When Country talks, we listen: An Indigenous-led odyssey in Western Australia
An Aboriginal-led adventure through Western Australia
Words Tim McGlone Imagery James Morrison
When Country talks, we listen: An Indigenous-led odyssey in Western Australia
An Aboriginal-led adventure through Western Australia
Words Tim McGlone Images James Morrison
6:30am, Thursday.
Location: Geraldton (Jambinu), Western Australia
The generic iPhone alarm sound goes off and it sends a shiver down my spine; this is when I’d usually be getting up at home.
But not today. I’ve been up an hour or so already. We’ve just left Geraldton (Jambinu), and the Brand Highway is disappearing beneath us as we head north, the sun rising slowly on our right. I can feel the steering wheel getting warmer the further we go and I feel like I’m thawing out, a process which has been occurring since I left the cold and grey of Victoria a day earlier.
10am, Thursday.
Location: Francois Peron National Park (Wulyibidi), Shark Bay, Western Australia.
We’re crouching alongside Nhanda and Malgana man Darren ‘Capes’ Capewell’s four-wheel drive, one person to each tyre, ready to let them down just after we’ve entered Wulyibidi on Malgana country, or Francois Peron National Park as it appears on maps. Most people let their tyres down using the pressure gauge system at the park’s entry, but instead we’re each given a twig and told to stick it in, and release, at the same time.
“How do you know how long to do it for?” I ask.
“I just know brother,” says Capes.
Shortly after, we’re sending red sand flying as we cruise in a long, straight line, making a beeline for the water.
The first thing Capes does is throw a bit of sand into the lagoon, and we follow suit. It's to pay our respects to the land, and to pay our respects to ancestors.
No-one on the planet knows Shark Bay better than Capes.
Capes says his job fulfils him "spiritually, physically and emotionally.”
The lagoon is teeming with life; within 15 minutes of arriving, we spot a stingray cruising right next to the shoreline. A ball of whiting next, a heap of mullet soon after.
We hop in a kayak and paddle around it, marine life zipping by. Apart from the marine life, it's just me and Capes. We sit for a moment and let the wind take us in the direction we want.
"Ngurra wangganyna nganganarra nhangarra ngundinyina,” says Capes suddenly.
"When Country talks, we listen."
"Ngurra wangganyna nganganarra nhangarra ngundinyina,” says Capes suddenly. "When Country talks, we listen."
We take the four-wheel drive and head to Cape Peron, and we wander. Capes clarifies his earlier comment; that when something changes on the land, in the water or in the air, it's important to take notice.
Not just for the land, but for us.
“I mean, Melburnians call it mindfulness,” he says, picking up some sand and pouring it through his hands.
“I call it: noticing the kookaburra that’s lookin’ ya straight in the bloody eye.”
In front of us, red sand cascades down a cliff and meets the turquoise waters of Shark Bay (Gutharraguda), as an orange sun sets over us.
It’s untamed, and it’s incredible. It doesn’t feel like we’re on the same planet.
We tread soft sand that mightn’t have had a single footstep for 100 years.
Capes is a bit older and as a former footballer, a bit heavier than I am, and yet his footsteps seem to leave no trace while mine make large imprints, as if a dinosaur has been through. He gently roasts me for this, while also telling me about Wula Gura Nyinda Eco Cultural Adventures, and why he doesn’t see himself as a tour guide.
“I don’t see my job as being in tourism,” he says.
“I see my job, first and foremost, as protecting Country… looking after Country. Tourism is simply the vehicle which allows me to do this.
“It’s a big responsibility, but I get to meet people from all around and show them around here.”
Spot get lost.
We sit down on the crest of a sand hill. The sun is almost down, and the moon is a refreshingly white crescent against darkening hues of orange and blue.
“To be honest, it’s a job that fulfills me spiritually, physically and emotionally.”
How many people can say that about their job?
Capes is as passionate about his own slice as anyone. He jumps sharply from jovial banter to talking with deep passion for Country. From cracking gags and cruising around laconically in the four-wheel drive, to speaking with genuine verve about the land which he grew up on, and then cared for his entire life, just like the 3,000 generations before him. It seems difficult for Capes to understand why not everyone would want to connect with their own land in the same way he does. For him, there is extraordinary value in it.
I start to get it more and more as our time with him rolls on. At home I wander suburbs packed with concrete and while I feel an attachment to houses, pubs, streets and stadiums, none of this matches the connection you can feel to raw Earth.
The stars twinkle brightly above our campsite at night, the sky a different frequency to the one we’re picking up in the city.
I feel myself becoming more aware of things. From the water during my morning swim, it’s easy to notice the bright green of the Kurrajong trees which contrast sharply against the red landscape.
At night we eat freshly caught black snapper and drink a couple of beers under the stars.
We sit quietly; at home I would have heard the silence but here, I hear soft crackling of the fire.
HIT PLAY. GO ON.
6.30am, Friday.
I wake on the beach to the sound of honeyeaters and crows chattering, pleasantly remembering the bright of the stars I let keep me awake for a while the night before. The wheel of daylight is only just beginning to turn. I swivel out of my swag and count 12 steps to the lagoon before my feet get wet, wading into water which is cold enough to be refreshing, but warm enough for it to be easy. I dip my head under and then float on my back for a bit, occasionally looking up at the emerging sun and the beach, and at the camp. The last embers of the campfire fill my nostrils as I walk back to shore. My eyes cop nothing but turquoise water and red sand.
9am, Sunday.
Location: MurUjuga, National Park, Burrup Peninsula, Western Australia.
A couple of days later, 947km away (just down the road in Western Australian terms) I’m standing in the car park of the world’s biggest outdoor art museum, on the Burrup Peninsula.
I’m talking with cousins Clinton Walker and Jaden Bobby, Ngarluma / Yindjibarndi men from Ngurrangga Tours. The chat is light. Jaden has a distinctive laugh, and he laughs a lot, which makes me laugh.
“See these? They’re beautiful, especially if you put them in a stew,” he says, picking up an abundant plant which to me looks like all the others.
“It’s called Garlumbu. Bush tomato. Only thing is, you gotta take the black seeds out first.
“If you don’t, oh brother you gonna be going to the toilet all night long.
“Women used to do that when their husbands played up. Not a bad idea aye.”
Men weren't permitted at Manuwarranha, also known as Goanna Leg, until very recently.
Time stands still at the world's largest outdoor art gallery.
I’m relaxed as we begin our walk along the 3.5km long Yaburrara Trail, the site of 40,000 years worth of art. This is the largest outdoor art gallery on the planet, with over two million petroglyphs.
We stop near the entrance to the trail, where Clinton launches into a stirring Welcome to Country. Involuntarily I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; his voice carries, Ngarluma words which seem to travel for miles over the piles of ochre-red rock which has guarded the land from the water since anyone was around to see it.
Those hairs seem to stay up the entire time we walk. My mind is blown on plenty of occasions, the concept of time often a trigger. There’s a petroglyph of a Thylacine – more commonly known as the Tasmanian Tiger, so named because they roamed Tasmania, 5,000kms away. It is mind boggling to think that this now extinct animal didn’t even have its English name when the art was created.
Extinct megafauna like the giant kangaroo stand out, and Jaden explains that this was likely drawn as part of a coming-of-age task for a young male; an elder would likely have sketched out the outsides of, before the apprentice fills the inside. He tells me this would have taken at least a couple of weeks – a show of persistence. Fair play to the young lad – his show of persistence is still here, being shown to me thousands of years later.
Again, this sense of time envelops me; for how many of us will there be any trace of in 100 years, let alone thousands?
Jaden is incredibly knowledgeable when it comes to bush tucker and medicine.
Sap from the Bardirri Tree is used as a detoxing agent, a powerful bush medicine used for centuries. Jaden and Elijah collect some for Elijah's mother, who sells it in town.
We head around the corner to Hearson's Cove, where I wade into gentle waters. Mud crabs are easy to catch here when the tide is out, but it’s in right now at sunset, and I’m not deft enough. From our elevated position on the beach we spot a couple of dugongs, friendly beasts of the ocean. They are swimming not far from shore, a bunch of seagulls perched on its meaty back, and a school of fish swimming underneath. I notice this curious byplay between wildlife and find myself invested in it.
The next day we drive out with Jaden and Clinton's nephew Elijah, heading to a couple of their favourite spots, south of Karratha.
We head to Python Pool, an extraordinarily attractive freshwater swimming hole. We take stock to Millstream Homestead, where Jaden spent plenty of time as a kid, and where we catch some yabbies in the river that flows through the homestead.
Again, this sense of time envelops me; for how many of us will there be any trace of in 100 years, let alone thousands?
We swim at a secret spot, where some jawi (Yindjibarndi for fish) is quickly caught. In no time at all we’re eating fresh yabbie and spangled perch straight off the coals, dipped in Jaden’s homemade chilli sauce, using mostly bush ingredients (Masterchef Australia, give this guy a call, please!?).
The place that moves me the most though is Manuwarranha. Two small pools, one elevated a few metres above the other, surrounded by tall walls of red rock which produce a seasonal waterfall, and a few, thin green trees.
It would be a tranquil place in its own right, but it’s also where Aboriginal women have come to give birth for thousands of years. There’s a petroglyph on the way in, indicating that this is women’s business here – a real life no man’s land. To be afforded the opportunity to be in a place of life, where so many stories have begun, is not lost on me. It is sacred and extraordinary, and I'm aware of that.
Fresh yabbie, straight off the coals. Kind of like a giant prawn, but with subtler flavours.
One week later...
I make the drive to a swimming spot I used to frequent quite a bit when I was younger, near where I am from.
It is a decent drive from the city, over an hour, and I don’t get there much nowadays. I arrive and it seems I’ve got the place to myself.
I lay in the middle of the swimming hole, listening to the water crashing down from a waterfall nearby. I stare straight up, and try to notice the kookaburra looking me in the bloody eye.
get in the know Western Australia is the second largest state / country subdivision in the world. In fact, if it was its own country, it would be the tenth largest country in the world.
SHARE THIS ARTICLE
