
“Finger nails? What’s his finger nails got to do with it? I’m talking about poisoning.”
“Yowai. Me, too. You look his finger nail one time. They all look funny. That one fella now, him play about with big fella poison. It make him finger nail break up.”
“Are you saying Murru poisoned me?”
A non-committal veil descended over his brooding face.
Cautiously, he added: “If that old man now give you food or drink, just pretend to eat it or drink it. When he not looking, spit it out.”
With the early morning light a couple of junggaii returned from the main camp with a young teenage girl. Her dress was removed and her whole body painted with red ochre.
Away from the ceremony ground, she was laid down on a bed of leaves beneath a bough shelter, out of sight.Maala confided to me: “You watch this, my boy. This cheeky young girl gunna get buckjumped now.”
At first I did not understand, then he explained: “When the junggaii finish up the ceremony, they pick one young girl they know has been playing around with a lot of boys. They teach her a good lesson. If she like big jargul (penis), she get the lot in one time.”
All the males took their turn to have sexual intercourse with the red-ochred lass in the bough shade; the old men, and down through the ranks to the young initiates – in all, more than 50 males. It was explained that not all were obliged to participate. Some might realise that the girl in question was their bunji (promised wife), or even a tribal sister, daughter or cousin, in which case they would normally decline.
“But when we all finished with her,” another elaborated, “she can bogie (wash) in the river and go straight back to the camp. We man treat her good way (with respect) after that, when she finished her punishment.
Usually a particularly promiscuous girl was selected or, failing that, one of the junggaii donated his wife.
“Why did you all do that to the girl?” I wanted to know.
Was it really the law? Was it really a punishment? Or was it really a glorified gang-bang?
“The dreaming do it that way,” I was told, “so we got to do it same way. Them woman have their secret ceremony, they do same thing. The pick one man who been playing around too much with womans and he got to buckjump all them girls before they let him go. If he can’t do it, they kill (hit) him with sticks. They keep him there till he done the lot.”
Back in the main Gnukarr camp, united with the female world, I mentioned these experiences to one of the older women, Birri.
“Yowai (yes),” she nodded, “that story right. But them man don’t tell you what true all the way. All these ceremony once belong to woman. We start them off. But them man got jealous and they steal Goonabibbi, and they steal Yabuduruwa. Now woman got not much ceremony. Them man steal the lot.”
© B.J.C.
Fascinating life you’ve had. I’m glad you can share your unique experiences with the world.
— MerriEllen · 5 March 2010 · #