Kellerberrin Kangaroo writers of the pan. 23-02-09
Where I lived in Kellerberrin, I often went walking over salt lakes.
Sure, many a time, when the water upon them was low enough, in the company of the older Humphries I scraped salt.
We sold it by the bag or trailer load to farmers.
It was said to improve the condition of their sheep's wool or to do something for their pigs... except I was never quite sure what that was, thinking, perhaps, it went someway to preserving their meat before they met their end.
Anyhow, sometimes I wandered across the lakes by myself, and at other times I travelled with my friend the Kwolyin Noongar and artist, Lindsay Harris.
This one time we travelled to the Humphries lake edge, where several salt pans feed small streamlines that run towards Kwellaliny 'Mt Stirling' in the south.
This one day I noticed a kangaroo track that went out across the middle of the lake, deeply gorging the ground as it went.
This lake bed was a page, and the tracks of the kangaroo - the yongka maam - was text.
I knelt down and read it.
What was it doing in the middle of this lake?
What act of desperation had pushed it from its cover to be here?
Sure enough, I also noted it wasn't alone.
Small, barely visible prints followed and flanked it.
There were its wives and offspring following behind.
In the middle of that lake its paws had gorged the wet mud, and now, ever desperate, its strides appeared laboured.
It was desperate to get away from something... the lake's surface indicated in braille the plans of the yongka family hopping upon its surface.
I suspect it happened at night, perhaps under the light of the moon, when the surface of the lake would have shined and the added glowing lamp-spotlight from the hunter's truck would have illuminated and virtually blinded the kangaroos that strove to make their getaway.
Looking at the prints and writings upon that pan read like the last words of the condemned.
The yongka-maam boomer, I read hopped with muscles straining, perspiring, frantic like a steam train puffing, leading his tribe into oblivion, as the hunter's gun locked his target and the farmer's finger moved, pulled the trigger.
The surface of that lake was not blood stained, there was no evidence that the bullets had found their target.
Nor was the lake bed superimposed by the gate of kangaroo dogs, so perhaps the Noongar weren't the hunters...
There was no evidence of bullets out in the lake save for the bright red cartridges that lay in the salt bush bordering the lake.
I want to believe that, that night, the yongka maam and his koolang yokang woolagat travelling behind him - his family - had made it to the cover of their pad.
I want to believe that the moon man looking down remembered his relationship and words to that yongka in ancient times - 'bones and dust you become, but me, I live forever.'
I want to believe that, that night, both the moon and the yongka family sat staring at one another.
That the moon looked down in praise of the man and his family, that they had made it.
And the yongka, similarly with great reverence, might have stared above in praise of the moon who had lit their path and guided them, safely home.
See the lake bed is a page and the tracks and markings are the words of the one who moves upon it.
Even the strange lines of waterflow communicate the words of storm and season past. With every downpour, with every rain laden storm-cloud, the pages and its slate of memories is washed away to lay in wait for when some other writer might leave a message for those who choose, or know, to read it.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sovereignty and the word Kaalagap
Sovereignty 22-02-09
Sovereignty, some Noongar mention this word, and I think, it is used by them to argue for what they believe is their perpetual absolute unquestionable right.
But, to me, this word sounds like a word dripping with the perforated intestines of colonialism.
Surely, surely the word: 'Kaalagup' is the better word for the Noongar to use.
One's birthright, the place of one's birth meant everything to the Noongar of old. The country of your mother, tied through your bily, your umbilical chord like the river through the land connects you to places.
Old Cliff's mother was born in Beverley, and that river that runs by Beverley, the same one that runs through York weaves its way right between the hills of Mt Stirling and to the north of Kellerberrin.
Cliff's father was born in Quairading and, his grandfathers in York and Beverley... His kaalagup was part of the track that led through his mother's and father's lands. His children, many of them born in Kellerberrin and Pingelly, the land of their mother, have ties to lands of their kaalagap, and ties that endure to this day.
Sovereignty, some Noongar mention this word, and I think, it is used by them to argue for what they believe is their perpetual absolute unquestionable right.
But, to me, this word sounds like a word dripping with the perforated intestines of colonialism.
Surely, surely the word: 'Kaalagup' is the better word for the Noongar to use.
One's birthright, the place of one's birth meant everything to the Noongar of old. The country of your mother, tied through your bily, your umbilical chord like the river through the land connects you to places.
Old Cliff's mother was born in Beverley, and that river that runs by Beverley, the same one that runs through York weaves its way right between the hills of Mt Stirling and to the north of Kellerberrin.
Cliff's father was born in Quairading and, his grandfathers in York and Beverley... His kaalagup was part of the track that led through his mother's and father's lands. His children, many of them born in Kellerberrin and Pingelly, the land of their mother, have ties to lands of their kaalagap, and ties that endure to this day.
He stole the moon
He stole the moon 22-02=09
Kooraar, kaadjali - far, far away, long ago, such a long time ago!
Yey baal kaadjali bardlanginy, nidja minang Noongar... he was travelling far from his lands.
Yey baal djinaanginy, waam mai kaadidjiny, baalap meeak waangalanginy, they were talking about the moon, these fellas.
Yep, these Noongar of long ago were talking about the moon, sacred business.
And this stranger heard them, talking, in whispers.
He got the part about the moon in the finger nail, baal mai borl baranginy, meeak-mai borl baranginy, borl-worl-koorliny, he crept with this story dtaa-waam donniny, put it upon the lips of another.
This is the way stories are spread, I guess.
Baal meeak baal borl-wort baranginy, upon the lips of another he put him there, a story that never belonged to him, but he took him, that moon.
Yey baal waaliny kaarangabiny - you could hear him crying, calling out from the text on that page: "What am I doing here, I don't belong here, why has he put me in the mouth of another?"
And then that moon whispered from that page: "That Noongar done a lot of things wrong, sure he even stole a song..." "...put that song, like me, upon the lips of another, planted the tree of tradition or, rather, dug it, lifted it from it's native soil and stole from another from what was not his toil..."
The moon kept going...on that page, telling me things, told me to follow that Noongar's textual tracks - like old Chuditch whose wife had an affair with Mr Possum.
Old Wedj recieved gifts of ochre and old Chuditj saw these gifts when he returned to his camp.
Seeing these gifts on the ground, little bits here and there, the textual tracks were clear as day, and he knew with no ounce of a doubt that his wife had a lover. He went away one day and hid himself and he caught them, his wife and her lover... So now I am watching... the desk lamp has replaced the moon lamp.
I follow the moon's advice and I track them.
Like old Noongar did with cleared ground, kept track of strangers to their camp, men of ill intent... looked for their tracks, now I watch for them upon the page...
I know the tracks of my teacher and his family, and I know too the tracks of strangers, carrying off what is not theirs to take...
Kooraar, kaadjali - far, far away, long ago, such a long time ago!
Yey baal kaadjali bardlanginy, nidja minang Noongar... he was travelling far from his lands.
Yey baal djinaanginy, waam mai kaadidjiny, baalap meeak waangalanginy, they were talking about the moon, these fellas.
Yep, these Noongar of long ago were talking about the moon, sacred business.
And this stranger heard them, talking, in whispers.
He got the part about the moon in the finger nail, baal mai borl baranginy, meeak-mai borl baranginy, borl-worl-koorliny, he crept with this story dtaa-waam donniny, put it upon the lips of another.
This is the way stories are spread, I guess.
Baal meeak baal borl-wort baranginy, upon the lips of another he put him there, a story that never belonged to him, but he took him, that moon.
Yey baal waaliny kaarangabiny - you could hear him crying, calling out from the text on that page: "What am I doing here, I don't belong here, why has he put me in the mouth of another?"
And then that moon whispered from that page: "That Noongar done a lot of things wrong, sure he even stole a song..." "...put that song, like me, upon the lips of another, planted the tree of tradition or, rather, dug it, lifted it from it's native soil and stole from another from what was not his toil..."
The moon kept going...on that page, telling me things, told me to follow that Noongar's textual tracks - like old Chuditch whose wife had an affair with Mr Possum.
Old Wedj recieved gifts of ochre and old Chuditj saw these gifts when he returned to his camp.
Seeing these gifts on the ground, little bits here and there, the textual tracks were clear as day, and he knew with no ounce of a doubt that his wife had a lover. He went away one day and hid himself and he caught them, his wife and her lover... So now I am watching... the desk lamp has replaced the moon lamp.
I follow the moon's advice and I track them.
Like old Noongar did with cleared ground, kept track of strangers to their camp, men of ill intent... looked for their tracks, now I watch for them upon the page...
I know the tracks of my teacher and his family, and I know too the tracks of strangers, carrying off what is not theirs to take...
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Kellerberrin Horse
A Kellerberrin Horse 2nd Feb 2009
In my last blog I mentioned a tree, a giant, ancient, grey barked, blue leafed, buttress rooted being, that held sway in my temporary past part of this world.
I did mention horses, but I gave no names.
One was a trotting horse that was a foal trained in these here parts.
Its name was Chico and in the late 1930s, it became the property of my grandfather's brothers.
It was a horse that could not be beaten and such was the West Australian angst of certain, nameless mobsters, my grandfather's brothers had the horse moved interstate.
Now mentioning this horse, I have done so because of the Noongar tales that were once told about the maned legends of the hoof...
Old Noongar called them ngort.
Imagine that, the old horse was a ngort!
And the Noongar word for the fly was a nort, now ain't the two of them similar...??!
But then so too is the Noongar word for stink - nurrt!
Perhaps the horse, so beloved by the Noongar were noted for their smell - and not just to the Noongar, but to the fly who followed the ngort wherever he travelled. Cliff told the yarn about a Noongar who caught a horse called Nellie.
I cannot tell you this whole yarn, but it was a special one of the old man and related to a story and series of songs that happened near Kellerberrin.
Anyway, I guess what I can tell you is that the Noongar rider atop the horse becomes an eagle...
And Cliff's words... vivid in their description, laden with imagery, onomatopoeia and rhythm, Noongar words of the mai - the talk - almost word for word feature in someone else's tale, about one who becomes a hawk when riding a horse!
That 'someone else's tale' was none other than William Shakespeare.
As I said, I cannot tell the whole yarn here.
If I did, other's would surely grab it, and thrust it into the mouths of some other - as some have already done... and share nothing in common with the horse or the fly but only the stink - the nurrt - left behind...
So watch this space, and all will be revealed.
Old man Humphries had a gift, and his story and singing of the horse was one gift of the many he wanted his people to know... and they will, but better it is referenced coming from his mouth than from an imagined other...
Beneath this tree, giant arboreal being there were horses tethered and hobbled... Beneath such a tree was such imagery born...
In my last blog I mentioned a tree, a giant, ancient, grey barked, blue leafed, buttress rooted being, that held sway in my temporary past part of this world.
I did mention horses, but I gave no names.
One was a trotting horse that was a foal trained in these here parts.
Its name was Chico and in the late 1930s, it became the property of my grandfather's brothers.
It was a horse that could not be beaten and such was the West Australian angst of certain, nameless mobsters, my grandfather's brothers had the horse moved interstate.
Now mentioning this horse, I have done so because of the Noongar tales that were once told about the maned legends of the hoof...
Old Noongar called them ngort.
Imagine that, the old horse was a ngort!
And the Noongar word for the fly was a nort, now ain't the two of them similar...??!
But then so too is the Noongar word for stink - nurrt!
Perhaps the horse, so beloved by the Noongar were noted for their smell - and not just to the Noongar, but to the fly who followed the ngort wherever he travelled. Cliff told the yarn about a Noongar who caught a horse called Nellie.
I cannot tell you this whole yarn, but it was a special one of the old man and related to a story and series of songs that happened near Kellerberrin.
Anyway, I guess what I can tell you is that the Noongar rider atop the horse becomes an eagle...
And Cliff's words... vivid in their description, laden with imagery, onomatopoeia and rhythm, Noongar words of the mai - the talk - almost word for word feature in someone else's tale, about one who becomes a hawk when riding a horse!
That 'someone else's tale' was none other than William Shakespeare.
As I said, I cannot tell the whole yarn here.
If I did, other's would surely grab it, and thrust it into the mouths of some other - as some have already done... and share nothing in common with the horse or the fly but only the stink - the nurrt - left behind...
So watch this space, and all will be revealed.
Old man Humphries had a gift, and his story and singing of the horse was one gift of the many he wanted his people to know... and they will, but better it is referenced coming from his mouth than from an imagined other...
Beneath this tree, giant arboreal being there were horses tethered and hobbled... Beneath such a tree was such imagery born...
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