Kings Park, Kaara Kaata: Stories of the Hill

Kings Park, Kaara Kaata: Stories of the Hill

The sign at the brow of the hill says “Morditch yongka barminy.”
“Good kangaroo hunting” reads the translation, but the words mean hard or strong kangaroo hitting?
So could good hunting, be equated with hard hitting?

Maybe it was the chase, call it a hunter’s craft. But I wonder, with words to redefine: “Kwoppiny yongka ngaadanginy,” also means “good kangaroo hunting,” and how might the hunting be good?

Perhaps it was successful or a place that fed groups on masse, but one wonders further, how might it be good hunting on such a steep incline? Moorditch maybe, hard for hitting, and for chasing the careering yongka grey kangaroo baadanginy jumping; that gray flash bark coloured coated being, hard to hit with the spear between the scrub and stone.

And I wonder, and I am not alone, what of kangaroo pads and pit traps beneath the Jarrah and Tuart shades? Wouldn’t pit traps have presented less a risk in their breaking of an ankle or wounds from a deflecting spear?

Then further, I wonder, perhaps this scene of cliff slope hunting was seen before by European eyes upon the cavern wall, through the tales of Europe’s neo-lithic buffalo hunter driving herds over cliffs. And the stories and inferences of those awaiting below, to feast and feed from the thundering hooves were another’s tale of another place, not of Kaara Kaata. Perhaps to the European mind, this was an image too enticing, too inviting a story to ignore.

For from the veranda of this viewing platform, this expanding view beyond the brow from this ancient weather worn hill speaks of stories that remain. For all matter of stories took place here, right where each one stands, where hordes of tourists now wander, here the Noongar stood watching, looking beyond. Together with his wilgied woman and koolang children, they walked to and from their camp, walked in their millennia of their coming and going.

Right here where you stand they stood watching, searching for signs that were watched for by their gathered tribesmen, Noongar that have lived here for thousands upon thousands of years. Here too the Noongar had once read the signs looking far beyond to their distant blue ranges, beyond the blue river, and below or, set against the blue sky they searched above their heads for the waalitj ‘the eagle’ and waardong 'the crow,' and sought word and the sign in a foreigner’s smoke or, for that of their kin.

Here great flocks of visitors continue to pay homage to this hill, and what the Noongar saw, and those from afar are still watching the signs in the seasonal sighting of the ngoolyarrk, the white-tailed black cockatoo and the yearly gathering of old soldiers and tourists who in their thousands from the world they come, to read the empty spaces and the signs beyond.

For most, their focus is a momentarily thing, they carry cameras aimed at things that sparkle, smiling shining teeth of friends, of flowers kangaroo paws and strange feathered birds, but if one persists in their watching, other signs may appear to them. For here from the brow of this hill named Karra Kaata, a name that means something returned to (some say it is a spider or the red-tailed black cockatoo kaarak), like these gatherings of cockatoo, if one watches from this Kaata – this hill, this head that has eyes, one might see that this head looks east to another, to the Kaata Moorr, to the blue hills Darling Range beyond.
And yarragat ‘above,’ and between them both, between these hills beyond and surrounding them lays the blue sky ‘worl.’ And between them, if you look between them both, ngaadaa-ngat beneath and below lie the blue waters of the beerla djoorr where the rivers flow.

Between both Kaata, between both heads and hills are eyes that watch the waters flow. Here maali and bootalang bathe, both swans and pelican preen and gather. You can watch them for hours, drifting past the Maata garup, knee-deep over their shawls of the derbal yerrigan darpal yaarragat past the sharpened shell blades that lie awaiting and aiming in the shallows. For beware, for deeper is their wounding than the stinging cobbler brings – so be aware of where you tread.

And in the limestone caverns embedded in the hill, within Karra Kaatta near Goonininup the Waargal lays asleep, coiled deep within her subterrainean hollows, she waits to see her people gather and in their language speak. And at Kedalak, at twilight, when trees turn from green to gold and day turns to night, and when the sun gives way to the moon, down below at Spring Street, at Kooyamoolup, there you can hear the chorus of the frogs. But for the song of frogs no signs here stands, no signs identify.

Here another sign needs to be written, but one that never has, of this hill this Kaata kaadidjiny ‘ hill listening’, and Kaata djinaanginy ‘hill looking, hill watching’, in respect of the many millennia of the hill’s watching and waiting for those who might return, to stand in silence, to watch and ponder with eyes all seeing, all hearing from this hill, this ancient hill, this kaat, this head with eyes and ears.

Coat of Cliff Humphries

Your old coat. 27:06:2000

There, can you see her? I ask.
There on the horizon
ben-arng with light,
and her ochre stain.
Yet old man I am tired
and feeling cold in your coat.
“Then kaarrla kaalang,
light a fire” he says.
I continue whispering:
Some say it is darkest and coldest
just before dawn.
“Then better kick the coals
to warm ourselves and watch” he says.

I guess old man
you and I must wait.
This new dawn and colour
she will someday come,
but not yet,
and when old ngaarngk bleeds her ochre stain
all will seem momentous
But right now this nyoongar track is cold...
I am alone.

Often on this journey I could despair.
Carrying your coat,
this quest without promise,
it carries much risk.
And at journey’s end
what will I see?
Will your children take your coat from me?
And will it be enough
to warm their backs against the night’s air?
And what if they despair,
what then?
Will your coat be enough for them?

But typically
your answers are few...
And the journey is long...
And me nidja kaadidjiny noonook
waalanginy-ngayanginy:
with you singing the same one song.
And your spirits are many,
they rise and they fall.
And all seem to haunt me
just before dawn.
Just before dawn
when the sky is still black
and the stars are still flickering afar
I know you and your families there watch me
'cause I can see your shapes in the stars.

The Noongar Library of Cliff Humphries

Dark eyes 31:01:99

Dark eyes, Nyoongar eyes look me up and down, you worked with that old man - yarn...?
What they want ?
What am I supposed to say - nartj...?
Yeah, I wandered Kellerberrin’s Massingham Street, baarniny...
I just simply followed my feet, then I climbed into his mind - daandanginy...
Like I climbed into his brain - then wandered corridors that took me to old books and a burning flame - kaalanginy...
What did you see - they ask? djinaanginy...
I saw Volumes of his-story , sagas, Noongar literature,
read of secrets, songs, man-u-scripts and those of women - chapters and chapters of centuries...generations - mai ngaattamornong-koorliny...
I’d be there for weeks at a time, and, you see I had the keys to his mind.
I came and went as I pleased.
But, you know I couldn’t afford a ladder, damned step ladder.
That’s all it would have taken, ATSIC’s promised step ladder - but it never came, yay daandaang daabbatiny...
On the top shelf high above my head down his well lit corridors my stumbling feet were led - kair-koodiny
There many volumes were stacked, its antiquity intact, all of it untouched, unread and waiting - kokkinyininy...
Several shelves were out on loan, his memory fading, never to be returned - kairnyak..
This library of his mind, but with so little time.
I tried to tell ‘em, closing time is near - balartminy kaadjaanginy...
On his death bed, before his last dying breath, I looked into his eyes,
my old friend - werrniny...
This whole library, Nyoongar library,
sagas and all - songs and their law were dying.
Then I heard the Nyoongar crying, when their wailing had ceased, mopoke all sorts of birds were flying or was it the wind - yelbiny...
Then I caught the easterly wind come sighing from the land of his birth - benn bordok...
With the sun.

Ode to the Nyoongar language

Ode to the Nyoongar 07:09:98

Nyoongar Nyoorn - Plenty of time
for their dead, no time for their living.

Nah ! Haven’t the time to record old Jack, this
wadjalla system ties us up.
By the way did you hear the
news - old fella’s gone - Oh nyoorn.
His funerals in Pingelly - big mob’ll come
I bet you.

Yeah Nyoongar songs are special, this language -
our mother’s tongue, grandfather’s tongue so special.
Old Flo knew it all, the last of that lot to know
the lore - just hope someone remembered. Yeah this
wadjalla system keeps us busy, big mob
of funerals it drives you...

Jumped up the other day, thought
I heard the mopoke say - nyoorn. Strange how
the spirit seems to sing, especially with word of
death it brings. Yeah old fella’s language
is special, this we know, if only I had time to record
it though.

Noongar by the fire at night time

10th of November 2009 Dark Night

Doolyaa-moornang nidja waariny,
kedalak.
Aali ngaarngk baal nookert ngoorndiny.
Nidja mai baalap nyarni waarngkiny,
kaadidjiny.
"Benang, ngientj kaabeny ngiyang nidja yiddiny,
ngiyang ngany waarngkiny...
Yey wilo-mai waaliny, kaadjaali
gorr-yuaarl-koorliny.
Baal bidiyaa mabarn waarl-koorliny,
ngiyang kwella waarngkiny?
Nyungaara baalap wayerniny,
kaalaa-ngat-boordak-ngat kokinyininy...
Kaadidjiny, kaadidjin-gaa kokinyininy...

Nyungar; Noongar, noonaa Moort nganaarng!!

Kaalagap 3:21pm July 20th 2009

Nyungarra! Nyungarra! Windjee nidja Nyungaaraaa!!?
Bookadjaa baalap bookadjaa, kaala-ngat nyininy... mai waangkiny, djurrep-kaadidjiny! One day, when the sun is shining, perhaps in spring, perhaps we might meet again, to sing the songs and speak the words by that fire that we all hope we will one day find welcoming us to sit by.
You know that fire!?!
To play in the smoke, to warm your back, to drink your tea and eat those johnny cakes from the pan and dip those dampers into the juices of the yongka and bacon that sit dookeniny... yuret-ngat dookeniny, daartj noonook benaarnginy, djurrepiny, yep we all dream of that day...

Linguistic hooks iny nj

Continuing Verb ends iny nj, doublegee barbs on kangaroo skins.
The Noongar of old were tracked.
Observers watched them, from afar and up close.
The writer's hand of old moved across the page, and our eyes now follow the markings they made, our eyes follow their lines and make sense of their alphabets, sure, even now as aboriginal writers re-present themselves to the world we follow them too.
For the Aboriginal hand that leaves his tracks on the page has swapped one medium for another.
One such writer I regularly track.
He knows this, he knows I am tracking him, so he doesn't give too much away.
I track his linguistic baggage too, baggage that holds to his fur like doublegees attached to the skin of a kangaroo.
I see by the way he is hopping, he is burdened by what he carries.
The linguistic continuing verb endings hook iny nj into him as he goes careering across the page.
And in speech I am kaadidjiny not 'jenny' or 'jinny' not kaad-did-jinny but, I am kaad-did-jing more like him, than to the others I listen to stumbling upon the linguistic hook.
As I said I have seen these linguistic hooks that lie embedded in them, and hold them down, sharp hooks they fester in their flesh like the wooden barbs of the doublegee.
Now the old man who taught me, his lips danced and curled and his tongue was on fire, like kalamai waarngkiny... he would lick his words and send them on their way. How I wish I could speak like him, and track his talk along the tracks and laneways of his old pads of home.
I once wandered with him, we three his missus and me... we travelled to old haunts of his and her people.
Very often when not playing up for me, the anthropologist watching, I heard him whispering or voicing what the old one's used to say...
He was a Master of the linguistic iny nj, their hooks he'd have used as toothpicks, and doublegees had no hold on him.
And he didn't leave words on the page, he didn't have to.
The lands about him were his pages, and his tracks and those of the ancients lay connected.
His palimpsests and theirs lay about him, names, places and happenings and quick was his recall.
Belly laughs made him convulse, till coughing fits over took him...
The land as you know was read by him, read as text.
And his stories remain in his landscapes, his language remains to be awoken, but, I only hope, that his tracks are cleared of the doublegee and hooks that linguists will surely one day lay, hooks like fence snares for hungry kangaroos - hop beneath the wires if you dare
But then, who knows, across the page and onto the earth you will be seeing hearing 'kaadidjing' them bounding free to see-find their way and true form free from the hooks of the linguist inquistition and impaler...
Free from the hook, the nj that too few understand so that now their fur carries jinny-plenty of doublegees...