When the dust come in between: Aboriginal viewpoints in the East Kimberley prior to 1982

WHEN THE DUST COME IN BETWEEN

To Ronald and Catherine Berndt

WHEN THE DUST COME IN BETWEEN ABORIGINAL VIEWPOINTS IN THE EAST KIMBERLEY PRIOR TO 1982

as told to Bruce Shaw

-5

ABORIGINAL STUDIES PRESS W Canberra, 1 992

FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1992 BY

Aboriginal Studies Press for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies GPO Box 553, Canberra ACT 2601. The views expressed in this publication are those of the author and not necessarily those of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies.

C3 BRUCE SHAW 1992 Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this publication may be reproduced by any process whatsoever without the written permission of the publisher. NATIONAL LIBRARY OF AUSTRALIA CATALOGUINGIN-PUBLICATIONDATA

Shaw, Bruce, 1941When the dust come in between Aboriginal viewpoints in the East Kimberley prior to 1982. Bibliography. Includes index. ISBN 0 85575 232 7 [l.] Aborigines, Australian - Western Australia - Kimberley Social life and customs. [2.] Aborigines, Australian - Western Australia - Kimberley - Attitudes. 13.1 Aborigines, Australian - Western Australia - Kimberley - Social conditions. I. Title. 305.89915099414

COVER PHOTOGRAPH: Cattle in Sweetwater Yard, Gordon Downs, Western Australia, 1951 (photograph by Cecil T Watts, courtesy AIATSIS Pictorial Collection). TYPESET in 10112 Compugraphic Goudy Old Style by Jackie Covington, Aboriginal Studies Press. DESIGNED by Denis French, Aboriginal Studies Press. PRINTED on 115gsm matt art by Australian Print Group, Maryborough, Victoria.

CONTENTS

PART I

List of Illustrations Introduction

vii 1

1

13

TRADITIONAL VALUES AND THE EARLY DAYS

2 3 4 5 6 PART I1

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life Peter Ngunung: Bush Time John Toby: Gidja Country Stan Brumby: The Law Bill Laurie: Station Times

29 45 63 79 93

JOB HISTORIES AND THEIR THEMES

7 8 9 10 11 12 PART I11

Historical Background

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement Don Green: Christianity Edgar Birch: Second World War Stephen Edwards: Floggings Alfie Gerrard: Forrest River, The 1940s Ernie Chapman: A Lot of Fun

123 137 159 181 195 213

CONTEMPORARY ISSUES

13 14 15 16 17 18

Martha Laurie: The Children Michael Dinkum: The Law Today Colin James: Mirima Council Ben Ward: Change July Oakes: No One to Talk to Sandy McDonald: Citizenship

Postscript Chronology of Persons Glossary Select Bibliography Index

231 249 263 277 289 303

Several contributors have died within the last ten years so parts of the book will cause sadness if read to close relatives. People in the community requested by their elders to read some of the memories and to view photographs are asked to exercise discretion.

LIST O F ILLUSTRATIONS Maps 1. 2.

The East Kimberley region today The main Aboriginal languages of the East Kimberley and adjoining areas (following Tindale 1974)

1. 2. 3.

Grant Ngabidj Peter Ngunung John Toby Stan Brumby Bill Laurie Alfie Deakm Edgar Birch Alfie Gerrard Ernie Chapman Johnny Walker Martha Laurie Michael Dinkum Colin James Ben Ward July Oakes Sandy McDonald

Plates

4. 5. 6.

7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16.

vii

viii

TIMOR S E A

Map 1 The East Kimberley region today

INTRODUCTION I got no grudge against no white man, by slaughterin dark people years ago. As I said, when the dust come in between it blow things off y'know. See we tryin to get closer friend as we can with any, any white folks (Don Green 1975,34-35). As for the skin, What a difference Between a man and a woman! But as for the bones, Both are simply human beings - Ikkyu (Blyth 1960, 49-50) This is the last of the east Kimberley life history books. It contains life stories from eighteen people and has been compiled from a collection of tape-recorded conversations which, on the average, came to no more than six sessions with each person. Individually they are not so much life histories - although they are autobiographical - as collections of Aboriginal opinions, personal reflections, selective memories and speculations about the future. The recording was done mostly from mid-July 1973 to midJanuary 1974, and from July to October 1974, and much of the proofreading was completed in 1981. Hence there is a diachronic perspective of around nine years. Altogether about fifty-four ninetyminute cassette tapes were filled. They were transcribed from late 1974 to the end of 1975. All are housed with the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. In some instances they contain material of a privileged nature, such as criticisms of others or the naming of sacred-secret mythic cults, so, as a general rule, there is some restriction on access. In 1970 I spent eight months in Kununurra on another project (Shaw 1974) and when I left the area it was with a resolve to do more, if at all possible, among the Aboriginal people there. In those early days the life history approach of scholars such as Oscar Lewis (1961) interested

2 When the Dust Come in Between me, and I had done some case-history work with homeless men living in the Perth equivalent of skid row (Shaw 1969). The opportunity to work again in Kununurra came in 1973 with a research grant from the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (as it then was). What was uppermost in my mind was to record stories from the old timers before they were lost forever, and to give added value to the project it seemed a good idea to aim at writing a series of life histories from the one region. Johnny Walker, whose reminiscences are told in Bush Time, Station Time (1991a), had a profound influence on this decision. In the introduction to that volume I remarked how his colourful narratives impressed me (1991a, 3) and when I set out to collect life histories seriously in 1973, Johnny was one of the first persons with whom I worked. The realism of this approach was repeatedly confirmed over the years. Since the publication of Countrymen (1986), for instance, Banggaldun and Bulla have died. Johnny Walker died in 1980. Some finer points of my methodology were covered in introductions to the four earlier books and in responses to critics from time to time (Shaw 1984b, 47-52; 1985b, 76-78; 1989b, 149-51). While criticism by others often proves fruitful in later work there is a point beyond which self-justificationgrows tedious. I prefer nowadays to look at special applications of life history and oral history methodologies and shall mention here only a few of the most salient steps in the editorial policy that grew with the project. One of the most important moves was to communicate the results of the work to the people from whom it came originally. From the moment the first manuscript was transcribed into a working draft it was logical to take it back to the teller, Grant Ngabidj, and to read it aloud to him. It was the best means of cross-checking on events and places, clearing up the more glaring misunderstandings, eliciting new material, deleting material thought to be sensitive, and reaffirming permission to publish. I thereby had continual reassurance that I was writing what the tellers wanted to say. It was very important that the narratives should stand the test of recital to the storytellers and sometimes to others (relatives or friends in the event of a narrator's death), and it was possible to d o this with most of the people. In several instances copies were sent to the storytellers or their families. The first books were formed from the longer narratives, those of Grant Ngabidj and Jack Sullivan, Mandi Munniim, Banggaldun Balmirr, Bulla Bilinggiin and Jeff Djanama, and Johnny Walker and Waddi Boyoi, more or less in that order. This volume Dust is last although it did not begin that way. The original manuscript at the end

Introduction 3

of 1982 contained 558 pages of text from twenty-five people. Readers for the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies thought this length excessive and advised cuts and a clearer focus on themes. It was shelved during other work (including Bush Time, Station Time 1991a) and I did not return to the omnibus version until much later. Then followed further delays as a result of my having to earn a living on other projects (Shaw 1990~). The tales were first recorded o n cassette tapes and then transcribed. The narrators for the most part spoke Aboriginal English (some call it Kriol) with words and phrases from their indigenous languages such as Miriwung and Gadjerung. Older people of full Aboriginal descent tended to use a diction that was extremely difficult to understand. In some cases their speech must have been more akin to a pidgin form, the precursor of Kriol. Grant Ngabidj's tales and those of Bulla, Banggaldun, Mandi and Waddi especially fell into this category. Jack Sullivan and Johnny Walker, while speaking and understanding Aboriginal English, tended to use a form that was closer to the stockman's English which is found among white station workers in the north, as well as among people of mixed Aboriginal-European descent. (However, readers may like to read the raw transcript of one of Johnny Walker's narratives in Aboriginal History (Shaw 1987, 71-75) and judge for themselves whether 200 pages in that idiom would have been practicable or desirable.) Free translations were then made into colloquial English, a better designation, I think, than 'standard English'. I am not a linguist (save for a year's undergraduate course in introductory linguistics) and have never pretended to transcribe Aboriginal English in the way that a linguist would. Most of the books are edited from transcripts in romanised Aboriginal English as near verbatim as my aural skill of the time allowed. The end result is as one might expect from the hard work of a fairly competent writer but with the addition of an anthropological viewpoint in the introductions and end notes. These additions never intruded into the narrative text because the policy was always to make a clear distinction between the Aboriginal speakers' opinions and my own. At the same time, undeniably, something is always lost in a translation. And there were idiosyncracies such as my writing 'biin' instead of the more widely accepted 'bin', friendly reminders of which come occasionally from reviewers (Schnukal 1990, 57-59). Readers' aesthetic preferences towards the colloquial English translations raise problems that are virtually insurmountable because we are dealing with varieties of human emotion and opinion. Tales which

4 When the Dust Come in Between succeed as artistic composition for one reader (who is moved by them) may be anathema to another, perhaps for the same or similar reasons. I have no special quarrel with those who find one approach more satisfying than another. I think it is an inconclusive debate. But it is true that some passages read in hindsight appear now to my eyes a little stilted, while on the other hand I find plenty of material that reads pretty well. Another concern, held by some Aboriginal critics of Western scholarship, is that Aboriginal life stories and other cultural materials should not be recorded, far less interpreted, by non-Aboriginal persons. I appreciate that view but to restrict investigation into a way of life different from one's own (or indeed the same as one's own) is to deny the human right of inquiry and thereby the intellectual and emotional enrichment of oneself and one's cultural milieu (which in this circumstance is to include the Aboriginal cultural milieu also). Perhaps this view comes close to the old argument of knowledge for its own sake, a basic tenet of Western scientific ideology, and for that reason denied by the extremist view. On what we might call the 'ethnicity' of writing, the Argentine author Jorge LUISBorges observed once that members of some ethnic groups who valued their cultures highly, such as the Jews in North America or the Irish in English culture, did good work because, while they were part of western culture writ large, they professed no special ties of devotion to it - the differences they felt were enough to make them innovators (Borges 1962, 218). Aboriginal writers such as Faith Handler, Kevin Gilbert, Mudrooroo Narogin (Colin Johnson),Jack Davis and Oodgeroo Noonuccal (Kath Walker) probably exemplify this although I wonder whether some of them might deny the premise that they are part of western culture too. It has been said that anthropologists play a similar role. While I am not an ethnic writer, my work as an anthropologist clearly touches on that field and is critical of a historical legacy created by my own society. Borges said also that, 'what is good belongs to no one...but rather to the language and to tradition' (Borges 1962, 282), implying, I think, that history (and other aspects of another people's culture) belongs not only to the members of that culture but also to anyone exposed to it. In my opinion this applies to Aboriginal Australian traditions in the lives of European Australians who come into contact with them, and it happens because it is possible to appreciate members of another culture in so far as any human being can understand another.

Introduction 5 This is not a naive plea for freedom of information. Obviously there are sensitive issues such as sacred names which are edited out of narratives at the request of the tellers or at the compiler's own discretion. The writing of oral history, in the same way as any other sort of writing, depends on the author's interpretation - often explicitly, always implicitly - and this is integral to language and to tradition. History is the stuff of documents and oral testimony reworked from the experiences of others, filtered through their words, perceptions and interpretations, and transmitted to us. They are in time reinterpreted by readers. Internal consistency, cross-checking and the like will help us gauge the authenticity and reliability of any document produced in this way. The theoretical/thematic underpinnings to the books of this series expressed my interests and those of some of the courses in social anthropology being taught at the time of writing. They were not always good choices but in general they reflected some issues under debate in the world of anthropological and historical scholarship. My Country of the Pelican Dreaming (1981,6-9,17-18) contained a brief overview of the humanistic 'ethics in anthropology' debate of the mid-1960s, related to some studies on colonialism, the emergence of an Aboriginal history which paid heed to the perspectives of its human subjects, the way some of these matters pertained to Grant Ngabidj's life story, and the topical autobiography form that it most closely resembled. Though inescapably 'political' in this sense, it was not overtly discussing local east Kimberley politics. That I promised vaguely for a future publication. (This is it.) The colonialism theme was taken up again in The Story of Jack Sullivan (1983, 11-13, 21-22, 26) which considered in brief the patronbroker-client relationship as taught by the Manchester school of social anthropologists. That approach, though useful, I personally find rather barren, if not pretentious. I drew also from the experience of Negro slaves of southern United States as studied by Genovese (1972) and the classic work of the French anthropologist Claude L&-Strauss (1973). In Countrymen (1986,26)attention was drawn to the relationship between biography, dealing with personal matters, and history, concerned with social issues. There was possibly another theoretical contribution in one paragraph defining the countryman concept (Countrymen 1986, 24) but I was interested more in personality and social context as demonstrated through the minutiae of the life history approach and eschewed further comment on colonialism. Bush Time, Station Time (1991a) likewise focussed on the characters of the two men

6 When the Dust Come in Between whose reminiscences it contained. The theme of physical hazard on the frontier emerged readily from their tales. In that book I ignored the colonialism theme, nor did I write a historical essay. This book is a departure from the four earlier works in a number of ways. Only about half the narratives were originally spoken in Aboriginal English/Kriol. The rest were in conversational or colloquial English making much of the text easier to edit. It is presented as a set of interviews based on the same pattern of questioning and the text of each person's story was pruned down to a reasonable length. Key questions were inserted much as they appeared in the original transcripts. For this reason, and because the conversations were relatively brief, none of the life portraits are fully rounded. The book, as a consequence, is more like the occasional collections such as Black Viewpoints (1975) edited by Tatz and McConnochie (one of the first of its kind), We are Bosses Ourselves (1983) edited by Fay Gale, or most recently Being Aboriginal (1990) edited by Ros Bowden and Bill Bunbury - except that it does not come from lecture courses, symposia or radio programs. All the contributors welcomed the opportunity to tell me about themselves. Some, like Alfie Deakin, would have sought me out if I had not approached them first. Their tales were taken back to them and proofread face to face, as with the longer life histories. What they had to say reflected a nostalgia for the early days of cattle station life juxtaposed against a sometimes mundane existence in Kununurra. The topics covered included work on the cattle stations, horses and wages; drinking, fighting, the police, jail and citizenship; the old and the young, schooling and traditional Law; motor vehicles; housing and shelter; kinship, women and marriage; and race relations. Topics such as magic, religion, mythology and ceremonial life are not as prominent in this book as they were in the other books, which recorded life histories in more rounded form. The contributors are divided almost equally between those of full Aboriginal descent and those of mixed Aboriginal-European descent. Some of the latter referred to themselves as 'part-Aboriginal' or 'coloured', others as 'half-caste' or 'of Aboriginal nationality'. People of full Aboriginal descent usually referred to themselves as 'blackfellers! I retained the usage of each contributor. In the east Kimberley the term 'half-caste' was generally used and accepted but this is not true of other parts of Australia, especially in the cities, where the term is felt to be offensive and has fallen into disuse. It is a reminder of an Australiawide policy of taking children of mixed descent from their families and

Introduction 7

relocating them in Christian missions or foster (white) homes. There was the equally pernicious pseudo-scientific policy of attempting to classify people of Aboriginal descent as 'half-castes', 'quadroons', 'octoroons' and so on. Terms such as 'half-caste' were acceptable in the east Kimberley and where they were used by Aboriginal speakers they have been retained in the book as part of the legitimate speech pattern for that region. The sexes of the contributors are not so well balanced. Women are under-represented. This reflects a characteristic of anthropological fieldwork for many cultures. In societies which have a marked division between sex roles, as in Aboriginal Australia, the field researcher moves perforce with those of hidher own sex on the whole. The women with whom I was able to talk comfortably at any length were either elderly, had a fictive kin relation with me, or were acculturated in European mores. Daisy Djanduin, for instance, was classified by her people as a wife to me because of the longstanding friendship and collaborative authorship between me and her husband Grant Ngabidj. Behind the job histories and opinions told here are two themes raised by Stanner twenty years ago (Stanner 1968, 56-57), that (i) Aboriginal people in the east Kimberley want a workable union with Europeans, and (ii) this is to be on their own terms. These sentiments are founded first of all upon an acknowledgement of our common humanity. You see, we have five fingers, that's ten fingers, and five toes, and we have two noses, two eyes, a mouth, two ear holes, ears, knees. I reckon we have the same body, we mob. You, a white man, have a black bone and me, a blackfeller, have a white one. I saw it myself in a paper. We have the same body, same talk, we must have the right thing [in common] everybody like... (Mandi in Shaw 1986, 131) Peter Ngunung said a very similar thing (p 48) and Don Green took it further. In a metaphor from the cattle droving life Don almost uses Stanner's words, saying that the dust of time erases the reproaches of the past: 'time obscuring the bitter past for the better' as Heather Goodall aptly paraphrased it (Goodall 1987, 28). Don was expressing his own point of view but I heard the idea so often that I think it has a very wide application, at least for the east Kimberley. Where rhetoric today dwells so much on white guilt we learn that in one region of the country many Aborigines would extend forgiveness. Their motives in telling the stories were not to reproach but to instruct and share with

8 When the Dust Come in Between pride and good humour what they valued most in their lives - though there is reproach enough, and personal tragedies. The book is divided for convenience into three parts dealing in turn with traditional values, job histories and contemporary issues (that is, with the 'ethnographic present' of the early 1970s). It is an arbitrary division because there were elements of the three at work in all the lives but this approach helps to make sense of a fairly complex subject. People such as Alfie Gerrard, July Oakes and Alfie Deakin were in their different ways working towards the raising of Aboriginal and European awareness as they saw it. Some, such as Alfie Gerrard and July, were notable community leaders, while others, such as Alfie Deakin, were quieter onlookers who shunned the spotlight. In many parts of Australia, and especially in northern Australian communities, it is still possible to do this type of research into Aboriginal history: that is to use oral testimonies with a fair time depth. Probably the two chief directions that will be followed in the future will be a greater awareness and use of oral sources by scholars and a continued writing of memoirs from persons in Aboriginal communities, often with assistance from white fieldworkers in spite of what the detractors of this approach might say. Some scholars have made cautious use of the east Kimberley life histories as source materials while others have been stimulated to add the approach to their own research projects. Fitzgerald (1984, 16-25) wrote a historical analysis of the Forrest River massacres using among other sources, the version of the killings told by Grant Ngabidj. Elder (1988, 136) also used Grant's tale of shootings but without full citation and in an overly familiar journalese which I found irritating. Other scholars were similarly unimpressed. See, for instance, Hercus's review (1988, 222-26). Rowse (1987, 81-99) compared Mary Durack's writings with the reminiscences of Jack Sullivan for a study of frontier mores. Muecke et a1 (1985,84) used Jack Sullivan's story also and that of Sandy McDonald (McDonald and Shaw 1978, 122-39), together with other sources, for ideas on methodology. McGrath (1987) referred frequently to both Pelican Dreaming and Banggaiyerri in her important study of the roles of Aboriginal women in the cattle industry. Burnum Burnum and David Stewart (1988, 180) used Jack Sullivan's autobiography for their section on the Miriwung people through whose territory Highway One passes. Baker (1989) was stimulated by My Country of the Pelican Dreaming and the other books to use oral testimonies in his studies with the Yanyuwa people of Arnhem Land (personal communications). He also introduced students to the books at the geography department of

Introduction 9

Adelaide University, as did Bob Reece in the history department at Murdoch University, Western Australia, and Lyn Riddett at the Northern Territory University (personal communications). In little more than ten years of biographical writing from people of Aboriginal descent there have emerged a variety of presentations. Mirritji (1976) wrote in standard English but from an Arnhem Land culture where traditional languages and values remain strong. Elsie Roughsey's autobiography (1984), handwritten in diaries with a unique blend of English and the author's traditional speech patterns, was edited minimally by European scholars. Phillip Pepper (1980) had a text of reminiscences in the first person interwoven with historical background researched by a journalist. Bill Rosser's second book (1985) was a collection of life sketches with the give and take of the original interviews together with observations on living conditions, personal appearance, and so on. Paddy Roe's (1983) yarns are interviews in west Kimberley Aboriginal English edited by Stephen Muecke. Peter Read's (1984) oral history of the Cowra settlement has a topical arrangement of Aboriginal reminiscences using headings and subheadings. Marnie Kennedy's (1985) short but compelling autobiography was written in standard English, the style also of Ida West's autobiography (1987). Bill Cohen's book (1987) was put together from a bundle of handwritten pages and typescripts using an editorial policy in some respects similar to mine. Dorothy Tunbridge (1988), in association with teachers and other persons of the Nepabunna Aboriginal community, produced a highly readable compilation of non-secret myths of the creative ancestors that (in their format) blended storytelling with scholarly annotations, successfully I think. Molly Lennon in conjunction with Jen Gibson (1989) has told of her life in the Oodnadatta region. So there are now several examples to which students of Aboriginal (oral) history may go for guidance and it is significant that in every case there was editorial assistance from non-Aborigines. In fact, comparatively few European scholars have turned their hands to collaborative autobiographies of Aborigines. Instead there has been an upsurge of interest in general oral history on the one hand, and on the other hand a small flood of autobiographies written by Aboriginal people themselves. These are both outcomes I hoped for, although they are not necessarily responses in any way to the east Kimberley books. My writing perhaps is not quite respectable in the prevailing political climate where Aboriginal independence from things European is so heavily emphasised. However, it may outlast the fashion. To the best of my knowledge the Aboriginal families in Kununurra who

10 When the Dust Come in Between

are metaphorically heirs to the books, as they are literally to the storytellers themselves, do not hold such opinions and it is to them that I feel most responsible. The field research which laid the basis for this book and its companion volumes owes much to a variety of persons and funding bodies over the years. I am indebted first of all to the Aboriginal people who told their stories. Without their free giving of time and interest, patience, ideas and good humour, this book could not have been written. My hosts over the years included the Aboriginal people of Mirima Village (now Ngalwang or 'cotton tree1community), Mungung Dawang, the Warrman community at Turkey Creek, and Bulla Bilinggiin's outstation at Yddanggalm. Many are acknowledged individually throughout this book. Fieldwork was made possible with financial and logistical assistance from the Department of Anthropology, University of Western Australia (1970-72), the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (as it then was) (1973-75), the Darwin Community College (1976-81), the Wenner-Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research, New York (1982) and the Literature Board of the Australia Council (1983). Documentary research was assisted by the Department for Lands and Surveys, Perth, the Department for Community Welfare, Kununurra, and the Library Board of Western Australia (Battye Library archives). The late Professor Ronald Berndt was, in a sense, a mentor to me because he gave encouragement and practical assistance from time to time over the years. When he suggested towards the end of 1969 that I go to Kununurra to begin fieldwork for a community study he had the Aboriginal people in mind. O n a visit there himself he had met Banggaldun Balmirr and gave me his name as an important person with whom I should become acquainted. The community study of a sociological nature that focussed upon the Europeans of the town may have disappointed Prof but the series of Aboriginal life histories grew over the years. While not perhaps 'anthropology' in the strict sense of an ethnographic study, the life histories nevertheless provide oral history documentation that can now no longer be retraced, for most of the principals have since passed away. And indeed a sort of ethnography might be reconstructed from their narratives. I thank also the late Professor Emeritus WEH Stanner (reader of the book Banggaiyerri), though we met only on two occasions, and the late Dr Diane Barwick who, as reader of the first book My Country of the Pelican Dreaming, gave invaluable advice and support. It is important to remember that there are not many researchers of

Introduction

11

Aboriginal history, and her unexpected and early death in 1986 was sorely felt by her colleagues. Volumes 11 and 12 of Aboriginal History are dedicated to her in honour of her work in establishing that journal, and I dedicated Bush Time, Station Time to her in acknowledgement of the warm support she gave for the first two books of this east Kimberley series. Shirley Rosser's editorial advice on the first two books assisted greatly in the compilation of this volume because of the selfcritical approach it taught me. My thanks go also to Peter Read who was one of the readers of the present volume in its original form. His constructive advice has been heeded in the revisions. The final preparation of the manuscript in 1989 was assisted by a writer's grant from the Australia Council, the Federal Government's arts funding and advisory body. I thank Janine Koch for typing part of the new draft at that time. The remaining typing was done by myself in 1990 under a limited grant from the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. That small grant also made it possible for me to revisit Kununurra in October 1990 to verify a few matters before rounding off the manuscript, in particular to obtain permission to publish photographs which today are often the only tangible reminders of the older people and the 'early days' of the 1970s when we were together.

Bruce Shaw Adelaide Hills, October 1991

Wuladjau (Wungan)

Map 2 The main Aboriginal languages of the East Kimberley and adjoining areas (following Tindale 1974)

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND Most of the men and women whose memories and opinions are brought together here lived in the township of Kununurra at the time of the interviews and had similar life experiences. Many were friends. Some were relatives. Their opinions about political developments in the district are of special interest today because they were voiced before the fruits of the federal government's 'new deal' of the 1970s became fully apparent and certainly before the onset of diamond mining on a multinational level near the shores of Lake Argyle. This book, When the Dust Come in Between, has been edited to highlight political and social life from the early days to those just prior to 1982. The east Kimberley was invaded by Europeans who followed the cattle overlanding route from its beginnings in northern New South Wales across the top end of Australia via northwestern Queensland. Aborigines of the northern regions saw successively explorers and port settlers, gold miners, cattle pastoralists, farmers and, most recently, miners once again. The initial explorations were made by sea as they were in many other parts of Australia. The first explorers included King, who gave the Cambridge Gulf its name in his voyages of 1818 and 1819, and Stokes, who, in The Beagle of Darwinian fame, named the Victoria River in 1839. Both observers remarked on Aboriginal fires in the hills (M Durack 1932, 1-3). A third major voyage was made in 1855 when AC Gregory sailed from Sydney to the Victoria River. White settlement was not considered seriously, however, until John Forrest made his first inland expedition in 1879. He struck out in an easterly direction from King Sound, found and named the Ord River and brought back to Perth exaggerated reports about the suitability of the country for running cattle. Cathy Clement (1988, 1) has pointed out that historical records on pre-settlement incursions into the east Kimberley are, in fact, more extensive than I had believed (Shaw 1980, 261). She cites in greater detail the explorations of King, Gregory and Forrest, using data o n west

14 When the Dust Come in Between Kimberley and Victoria River landfalls, and has uncovered some information on the earliest colonists who followed Forrest: these include the parties of Patrick Ahern and Will Fargoo (1881), Philip Saunders (1882), Michael Durack (1882) and William O'Donnell (1883). These names predate by only a couple of years personages in Alfie Deakin's family tradition such as Tommy and Jimmy Deakin, Jack Beasley, Jack Colorado and Jim Wickham - some associated with Waterloo Station, others with the Duracks (pp 124-26). In the 1880s and in the years that followed there was a rush on the part of interests from the southern cities to take up vast areas of grazing country. From the beginning this was the province of companies and large holdings although smaller 'battlers' did take up lesser areas. Many leases were acquired in or about 1881 (Buchanan 1934, 98). The minimum area of pastoral leases with a river frontage was 50,000 acres; for leases without river frontages the minimum area was 20,000 acres. The focus on water sources is obvious. The limitations on size could be side-stepped by larger lessees taking up holdings in partners' names. Forrest, who was a prime mover in this process, believed that small settlers should not be allowed to take up small fee simple locations because this would hamper the large lease-holders (M Durack 1932). The first east Kimberley homestead to be founded and stocked was Ord River Station in 1884. The Duracks settled Lissadell Station in 1885 and Argyle Downs and Rosewood stations in 1886. A few years earlier, in 1880, Wave Hill Station in the Northern Territory - abutting on the east Kimberley - was selected, and the Victoria River area was stocked in 1883. Wyndham was founded as an administrative and trading port in 1886 to service a short-lived gold mining boom near Hall's Creek (Kerr 1967,345). Between 1894 and 1898 further expansion of settlement occurred along the lower Ord and Dunham rivers until a continuous belt of property ownership extended from Derby to Wyndham, limited only by unsuitable country to the south and north, and completing the great cattle overlanding arc across the north of Australia (Holmes 1963, 167). Thus European presence came as rapidly to local Aboriginal groups as it did to many other parts of Australia. When the gold mining centred on Hall's Creek was at its height the numbers of Aborigines and whites must have been comparable. At least 6,500 Europeans travelled to the goldfields (PM Durack 1933,39). Many came from the west Kimberley ports of Broome and Derby but large numbers also entered the country via Wyndham, and on their progress to the mining fields passed through the territories of several Aboriginal language groups: the Wunambal near Wyndham, the

Historical Background 15 Gadjerung, Miriwung and Guluwaring further east, and the Gidja and Djaru from around Turkey Creek to Hall's Creek, to name the principal groups. Using Elkin's calculation of approximately 10,000 Aborigines for the Kimberley as a whole (Elkin 1932, 297), I think, and this is a conservative estimate, that there may have been some 8,000 Aborigines in the east Kimberley (Biskup's figure seems a little inflated). The period has been characterised as one of 'pacification by force' (Biskup 1973, 5) and for this reason we know comparatively little about it.

. Aboriginal reprisals were not reported until 1890. No one knew even the approximate number of the Aborigines but he T it was believed to be large, perhaps 30,000 or more ... number of Aborigines shot by the settlers, miners ...and the police can be only guessed. (Biskup 1973, 20) The European frontier's slow advance throughout Australia followed a depressing course by now well known in Aboriginal studies: approach, deception, violence, retaliation, introduced illnesses such as influenza and measles, alcohol consumption, venereal disease, poor nutrition, infertility and internecine conflicts. The destruction of Aboriginal societies during the first decades of frontier life in so many parts of the country led one historian to observe that the Europeans harboured a 'death wish' towards the Aboriginal people (Rowley 1970, 80-84). Spencerian doctrines, part of the social science of the day, gave a sort of respectability to popular ideas about dying races and the destiny of advanced civilisations. In the east Kimberley and nearby: It is a pity that the dark race is doomed to extinction ...it surely behoves us seriously to think of our unique and responsible position as guardians of Australia. This is now the only continent under the hegemony of one people; and with the best British pioneering traditions to live up to, it should, in such favourable and unprecedented opportunities, lead the van of Christian civilisation ... In priority of occupation these dark people are possibly the rightful owners of the soil. But the white man has his duty to do, as he sees it, and though might is not always right it should be tempered with mercy. (Buchanan 1934, 84) These doctrines were partly reflected by another quite different writer of the period, Herbert George Wells, when he used the experience of one Aboriginal society as a theme in his book, The War of the Worlds. The Europeans, with their alien culture and facility for taking life, must

16 When the Dust Come in Between

have appeared to many Aborigines like beings from another world, as indeed they were. [W]e must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo, but upon its own inferior races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years... (1898, 11) Aboriginal societies in the east Kimberley and in other parts of Australia were numerous, militant and often resisted European incursions fiercely. Isolation and the frequently uncertain temper of Aboriginal groups close by gave rise to tension and fear among the whites. Settlers must have included many men of Buchanan's ilk. They regarded the indigenes as thieving and untrustworthy. Aboriginal responses to the settlers were like those of any human group under stress. Some fought back, some retreated both physically and psychologically from European spheres of influence and some made overtures to their conquerors when the other alternatives were no longer practicable. It took a long time for the Europeans to feel secure. During the next three decades after the turn of the century they sought to consolidate their hold on the land and its people with the use of firearms, strychnine, horse, chain and dog. Our knowledge of these times is a little better than it is for the earlier decades. Around 1907-09 possibly forty Aboriginal persons - the exact number is uncertain - were rounded up (this can mean either surrounding or herding together as with cattle, and maybe the two figures of speech are one), chained to a tree, and shot to death by William Weaber and his brother Jimmy (the Weaber Plain north of Kununurra is evidently named after them) and the bodies left unburied. This was told by Grant Ngabidj (Ngabidj and Shaw 1981'36-40) and mentioned also by Waddi Boyoi (Shaw 1991a, 20, 89, 91). In 1908 an Aboriginal bandit named Major was wounded in a rifle duel and then shot to death by police near Spring Creek (Shaw 1983, 8-26). From 1907-09 there was a police drive to round up Aboriginal cattle spearers which peaked at 164 persons (Wyndham courthouse records). They were jailed. Many were probably relocated on one of the two State government Aboriginal cattle stations - Moola Bulla (establishedin 1910)and Violet Valley (established in 1911) - which served purposes similar to those of war-time concentration camps. In 1913 an Aborigine called Wallambain speared to death a German settler

Historical Background 17 named Philchowski near (but not at) the place called Philchowsky's Crossing south of Kununurra. A punitive expedition failed to capture him but came back with another prisoner (Shaw 1987,58-76). Around 1917-18 two Aborigines were shot on Lissadell Station and their bodies burned (Sullivan and Shaw 1983, 69). In 1921 arrests and jailings of Aborigines reached a second but much smaller peak of twenty-six persons. In 1926 there were widely publicised police shootings of Aborigines in the Forrest River district near Wyndham. The whites on those punitive expeditions often made preparations that were purposeful and premeditated. They well knew that they were acting outside European law and often took steps to hide the evidence. Aboriginal testimonies matter-of-factly described the preparations in many cases: packing chains and bullets and kerosene for the disposal of corpses. The secrecy must have succeeded in many instances because of the isolation of this frontier. The isolation and terrain could also work in favour of Aboriginal groups who preferred to avoid contact with whites. Resistance through sporadic violence sometimes succeeded (as in Wallambain's case) because parts of the region such as the Carr Boyd Ranges made access difficult for mounted patrols. The annual wet season, which could last up to six months, turned the tracks into quagmires. In the end, however, these factors did not prevent contact being made between the Aborigines and the white settlers. Gradually, more and more Aborigines were drawn into cattle station life, frequently women and children first, and then their menfolk. Resettlement of this kind meant an entrenchment of the cattle station way of life. The pastoral stations were micro-communities: small, isolated, self-sufficient, their economic and leisure cycles determined by the wet and dry seasons - a cowboy lifestyle for the stock workers centred around the riding ~ a r a ~ h e r n a l iofa boots, shirts, hats and trousers given in payment for services or loaned out during the working season. Without Aboriginal stockworkers it is unlikely that such European enterprises would have become viable. O n the whole, the whites preferred not to interfere directly with what they called 'tribal matters' so long as these did not jeopardise the economic venture. Religious life, for example, was allowed to continue in the 'black's camp', although important initiation ceremonies had to be held during the wet season months of November to March. Inter-group feuds were tacitly ignored and sometimes encouraged if the victim was out of favour with white management. This type of political organisation has been called a 'caste-like system' in which social and economic barriers between

18 When the Dust Come in Between Aborigines and Europeans were rarely crossed save for the practical exigencies of stockwork and concubinage between white men and Aboriginal women. Policy and practice after the institution of responsible government from the 1850s to the Second World War was characterised by almost total neglect of Aboriginal communities nation-wide (Prentice 1975, 75). Virtually every major commentator has pointed to the absence of any substantial coverage of Aboriginal affairs in the official histories for those eighty-nine years; for instance Rowley (1970, 8), Evans, et a1 (1975, 365) and Stanner (1968, 18-24). Stanner referred to this period as 'the great Australian silence', adding that where white attitudes did change they were confined to those very small groups of people who had affiliations with some aspect of Aboriginal affairs such as welfare (care), administration or study (Stanner 1968, 21). There was a sort of flowering of academic studies during the 1930s when the east Kimberley was visited by anthropologists and linguists. Many of these scholars did work of excellence: for example Kaberry (1939) in the east Kimberley, Capell (1940,241-72) in generalist linguistic studies, Elkin (1932, 296-333) also in generalist anthropological surveys and Stanner (1933, 377-405) in the adjoining Daly River area. Some did not show high standards: for example Porteus (1931; 1933) among the Gidja, whose work was marred by Edwardian assumptions about innate Aboriginal inferiority in doing intellectual tasks. Popular writers of the time showed a similar range of feeling, from the race hatred of Buchanan (1934) to the sympathetic, though light-hearted, children's books of Mary Durack who knew at first hand the social issues besetting the Aborigines. These developments reflected a moral improvement in European attitudes towards Aborigines but it was still many years before significant changes began to take place. Stanner - 'to go near is always a sort of offer' (1968, 56-57) - observed that what the early settlers failed to see, or ignored, was an acceptance of the changing order on the part of many Aborigines and that what they wanted (and still seek) was: (i) a workable union of their lives with those of whites - going 'side by side' as many east Kimberley friends put it; and (ii) achieving this union in their own terms. The alternative idea of 'assimilation' that Elkin (1950) and others suggested - it was gradually adopted as policy from 1938 - was an approach which at least countered the outright violence, laissez-faire, and protectionism that came before. The 1930s in the east Kimberley were marked less by these changes in white sentiment than by the more immediate physical

Historical Background 19 scourges of leprosy and venereal disease, both of which had a long history in the region. Kaberry (1936,399) in a report on fieldwork done in the Forrest River area during 1934, pointed out that Aboriginal numbers were decreasing, the old life breaking down and that gonorrhoea (a cause of sterility) was widespread. Leprosy was in epidemic proportions by the mid-1930s. There were seventy-six cases per 1,000 of the Aboriginal population in the east and west Kimberley divisions between 1935 and 1945 (Davidson 1978, 110). The first appearance of leprosy in the west Kimberley was during the late 1800s and it remained endemic in many places until the 1920s. In fact the disease came from two directions, from the west Kimberley pearling beds and from Darwin and the gold mining grounds near Pine Creek in the Northern Territory. In the west and north Kimberley the Worora, Wunambal and Ungarinyin were hardest hit. Davidson (1978, 94) wrote that by the time of the last police patrol in August 1949 there remained, 'a vast area of uninhabited country in the homeland of the Worora and its two allied tribes, with the three islets of habitation, namely the missions at Wotjulum, Kalumburu and Forrest River! He added cynically, 'The problem of dealing with leprosy in the far northwest corner had therefore solved itself. There was little the European authorities could do. Western medical knowledge was not yet able to deal satisfactorily with either leprosy or venereal disease until the discovery and manufacture of the sulphones, streptomycin, penicillin and other antibiotics in the late 1940s. But there were medical examinations. In December 1939 a doctor, LA Musso, visited all the cattle stations and settlements between Broome, Wyndham and Hall's Creek and examined 2,023 persons, twenty of whom had leprosy. Aborigines who suspected they had the disease sometimes went into the bush to effect cures by themselves. (Waddi Boyoi gave a graphic account in his memoirs (Shaw 1991a, 137-40).) Others fled there upon hearing of the medical team's approach. This is not surprising considering that Musso was accompanied by police and that these patrols took the sufferers away on neck chains to the Derby leprosarium where it appears that most spent their remaining days. Several cases of leprosy were noted by a Dr Webster at Argyle Downs Station in a 1932 report (Davidson 1978, 43-44). Mary Durack in those same years made similar observations. She noted in particular an apparently high incidence of abortion and/or infanticide among Aboriginal women (a feature reported also by Kaberry (1936)),and pointed to the low numbers of middle-aged people among

20 When the Dust Come in Between the Miriwung and Gadjerung by the 1970s (personal communication), a demographic fact that also caught my attention. Although 1950 was 'the last of the big years' (Davidson 1978, 95) leprosy remains endemic to this day. I was told by one local doctor in 1970 that it is now diagnosed early and is found more often among the young. International warfare brought significant changes to Aboriginal people in the cattle industry. Many white stockmen joined the armed forces so that greater work responsibilities fell to those who remained. Several people told me that the Aboriginal stockworkers quickly learned the new skills, that they were as good as, if not better than, the whites, and that conditions improved a little. It seems that few Aborigines from the Kimberley joined the armed forces and that for many the Second World War held little significance. The Second World War stimulated government investigations into the defence measure of settling Australia's north, and during the war years the Ord River valleys were surveyed for the best site to build a dam (Dumas 1944,65-70). As a result the Kimberley Research Station was established in 1945 and a decision was made in the 1950s to construct a diversion dam near it which would irrigate cotton farms. That crop was considered the most suitable at the time. The town of Kununurra, which was planned to service the farmers, was founded officially in 1961. In that same year the notion of 'voluntary assimilation' was invented and inserted into white policy towards Aborigines. Later it was replaced by the idea of 'integration' which meant that Aboriginal individuals and communities might maintain their separate cultural identity while remaining part of the larger society (Schapper 1970, 56-59). This policy was criticised as little more than the old policy of assimilation disguised, but it is accepted today as having been a constructive move that heralded self-determination and the outstation movement of the next two decades. In 1962 the right to vote was given to Aborigines in most parts of Australia, save for the Kimberley and the Pilbara which did not receive it until 1971. Equal pay for Aborigines was approved by the Conciliation and Arbitration Commission in 1965. The National Referendum of 1967 approved of the official inclusion of Aborigines in the census and the power of the federal government to make laws with respect to Aborigines throughout Australia. These policy matters had a profound effect on Aboriginal-European relations in the east Kimberley. The name Gananurang in the Miriwung language originally designated the Ord River from Bandicoot Bar at the diversion dam to

Historical Background 21

the mouth of the Ord River Gorge upstream. Kununurra's life as a town may be divided somewhat arbitrarily into several periods. 1. 1959-63: Construction of the diversion dam and building of the main irrigation channel and its subsidiaries, the first stage of the Ord River Irrigation Scheme.

2. 1964-66: Allocation of cotton farms and establishment of the farmers. 3. 1967-68: Controversy over the Scheme; political uncertainty, stasis in the community. 4. 1969-73: Completion of the Ord River Dam and the filling of Lake Argyle; consolidation of farmers and steady community growth ('We've now learnt to grow cotton' said several farmers with satisfaction.) 5. 1974-78: Recession, collapse of the cotton industry, renewed search for alternative primary products such as rice, peanuts and grain sorghum. 6. 1979-: Renewed town growth, mineral exploration and diamond mining near Lake Argyle. During the town's first years there was a resettlement to its fringes of less able-bodied Aborigines from nearby stations, especially from Ivanhoe, Argyle Downs and Carlton Hill. This was probably hastened by the implementation of the award wages decision. Station managements were loath to continue supporting dependants: children, some women, the elderly and the sick. The town's presence not only made it easier for cattle station managements to dismiss any Aborigines considered not part of their workforce; it also made it easier for Aboriginal stockmen to walk off when disputes occurred between them and their white bosses. The Native Reserve, as it was called, was gazetted in 1963 to cope with the growing Aboriginal population in camps on the town's fringes. A n area of 10 acres (4 hectares) was set aside about 2 kilometres north from the town's centre, out of sight behind Kelly's Knob at the foot of which the town nestles, purportedly at the behest of the district engineer at the time. ( A later district head refused to grant permission to view the correspondence file in question, saying it had been 'lost,' although other documents of the Public Works Department on the same checklist were available.) The decision to separate in this way local Europeans and the new (in this situation) Aboriginal community was usual practice. The Miriwung and their neighbours now entered into a period of intensive and confusing social and political readjustment. -

-

22 When the Dust Come in Between

Most of the Aboriginal people attached to the stations had traditional ties to specific areas of land to which they and other members of their local group belonged. Kununurra stood on part of Miriwung territory on land resumed from Ivanhoe Station but the displacement for Miriwung people was only a degree less severe emotionally than for people from further afield. Access to Ivanhoe Station proper became restricted although there were visits to the homestead by women and some men to purchase station beef. Ivanhoe could no longer be a focus for religious activities. At an abandoned 'picnic' (initiation) ground the atmosphere of regret among my companions was tangible. New picnic grounds closer to the township were an alternative. One in Hidden Valley was abandoned when white business people began taking busloads of tourists into it. This was the situation when I began fieldwork in 1970, the 'bad old days' before citizenship rights. Distrust of whites as a class, not as individuals (though there were of course untrustworthy individuals the people knew well), was manifest. Fear of physical violence was still present. These factors were not what impressed me so much however, as the sentiments of the Aborigines around me. A great deal under the surface was rarely made obvious to European outsiders. I was an 'insider' in as much as I was there on the reserve more often than most other whites. In situations away from European society the Aboriginal men and women I grew to know showed qualities such as cultural pride, resiliency, tenacity and independence of thought. This point is necessary to our understanding of later developments. A desire for legal rights to land at a time when this movement had scarcely reached national awareness was present then in Kununurra and I think had always been present. Michael Dinkum (see later, Chapter 14) approached me on behalf of the elders for advice on how best to acquire land. It was proposed to run cattle and grow vegetables, and also to establish a cotton farm. I passed his request on to the head officer of the Native Welfare Department stationed at Wyndham who appeared sympathetic to Aboriginal needs. This man took up the idea enthusiastically saying that it was the first time in his experience that local Aborigines had taken such an initiative without external (white) influence. He formed a committee of elders and middle-aged men from the reserve, a handful of part-Europeans from the fringe camps and a core of interested whites from the town, for example the representative of the Department of Lands and Surveys. The district engineer, who was not one of this group, was told about the meetings as a courtesy.

Historical Background 23 After protracted negotiations with various State government departments, such as the Department of Lands and Surveys and the Native Welfare Department, the group succeeded in having the boundaries of the reserve extended to the north and west. A small market garden was to be established in the western sector. The original request for land further to the northeast including a hill of religious significance to the Miriwung was unsuccessful. Perhaps the relatively large European make-up of the committee and government interests had something to do with this outcome. In the next year, 1971, the committee was reorganised into a body called the Mirima Council. The Aboriginal elders who had formed the original nucleus of the committee now had prominence. Almost no persons of mixed Aboriginal-European descent sat on the Council which was chaired by a Catholic priest. (The Council in this new form was his brainchild.) The only other European on the Council was the new Native Welfare representative for the town (later a welfare office was established in Kununurra), a woman who acted as secretary. I was away, except for two months over Christmas 1971 to early January 1972, preoccupied with completing an opinion survey among white residents (Shaw 1974), so I was unable to follow the early history of the Council. For this I must rely on what Aboriginal friends told me and what I observed later. By the time I returned in 1973 there had been several important changes. Citizenship rights had come to the Kimberley and the Pilbara in 1971. The Australian Labor Party had won the federal election in December 1972 and had introduced a kind of new deal. Struggling Aboriginal communities now began receiving grants for community development projects. In the same year the 'main dam' was completed and Lake Argyle began to fill. The drowning of most of Argyle Downs Station beneath the waters of Lake Argyle was a personal tragedy for many Aborigines. Many of them had known that country intimately since childhood and its loss was a cause of profound sadness. They did not like to talk about it. Bulla's cache of sacred objects of which he was custodian went beneath the waves (Shaw 1986, 170-73). Another development was that the Native Welfare Department underwent far-reaching structural reorganisation following Schapper's (1970) critique. In its place was established the Department for Community Welfare. The State Health Department and the federal Social Services Department took over the health and social services functions which had formerly been the responsibility of the Department for Community Welfare. The Mirima Council made gains, eventually

24 When the Dust Come in Between owning two heavy motor vehicles used for contract work on farms and nearby cattle stations, and their market garden in the western part of the reserve was now in operation. In May 1973 the Native Reserve was renamed Mirima Village. Citizenship had two immediate effects. The white sly grog traders went out of business and drinking problems among Aborigines rivalled the high incidence among some sections of the white community. The latter effect gravely concerned the elders of the Mirima Council (Mandi, Bulla and Banggaldun) and their conversations with me often dwelt upon this issue. There was an event in this period which to my mind revealed the abysmal gap of understanding which existed between the two cultures. In October 1973 a 'Black Power' scare flared up in the town for a couple of days. Among Aborigines and Europeans there were overreactions. On the one hand, I heard of 'neurotic' European women locking themselves in their homes with rifles and shotguns, and there was a rumour that all the ammunition was bought up from the sporting goods store. On the other hand, I witnessed the panic among Aboriginal families of Mirima Village. Upon driving to the Village's horseshoe access road one morning, I saw huddled together under the bough shelter a large group of women and children. As I went on to Johnny Walker's house I was asked by Grant Ngabidj what the 'war*was about. (He and Daisy Djanduin were Johnny's neighbours.) I drove on round the ring road to the other side of the bough shed. Banggaldun was sitting there near the women and children so I left my car and walked across to him. The group stood very still in complete silence, an eerie experience. Banggaldun gave another version of the rumour. In brief, there was a rumour of imminent 'war' between Aborigines and Europeans. An Aboriginal group was expected from Wyndham who would commence fighting the whites in Kununurra. Some older men, for example Grant and Bulla, associated the news with the Second World War and referred to the 'Chinese' and to air attacks. These invaders were said to be armed with rifles. Their modus operand! was to gather everybody together, display a pile of weapons and invite the people to take up arms and join them. Those who did not join were shot. (This in fact does happen in some Third World countries.) In later versions of the rumour, the 'war' had deteriorated into something like a pub brawl where the 'colour bar' people (that is, the local publican and his bar-room staff) and other local storekeepers known for discriminating against Aborigines might be attacked. In the end the

Historical Background 25

trouble was explained as loose drunken talk on the part of a man who had been a delegate to an interstate conference on Aboriginal advancement. It seems that he attended the large demonstration in Darwin held about that time and returned to the east Kimberley with ideas on 'Black Power' that he had picked up from Aboriginal activists in the cities. The strong desire for land among Mirima Council elders seems not to have been a high priority for the priest who ran the meetings. Jack Sullivan (Sullivan and Shaw 1983, 203) observed that he was 'cunning' in his dealings with the councillors because he wanted his Aboriginal parishioners to be physically close to the church. The man's involvement with them as adviser and broker is revealed in his own writings (Willis 1980; 1988). After 1974 he redirected his energies to the setting up of another Aboriginal settlement. This settlement, called Moongoong Darwung (mungung dawang meaning stony camp), was adjacent to the Catholic primary school and children's dormitory. Bulla, Banggaldun and some other Mirima Council men were signatories to the initial applications for funding from the Department of Aboriginal Affairs. In 1975 Bulla and most of the others pulled out of the scheme. Bulla's chief motive was his single-minded fight for an outstation at Dingo Spring (Yadangsalm). Prior to these events, however, by 1974 the Mirima Council was in a decline brought about as a result of a mix of internal and external conflicts. There was, for instance, bickering between young and older men over the use and maintenance of their vehicles and the handling of monetary payments to their workers. Externally, a rival group sprang up called the Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association (KAPA).The leaders of this group claimed they should also have access to the Council's funds. A power struggle between the priest and one of the KAPA leaders led to the former stepping down from the chairmanship of the Mirima Council. This was probably another motive for his actions in founding Mungung Dawang later. The Mirima Council still exists with its original name today - its younger office bearers, for example Waddi Boyoi's son Ronnie Carlton, are now middle-aged men. There were a number of other important ~oliticaldevelopments in the late 1970s and early 1980s. In 1976 Bulla's claims for Yadangsalm were successful. His aspirations are related elsewhere (Shaw 1986). The small area of 52,000 hectares appears now on the Aboriginal land and population map (1982). Bulla died late in 1988 but the outstation continued to be used by family members.

26 When the Dust Come in Between Other more long range effects of citizenship included a scandal in 1977 over the conduct of the State elections when the Liberal member attempted to manipulate the Aboriginal vote (Tatz 1979, 24-41). In 1978 the Kimberley Land Council was formed and the Noonkanbah dispute in the west Kimberley was to flow on into the 1980s. Diamond mining near Lake Argyle began on land formerly held by members of the Gidjabased Warrman community at Turkey Creek. The plight of that community attracted the attention of a wide cross-section of research scholars in Western Australia and in the Australian Capital Territory, spawning the East Kimberley Impact Assessment Project which lasted about five years from the time of the first working paper in June 1985 to the twenty-third paper in 1988. It's operations were wound-up early in 1989 and a book was planned drawing together the chief findings of the project. The foregoing postdates events reported in this present oral history. However, what the reader will find in the pages that follow are glimpses into attitudes, events and a rich tradition which are not wholly out of date. At the time of writing nine out of the eighteen contributors are no longer alive. This book represents also a slightly younger point of view than those expressed in the earlier books of this series. People such as Ben Ward, Colin James, Martha Laurie, John Toby and Michael Dinkum remain active in their communities. More than ever a book such as this has potential virtue as a record for the younger generations. One present day value among several persons reported in the penultimate volume Bush Time,Station Time was encapsulated in the phrase 'for remember! That sentiment is equally apt for this book.

PART I

TRADITIONAL VALUES AND THE EARLY DAYS

DAISY DJANDUIN AND RUBY THOORRBILING DAISY DIED 1992; RUBY DIED 1989

WOMEN'S LIFE Daisy: Recorded 14, 15 November, 7 December 2973; proofread 22 February 1980, two ninety-minute cassette tapes.

Can you start off maybe, tell me where you were born? From all my relation I was born at Bullo River. That was where my own father found me. I didn't know anything but my old man told me, old Grant. I was born there he reckoned. I grew up in the bush. My father took me around, and aunty and granny. That lot looked after me. My mother was gone when I was small. Gadjerung are my people, everybody. I was only a kid when I lost my mother. I don't know anything about it. My father raised me and my aunty and my own granny. They grew me up, carted water, tuckout [ate] sugar bag and goanna, living in the bush all around there around Legune and along Bullo River, right up here to Carlton. Walking round all round there at Ningbing. Then when I was grown up with my granny my father put me in the house. Now my father was working on Carlton and he put me in Ningbing Station. I grew up then at Ningbing Station with Dolly my sister. She's passed away now. I was a full size little girl when father took me. He left me at Ningbing then after that. I grew up with the kids at Ningbing. I was happy all right with my granny and uncle. O h she was a good old woman of mine my granny. We were all right, little kids you know. Then we came to the station and it was more better. It wasn't too much in the bush. We were travelling, couldn't stop in one place you know because we were frightened for the white man. We kept going walking away to another station all the way. We were happy on the stations just sitting down in one place. It was very hard for women all right I reckon. My father took me to Carlton then and my granny. When my father went there my granny 29

30 When the Dust Come in Between took me, followed my father, and we stayed there at the reserve with everyone, a bit of a camp. I never worked at Carlton. I was only a little girl just walking round the camp you know. Then after that my father wanted to go to Legune. Well I followed him, all round there walking round, you know o n the coast.

What reason did they move to the station? We had been enough in the bush. They just got their pay with the white man, working. My father took me to Legune again, to that other place where we stayed. My granny took me down there. After, my father put me in Ningbing now. There were two places, Legune and Carlton walking around, and I grew up at Ningbing Station. My biggest sister looked at Ningbingi Station for work there. I had only my biggest sister and a brother I lost. The white man gave me my name at the station, from Carlton to Ningbing all round there. My blackfeller name is Djanduin, my white name is Daisy. My skin is namidj. The skin names are the same for Gadjerung as they are for Miriwung. The Gidja are a different lot, a few. Me and all the Gadjerung and the Miriwung talk the same. We come together.

Do women have a Dreaming too, you know before you bin born...? Women don't have a Dream for the baby, only men. I don't dream much. I sleep well all the time. When I was a little girl with my granny and my aunty down at Legune we were all supposed to go down to the big marsh country to get a lot of goanna. This was open country right near the station. There was plenty of water for cooking. And those old women killed a lot of goanna. My own aunty killed a big one and I cut it up then. I was only a little girl you know. We all went down to the camp to all the old men there, and we took and cooked all those goannas. They were roasted in the oven, in the ground. Then afterwards we pulled them out and ate them. Too much fat I tell you. And me and granny had a good sleep and I dreamed that goanna. Perhaps a devil brought it up and put it in my mouth. 'Waaau', I sang out, 'Waaau. Gaggai, ga@. Waaau.' I sang out like that and my granny got up. 'Whatim crying?',she said. She hit me, hit me then and I got up. 'What you bin dreaming, my gaggai?', she said to me talking Gadjerung. 'It must be that goanna I bin dreaming. Melunggung, melunggung [fat]. Someone bin give it me', I said to her. That kind of dream you know the devil djumung gave me through the mouth. That

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 31 was the only time I dreamed you know, when I was a little girl. Too much fat you know. Perhaps that old feller savvies. I know the Dream for my father, what he dreamed for all us kids. I don't know the dreams of my father before I was born, but if he was alive all right he would know. My father had more head than me. I don't know much because my mother was lost. I know granny, my aunty, my father and my stepfather. I know all that.

Can 1 ask you more about back to the station, how you grew up' I was at Carlton with my father sitting down there all day with my gagged and an old man, my gaggai again. One was the sister of my granny. My sister was working at Ningbing, and a white man lambara, my fatherin-law, came in and took me down to Ningbing. He was called Billy Weaber. He came down there to Carlton and brought flour, sugar, clothes, blankets and gave them to my father, to my granny, to all those stepmothers. He loaded all the things and took them down to Ningbing where I worked then. I was a small one. He gave all those things to my old man to pay him back because they took me away from that place, from Carlton to Ningbing. All right, I stopped there when I was a little girl, working there, everybody, girl, boy, woman there. Then I got the biggest hiding from the white man. You know, stupid like all these kids playing about, me and that Annie there we call Djebabi, and another dead feller. Me and Djebabi grew up together on Ningbing. Don Makeri's father Wallace reared her up. We were always getting hidings from that white man then. You know from playing about the stupid way like all these kids go stupid. We got a hiding, hiding, hiding. Then I got brains. We were marked with a whip and sticks, boot, bamboo o n the head. He knocked girls about. He was a cheeky feller man at that place. Then I carried my first kid at Ningbing Station. This was with another husband, djulama, not Grant. He was always here all the time, Wallace. He was a young boy. That was my first kid, Don, out of that boy then. All right, from there I had young Dicky then. I had two boys first, from Wallace now. Right, I kept those two kids. Then Nipper fought for me, I called him brother because he was djimidj. He was sorry for me, 'Ah too much you and this one come back gotim kid...', and he hunted them away. Wallace was a young boy. He went away somewhere here at Carlton, from Carlton right up to Goose Hill and stopped there

32 When the Dust Come in Between

all day then. And I had Doris. She was the second girl. The first girl of Nipper's I lost. Grant and us all were at Ningbing yet. Me, Grant and old Paddy. After, when that boss went away we came up here to Carlton. Well this Ngabidj, Grant, was a very smart young boy. And there was old man Paddy. Well I grew up these two kids Don and Dicky, kept them all the way, all the way. This Wallace went away and left me and I sat down single working all the time. Then Nipper ran away with my full sister and my aunty nalyiri. This was for wanya, sweetheart. He took them to Legune. They worked around there for one year at Legune and came back then to Ningbing. Me and Djebabi and another lot of women - plenty of women there - sat down there till that lot came up from Legune. My sister came back then, right back to old Paddy Barrgul. Those two fellers were married the wrong way then, not properly married. It was just kangaroo marriage. Now today we marry properly in the church. Then my sister ran away again with my uncle's son djulama right up to this Forrest River Mission and left old Paddy behind. My husband, this other feller Wallace, had left me for a long time. Well I sat down there single and this man Jack told me, 'Oh, you'll have to find your man now! I talked, 'No! 'Oh I'll find him for you', he reckoned. And he got that old man then, Doris's father Nipper. He was djanama like you. I stopped with that other old man then, Nipper, all the one year at Carlton working. I stopped there all the time. I took him right through to Legune. Well he died there Doris's father. I lost him there. Well Wallace ran away and left me with two boys from him and then I reared them up myself those two kids, got them tucker on the station, put them on the horses. We all played the Wangga for those two kids of mine. Finish. I gave them as two proper men then, put them on the horses. They were riding then. The next one I lost was Nipper. I stayed at Legune working, with two girls. The other biggest girl who was with me at Carlton went over to Legune to be with me, Mina. The policeman came down that way and found me in the bush with a little half-caste kid of mine you know. That was way out in the bush. They picked up me and everybody else and took us all right up to Legune. Then he talked, 'Aright, this one, this is the Daisy now, we bin looking for him. Carlton Daisy this one.' And this other police boy said, 'Me and you take him back longa Carlton'. And that first police reckoned, 'No. Leave him ere. Because 'im husband bin run away. Let him stop here, till 'im husband come up.' I was round there then. I don't know who that man was managing Legune Station. O h he was a young

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 33 tall feller that gadia. And we stopped there a long time till I lost my old man, that djanama like you. I ran along to Carlton then. And I lost that biggest girl of mine, Mina. That half-caste girl of mine was Dulcie Carlton. She was given that name because she was born at Carlton. I can show you the bottle tree where she was born. I never went to the hospital, nothing. All those kids of mine and the others, we gave birth to them in the bush on the stations. Look, say among us, when we were in the family way all the girls came together and looked after one girl giving birth. Well the fathers stayed working. When that kid grew up we took him to the father now after. Now we fellers are here and we go to the doctor. But no matter, when we were young girls we dropped all those in the bush. We never went to a doctor. What do you reckon, that was clever wasn't it? We girls used to go to the bush, sit down and look after ourselves. That's finished. That was in the early days but it's not done now today. The doctor won't let them in the bush. See that Djebabi? Yeah, in the early days our mothers gave birth to us all like that. They were really bushmen eh? No one walked to the doctor. Nothing. I didn't marry a white man. I was only just a girlfriend like, wanya-wanya or yundabainmirri. The same as this lot, marrying white men. We were all only just wanya that's all. I can't get an answer from that girl. She's left me a long time. I'm grey haired now. Anyway if you go to Perth you'll find Carlton Dulcie my kid.

How did you come to meet Ngabidj? Was he the feller who went to look for you? There was Wallace who was lost here at Wyndham, and Nipper, and from Nipper that old man who was djanama like you, Ngabidj. That was all then. Nipper was a poor old feller like Grant. Ngabidj was after me all the time I was working there at Carlton. That wife of his, Albert's mother Maggie, was too cheeky. We two fellers were fighting all the time. That lubra wanted to challenge all of us. And then Ngabidj picked me up. There, we were still here look today. At Carlton I lived with old man Ngabidj wanya-wanya. In the old days the girl would be given to her boyfriend, her cousin. They just sat down and the cousin gave her, that's all. This time too they marry cousin-daughter. Me and that old feller, well my mother was gone and my father was gone. This Ngabidj had no lambara. The best skin for me to marry is djangala, the second best is djanama, and the third one is djulama. Namidj, any time we marry djanama. That's the Law for us.

34 When the Dust Come in Between We two fellers met up at Carlton with Mr Hargreaves. We always stopped there till we came up here because that old feller [Grant] was very sick. We moved straight from there to here two years before we first met you [ie in 19681 to be close to the doctor. And we stopped here all the time because that Mrs Hargreaves told me and all the pensioners, 'Take him down there, keep him close longa doctor', and our Missus went away and left us.

What do you think about living here? It's good living here. The station and the town are all the same. In the early days, the wild time it wasn't good. It was better at the stations, not in the bush. In the bush they shot the early day people. Our mothers and fathers taught us that. They used to take us and plant [hide] us. They're good now but we were frightened this time because they said the Aboriginal people would come down and kill all the white men. That was a couple of weeks ago [the Black Power scare]. In the early days when they shot all the blackfellers there was Wallambain, Yundabain's father, who killed a gadia. O h he was a touchy feller that old man. He killed Philchowski there somewhere on the road, before. He's finished now that old feller. The poor old man fell sick and died a long time ago. They reckoned that was only a story and we shouldn't believe it much, because me and all the blackfellers camp with you people now. Why did they want to come and fight with you blokes? That's wrong ain't it? We're all white men now ain't it? In the early days they didn't know white men, and the white men didn't know and shot all the blackfellers. Now we understand. The white man understands the blackfeller now, and the blackfeller understands now the white man this time, me and everyone. When I came from Carlton we had a [tent] fly down here. I was new to the town. We were down there on the bottom camp on this side here. Two houses were living here, that was all. We were down there, everybody, just here close to this boab tree there, near the garden, these Kununurra fellers. Like this lot of boys and girls living now, we always came up from Carlton, made a fly and lived there outside. We had no trouble with the big town. The white man put Banggaldun in as boss. They had nothing in the camps in the early days. Only the white man was a boss. The old men were nothing. Well o n this reserve there were only all the Councillors, the bosses. We only just listened to what they said. We just sat down and listened. Look at the toilet. I'm doing the work

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 35

cleaning it up. Nobody tells me. I don't get paid for all those toilets. And all these girls are only just looking out for all the rubbish. They don't work. Those fellers should have got into it and helped one another, for the rubbish you know. The goats all went. They didn't have any feed around, no bushes. It's more better than before. Me and everyone come to you white men. We love you fellers now. We're used to you. I went to church all the time on the station. We were married there. You know, the Father came down and gave us all church. Now we get married the proper way, everyone, Catholic. We're happy with Father. I go one way to church and I've been to this other church too, the UAM [United Aborigines' Mission]. It's all the same, not different. We're all living right ain't it? We only think for living here in one place. I've seen plenty of good things in the stores, clothes that's all. I go to every shop and see, oh nice, lovely, every way in the store. It's a good thing you know the way they're living. I like to be quiet in the bush. You know, walking around, anything, goanna, sugar bag. Only we're not going, walking about. We can't get out. Too many of the old people can't walk, say from here to the pocket. We never camp out that way at the side of Kelly's Knob, not now. They were good camps. No one walks around a lot. We just stay in one place. If we had a motor car it would be all right. If you had a decent one you could camp anywhere. It's not like before when we were walking about.

What do you think of all the young fellers drinking and everything here now? I don't know about all the young boys and young girls, very young girls. They don't work. They sit down, do nothing. Not like all the boys. Some boys will work, some don't and are just looking for grog. I don't like that. Might be they don't like working any more I reckon. They're lazy. I reckon they sleep too much. Well we fellers were never like that when we were young. We worked with the white man and didn't sleep all day. Some whitefellers you know on the stations used to give hidings to a boy or girl and the boy would run away. The white man would go after him with a rifle. He kept the woman back and the men would go away, run away. The white man kept the woman there working till that man came back who'd run away. Then the next time he doesn't go away. He knows. That man now who ran away, the next time he comes round to the station to another good man and stays with him, not the same one he ran away from. That kind of thing still happens now. If you have a bad manager or head stockman all the boys go off

36 When the Dust Come in Between the station, and when a new manager comes in all the boys come back again. That happened at Carlton. Still today they do it, all the young boys here. We never had trouble like that before. Drinking before was for white men, and now this time it's for the blackfellers. I don't know about that. It must be good. They reckon they had that book you know. Now they've dropped it. I heard about that. This lot are going worse now. One feller they killed one night for drink, outside where they were drinking. It makes them forget about what they're doing. They get a stick or tomahawk and hammer the women you know. No white man has that idea. You white men, you don't go and fight-about do you? Well, the silly white man does but not the proper white man you know. You fellers drink quietly, and ladies too, all the ladies. I don't like my people going wild. You know, one time they sat down well. They drank and talked. Another time they go wild. What does that mean? Only the brains make them all like that I reckon, makes them all mad the way they drink, and they forget about other people. They get a stick, a hammer, and belt them. And when they're sober then they're all sorry, 'What I bin doing? Belt him my wife.' See? The police have been good all the way, not before. Not like the police who came down every way to the stations you know. They came in there every morning raiding up the camp, shooting all the dogs, killing them [in 19701. Welfare that time, they killed all the dogs you know on every station. It's better now, not like before. They used to kill men in the early days. All the white men you know came out in the bush and killed all the wild blackfellers and their dogs. Before I was born. Before you were born. There might be three bottles, beer. That's good enough to make you sleep. Now I can drink grog. The old feller used to get one for me. I'd drink it and go to sleep with my husband minding me, sitting down with me. He didn't let me go among the mob you know, fighting. No. I didn't like that. I drink quietly. Sometimes when I liked and when I had money the old feller got it for me and I drank, quiet. I just sat here. That's all I did. One time we drank that other way at the river. The old feller brought them up with a taxi. That taxi missus can tell you. It made her burst out laughing for me. She reckoned I was having good fun there. And they were lying down on that cement floor you know, down at the river up there at the crossing. They all stayed hidden like, fishing. We cooked one fish. My husband was there and I drank and was very sick [drunk]. One old feller and a missus and another girl picked me

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 37 up and put me in the motor car, the taxi, and brought me up. I didn't know they lifted me from there. I was spewing and spewing, finish. I slept. They brought me up and left me here then. All the fellers took me and put me inside. This was only the first time I saw grog, when I came to Kununurra. When I drank it for the first time it made me sick. It wasn't beer. It was wine and that clean one like water, ginger beer. We didn't have beer like here today. We were drinking wine all the time around Carlton, not every day then. I drink beer now not that hard stuff. Before when me and Grant were living here in that fly then Grant was drinking hard stuff, rum. That made me savvy. I tell you I dropped there and slept all day, couldn't get up. You know you find it in the guts and the throat. It burns them up. It's too cheeky that one. I don't know how these young fellers like it, all these boys and girls who drink out that. They drink one then the other, mix it, mix it.

You know how lot of Aboriginal women now bin marry white man, say in the town. What do you think of

that, mixed marriage? It's all right for Aboriginal women to marry white men, because the girl likes them. No boy marries white girls. There's nothing much there. I reckon too one way is more better eh? We have plenty of yellow kids you know. Now some of the girls stay with the one man, and then go along to another man, then to another man. They make plenty of yellow children. That's not right eh? That girl runs them too much, everywhere, black boy, white man, half-caste. They should stand with one man eh? I reckon it's all right for a white girl to marry a blackfeller. I saw one boy had a missus here from Darwin. I've never seen it much here, only all the girls running the white man. If Kununurra fellers, a black boy, had a lady maybe another white man would come along, I reckon. It's not allowed.

There's no place you'd like to live somewhere else? It's more better to have the reserve here, it's all right. This is good ground. I don't want to live in the town. Too many houses are there. If they sell them you know well I reckon all the people might be living there. I'd like to live here all right. O h it's all right for the young boys. They can go to the stations. Not us. I had one old man. If I had a young boy I could go out to the stations. But I had one of my kids sick and I have to stay here.

38 When the Dust Come in Between

I reckon it's more better here living with all the young boys. They don't hunt them away from here, not like at Carlton. They don't have trouble getting work here. Some fellers are working now. Some stay for the holiday over the wet season then they go back to the stations. I'm on the pension now. I started here. It's enough to live on. Sometimes we saved money, other times we spent it on clothes and tucker. Grant used my money to buy tucker and I bought clothes for myself. I used my money for tucker and any good thing I wanted to buy. We kept the change for tucker and any good thing I wanted. One, two, three, four, ten dollars we got, not much. Everyone got it like, a fortnight. We'd all do shopping, finished it off right away and just sat down. We just sat down and waited for the money that belonged to us. We had enough tucker. Not the meat. We ate that straight away. We can have sugar and tea. We don't have anything to keep the meat. Grant and I got one cheque each and we shared it out right. I have a bank account. I'll stop here all the time. I can't get up. I could go to the stations all right, to Carlton, but I was looking after that old man with the blind eyes [Johnny Walker] and Sid, to feed them tucker you know. I'm pretty happy. I'm a happy girl, me. I'm not worried. Before I was worrying for my daughter, that's all. I forget about her now. That kid never came back to me. That was a long time ago when she was a kid and grew up at the big place, Dulcie. Well I forget about it, no good. That kid left me when I was only a young feller. I have grey hair now. She's grown out now. They reckon she has a kid. Of course I'm happy for that. You know, one girl told me that she had a lot of kids, and now I'm happy that I have all those grandchildren. I just mind my own business and look after my place, clean up. I work, nobody tells me. I just sit down.

Ruby: Recorded 3 August 1983 with Jen Gibson

Jen: W h a t story did you tell the children today at school? C a n you tell these children that story, about the Dreamtime? All the children that come here longa reserve, the story. I bin tell story Miriwung language. I bin talking to them. All the children. That's the way I learn 'em the language. They gotta talk language way, and they gotta talk the English way. Two way. They gotta write it now in the

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 39

book. So everybody can understand one another. Even the gadia kid, little the white kid ... Gadia kid can understand longa all the Aborigine kid. They can understand one another longa language and English, how they bin do that in the early day people, y'know before, long ago. Well, when people fighting one another y'know. Right they bin kill them people but still and all they bin 'pologise to the Aborigine people. Aborigine people bin take them show them country all around in this land here all over the place, and show all the gadia coming in. And they bin make the station all around longa Argyle, longa Ivanhoe, all around longa Carlton Hill Station, Ningbingi. They all early day people bin, show them country a'right. And after that they bin 'pologise, and they bin work together. And learning one another language. Gadia used to talk English, and Aborigine people used to talk language. Language and language they used to talk one another. Only finger bin all the talk, pointing. And they used to tell 'em them, 'Get the water! And this Aborigine man used to say, 'Denang, kangung ngadjing ngoa! 'Yes', that gadia used to say, 'Yes, you bring him...'. But after long time, when everybody bin know together, and they bin friend together, they bin work together and they bin work for gadia allabout, they bin cut 'em all the timber and all the rocks they bin make 'em in Ningbingi all round longa Carlton, Ivanhoe, Argyle, they bin work. All Aborigine people bin help them, put up them station, before. They reckon all the people, know all the early day people, no gadia bin around this place before. But never mind, when people bin all this, whatyoucallim y'know? When gadia bin come out longa W ~ n d h a m well , it might be early day gadia, not this new people gadia what we bin born together. And, they bin take them prison and, they bin tie up in that big boab tree there longa W~ndham.He got big hole. That's the way, they reckon all early day people. That's the story they bin tell us. They bin tied up prisoner. No house bin there nothing. Only all the Aborigine people bin working there, helping them put up the station... And after that, they bin know one another now. They bin friend one another. And this lot what they bin there longa all the gadia people working. And they bin go out in the bush, tell 'em other mob people, Aborigine people what they bin live in bush, 'Come on. Youfeller can come down now. We good friend now longa gadia. We might as well go stay. Finish fighting now. They can't kill 'em we no more. We'll have to go friend one another.' That mob all the people bin say, 'I'll take you mob. We got a station all ready we bin make 'em house.' They bin make 'em that, we call garinyin? That bark there. When we

40 When the Dust Come in Between cut 'em for carving grow 'em anything. You can make 'em house cut 'em that. That's the way they bin do in Ningbingi Station [cf Grant's account in Ngabidj 1981, 411 before early day. And they bin work, get 'em all the stone. They bin put up that stone. All the early day people bin work that, and early day gadia. They dead and gone now everybody, even the gadia ... A'right they bin finish now. They bin working together now. And this Aborigine woman well he bin have 'em little coloured one. And when he bin go out longa bush and he bin show 'em them, 'I got a little coloured one, gadia one this one! And all the Aborigine people they come and look at it, 'Ahh'. And they bin look colour. 'Yeah. Belong gadia. That one gadia father.' And this girl bin say, 'Ahh, they good people all right. We'll have to go stay got 'em now.' Well everybody bin coming in longa station now. And gadia bin give 'em them ration now tobacco, but they never eat. They bin only bury 'em longa ground y'know. Tobacco throw 'em longa the water. Y'know before stupid one... They bin 'pologise now people bin, all the early people now like we and everyone bin friend one another now whole lot bin working together now. Till, new mob children bin come out now. Well we are here now, every way... That's why this lot all Aborigine people they want 'em, we want to be the friend and we want to be work together. We want to be stick together. And for schooling, and for teaching children like, we gotta be mix. White people and the black people see. That the word ... All right. You listen now. And this Dream Time, long ago, here longa this Top Dam ... Well he got big bottle tree here, right along boat landing. Well, stockyard there for Argyle mob. Well, before we call in Dream Time...Umbrella Lizard and Blue Tongue they bin blackfeller before long ago in Dream Time. And this lemogam bin go singing...and this Umbrella Lizard go dance now. He bin praise 'em that son belong him and he reckon, 'He's a good dancer my son. You fellers no good.' He bin tell 'em them this 'nother mob lizard, porcupine mob, turtle mob. He bin tell 'em them, 'You fellers no good. Look at my son can dance prop'ly', that Umbrella Lizard. Blanket Lizard you know... And this Turtle bin get wild. He bin get wild and wild. 'Don't you tell me like that', this Turtle bin say. 'Yeah, my son can dance better than your son. He lazy one that son belong you, he can't dance. He sighing all the time, he get sigh.' And two feller bin start to fight now. Him bin go get a nulla nulla. Turtle bin go get a nulla nulla. And this Blue Tongue bin go get 'em too same time. Two feller bin fight, fight, fight, everybody bin start fight now. Even the Eagles and the Pelican. Two feller bin fighting over,

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 41

Kangaroo, in that cave there longa Dingo Spring. That Dingo Gap. Not Dingo Gap, what this Thompson Spring. Right top there. Everybody animal bin fighting now...

Plate 1

Grant Ngabidj, 1974, Kununurra

42 When the Dust Come in Between He's a ngaranggani. He's a ngabang [Father] bin tell 'em now, he bin stop them people, 'Don't fighting. Stop.' Nothing. They never take a notice. 'No n o no, we can't believe you', this lot people bin say. They bin fight, fight finish, biggest [clapped hands] water bin come and drown 'em all the people. And some of them bin swim from there longa Dambaramba. They bin swim to the Ningbingi, right through. And some them bin stop there. Longa that cave they bin turn into mosquito. Dream Time. He know. Djanama [Bruce] know. They bin show him. And, this mob bin swim right up to the, we call Kanggarriyu. Longa Ngarrmoiyu. Three girl bin get drown. And 'nother one bin stop in that Kanggarriyu island. That a Dream Time woman there. And another two bin swim right up to the Kanggarriyu. He got, island near. And Dream Time man bin turn into rocks there. Where boat come through from Darwin to Wyndham. Well right there he got big island near. He stop there. And that, they call that man, I dunno what his name now. Ngabidj bin tell 'em about me. I know, I know the word, from old people. And this 'nother mob bin go, in Elephant Hill they call him. We call Burrngorr. ~ v e r ~ b bin o d turn ~ into rock. They all the Gadjerung tribe, like belonging to country's people. And that Ngarrmoyu this is island, he got water there. And this Wundarri what they bin walk here right up here they got all the bottle tree, he got water there too. I know myself because Grant bin show 'em me, Ngabidj. I know [cf Ngabidj

1981, 32-33]. And Kanggarriyu he belonga middle of water when all the turtle lived. He got Dream Time man bin swim, he stop there. And he got one tree standing. Danggung tree we call. That's the place in that island now. But before the Gadjerung tribe be to walk, in this island. Tide used to go back y'know. People used to go camping out there in that island. Well that's the Grant bin tell us story y'know. He bin take mefellers show 'em mefellers this two-feller. Daisy bin there too. Aright. Well this time when we bin go camping out, you can't get across. He deep. Tide can go right away but tide come halfway here. And he go back halfway here but he's still deep this place, this island. And that island. You'll have to cross over got a boat ... This time he deep.

Bruce: One time you could walk across? You can't walk across now. But before right. Well Grant bin take 'em mefellers. We used to walk, in that island. That's the route from early day people. They used to walk across and camping there longa island. And this time too. Well Grant bin in Ningbingi working. Well he bin

Daisy Djanduin and Ruby Thoorrbiling: Women's Life 43 take us holiday. We bin go holiday and we bin walk, longa Wundarri this is dry land this one. He got water here longa some grass. When tide bin go back we bin walk across, in this island. We bin stop there camping. Dry. When tide bin come in cover 'em over well we bin in safe place in the island. See? But this time we bin go picnic again. We bin look that place. Tide bin go out, stop there. Tide only go halfway here. He deep here. You can't walk across. Well that island too. Same as this one. You can't walk across like that one he deep. Must be water snake there. Because nobody there see. All the people here Kununurra ... Sea gulls y'know that? Salt water bird. Ningbingi way. That's in the Dream Time y'know, long ago when old man bin go sit down and singing away, in Wungabal [Attack Spring]. And they sing. And this old man bin sitting down he bin looking out, tide bin coming. And he bin think about, for turtle y'know. All the turtle bin coming up... And this old man he bin say, 'Poor fellers'. And when him bin look back from Walungdag and he bin say, 'Poor fellers. He got Djanmarra Hill there.' Like Balyirra they call 'em. That hill longa Djanmurrai. You bin go past driving around there. We bin go to that windmill, we call Wurramu. Well that the Djanmurrai now. Well, this man look back he bin find 'em, Djanmurrai Hill sticking out. 'Poor feller that Djanmurrai hill there', with the language he bin say. That's true. That's why we follow track from that Dream Time. We follow same track right through till early days people, right through till we here now everyone. Same track we follow 'em.

Plate 2

Peter Ngunung, 1973, Kununurra

PETER NGUNUNG BORN 1917, DIED 1990

BUSH TIME Recorded 2 August, 17 October, 4 December 1973; 28 August, 8, 13 October, 1974: six sessions, two sixty-minute and two ninety-minute tapes, around four hows and ten minutes not counting proofreading in a later year.

Where you born, what place were you born at? I can't tell you how old I am. I come from Port Keats and was born on Legune. I'm different raised. I talk Djamindjung and Murinbada, languages different from Miriwung. But we all understand one another. There were two countries together. Well, Miriwung people went to Djamindjung country or Djamindjung people came over to this country and when we talked we understood one another. We were friendly together, Miriwung and Djamindjung and Murinbada. God made us all together. My father and mother were both Garamau. We live just like the Japanese or Communists of the Australian people you know, or the Americans. Well Chinamen, you can't understand the Chinese language eh? But some Chinamen came round this country, well they got English easier. Before that they fought and raided camps, not this time. My father told me one story about how Djamindjung people killed Miriwung people in this country, and the Miriwung people went to the Djamindjung and killed them. They were doing that a long time ago, I don't know why. That was in the Law. Like maybe Australian people went to shoot all the Japanese, that way you know. A lot of people were killed a long time ago, the same with war. And the whitefeller used guns to shoot the Aborigines. Blackfellers fought with spears. A lot were killed. A lot died, everywhere. One of the reasons for fighting was stealing women. The other mob would follow them [the woman stealers] and kill them. Or it might be

46 When the Dust Come in Between in the Law. Well if a woman made it wrong a man might come over and kill her, or it might be a young boy making trouble. This could happen any time. Ngunung they called me in my country. I don't know what they talked. I forget about my language now. In blackfeller Law my Dreams were the Flying Fox and the Plain Kangaroo and that Hill Kangaroo. Flying Fox was a blackfeller when the Law began [bin get up]. Every Dream it was like that. There was the flying fox hanging up in the trees and fish called differently, and Sugar Bag was a different Law. Flying Fox all went from here in the Dream, in different countries. Those two kangaroos fought over sugar bag and that Plain Kangaroo beat the other, killed that other one. That was the Law in my lace, my country where there's spring water. He threw what we call a nulla nulla. He had that long tail, you know that big ~ l a i n s kangaroo. And Flying Fox was one of those blackfellers in the Dream time. He was circling, flying around. That's a different story. My father dreamed the Flying Fox and I followed the Law for my father. My Dream properly is that Ground Sugar Bag. All those Dreams were like from Legune to Timber Creek way. They went that way. The Flying Fox flew that way in the Dream with that Snake which went through, same as that Garimalang Mandi told you about. That Dream went through this country, that Law. We call it Murundi. They call my country Bugunin. It's near Legune the other side to the salt water. The salt water runs here and goes to Timber Creek way and you have the other salt water that runs this way, that's Bradshaw Station [probably between the Keep River and the Victoria River]. We were young boys growing up and we didn't know much. I grew on Bradshaw. Djamindjung country is not far, all round Legune, Auvergne and Timber Creek. There are Yilngaliwuru. Ngaliwuru people came to Djamindjung. And that different language Wadaman came to Djamindjung again. Djamindjung meets up with Garamau. And there were other different languages like Nanggigurrunggu. All round that Daly River they talked Malak-malak. We couldn't understand that. Some of those people I understood all right. And on this side Djamindjung meets up with Miriwung and Gadjerung all coming together like that. Just like you might go from Australian to Japanese. Well you don't understand Japanese you know. I was an early bushman, never saw a white man before. Well my mother and father all took me down to the bush. My father and

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 47

mother grew me out when I was a baby. Those kids learnt to kill kangaroos and many kinds of animals. When I was a kid my father taught me to kill a kangaroo, kill goanna, kill fish. You know that palm tree, plenty down in Darwin? You can make a fish net, the kind you throw. In blackfeller Law they made a big one. You put it in the water and could get big barramundi with it. That was the bush palm you called namahgaln. And you know those big shells? We sold them. The Miriwung people sold them this way [north] up through Gadjerung country. We called it djaguling. My father always sold it any way from Port Keats you know. They sold it to Port Keats way and we got that bamboo from the Port Keats fellers, milinyin, for spears. They call it a different name in Darwin. They sold the shells from here to Legune Station, round Legune Station going to Bradshaw or to Port Keats. The shells came from the Wyndham way and before they got there from Kalumburu way. I don't know where from, from Kalumburu, they came. In Port Keats everyone called the bamboo daamul.

Where did you first see a whitefeller? I was a little boy when I first saw a white man, big like [about 13 or 14 years old]. I saw him at a place called Bradshaw on the Timber Creek Station. A n old station was there a long time ago. My father ran in the bush. And you know that feller old Sid Djuluwal. He was a stockman, my own uncle there, my mother's brother. Sid comes from the same country as myself. I was a wild blackfeller when I came on to the station. My father put a tomahawk on my mother and killed her, cut her with it. I don't know what she did. And a policeman came and took my mother's body and my little brother who was only a baby back to Darwin to report. I had a sister too. My father was nearly hung. I came down from the bush and heard that my mother was dead. My father was taken to a place called Pine Creek between Darwin and Katherine and my littlest brother went to court as a witness. Well they gave my father life in jail in Darwin. That was a long time ago when we were kids. My father stopped in Darwin for two years. He came back to Auvergne and died at Legune. I went with a lot of blokes just moving around. When my mother was killed I came down to the station to uncle Sid's camp and he fixed me up. I stopped there for a while. Well I started thinking it wasn't worth it sitting down there. My mother was dead and my father was in jail. I thought I might as well go and leave that country you know.

48 When the Dust Come in Between

I went through that Willaroo way and grew up there big. They danced and made me a man in the Law. I learnt to ride a horse and to do cattle work with the bullocks. I became a stockman. Well we worked on Willaroo. We picked up English and could understand the white man. The white men taught the young boys and from that day we understood English. But the old people before all were shot a long time ago, and poisoned. When we saw horses a long long time ago when I was only a kid we didn't know them. I saw a man come on a horse and reckoned the horse was a devil. It was an Aborigine boy riding him with a belt here, another belt here and two revolvers. The belts were across his shoulders with bullets on. We knew that old feller who came round there. He came and we asked in language, 'What you?' 'I come from Bradshaw', he said. He spoke Djamindjung. We were looking out for this man. We asked, 'Where come from?' He had two revolvers here and a forty-four rifle on his saddle. You can't tell a silly boy like and I was going to take a spear wanting to kill that horse. I was a big boy by then, a long thin feller with a little bit of moustache coming up. I was looking at this man and reckoned I was going to kill him and I told my mate in language, 'You and me kill him eh?' But how many bullets would we get? No, we didn't want to kill him. We didn't know cartridges you know. He'd just come round looking round there among the people. We couldn't kill him because if we tried he might have shot the lot. We wanted to kill him. O h some of those people were cheeky. They burned my mother when she died somewhere in the bush somebody. A blackfeller killed her in the Law, munba like. That's when they kill you with a spear and you get up and walk around two days then you fall sick. Like, they did that to my own sister too I think, the blackfellers. My own sister lived there too and they killed her after. All those people o h they're dead and gone. They were Garamau. That boy o n the horse asked me, 'You go down to Bradshaw?' 'Yeah', I said, 'I go down! He went away then back to Bradshaw and I went down. O n the stations the whitefellers looked after us when we were babies and young boys. They grew us up. Never mind getting a hiding from the manager. When I was a kid I got a flogging, smacking. I got a flogging with the whip from a whitefeller. Well I learnt from the white man to ride a horse, throw bullocks and brand them. It was pretty quiet when I was in this country. The whitefeller had come around and we knew him. We learnt English and we could understand what he told us then. We say the whitefeller and native people can work together,

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 49

never mind about this black skin or you white. We're the same colour eh? I reckon it makes no different whitefellers and native people. What do you reckon?

You married then? I was married a good while ago in the Law. I came round here and married Peggy when she was only a young girl. I never married on Bradshaw but one bloke ran away with me that's all, from my country. I came here then but I didn't bring the other girl with me. YOUknow with young boys you can't tell them, they're stupid. I left that girl in that country. Well some people you know in the Law, the young boy can't marry quick. But that Law, when I went through and we knew all the blackfeller Law well they let you marry. I broke the Law when I ran away. Well the girl makes you run away you know. I was young then. That was before. She was Ngaliwuru, that's Yilngali. In this country I lived in Ivanhoe and got married there one year after I began work. Peggy and I have lived with each other ever since. When the whitefeller took over this country I worked on Ivanhoe. And when I was single I worked at Coolibah Station out at Timber Creek. I worked at Auvergne and when I was single I went to Legune to work. I heard about that war starting all around here. They bombed Wyndham just round the airport there. I was a big boy then. I was single and I had been all through the Law. Last I came down to Ivanhoe and lived there for a long time. You know, when we got the diversion dam I was working at Ivanhoe. O h I'd shift out and go to Argyle and work on the boundary but we stuck to Ivanhoe most of the time. I was only young then in Argyle when I met Bulla. Banggaldun lived at Ivanhoe all day when he was young right through. I was a big man when they had a fight over Daisy. I fought for old Bulla not with this finger [fist] but with spears. I took a place for Bulla. After that I went away, pulled out of Argyle and came to Ivanhoe about one year after. I married Peggy then. That was a bit wrong. I'm djanama and I married different, sort of a mother because Peggy's nambidjina. All those sisters nambidjina. But I came from a different country you see in the Northern Territory and Peggy was from Western Australia. Anybody can marry different skins now. It's all right. Before, if I married nambidjina - or djangari married nambidjina - the blackfellers would kill you. But the young boys who grew behind that mob have the head on all these whitefellers through learning English. We don't carry that Law from our fathers, it's finished. We carried on the white man law.

50 When the Dust Come in Between Well a long time ago when the white man came round shooting people for nothing the blackfellers were too silly, they knew nothing. They didn't speak English. They couldn't understand anything. Well behind when we grew up a couple of boys were taught by the gadia. The young boys sort of understood then. Well it was the same with me. I was only a kid. I went to a place called Willaroo, from Katherine this side. I grew up there in the stock camp. We were going to go to school at Katherine but I ran away. We learnt to ride horses. We didn't know horses. We reckoned they were devils in the old time, the early time. We didn't understand white men then.

When did you move from lwunkoe to Kununurra? I came to Kununurra from Ivanhoe when the town was built up because I was retired from work, retired from riding horses. I was in Ivanhoe when the town was put up. We came and met the Queen Elizabeth you know when they started Kununurra. It was right up to the river, everyone, the army police took the Queen. We looked, 'Ah, big plane coming along! Old Don Makeri was driving a truck then. He was a champion driver that boy. I was put off like a lot of the others. I worked for them but the manager was no good. There was never an argument. He just told us how we were finished when this diversion dam was put up. We had to live in the town. We couldn't go anywhere. I loved to come and live in the town you know and I didn't like to go back to Ivanhoe again. I didn't get much when I was working on Ivanhoe. This time they pay them two hundered dollars or something a month on every station. I was getting the same too just before I came to Kununurra. Now I just work here on the garden. Before that I worked on the cotton farms and for three years at the research station KRS. Well here I don't work much you know but when Banggaldun or Mandi went away I had to check over the place looking after all the reserve. I had enough for myself and my wife and kid. The Miriwung Council used to pay me sometimes. You can do any work round here and somehow make your money, work for the Mirima Council. Native Welfare in Wyndham gave me a house the first time I came. O r if there was any trouble the policeman would get me out and go and track up blackfeller people. I like to stop here. You white people must like the place. Well the same as us. This country is better than my country. I love to live here the same as you might go away and find a better country.

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 51

I want to sort of know more of the Law, see him and write him down like you say. We have different-different Law the same as this Wyndham mob have a different Law. Well they send it from Wyndham to here, that's the same [secret] Law and we sell it to Newry. We had one Secret Law and a different one they sang was once brought from Wyndham way, from the Wunambal people. They break in the man to learn you know. They teach it for two or three weeks. Well they sing every day night time and day time till they learn it. They don't know what the words mean but they know the story. The song tells the story just like if they sang that Eagle Hawk Dream eh? Or it might be what they call the Snake or the Whistling Duck, that kind of story. There might be a big mob of blackfellers. They call it, the same song they sing again. We have to listen to what they're singing. Some of them we don't understand. There was a little Law they found was at the big stones at Bandicoot Bar. In the blackfeller way they poisoned the fish there. In the Dream they put the stones down sort of like a bridge and they got all the fish there. The same with this other Law that went right across and came out at Victoria. That Snake Garimalang went this way from Legune through Timber Creek right the way to Queensland now. That was in the Dream time when he walked. And I know one other Law the Dog Dream. At Dingo Spring they only lay down there and slept a bit like. When the dogs chased Mulali he got in the water and was drowned round about Bubble Bubble. I don't know that place. That's where the Law finished. Old Mulligan can tell you that. I don't know it. It was up the Newry way. It started from that place at Dingo Spring, Yadanggalm road they call it. They went right up that way somewhere chasing. All the dogs chased that man and made him go down in the water. He drowned right there. It was a river with a big spring there. The Law comes to us like what we call winan. Just like when they send the bullocks away from here or cotton or something to Perth or every way. That's the way the Law comes. We get the Djanba and the Wangga. We get the djaguling that salt water shell and sell a lot of it going this way from my country way. It's like, Father was always talking about the winan in the church. He said one God was made for everybody. Well we have to help our old people they reckoned. Those old people go by the Dream, just like God. The Miriwung people still have their Law to put in young boys. Once at first they used Wangga Law. After that when they were finished

52 When the Dust Come in Between they put them in the really Law, proper really Law. They butcher [circumcise] them first and the next time they put them in the really proper Law. That's the way they do it. They did that to us a long time ago when I was a young boy. Barra way [subincision] was different. We don't do that Business. We just cut the foreskin that's all. The other's finished now. The Miriwung people used to do it before a long time ago everywhere but it's finished now, we've knocked it down. When the town came up and all the whitefellers came in well we finished it. Here we cut them like the doctor. We can't do that other Law because it was very cruel. But you can cut the foreskin like the doctor, that's all right, and we still put them in the blackfeller Law. But I don't think the white man has Law eh? There's a different Law where they take a kangaroo, roast it, and you have to put it o n your shoulder and run. Where they carry the hot stuff, beef, is the Gidja way all around their country. When they put us through that Law they made us run like from here [the reserve] to that big hill Kelly's Knob over there. It's different now. No one run and we don't carry anything. You could see all the blackfellers way along the road lined up and when a boy ran they came out with their spears to start him up more and make him run all the way. They didn't kill him, just frightened him. That was the old one Miriwung Law. We want to try to put the young men in the Law. Like me I've been to the Law eh and I understand it, all the Law, blackfeller and white man Law. All these young fellers the behind mob they don't understand anything. The white man and blackfeller Law they don't understand. I don't know why. You can't make head or tail no matter where. We can muster them and put them in the Law, that's all. That's how to bring them back. Well the blackfellers here are only trying to find the true Law, it might be the white man law or the blackfeller Law. Father talked about this God, that there is one God who made everybody and sent down Jesus to give that Catholic Law. We're all brothers and sisters in the Catholic way, in the white man's way. There's one Mother Mary and one Jesus, God. Well in our father's and mother's Law they taught the young boys for about three months and took them away from women. You stopped for three months or one year or something then after that they gave you married. In the Law a man was married just like white blokes. What you call daughter and mother they gave them. We call them cousin in the Law. Well the mother of this girl might tell him, 'I'll give you this girl when he grow! Well that man might watch her grow then they get married. It was like you might be married in the church.

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 53

Some black, Aboriginal women, they marry white man now don't they? Some white men marry black women. That's very good. I've seen a lot of blokes doing that. I don't know why they don't marry their own people. Well the black boy might come over just talking about, 'Oh I'll make a friend longa this white lady'. It makes no difference for the blackfeller and the white man. I've seen some of them married like that. I don't know about Kununurra but I've seen it in W~ndham.Not many, a few. Well there's enough. Single men go and marry the girl eh? You look at your skin. You're only different skin, white. And you look at my finger, dark. Well that makes no difference. You and me are human beings eh, the same colour?I think every blackfeller thinks that way. I reckon it makes no difference the whitefeller and the black marrying you know. Well colour makes it a bit different. You're white, we're black. Our old fathers and mothers and grandfathers wanted to learn from the white people and teach them [in their turn]. Since the Law when I grew a young boy and they took me out a long way from women, well we might be about one month and the next month we'd come back to a lot of people and the women would see us. White people are different. Well we can't break the Law like for our colour.

Did you use Hidden Valley to put some of your Law once? When we went out in the bush we made paper bark houses like and we lay down in them and slept. O r sometimes we went to the rocks. You've seen those caves with drawings I think, you know at the point of Carlton Reach? And you've seen Hidden Valley? Well the tourists were trying to ask people to dance in Hidden Valley to take the Wangga down there or anything we wanted. Before you know. Well I didn't know much but that mamerung [restricted, dangerous] Law was there a long time ago. We were only behind with those people [who put it there]. Some of those whitefellers from Kununurra came and found out about that Law there I think and they [the Aboriginal people] took it away. Banggaldun is the boss here. That idea was from the Roman Catholic priest, just like we go and find the Law you know. One man is the boss. Old Banggaldun might be boss and he would go and tell [consult with] Mandi the second boss. Mandi might come over and tell Bulla something and Bulla might tell me. I might then tell all the people, for work and the same with the Law. I reckon the government made

54 When the Dust Come in Between Banggaldun a boss. I don't know about Bulla. He was only looking after the goats. And Banggaldun made me a boss. There might be one chief, boss in the Law. Well when he talked it was to put all the young boys in the Law. With one boss we'd tell all this other mob, 'Well, we going to foller that'. So one boss is a feller who knows the Law, who tells these people here another mob, 'Get 'em all that young feller, well we put 'em in the Law'. We'd take them for three or four months something like that and bring them back. There was only one man boss, one chief just like you call the Indians. I don't know about any whitefellers in the town we'd call boss, only I know Father working for the Catholic Church. He kept everything safe [made things run the right way, smoothly] for native people round the Council. That was very good, the same as the UAM [United Aborigines' Mission] man. They taught all the little kids. Well say my mother and father taught us about digging in the ground to get that bush tucker, the long yams delaawung (gagauli in my Djamindjung language). My father taught me how to throw a spear. I could throw it to kill a kangaroo. I learnt how to fight other blackfellers. My father taught me all kinds of things. Well we don't use all that now. Everything's tinned. We eat just like the white man. Say all the native people only had a truck and a Toyota. We can keep the one law for whitefellers and blackfellers. Here some people are Miriwung, some are Guluwaring. Some are Garamau people who come up from Port Keats. We're all good mates. Well the Miriwung and the others come together: Miriwung and Garamau, and Djamindjung and Guluwaring people. Some whitefellers like to mix with blackfellers the same as you. We can let you come in. We like it when some fellers like you listen from the tape. Some people don't talk to the blackfellers. Others go, 'Hey, goodday mate, goodday'. Some people are like that you know. Those people are very good, they're all right to me. I don't know about other people. You know what makes it a bit strange?You're red eh, you're more whiter than me. Well I'm only black. Well you're a little bit brown. The young fellers don't go to the blackfeller Law because they get white man brains. That's what they think about. They look at comics. Like I might go to the Roman Catholic law but it tells me the same word, put them in the Law. If I tell you something about the Law, 'Ah you better come to my Law', and I tell you everything in it you might understand eh? And I might understand what you're talking. That might be, I don't know.

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 55

I want to writim book y'know about the black people here in Kununurra, about how they live, how they are sort of, how they're coming up. A lot of blokes are learning from the blackfeller the same as you or that university woman getting language eh? Well we like you anyhow, everybody. Well other whitefellers you know we can't speak to. You know some people don't know you. That's in the town. I don't know why. There's old Mangandji, we know him. We know a lot of those town fellers. Well I know only in my earliest memories the blackfellers being shot and the white men coming along poisoning and killing them. When the native people were quiet they came to the whites. All the young stock boys learnt to ride horses and chase cattle in the stock camp, running the camp you know for a long time. I reckon the white man is very good [now]. It was very bad shooting people a long time ago. Well this time we're put together. We were all made together by God. Father taught us that. Well why did they talk about that Black Power? Some people make it bad for our people. We don't know who they were. Well it was only these single people singing about that Black Power business, that men had to make war or something. That was no good. Well this Kununurra mob didn't want that. The white people helped us get a bit of land for a garden and to get a big truck. How can we turn the whitefeller down? You know we want to stick by the whitefeller. If any war breaks out well we have a lot of young fellers to give you help, Aborigine people, to fight back. If there's one bloke talking about Black Power he can make trouble for all the mob. The white people might turn out and shoot all the people. Some of the whitefellers might come up and say, 'Oh we might as well clean the lot, of the black people! And they could come around and clean the lot out right like in the early days, that's right. We have no guns, we have no missiles, nothing. We'd have to give it up that's all. There are too [very] many American people eh? I don't think it will happen though but that's just talking. The same as when one blackfeller went and caused trouble a long time ago, well they killed that man. A long time ago women would cause trouble by telling the white feller to come over. He'd come over and shoot all the men. That lady might go to a big mob in the bush, then again they'd come over and kill that woman and leave her burnt up in a fire. Nothing like that happens now.

56 When the Dust Come in Between I don't know where the Black Power business came from, and

I don't know where those things like tape recorders are made. I reckon the whitefeller is more clever than black people. He has the motor car and makes all these, the tape recorder, high class iron. The bush blackfellers, my father(s) made only a paper bark house. Well the white feller has clothes. I don't know where he made those things. The dark people might get the white blokes together - like me and Banggaldun and old Mandi - and tell them, 'You can't do that, make 'em bad for every people! I reckon people are more better if they get together and are very good friends. We want to try to make good mates with the white man you know. Well some young boys they just want to make themselves like white men. Well we want to try to make people together you see. We tell the young blokes, 'What about keep up the old people?' Now those blokes are breaking out. They want to drink. I reckon they drink too young. They look at one man, 'Oh you're too young', and they might look at another boy there and say, 'Oh you're right! That makes them feel big.

Do you ever have a drink yourself? I drink myself one beer bottle that's all, one stubby. It's good. Well the young fellers they're drinking rum and beer and those big bottles, flagon. That's why they go mad 1 reckon. I don't know why they're drinking that. I don't know how to stop it. Close the pub that's all. I drink a couple of bottles, that's good for me. For some blokes it's very good. Well some people when they drink they look for fights. I don't want to be fighting those people. It makes it bad for every people when you go fighting. The police might put you in a bad record. What the Catholic people say we only drink wine in Law. We used to patrol all around, just looking around. If anybody fell down in the street we had to lift them up and pull them right out of the road because somebody might come and run them over. We'd walk around and anything we saw along the road we'd ring up the police who took troublemakers to the police station and put them in. Sometimes we put them in the bush away from town and the next morning they get up and see themselves [be in confusion]. We Aboriginal police all had this number one police stripe on our arms [first class constable]. We stayed on patrol till the pub closed then the police drove us home every night. Sometimes we knocked off at nine o'clock sometimes at twelve. When it was quiet we'd knock off at nine. A rough day would be pension day, Tuesday, but every day

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 57

might be a bit rough. Whitefellers at the pub we'd tell to go home the same as the white police who come up and tell them. They knew the law. Sometimes the police picked fellers up and took them to the jailhouse and left them till they got up sober the next morning. Some used bad language swearing. Well there are a lot of ladies round aren't there? Sometimes there's a very bad boy who wants to hit back on the police. That's no good. We didn't hit them unless there was some drunken bloke looking for a fight from us, anyone, half-caste, white or black. They have to take notice because we're carrying the law, this badge [an early issue West Australian police badge]. I know it was the old kind but that policeman reckoned he'd send for proper hats, uniforms and buttons. A long time later I got a uniform. We liked to see people drink and go to sleep but the next morning they'd get up looking for another drink. And all those people when they're on the drink if one bloke got full he was only looking for a fight with some other poor bugger sitting down, for nothing. That's no good. That's how people made themselves bad you know. Well we Aboriginal people tell them to go home but they wouldn't take any notice. They just sat down, 'I won't take any notice longa blackfeller police. All right we'll have to fight police.' He'd come over and we tell him to go home. If he didn't take any notice we just lock him up. It didn't happen much. Sometimes they listened. They were just about getting a bit of the idea you know. Some of those silly people came round there smashing all the bottles. That's not right, half-caste or black or white. Same with the kids smashing windows, they make it bad for everyone. That's why we told them always don't smash the bottles. The white man has brains but the blackfellers when they drink use bad language and wake all the old people up. Well that's not right. Why can't those people come and sleep? Like every native boy ought to know. Some of them have been in school. Why can't they understand all that? I don't know what they thought about us. Some of the people believed in the white law all this town mob. They believed the police law. And I know some of them didn't believe sometimes. They didn't argue but they talked about it. I reckon you're better to get the people straight some way. You can't be stupid and kill men for nothing, like one man who killed his wife cold. Well some young girls married to a young man if that bloke drinks grog or something and gets drunk he doesn't like the look of her and runs away to another girl. That happens here now. Before we

58 When the Dust Come in Between never did that, a long time ago on the stations. Sometimes if a man loves a girl he gets into trouble. One half-caste bloke reckoned they were trying last year [l9721 to hunt a girl in his home. Why do they want to fight every day when they're drinking? Look one white man was there asleep and four men belted him the other day. One man had to stand up in the middle and three or four men came round and hit that one man. We don't mind two men fighting. One feller might win well they shake hands and apologise to one another and drink a beer together. But if three or four men want to double one man, that's no good. I reckon they should make their own pub for blackfellers. If they want to drink with the g d i a the g d i a can come along to the blackfeller pub all the same. It makes no difference. I reckon myself but I don't think so. Here the blackfellers went into one bar and there was another one, a white man bar behind. The blackfeller couldn't go and have a drink in the white man bar. They don't have that blackfeller's bar now [1981]. O n patrol we used to go through one way and come back the other way through the white man bar. All the whitefellers here in town reckoned it was good to see Aboriginal police. A lot of blokes told us that when we were on patrol. Well they'd never seen Aboriginal police in the big city you know, only white police eh? But there was a halfcaste bloke from the government or somewhere who talked to us one night, something about legal aid. He came from Queensland. He said, 'Why you blokes doing the rough thing longa native people?' He reckoned when you see anybody drunk or lying down you should tell them to wake up and go home. But we didn't do rough. We picked them up for the right reason. We reckoned we got the idea. We were policemen you know and we worked by [with] the police. Well when native police told them to go home they wouldn't take notice. When the white police came round and told them to go home the men took the road. But they might go round a dark place and duck back and wait till the police went away. Then they'd come back again. We'd say, 'Go home mate, have a sleep', or, 'You better get your drink and go home and drink it longa your place! We'd tell them but no they wouldn't take any notice. Right we'd ring up the policeman and he'd come around to that same bloke we spoke to, pick him up and throw him in the police car, take him and lock him up. We told that half-caste bloke, 'If people kill 'em meself, broken glass or something steal it, what we going to do? Only for police keep 'em straight everything.' He said nothing. That's right', he reckoned. We didn't do

Peter Ngunung: Bush Time 59

it rough when we told them to go home. But one time the sergeant belted a feller in jail with a strap, you know, a big belt. I don't know why, what reason. I told that half-caste, 'You wait here and watchim them bloke, what they doing'. They were arguing the point there using bad language all around the town, smashing bottles. And too many women round there can listen. If anybody smashed bottles round there (at the pub) somebody else might run there and fall and get cut. Well I told him we had the word, the idea for that. I saw one man's kid wanted to give a baby a drink from a bottle of beer. But you know I don't like to give it to my kids. They might learn all the way. The sergeant talked once about finding one little boy and picking him up hungry somewhere out behind the cafe there. His mother lost him I think. She and the father were in the pub and no other relation was there. What would they do in this country, the blackfellers and white men, if there were no police? I reckon they'd all kill themselves. They killed blackfellers before in the early days but I reckon this time the policemen are looking after them you know, the way I see them.

What about the black power fetters then, who want to fight the white man? I tell you now Bruce. One half-caste told me and Binggal one night, 'You just watch 'em all that half-caste. They got to jump over the counter. They got to smash 'em pub.' He might have just been talking to us drunk, I don't know. We'd find out when he was sober you know. A whole mob was there now from Wyndham for Kununurra. Well you never know, the half-castes might do that. Me and Binggal reckoned they were going to make a sort of Black Power. I heard everybody talking. I don't know why they want to do that. It makes it bad for every people eh? We'd find out the proper word whether that man told true or lied. Sometimes people go a bit mad, drunk. All the people here now, you know what they're looking for? They're trying to get a small bit of land to make it just like a white man, a cattle station or something. That's the Mirima Council wanting Argyle. If we got Argyle we would just send some of the young boys out there. Bulla has a lot of young men to look after the station. They might brand cattle. We know how to do all that. I don't know what those half, castes are going to do. We had a meeting. Everybody was there and it lasted all day. KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association] wanted them all mixed together you know and we told them we were

60 When the Dust Come in

Between

going to live in that garden place before more houses were put up. Well they had to go and put in more buildings I think, they reckoned. We hoped so. We told the KAPA we can have the reserve and they can have Lily Creek and we'd work together. They thought that was OK. Do you reckon we can get that land we're asking for all right? That's what I tell Bulla, why people can't work on the garden? We'd like to see a changeover like a garden where you can grow cabbage, watermelon and grass for horses. Well, Napoleon, Car1 Bore and Donkey Gap with the fence running and all the springs down the big hill when that fence goes through there climbing up that hill at Long Michael Plain - that will all belong to the government on this side ain't it? And we can get all that country outside right up to Maxwell Plain. Well we chose that Maxwell Plain this side of the river to that point there named Yiralalam. I reckon we'd start a little bit of a station and make houses. We want to make a little bit of a house there at Dingo Gap where that Dingo Spring is and we can start a garden there. I reckon the most important thing is for people to live together. It makes no difference whether you're a white man, half-caste or a blackfeller.

Plate 3 John Toby, 1991, Kununurra, couresty of Frances Kofod

JOHN TOBY BORN 1939 GIDJA COUNTRY Recorded 21, 30 August, 20 September, 25 'November 1973: four sessions, two-and-a-half hours; proofread 26 June 1980. This chapter is edited for what John had to say about traditional life. For his account of land rights and aspirations for Glen Hill Station see our joint chapter in Dixon and Dillon (1990, 55-65). A year before proofreading John gave quite a different point of view in other publications. The whiteman pushed us off our land. They gave the blackfella back a little bit of land. Then they find a bit of mineral and they take it away from us. When are they going to give us a fair go, the bastards?... I'm a bit worried about that. A man is just about to move back to his country and this thing come up. They push you from pillar to post. A man hasn't even got a home for himself. I'm just trying to find a way to stop this. (John Toby, April 1980a, 11) . t h e time they reckon is modern and they [the young people] reckon they have no future. Yet I think now today there isn't any futures. There isn't any futures. (John Toby, May 1980b)

In July 1980 it was reported in the Western Australian press that John and his close kin signed an agreement with the Ashton Joint Venture diamond mining consortium for compensation over the loss of land near Glen Hill outstation. His group stood to receive $200,000 for the first year (1980)and $100,000 thereafter during the mining and exploration period (The West Australian, 28 July 1980, 3). Critics of the agreement claimed that it did not

64 When the Dust Come in Between have the approval of the Warrman community nor of the Kimberley Lands Council and that the compensation promised was inadequate in view of the millions of dollars in profits the consortium would make if the venture proved viable. Today in the 1990s that venture remains viable and the tense situation that existed between John and the Warrman community has long since eased. Now this is starting from the time I was born and it is all about the blokes who were working on the stations. They worked six months and after that they were due for a holiday. They took all their clothes back to the store. That would be their swags for the next coming winter. And they were getting paid off with a couple of cock rags each, a couple of sticks of tobacco and a box of matches. If there were twenty young single boys and a box of matches they had to make that go round those twenty blokes. After that the poor fellers had to go up and cut a stick to light a fire. Well they didn't worry about matches much because they knew they could light a fire that way. The only time they used matches I suppose was when there was a Wet and you couldn't light fires. Then they had to get paper bark or spinifex, dry it out and just light. This kind of thing happened o n every station. I was born in Wyndham but my people were still out at the station this side [north] of Lissadell. Then when my old man took me back out bush again I grew up o n Spring Creek and then Rosewood. Both places up and down. That's what my old man did. My mother was Miriwung and my father was Gidja so I was sort of half and half. YOUcan write and speak Gidja straight through. It's not hard to pick up. I saw a white missionary bloke at Hall's Creek write it out.

Under the old Law what was your Dreaming? My Dream was the Law of the Alligator that salt water crocodile. It was the Dream for me and my uncle and mother. Say I was coming. My mother, uncle and mother's sister dreamed about it. Once after I was born and knew everything my father came and said, 'Well your Dream is Alligator. When I speared you when you was alligator and then when you born, then first thing I could see the 'gator left in your birth mark. You was alligator before you came out from the country.' Well to put it this way, when I was a 'gator my old man went and put a spear on it and killed it. I was born about six months after and where I got the spear mark through me was my birth mark, on my chest [on the left side over the ribs].

John Toby: Gidja Country 65

They called that Dreaming Makumbarrang. He was supposed to have been a person in the old Dreaming time who used to live round Lissadell but you couldn't see him. He was a man. That was my mother's and uncle's Dream. My old man's Dream when he was little was the Sugar Bag. Bee's wax. There are all sorts of Dreaming about something else. The Snake and Dog. That's not part of my life. They're the kinds of Dreams other people have. My mother was pretty nice but she was very hard with children. If there was any taming to be done she'd be the one to do it. Out in the bush we enjoyed everything. We never liked much fishing but anything in the spears well gee we used to love it. Every morning me and my mate old John Friday would get up and take our spears. We'd see that the end of the spear wasn't slack where the shovel goes on, that it was tight and straight. We'd straighten up all the spears and fix up our woomeras and we used to go hunting every morning for kangaroos and bring them back to the camp. Well sometimes we never went out with bread or anything like that but we took our matches and a pocket knife because we knew we'd get a kangaroo. Then we had a feed at dinner time. O r we just wait at the river bank till a crocodile popped his head out of the water and drive a spear right through him. The softest place to hit a crocodile is behind the neck. Every part of him is good to eat but mainly the guts part inside. There was nothing in it. Only just mud and a bit of sand and stones, something like that. I sort of loved it you know. I used to like everything we did when I was young. I was about twelve years old then. I started knowing things, could see what was going on when I was seven or eight. That was on Spring Creek. Then the old man worked there they used to go out in the stock camp and the women stayed in the station. We used to go down the river fishing and things like that. A long way on the Ord River Fourteen Mile. Did that in a day and went back the next day. Now if people have to go down the river here they're worrying about a vehicle. Fourteen miles is a good way but they seemed to enjoy the life. The only river we used to go to was the Ord River not far from Spring Creek Station. We used to like it, mother and all the other girls and all the kids. We'd camp halfway.

You had a happy childhood? Well we used to hide too because in those days the wild people were still running loose out in the bush and sometimes we were very

66 When the Dust Come in Between frightened of them if we ran into them. You see it was the same as Africa now. I heard that part-Aboriginal people lived among the European people there and I think the ones from the bushes were jumping in through the windows and knocking them out. Well here we were working for the white people and those other people used to run wild. They'd say, 'Why should we mix it with these fellers that work for the whitefeller?Think we should let him go back to the station or just destroy him?' The bush people thought like that about us and that was why we used to be very frightened of them. But luckily we'd just manage to get through somehow back to the station, sneak away. They called those other people maundu, killers. That's what the word meant in the Gidja language. It has two meanings. Maundu is also the name for the white paint. The maundu people used to travel to the stations and where the other big camps were killing people from the next tribe, their next door neighbours. They painted their spears and themselves with white paint and in the moonlight you couldn't notice them. And they'd howl like dogs. The other people would be in the middle with them howling all round during the night. They knew they were human beings not dogs. We'd wake up and say, 'We know that you round us now so nothing much we can do. We can only just sit all night now until the daybreak.' Anyhow as soon as the day dawned and you could see it starting to brighten up they threw spears from every direction and the camp would be all white with white spears. They were part of my old grandfather's people, Miriwung and Gidja all mixed around Spring Creek, Lissadell and Texas. They just hated each other enough to kill but I don't know why they had to destroy one another. Of course they reckoned it was good. They didn't want other poor buggers to live and they reckoned, 'I can go in and kill them people cause it's good! This was going on and on and you wouldn't know your time would be up directly, that sort of thing. We didn't know who was coming and who wasn't. Well say now you have people fighting over land and things. Just like the people are doing over in Ireland they didn't recognise their own blood people, the different tribal people. They were right but they were different lingoes you know. They'd be Djaru, Gidja and Miriwung over here. If you were a Miriwung well ~ o u ' dbe pretty well right. But this was not only for just my grandfather's people. People from the west Kimberley and down south right all through the desert were just doing that. It would have been somewhere round about the early Durack time. People then used to live not very far from each other see, about fifteen or sixteen miles. And if they grew tired of each other they just

John Toby: Gidja Country 67

went on to the next camp and did the same. Making trouble, fighting, and then go on to the next camp. They'd just fight through. Work their way through. That time I knew my grandfather well. Old McCarthy Djanggarranain. He was Miriwung. My old grandmother was Gidja. I don't remember her name because she died before me. I only knew the old feller. They had one son and two daughters. My old grandfather's run was on Lissadell from round Mandangala up to Wesley Spring, Devil Devil round to Flying Fox, up Billy-goat, round McCarthy Spring, and all up near right up along the Ord. One side of the Ord right to Lissadell homestead, round that area up to Goindji, a place called Cattle Creek Yard, and back. That was his main run when he used to go on maundu. He used to go off that country killing people and they couldn't get in there. It's on Lissadell pastoral lease and Glen Hill my outstation is well on my grandfather's land. Now sometimes if they sneaked into a camp they'd send one or two blokes to sneak on and find where the biggest part of the people were about in the late afternoon or a bit later. And when they got a bit closer to their camp and it came on darker they'd get into one of those forked trees, climb up it in the night time and stand up and listen there. Apparently they could hear everything that was going on and they could tell how many people were in the camp. When the people went to sleep they'd go back and get the others and raid the camp again. They'd do the same every night howling like dogs all round the camp as I said.

Buglug They had a bloke working on the station who was a magic from Queensland. That was Buglug. Of course he could talk the lingo. If you ask Bulla he'd tell you the same. He knows this story too. [Bulla never mentioned Buglug in his memoirs but he narrated stories about a similar clever man named Boxer. Perhaps Buglug and Boxer were the same person.] And one of those maundu got another feller to con this bloke to go down to the Ord River fishing. It wasn't far. Only about a mile down the river. So the feller took this Buglug down the river and said to him, 'Let's go up here and talk to these people over here'. Buglug he knew what was going to happen. He was just like God that feller. Like Jesus. And he knew they were going to do him in. So he sat down and said, 'How you people getting on my friend?' But they didn't talk to him. Never answered. Perhaps one or two did but the others didn't because they knew they were going to destroy this poor feller.

68 When the Dust Come in Between

Next thing there were spears from all directions. They drove a spear right through his gut. Then he took off. Started running. And of course he was going back to the station now and the bush people were frightened because they were sure the boss would raid their bush camp with a gun. So they chased after him. But then again they couldn't get him because he was too fast and of course the house was only about half a mile away. They took to the bush and said, 'Bugger old Buglug. He's gone back to the whitefeller now.' But just before he reached the camp Buglug took out the spear and threw it away. So when he got back there of course you could see the spear mark but there wasn't any spear in him. And by the time he got to the house he was all right. Nothing wrong with him. No blood on him or anything. Only a bit of an old scar or something. And he never went and told the manager he got speared because the manager would have mounted his horse and gone out at those fellers with a gun. And those fellers who conned him to go down there to the fishing camp, he popped up after. The same old Buglug again. The boy who told me that story was Willy Can. They wanted to kill Buglug because he didn't belong to this State. He was just a stranger. Of course no one knew him and they reckoned they'd do him away. I was only a kid then on Lissadell. After that Buglug said to those people, 'I'm going back home to Queensland now. But I'll be still living in the country while these people that bin cruel to me they'll be dead.' And for sure they were dead all right and old Buglug is still living today. It wasn't too long after that they died. Three or four years on. That was the punishment, the magic. Well there were no services. No hospitals handy. And when people used to get sick they reckoned they ran off into the bush and died, things like that. Buglug's proper blackfeller name, his bush name was Djibaldji.

What sort of man was your father? Did you like him for instance? I came back to Rosewood then. That's when I started riding horses. I was seven or eight years old. Dad stayed on at the station with us because the manager reckoned he was old and not fit enough to go out into the stock camp any more. So he left him in the station doing a bit of carpentering. And my old man said to me, 'Here son this the way I grew, I brought up. And this the way I like to see you come up the way I do, as I brought up. G o and work for this boss now and if you do something wrong, or if you ever do something wrong, you know you

John Toby: Gidja Country 69

got to get a hiding.' Now that's true what my old man said, 'I'll not make a man out of you by staying with me all the time. You've got to learn the way I learn.' I was never near my parents. See as soon as you could do a bit of work and thought you could handle yourself in a job you went and worked for someone else to get a bit of experience. I liked my father. I didn't like him by sending me away to work for other people. I thought it might be a bit wrong. But I found out later on like it was right. Sometimes if you're with your old man all the time he's not so tough and you think you can do what you like. Then after that o h we started off on wages then when I was only about twelve years old. We were on fifty cents a week. That was what a boy earned. But also I think it was the award wages then. Fifty cents a week and keep too like tucker and tobacco. Later it worked out at about four dollars a week. First it was four dollars a month. That was a very low price wasn't it? That went on for six years then we were getting four dollars a week, sixteen dollars a month. I was eighteen by then. Then it worked up I think a couple of years after it came up to about eighteen dollars a week. That was nine pounds a week. Still that wasn't the native award rate. It was only whitefeller pay. Up to thirty dollars a week that was still the whitefeller's pay while the black people were getting two quid a week. This was almost as though it was planned to keep the blackfellers down. They did too that's true. That was real. I don't know whether you'd call it down or a downfall. Like they couldn't give us any more than four dollars a week otherwise they reckoned they had a whitefeller working on the station you know given about fourteen dollars a week. That was a very low price too, seven quid a week. I was on Rosewood in '47 and then in '53 I left there and went to Wyndham in the holidays. And early in '56 I went to Moola Bulla and worked there on droving. See this is where I reckoned to myself I'd go away and work myself through. To save me getting a lift to this town or the next station I'd work there six or twelve months. If I reckoned it wasn't suitable for me to stay there I'd move on to the next station. That was the only way I found out, moving backwards and forwards trying different stations. The whitefellers didn't like me much. Of course they reckoned I was no good. In those days if a whitefeller had a friend to this girl and the girl wanted to go and chase a young feller the man would say, 'That boy's no good. He can't even work. He's no good for anything, can't get a job anywhere.' That happened to me and really, look, my

70 When the Dust Come in Between

name was that stunk I couldn't get a job on the next stations. Texas, Mabel Downs, Lissadell and all those other places. 'All right', I said, 'Well this in the Kimberleys. Might be my name stink all through Kimberley. Well I'll go over to Territory.' When I went over to the Territory there was a feller named John Nicholson and he said he'd give me a go. He gave me a go and I was there for about six months. And all that time you couldn't wish for a better man than old Toby he said. That's why now if I want a job and a bloke wants to know if I'm any good or not I'd say, 'Well if you want any reference just ring Bullo River up! I was there in '56, '57 and '58. I left the station and went to Wyndham then I returned to the station. I found out that in town we were getting more money than we were getting out on the station. They had it this way. The whitefeller was getting more money than the blackfeller out on the station. And if you came into town and worked for the Public Works Department or the Main Roads Department you'd be getting the same it didn't matter what colour you were. So that's the reason I moved into town. Out on the stations here it was no change. What I mean is that after six months people still went and dropped their pack saddle and all their riding gear in the shed, got about three months off and still went around with a cock rag and spear. Then there were a lot of changes. You could work on the MRD [Main Roads Department] anywhere in Wyndham and Hall's Creek. Anywhere in town. And that's why it sort of woke up some of the blackfellers. They woke up. Well I did. They'd go into town whitefellers and blackfellers on government pay doing government work and you had some of the blackfellers getting the same as the whitefellers. That's why I wouldn't go back to the stations any more until I knew they were giving us a rise. And to these people I said, 'If you people just go away and just leave and go into town and work, and see how much you'll be getting for the government in town. You'll get more money in a fortnight where take you a month or two to make hundred bucks, where you can make it in a fortnight.' But yet the old people they reckoned they'd still be getting the same pay, paid off with four sticks of tobacco a week. I mean that was the ration on top of their pay you know because the white managers reckoned they could trust the old head boys they had on the station. Of course if you told the old boys different, 'Ah no good no good, no good you try pull out everything just because you never getting

John Toby: Gidja Country 71

the big money. You make yourself a bad name.' They never thought about the money they were getting and the fellers who were getting a bit more than them. Now I reckon it doesn't matter where, everybody will be getting about forty to fifty bucks a week now on the stations. That's the best thing now. Well Wyndham was my home town. I was born there you know and reared out on the stations. But I used to like Hall's Creek more than Wyndham. Then as soon as Kununurra was put up it became my home town. It was this way. You could earn more money in a day where you couldn't earn it anywhere else. I was there a couple of times before I went out. There was no reserve then. Only a few little houses round in town and all behind the Arab's place. That's where all the blackfellers used to camp. And then they reckoned the town area was getting bigger and bigger and they were all being pushed up to about Kelly's Knob. That's why they reckon they put up the reserve. Pegged it round for all the blackfellers to live in. They got the surveyors to survey the ground in '64 or '65 and by '67 or '68 they had the reserve up there.

W h a t sort of work have you done round the town? You sort of shifted from the station work. I was there ever since that time they put the reserve up. I did most farmer's work when I first started, weed picking all during the Wet. I found out it was a bit of a back bender. YOUgot a backache from bending over. And I moved on to the Main Roads. I did a bit of sand spreading and after that I did all right. I didn't like it when I first saw the town. I sort of reckoned I'd go back on a horse because I was never born to be a city slicker you know. I was a horseman. But then after a while I got used to it, all sorts of jobs now, by leaving the station and going back and learning something in town. Well out on the station you couldn't buy beef. In town we found out the first time was a bit hard for us. We found it hard to understand. We knew how to buy beef but then what I was thinking we didn't have to buy beef on the stations. You were better off spending money in town because you could earn quite big money too. But in ringing land there were a lot of other jobs come up too now just lately. They don't only do branding and cutting. Castrating calves you know. And ear marking. There's inoculating too now and

72 When the Dust Come in Between dipping and drenching horses. You have to drench your horse every time after work. Nobody ever heard of that done before. The biggest change was with all the people who used to go living out in the bush camping out through the Wet. You don't see much of that around now. As I said we used to go out and have about three months in the bush on the fishing and building up little humpies to save the people from getting wet. We used to work hard that way. We'd build a little grass where the water couldn't get it and put a bit of calico over it to improve the little humpy. You could be nice and dry when the Wet started to set in. Now as soon as they have all the tin roofs up you can't get them out into the bush. They'd rather be under the tin roofs than living under a little spinifex shack. It's best now. You'd feel the same I suppose. When I spoke with you last in Kununurra [in 19731 I didn't want to go back on the stations again, not if I could help it and not unless I could get a station of my own. I had a job in town and I reckoned if I could get a bigger job there with more money I could put in for a house. I did and was looking forward to getting it. And I tell you what. I thought then that if I had got it I would never think about going back to the stations for all the rest of my life. That time I wanted to settle in Kununurra and I said to you that's where they would take my burial service. And if I had left Kununurra then there would have been no actual reason. O h look only my main worry was my mother and father but by then I had no one to worry about. If they had been at Hall's Creek or somewhere I would have gone over there and looked after them. There were just me and my brothers and sisters now but they were all at Kununurra with me. I suppose they treat Aborigines the same as everywhere else but here it was a bit different. Over in Hall's Creek and Wyndham and all those other places if you wanted a job you had to go and look for it. Here you didn't have to look for a job. The people came and asked you, the farmers. That was one reason why I loved Kununurra. Not only that. There were trees and water not far and the river. One thing I didn't like about Kununurra was especially up there at the reserve. You can see for yourself how the people have to live there. Of course I'm not discriminating or anything like that but nothing was clean up there and that was a reason why I wanted to move into a house. I found out the kids carried sores and things you know and since I moved out of the reserve into my first camp there was no trouble.

John Toby: Gidja Country 73

You did have a job last time didn't you with the council in 1973? Well it was this way. I wasn't quite getting paid for them for the job see. I was sort of helping to get things on their feet and I wasn't expecting any money from them at all. And another thing. I wasn't on the list to say that I was getting paid. I worked then on the KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association] with Alfie and July and any money there I really had to earn. See when Alfie was going to finish up or something, that was when I went and gave the council a hand. Then Alfie went out of the Mirima Council and had nothing to do with it. He'd rather be on his own. To make a person well respected you had to go to those meetings, KAPA or the Mirima Council. Either one of them every day. And they'd look up on themselves then. I heard there were a lot of white people who respected them but you had some no-hopers. Some worked and some of them didn't. It's when they sort of realised what a meeting was for and how they were going to live. Otherwise look what a lot of Aboriginal people do. You don't see some of those young blokes looking healthy. It was different up in Darwin if you went up and saw our people there. They were very well high class clean men there, healthy. In Kununurra it was lucky that people came along for meetings. If they didn't come well that was it. But I liked to go to any of those meetings you know. I've been to a lot now. It's for the little ones here. They think that if Daddy goes in it all the time when they grow up they'll be doing the same. I think if they do grow up that way they'll never look back. I haven't got my education but that's where it's going to come up, from the meetings and from the little fellers. From us. It's for the kids why meetings are so important. You might have a job of mechanic say or they might go out on the stations as a stockman or as Jack of all trades, carpenters or something like that. Well that's the way it has to be for the Aboriginal people I can see. That's the way they'll ever get up. We older people weren't in the school. That's sort of school to us, the meetings.

Now when did you get married? Was it here in the town or out on the station? Well to tell you the truth I wasn't legally married. My first wife wasn't really given to me. It was love marriage more than by the old Law in

74 When the Dust Come in Between Kununurra. We sort of settled down and got a home for ourselves up at the reserve there. I was married to my first wife in 1954 and we had five kids. Four boys all together and one girl. One boy died. There were Julie, George, Deven, Daulin and Warren. Warren was the one who died about five years old. I haven't had any kids from my new wife Mona Ramsey but she had kids from another bloke: Ronny, Lola, Dora, Patrick, Kathleen and Tracy Ramsey. The rest are grown up. And so going back to the things that used to happen in the time back that I know, when I saw things happen. About these young people I think it was a true Law too. They couldn't go to a married man's camp unless they were invited. O r if you asked for something special. You'd stand outside the gate and call out to the man and if they weren't there you wouldn't go in the house. If you went there without being asked or something that's when they drove a spear through your gut. I believe back in the old Law that I'm saying now that was the true Law. But the Law up to now they just don't care. They think this is modern now. Everything's new. And they don't worry about these sort of things. But still now with these people here there is still sort of remembering you know. The old people even told me, 'We thinking about having it all back now because it's very important to us! Of course this was in the town here in 1973. Out on the stations they're still carrying this old Law. Like nangala and djangala both sister and brother couldn't speak to each other. If djangala was over there and nangala was here djangala couldn't come to her camp because that was his sister. And circumcision and the cut underneath [subincision] that's all come back up again from the desert people and all around here too. I think they still carry on promised marriages. I believe you can't break that. The feller a girl's promised to now might be a young man too. One time ago when the little girl and boy were born they brought them up in those little baby cradles, coolamons, and put them together. And when they were grown up together they had to get married, the promised husband and promised woman. They were in the right skins. When they'd grown up now to a big boy and girl they'd go and work somewhere else, and when this feller came back to the mob of people this girl's family and the old men well they made a meeting and said, 'This is the legally married now. Well there's your promised wife. We bin waiting that long now till you two grew up together. And there's your wife. And there's the man. You're married now.' It still happens.

John Toby: Gidja Country 75

1981 proofreading In 1973 there was nothing I wanted to change. Well I'd have liked to see that lot in town change since we had all those new turnouts coming on the stations asking for Argyle and things like that. I was thinking then of the fellers with the truck and Toyota the Mirima Council. And those fellers all round the town in the KAPA felt the same way. But the poor bugger people on the reserve this came just sudden to them. I felt much better with the people in town. They were thinking about the changes and not going back. They kept going forward, ahead. Well like this. From behind the whitefeller they wanted to be side by side all the way. But then again we don't know what the whitefeller think about our way, our living sort of mixed. Blackfellers mixing with whitefellers and whitefellers mixing with blackfellers. This is coming back to the Law you know. Well we have the whitefeller's law. Two as well. But the whitefeller hasn't got our Law much. It's only just coming up isn't it? I mean you have to give people time to think about it rather than just going in blind. It makes a shock to the people who aren't given enough time to wake up. There aren't really changes since the last time I was talking to you and put these ideas through on the tape. What I call by changes. Well we were getting a lot of other things, money and that to get the reserve going. But then we didn't know there were places, properties with no one on them that they could buy for us. We were happy when we didn't know that the Commonwealth Government could buy you a piece of land or a pastoral property. I was happy when I didn't know that. And then when I found out that, well, for instance, when they bought Dunham River and Noonkanbah I was more happy to get out. Well I was just waiting for a bit of an opening that's all. And then when I found out this one here where no one was working on it right off my grandfather's country, that was the only place I had my eyes open on. So that was it. When I knew that place was for sale, that Dunham River bought it - well the government bought it for Dunham River Aboriginal people - I went and had a word with them. See an old feller named Tom Wilson and I used to own that station and he sold it to a bloke named Don Tate. And Don Tate sold it to Dunham River. And since the Dunham River people bought the place they were doing nothing at Glen Hill so I said to them, 'It's the grandfather's station. I'd like to move back into it and if you people agree.' The Dunham River

76 When the Dust Come in Between people knew it was my grandfather's country so they said, 'You can go back any time you want to! And that's it now, Glen Hill where I am, at that place called Mandungala. The waterhole right alongside the w lace there where the station Glen Hill was. There's no old building on it now. I'm just getting it built. I've built a lot of humpies on it and there was a building in Wyndham I had to pick up. I'm only going back to where I started from. I said before in 1973 I hoped to get a station somewhere and I'd go back and settle. Now that I'm back at my home station where my grandfathers, mothers and uncles used to run I'm quite satisfied. I've changed my mind already since I moved back into the place. You can leave that there [in the book] but I'm back home now. That opportunity changed my plans because I didn't know there were going to be any changes. Do you get me? That you could go back into your own country? Well in the early part there I said I wouldn't go out on the station unless I had a place of my own. So I have a station of my own I can run stock on, so that's it. The old feller my father died here last year [1980].He was Wuladjau. I have George Dixon my biggest brother. Then myself. Then Abeline and Pat. They call themselves Hall because the old fellers didn't like calling themselves Toby. I'd like to get them out to Glen Hill but the missionary's got them down. There's just my wife. No other people on Glen Hill. But this Warrman community at Turkey Creek are backing me up. Their community stops at the waterhole right at the junction of Turkey Creek where there's another little creek that runs off the road into it and forms a spring. Well I think it's good while you're picking this up and putting it down on the paper for the white people. So when they grab these books and read them they might think you know and start to look up on us. Instead of looking down they might look up on us and reckon, 'Oh well they bin working our way for a long time, we all go back and work the same way'. I reckon it's good. It's getting much more better. See the trouble is people now are coming up. If we didn't have you people we'd have been still down like that all the way, if we didn't have you people from down there from the universities.

Plate 4

Stan Brumby, 1982, Kununurra

STAN BRUMBY BORN 1930

THE LAW Recorded 14 October, 24 December 1973; 26 August 1974; proofread 9 June 1982: three sessions over two years not including proofreading, two-and-a-half ninety-minute cassette tapes, approximately three-and-a-half hours of conversation.

Now where did you say you went to when you grew up? When I was a little boy I was in Moola Bulla Station, and I grew up there. I came to the men and we ran the Law. When I was a man I started work and after work when it was holiday time we went back to the Law, our Law. My parents lived in Moola Bulla. It used to be a government station. They were Gidja people. And, we're scattered now. You know we've gone to different places scattered around. Some went to Derby, Fitzroy Crossing and stations round Fitzroy Crossing. And we tried to get it back now, Moola Bulla. I'd like to get it back. That was my home station. I was born there. I was raised there. Gidja country goes as far as Dunham River Station right to the [experimental] farm. It goes west right down to Derby to the Wunambal and Ungarinyan people this side. That side from Hall's Creek that's the Gidja and Djaru. A Gidja woman she can marry a Djaru man, or if she's a Djaru woman she can marry Gidja. Sometimes Gidja are together. One tribe they marry. You can't marry say your uncle, your cousin-sister (uncle's daughter, father's brother or mother's brother). She's your full sister from your father's brother and you have to be separate. I call them sisters. See, white men call them cousins. In the blackfeller Law, the blackfeller way, we call them sisters. That follows the skins. My father came from Meekatharra in the south. He was a Mungala and Karadjeri man. They are brother people. Nyul-nyul is their language, just like Miriwung. My father married a Gidja woman so I

79

80 When the Dust Come in Between stopped in my mother's country. My tribe starts from Dunham River Station, Michael Downs, Turkey Creek, right to Hall's Creek, right to Moola Bulla. My mother was born at Moola Bulla. I can't remember when I was born, before the Jap war you know. I've been to Meekatharra, Kalgoorlie, Wiluna, back to Port Augusta, Alice Springs, right round, travelled around. That's why I fight for my people, my tribe in the Gidja Law. My name's Madjudju. My Dreaming is a Dog Dreaming. We follow the Dog, Kangaroo, Emu, Goanna, Blue-tongue, Snake, all sorts, all kinds of birds, and mine is the Dingo. Say if somebody dreams a big mob of dingoes when they sleep and dream. A bloke might say to you, 'Oh I bin dream mob of dingo. I bin dreaming mob of dingo coming up longa road.' Well that meant I was coming up in the road, me. That's my Dream.

Do you remember the war very much? I was born before the war. I was only a little kid running round you know. And when the war was finished I was a full grown kid. I never went to school. I went to the stock camp. When I came back from the stock camp on holiday time, knock off time, I went back with the Law. I went back to the Law for five years. It took me five years to finish my Law, the tribe and the old people's Law. We talked about the Law, got everything all organised and finished. After when I finished all my Law I went back and all the old people said to me, 'You picking up old enough to go out somewhere else. You finished Law. You follow your own Law. You can make your own Law, for your tribe.' So I could make my own Law, thinking with my brains just like you school young boys. The old people of mine, Gidja people, used to hold the tribal Law in the beginning, how we started off with no tucker, no bread, no sugar, no shirt and trousers. We acted with what we call walbarra. That means pants, cock rag made out of kangaroo hair and sometimes your own hair. We used to cut our own hair and make the cock rag, hair belt. That's how I was living myself, like that, when I was with my people and followed the Law. And when I went back to the station I got my shirt and trousers and started work. When knock off time came I went back the same way and left my shirt and trousers and followed the Law. I was happy with that kind of Law in the early days. That was happy with me. You know, no fight, happy, have a party, live in the bush, eat kangaroo, eat sugar bag or any animal in the bush, bring them to the meeting ground, the secret ground. See well that's just about

Stun Brumby: The Law 81

lost. I'm just about lost. I have nobody to visit. But when I go back to the Gidja and Djaru tribes I'll be happy. I'm lost because everyone's scattered. They live in Fitzroy Crossing some of them, and Moola Bulla now, and Hall's Creek. See they never left Hall's Creek. Still there my tribe. They're not scattered. Well I can go back for Christmas and I'd have Business with them, Law, and have fun you know, because these people here never follow the Law. Our Law I follow from the beginning and that's why they want me to go back and bring this Thing out to the mob. Everybody would cry for that Thing, that turnout. Ten people have to live with that. We can walk all along to the old people sitting down waiting for it. I have to just bring it and pass it on, and as soon as I do that they all start crying for it. They have to cry for that turnout, for the old people who died. And when I hand it over that means they have to give me all the Law back then. I'd follow the Law, every Law. I'd learn more because I'd be the ringleader, the boss. I'm coming on now. I've worked on Newry and Rosewood and Legune, that's three stations, and Dunham River. And when I came to Kununurra you know I lived there for six years. I've seen a lot of changes the white man way now. I can see the people change like white men, not change like they used to be. You know, going back to the old Law, talking about the Law. They're talking about other things more. New law, old Law. And if we don't keep that we're lost. I can say every cool time, every afternoon time you know, or every morning time the old people will come in talking about the Law. That's going to happen. It's man to man. Mandi knows it. They talk about that, 'What Law you got to run 'em tonight?' to other people, another tribe. Now my people, when the Wet comes we give the start and keep the Law rolling again, get it started again. No matter, we follow our Law. When every people are like off every station we come back in a big meeting ground you know. All the people come in, take off their clothes, and act the same way as in the early days.

Do you mean that you lost the Law at first but now you're starting to get it going again? You can go out for it, all the men. When they go away in the Business we call it nyinyi. We can go out for five months away, no women, out bush. This is very hard for you and me only man to man. You can see the show, the fun, only men. They play you know, play all sorts of tricks dressed like an animal. Some come out like a kangaroo, some come out

82 When the Dust Come in Between like an emu. They talk and sing. That's nyinyi which means in English no women come in, it's man to man. And you have to go to the old people like, not the young people. The old people punish the young people. They make them lie down in the leaves of bushes, that's the punishment, and everybody sing. All right, they look at their turnout and one old feller has to sing out, 'All right, get up. You can get up now. You look at the Business.' You have to look at that and you have to run for a mile, say from here [the reserve] to the diversion dam. The young people have to pick up a really hot piece of Kangaroo from the fire and run with it on their shoulder, and the boss bloke's behind with an axe. He has to run and that's it, you've finished your Law. That's my people, they don't do that here. We have to follow that Law now. Everybody sing. Right, after the finish the boss says, 'Do nothing! And you have fun, an ordinary corroboree then with women and men mixed. We'd be out there in the bush for four months, say from Christmas. You'd go away soon after Christmas and it might be in April or March that you come back ready for the station job and start again. We'd start the Law kicking when the season was finished. That's the nyinyi. Well we can change through the nyinyi. We can go right back just like you might go back to England. You go back what you call a different way then. Once I got a letter from my big brother. They wanted me back to the tribe again, back to the nyinyi, Law. And I wrote back to him and said, 'Well if you want me to go back I'll let you know before Christmas. I'll be down there before Christmas.' I couldn't write but another bloke did it for me. There's a proper deadly Law we run. That means we sing it, about the country and rivers. There's a spirit in it like the Djanba who walked around. He's a good spirit. He goes from place to place travelling to main spring water. That was a long time ago, a hundred years ago. I was never born nor my father, uncle, granny or brother. The Spirit went through the top end country from Hall's Creek to Gordon Downs, Nicholson and Sturt Creek coming from the sunrise. These Miriwung people have their own [version of the secret travelling cult] but I don't know about this country. I've never seen the Law for the Miriwung people here. They have Law but they don't make a song about it. They don't go back to the old Law. They sleep like that where they're living now. I only know of my Law. You can ask Mandi and Banggaldun. They know the Law. I'm talking about the Law, and the tribes, and the Dream time, ngaranggani, places where they travelled through. A lot of Things were

Stun Brumby: The Law 83

travelling through in the Dream. Birds. They weren't birds, they were men. This crow here, he was a man, a human being. That's why the blackfeller is black. This one, cockatoo, he was a white bloke. The white man was travelling before. And this bush fowl - there are a lot living in the hills - was a woman. There were Kangaroo, and Dingo and Sugar Bag. I'm a Sugar Bag myself. I paint that picture on myself when we're dancing. The lines are the Dream, the rivers running to the country. We call it yuarrin. That's in the leg. A hundred bees were trying to find the place and they stopped there. Say there was a new town, next here, another here, another here, another here. They stopped a little bit longer, a little bit bigger, then they shifted out from there to a river, and they stayed there now. That was for the yuarrin, the country. And a mark in the arm was blood where he cut himself. The blood just leaked through the arm, running down. That means, when the blood's running, 'I want to go back to my country! Blood means 'go back to my country! 'Don't take me to another country, a different tribe. I want to live, go back to my tribe', the blood says. The men dress like that when they do that corroboree. That was the deadly one, man to man, no women, no young fellers there. You can't take the young fellers with no whiskers, they'd get killed. We don't show that Dream painting for Sugar Bag to women. And when we do the Law for one feller we're all in black with charcoal. I tell you the Wangga mob that's different. I don't know what Dream that is. I don't know their Dream and they don't know my Dream.

In the old days were Gidja people and Miriwung people friends or enemies? Well a long time ago the Gidja and Miriwung people were fighting, back from Duragila along Ord River. You see the part of the big hill now on the other side of Argyle. We call it Duragila Hill. A lot of people died there with spears, killed one another. That was in the early days before the whitefeller. It was the same as in Moola Bulla at the top of a hill between the Gidja mobs themselves. They fought, one tribe. They fought for the Law. They couldn't follow it. There were two bosses and it might be that one feller, one boss had one troop and they fought for the Law. Another feller told them, 'Why don't you come to my Law, my turnout? We follow the one. All right, y'don't want to foller me I'll fight you.' That was my tribe. It's finished now. We all have the one Law now. They fought for the country where this Dream was travelling, the Kangaroo. One mob might have one country and another

84 When the Dust Come in Between mob might want to take that country, that's it. That's right, people fought for bits of country. Where one tribe's country crossed over to the other's. They fought over that Thing. And fighting between them was for girls, in the bush. They used to fight with spears. I don't know about this mob but in my country we used to tell one another, 'You want to fight over this feller, over skin, what you married, promised'. Among the old fellers you had to take the daughters through the Law. Everybody had a meeting, took them through the Law and gave them in marriage. See, I might marry a young girl, well I had to fight if her mother and father couldn't give her to me through the Law. She'd be the right skin - that's nimara or nagara and I'm djabalyi or djalyiri - and I'd have to fight if she was promised to me and they kept her. If they kept her, well, I could make a song about it. I had to find out why and I could make a fight if she was my promised wife. I'd fight another man of my skin, a bloke who'd want to pinch her off me. We'd fight only for the skins. Miriwung have the same as my skin but they're in different languages. Well we can change the white man way. I can change both ways. You know by both ways, the white man way and the old way, the nyinyi, it's no trouble. What I reckon, if the whitefeller wants to change to the blackfeller way, the native way, he can change when he sees the fun in the bush, nyinyi. Well they might have a look with their own eyes and tape the words, put through the tape what the songs mean, what the people are talking about. I say I can bring the white man both ways. He can be the boss for our Law, he can be the boss for his law in a community, a king or something like that. I can make a big Law between white man and black man. I can talk about a lot, how the white man lives, how the black man lives. I want to make them come to the same Law, to keep them one, all get together white or black. I could go down to Hall's Creek and get my mob and bring them to Kununurra where we'd talk about that big meeting. If they wanted to join my people they could join but they'd have to learn our Law. It would happen if a man made a song about it. At church I should have been UAM [United Aborigines' Mission] but I don't go there now. I learnt about and believe still in God but I go my way, back to my Gidja Law. I told you how we got together in the Dreamtime. And I found out later when we had the meetings here with the government four years ago [l9701 about getting my country back. That's different from the church. I run my Law in the Dreamtime now, how the old people lived, and I can still remember.

Stan Brumby: The Law 85

How do blackfeller think of whitefeller? Well not too many blackfellers think about the white man, only very few. Some people, especially the young fellers, they want to go on [against] the whites. They don't listen to the old people and they don't like white people so much. The old people are more easy. They make friends to white people. They want to live together. Well that's what I think too. I think we should get together, learn more about one another and start off from the beginning [make a new start]. Well it only might be in Kununurra one hundred people might understand and be kind to blackfellers. The others, they don't talk to us. A few white ladies, wives, talk to us. We'd have a yarn with them and a drink of tea, something like that, especially me. I had four or five white ladies who talked to me and gave me a drink of tea, all farmer's wives, when I worked for their husbands and when they came home I'd have a drink of tea or a couple of beers and go on home. White people live well. That's why I want to change to the white man way. People don't talk sense. Say you might sing out to me, 'Hullo Stan', and I might sing out, 'Hullo, how you getting on?'. 'All right. How you keeping?' 'All right.' That's just that sort of thing. You know when the white woman goes past like that with the blackfeller going past, she can't say hullo to the black man. She just goes past, just turns her head away. And a lot of white men in Kununurra are chasing a lot of black women. That was happening a long time. And a lot of white men are married to black girls, not in Kununurra but in Hall's Creek, Broome, Derby right to Port Hedland. Why can't the blackfeller marry white women? It's not fair to say blackfellers are lazy and all that. Some of them are. I've seen blackfellers in Hall's Creek my home town more dirty than me, really dirty from the bush. They'd talk and camp and the next morning they'd get their clothes and have a bath, a bogey and a shave. They'd camp there friendly. It's not only one bloke lazy. That's all over the world. Some white men are lazy too. Some white men can't work, some blackfellers can't work. They're the same. Some white men you see just drink the beer and do no work, same as the blackfeller. They can't go out to the stations and do a bit of stock working. They might say, 'Oh well I'm sick. Don't send me nothing.' Well it's the same as the white man. They work for a couple of months and get enough money, then they leave the station and come into town. It's the same thing. Well people drink and they reckon it's good. But when a person gets to the pub he doesn't know how to drink. He drinks, drinks, drinks,

86 When the Dust Come in Between all the time drinks and gets silly in the head. He reckons it's very good and he talks then about fighting in the pub. When I go to the pub I drink quietly. I don't look for fights. I don't act silly. I don't talk out of my place.

But now people can drink in the pub. Not many blackfellers drink in the pub. A lot drink in the bush away from the pub you know. See you bring your bottle here and drink here [on the reserve]. Those young people you can't tell them, they're silly in the head, but the old people like me anybody can tell us. All right, I'd go to sleep. I drink and sleep. Next morning I get up as good as gold and I talk to people sober. And I have sense even drunk. I don't know why they go into the bush. I can't take the bottle into the bush, I drink in the pub. I want to be a man same as the whites. I want to be a friend. That's their worry if others want to go in the bush. If they want to act in that way that's their idea, and if people drink in the pub that's their idea. See I like to see everybody, blackfellers, drink in the pub and finish up in the pub, not drink in the bush. Well if I drink all the time sitting down in the pub that means I'm a man. I don't act silly. See, you and me might go to the pub and drink. Like that, we drink and sit down. You call me a man. I don't take bottles into the bush, that's no good. I have to drink with mates, that's it. Some are white. Two white men who are mates walk in and have a drink in the pub. Why can't blackfellers go and drink together? They can drink but some blackfellers don't understand what kind of drinks to take. Drink comes from all over the state, well they don't know what to drink. They reckon it's good. They can't understand what happens to them. Well some go mad because the blackfeller never had grog before. This came along late, in 1950. It's a free life, free for the drink. It used to be a long time on the whitefeller stations, working for a shirt and trousers, for tobacco, tea and sugar. Well people have never understood. Say, I can't understand too. If I go to the pub well I drink mixed drink and if I get full well 1 don't know what 1 was drinking. I have a lot of friends amongst the white men and they say, 'Here's your beer, here's your beer, here's your beer! Four or five or ten blokes would give me a drink. And I can't fight when I drink. When I get drunk I just go away to the bush and sleep. That's silly to fight. I understand myself, and some blackfellers can't understand. They want to fight you and they reckon that's good. They can't understand that drink makes them

Stan Brumby: The Law 87

mad. They never had a drink for years and years. This drink came lately with the free life, the citizenship. The white man said to the blackfeller, 'You free. All in one, black or white.' Right, that's the way the blackfeller was. Some never drank for years, for a long time, or only just sneaking round the station. Some white stockmen, ringers used to make them drink. In the same way the black man's wife was sometimes sold to the white man for drink, and money. A wife and her husband might make a family and the people might say, 'All right, he not his father, this blackfeller. White man father.' That's how they got the yellow feller. The white man just came around and married the wife of the blackfeller, just took her away. Her mother and father would say to the white man, 'Give it tea and sugar, tobacco, shirt and trousers, blanket, calico'. There was no money - that was a long time ago - and no drink, they just gave them tucker and everything. I think keep the young fellers away from camp. Take them to the stations in the bush and keep them in the bush for perhaps twelve months. That's how to police them. The blackfeller is still frightened of the white man policeman. Well these fellers like Banggaldun, old Peter and Mandi, them three, they're good policemen. But they don't do the right thing on their own colour. They don't get the bloke and tell him, 'You want to be go to bed?'. Say you were a bush tracker, a native tracker like. You might say to me, 'Well Stan, you want to stop and go to bed?'. 'Yeah', I might say to you. They don't say that, they go to the police station and get the police who come down themselves. Now they work with the police, they don't arrest the man. They're too frightened to do it black to black. See another blackfeller might tell them, 'Oh well, you can go and get stuffed! Well I don't think they do a good job. See if I was a police boy I'd keep everybody moving. I'd tell those not working to find a job, this sort of thing, and make sure they don't take the tucker from the old people. Some of these young fellers, instead of getting a job, just eat for the old fellers, all the pensioners. Well I can see they're still wrong. After that now they keep the place clean. Well that's how the people don't understand still.

What have you thought about all the trouble this week, all this Black Power business? I don't think anything about that Black Power. I don't believe it. Nothing's happened, they're only silly. Well I reckon it started for the country. I don't know what they meant, those Wyndham people. Not

88 When the Dust Come in Between Kununurra, the Kununurra people didn't know anything. They wanted to fight for the country. A few blokes came in from Wyndham and went back. Well they wanted to fight Kununurra, I don't know why, the white man and black man. The last time they came in trying to take over Kununurra but we chased them, only five from Wyndham. There were thirteen of us, from here. They saw that was too many so they went back with the taxi. They said to us you know, 'Too many people'. I don't know why they wanted to cause trouble like that, I'd like to know. I want to know from the white man; I want to know from the blackfeller. Me, I want to know how they make trouble, the white, the black. And I want to know why we can't sit in peace, be friends. The white man and black man, we want to be friends all over. It doesn't matter what, not only Kununurra. We want to be friends, happy, have fun, no fight. They were the Wilanggu mob, the Wunambal, from Kalumburu and Derby. The Worora and Wunambal, that was Derby, and Ungarinyan. That's three tribes more further. O n this side they're Wyndham and Wilanggu. They have nothing to do with us. They're a different tribe the same as Djaru and Gidja, two of them like that, my people. Djaru and Gidja we just talk to one another, a mixed language. Those fellers who came to make trouble were young fellers. Some were half-caste and a few were black. Nobody knows about Black Power in Kununurra. They were talking about Black Power in Wyndham, not here. These fellers, whitefellers and blackfellers in Kununurra, we don't know anything. We put them out and sent them back to Wyndham. We didn't want to cause trouble in Kununurra. Well they reckoned they had guns and would shoot all the men in the reserve. We heard that in the pub, the policeman told us. Two blokes came down here and told Banggaldun they were coming at four o'clock from Wyndham. The policeman rang up. They were supposed to be coming on Friday but nothing happened. See I told a lot of blokes in the pub, if anybody makes me a big boss in Kununurra with the natives I can steady down any trouble. You know, steady them down those fellers who don't know what's going on. We don't want to fight the white man, we want to be good friends. Well I could bring white and black in the meeting and I could talk in the middle why people fight. I'd like to bring them peace, come to the peace, no fighting, no war. Those young fellers from Wyndham were causing trouble for nearly five or six years but they're started now talking about Black Power.

Stun Brumby: The Law 89

I can talk to those people, 'What you mean, this Black Power?You gonna be bad, you gonna make it bad for us', from another blackfeller to another blackfeller, see. 'And the white man you'd only make a fight. We bin work together, we working together, he still a human being.' There was a lot of trouble in Wyndham too, drinking and fighting all the time. Well I can't see why people are worrying themselves this way. I've seen them all the time it's happened. People can't be happy, mates talking about the old native Law, having fun. I'm very sorry too. I think a lot for my people. We don't want to lose our Law. We have to start from the beginning, when I was only young. Now we think back now.

What do you think most Aboriginal people are looking for now; what do they want most of all? Well, the Aboriginal people are looking for the land. Some of these blokes were talking about that, not many but a few, in the committee meetings. One day they'll have a right meeting. You know, this bloke would say, 'Yes, I have to have my land, my Dreamtime. That's my country I born. I lost my own country. I got to go back before I get old. Before I retire I want to get my land back.' That's what I think for Dunham River and Turkey Creek. I can run my Law both sides. See, Turkey Creek you know is a big place. We have the Law there. I think it's just the white man government which helped. A few blokes were talking about it here and there and other places, other cities, other stations. I want to live both ways. I want to run my Law. I want to sing. I want the white man law and my Law. Some is the new way, some the old way. But the old way I think is more better. But this new way I have to keep too. As soon as you went away [in 19731 people realised they lost their memory and that they should not forget the Law, the old people. And they started to get it back. They think back now. They listened to me. I keep my Gidja Law still. The Miriwung are starting to wake up now. Our Law is outside the white man law. That's good, but it's a bit hard for the native people. We never went to school so it's a bit hard for us. That's what the old people reckoned. They told me, 'You got better idea?' It's coming back now. They have to keep their own Law and the white man law. Well I think the KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association] were losing off. I think they gave up. They didn't want to work for them. The Miriwung people wanted them to work, to help and carry the idea, but July and Alfie had gone.

90 When the Dust Come in Between They lost Mrs Welfare when she went away. Before she left she said to a bloke named Ted, 'Work this truck, carting brumbies from Newry to Kununurra, to farm. You make money.' But he went to Kalumburu and we did not get the truck back for a very long time. They wanted to work for themselves, all the half-caste people, away from the native people. They can get the Law. July said to all the Miriwung people, 'You keep your Law, and I keep my Law! A lot of things worry me. I don't see the right thing. My worry, I want to see the Aborigines keep good, children, women, men. We can see every day it's all the same, it doesn't get better. It's getting more worse and worse. What I'd like to see, get together really good sensible men, proper men, that people come to be really good and clean, have a clean camp, clean bed, and talking about Law every day. Well I want to change. See I said to those farmers, 'I can't read. I'm the stockman. I bin working for stock for forty, fifty years, when I was young.' Well if I took over the station now I'd be the big boss. I'm a stockman. I live the native way. I live the white man way. I can go back always in my Law, and I can go back to the white man's law, and run both sides' law. Well you have to move with your ideas, mine or Bulla's or Banggaldun's. We have to talk about it. I did more talking but I think those other fellers were slipping back. Every morning you saw the people were not doing anything. Well they were supposed to be talking about the garden, money, country, all that sort of thing. I was talking about that all the time. I went to every sort of meeting, everybody's meeting, from people to people. I went there and talked a lot. They asked me, 'What you idea?' and I told them, 'My idea this way, thataway! They have to keep the Law now. That's different from the Gidja. I could help a lot. People are trying to work together now, all in one. Things are getting better here. What I reckon in my ideas, well I can say a lot of people have asked for years and years for every Law, every question. Well, I get a bit by bit my ideas. I want to know the ideas from other people. A man can tell me what he thinks and I'll follow him. If I think it's a good idea I'll say, 'Yes, that good! O r I'd say, 'No, that not right! I was on the station the last couple of months back, working for Rosewood until I got hurt. I fractured a rib, it's a little bit sore yet. That was about the races time. I was thrown by a horse in the rodeo here in Kununurra. One of the white station hands I think loosened the girth on that horse. That's why I stayed with no work for a while, till I got healed up.

Scan Brumby: The Law 91

My wife died before Christmas last year. I'm a single man now, free... I like to work in other places where there's a little bit of good country you know. O h Peppermenarti was all right but there was never a break. You never went on holiday but worked through the Wet, through Christmas with no spell. I might go to Legune ... A bullock broke my arm. He hit me with his horn when he jumped at the car. Another bloke was driving. My arm was out the door in the front ... I'd like to get a new wife, a missus. O h I'm fifty, not too old yet.

Plate 5

Bill Laurie, 1982, Kununurra

BILL LAURIE BORN ABOUT 1916, DIED 1987

STATION TIMES Recorded 8, 13, 28, 31 August, 3 September, 2 December 1973: six sessions, four hours. This is a long chapter, the fulcrum of the book. 1 have a special affection for Bill and regret that I was not able to see him again before he died. He died a year before I was able to revisit Kununurra for two days in August 1988 after a long absence. His life story is one of the few not proofread. The story of Bill's wife Amy Lawie is contained in the volume Fighters and Singers (White et a1 1983, 76-89).

Where were you born? I was born on Waterloo Station not too far in the Northern Territory. In the early days for the people older than me we had no trucks or anything. There were no cars around, nothing, only camel wagons, donkey wagons, bullock wagons, all the cattle loads you know. I'm buggered if I know the date I was born. It's a long way. I'm about 57 [l9731 and I was with a lot of those old people. When the first lot of trucks started rolling here in 1923 and 1924 I was a big lump of a kid working on the station. You see when they had no wireless station in Wyndham - it was put up at the Twelve Mile lowland of the ridge this side of Wyndham - that was the first war Kaiser Bill or somebody made up, something like that. I remember the name because I was a big lump of a boy. In those days we shipped a lot of bullocks into the boats. My father went away when I was a kid. I don't know where he died, some way up Hall's Creek. I don't remember him. He was a white man, a Scotsman, and my mother was a full blood who belonged to these Malgnin. My mother was a good old girl. There was no trouble much. She worked on the station and they went away on holiday and that was the last of them. They went for good and I was behind in 93

94 When the Dust Come in Between Waterloo. My mother went back to Mistake Creek and died there. I was a big boy then, about 23. And this old feller now I have to see, Jimmy Cline, he picked me up and raised me up then. I was with him all the time. He was a good feller. He was the best man, best stockman in his time. He never used to go wild or anything, just kept everything going. The Miriwung are here you see and we were further over, not far, next door anyway. We have skins. I'm djanama, my mother was nambidjina, and I'm just like old Banggaldun. He's djanama. This old Johnny Walker, he's a djabada. Well he belongs to Darwin, Adelaide River way. Old Mandi he's a djangari. We use the same skin you know, we can't turn that around. Like I'm djanama no matter where I go and I might run into another djanama like Banggaldun and this Peter, Pannikin and all that mob. It's the same everywhere. You have to follow the mother with that skin turnout. You know this big eagle hawk that kills kangaroos? Well he's the father to this skin. And this little crane running round the water there, he's the boss of this other mob there. There's djanama and djimidja, four ones that come under eagle hawk our father, and that other mob come under this crane, that's their father. It doesn't matter what language. The skins are all over you see. It doesn't matter which way you travel. They're the same all the way. If you went to a place where you'd never been before they'd look and say, 'Ah goodday, goodday. What's your skin?' That's the first thing they'd ask you. Some of them can read you, the old time blackfellers see. And a lot of these young fellers who are following the blackfeller Law they can look at the hair on your arm and tell you what you are without asking you. See he'd come along and say, 'Ah, hullo you. You're prob'ly djanama eh?' You'd say, 'Yeah*. It'd make you wonder how the hell he knew. I'm buggered if I know how they could tell. Something in the colour of the hair. They can pick you straight away. Well I've been looking at them amongst the blackfellers all the time. Well they beat me there. That's in the Law you see. When you go to this big blackfeller Sunday they take a mob of young boys you know, cheeky buggers causing trouble and all that. See, when they go in the big Law they either have to do what they're told or die. If they didn't do the right thing well they killed them. They'd give them a second go but if they don't come as a good man the proper way well they'd go no way. They'd get killed. See it didn't matter if it was my own kid. If he was silly and I was trying to tell him anything and he was causing trouble and we

Bill Laurie: Station Times 95

went to that big Sunday, well it was just too bad for him. I couldn't say, 'That's my son, you can't kill him', because we'd be killed with him. Well the tribal school was a very hard school years ago. I might have a Dreaming but I wouldn't know it. I was brought up with the Law though. It was going on all the time. You see when we waited long enough for that Law, to understand it, we'd only go through the Wet while we had a holiday then come back and work on the stations. If we were good boys they didn't worry much. If we weren't and were one of those fellers causing trouble amongst the married men, you were kept to your place all the time. I was a good boy but a lot of my mates were crook. They never saw that Sunday, that school you know and they reckoned they could act the way they wanted to go, but they stepped on the wrong place. Well they didn't show up to the Sunday. But when they caught them, if big trouble they made well they finished them straight away see. You couldn't get over that Law.

What was it like when you were a little feller? This was on the station? You see every about ten, eleven, twelve months we'd go for a bit of a holiday for two months. All depended whether it was a good season, well you'd get three months holiday. You'd change about. When the boss told you, you'd go away and have a holiday and you'd come back in so-and-so month. But anybody, usually young boys, would come back earlier when there was a horse to be broken in. You had to come back to your boss and you had to do what he wanted to do. The manager would try to tell us, 'Oh you go have a holiday now', and this stockman feller would come, 'I want you in about six weeks', something like that for breaking in or doing a bit of fencing you understand. But mostly the time was spent breaking in horses. What I liked most was chasing cattle and branding up and everything like that. I didn't like anything else, only to work on the station. I used to follow up this cattle game all my life and enjoy it for everything. That was our life. Now if you put us down here on the farms well we can go and take weeds or anything out of them. As far as growing the cotton was concerned I worked for a bloke near seven months. All the different turnouts they put into it were hard to follow all the time, like urea, super and checking up everything, working on the engine, greasing it up. You didn't get that out on the cattle stations. You shoed your horses and put hobbles on their necks and away you went. We had spare time on the farms but we couldn't understand it. See you had to have your mind on too many things, a lot of things

96 When the Dust Come in Between that we didn't know. Then the farmer came along and showed you just what to do before you started. Righto the next one you had to plough in the ground and go over about ten times then you brought another instrument on to it, something we'd never seen. So we just had to go round like a clock. Then when we finished we had some other turnout, working all the time. You got some super urea and spread that around. Then you started ridging it for where they put the seeds. Then you had to get some other turnout, get the seeds, fill them in this bin and drop them all the way along the ridge, bury that all the way. I thought first we were going to plant them with our hands. There was a lot of work on that cotton. Well why we liked this cattle life better we went from daylight till sundown but you just knew your work what you were doing all the time. You were right there on it see. That was the only work us old people liked but we could go at that farm work pulling grass up. I tried it there for seven months and that bloke reckoned I was really made born to that job but I couldn't see it myself. It was pretty hard, a lot of things to reckon around. Those early days were a good time you know. We were happy. Everybody was happy, no worries, nothing at all. I stopped there on Waterloo right up to 1929. That was a real good time. Everything was coming up pretty good I reckon. The young people they were level with us all the time. You'd go out on the station and have no trouble with them at all. They were a long way from anywhere and they enjoyed their work and everything like that. It was a good life that bush life. Well it's coming up good again. Blokes used to come around here, farmers looking for blokes for work, and oh they'd sleep like daisies inside the blanket. Well since all this Miriwung mob came together they can move them on a little bit now. They sort of look forward more you see. Well after Waterloo I ran away bush for really three years amongst the blackfellers, in the blackfeller rule. That was in the drought of 1932. I was sixteen with a billy goat beard. There were a bit of everybody then, a big mob. I was mostly on the Sandstone side on my language country. Sandstone, that's the Ngarinman mob. My mother was Malgnin and she had relatives on the Ngarinman side. Well you came a few miles and the old stepfather who was working on Waterloo he was a Ngarinman [Jimmy Cline]. My mother-in-law was a little bit on the Malgnin and just a little bit where I was born I was in Ngarinman country. My mother was a little bit on top, not far away. Where I was born at Waterloo Station they call in the tribal name Gunumaa. That's where the flies breed. Gunama is this house fly.

Bill Laurie: Station Times 97 That's the Dream turnout. You dig a hole there and all the flies - look you won't put a damper or anything outside. Where the language, this Dream, comes you split the difference see. You see this tribe belonged to the top end of the Malgnin mob, right you come back to this Ngarinman mob. Then you come back to these Miriwung way down here and you come back from here to the Gadjerung. That's another language. We have all these other mobs joined here and behind them further north we don't know that lot. We were supposed to be front peoples.

And how many years did you say you went bush? Three years I was in the bush and never saw anybody. I didn't get married that time. We were frightened. We had to be bloody careful what we did. Blackfellers would kill young boys. Well I had a bit of a whisker you see and we were amongst them you know fighting and everything like that. But another bloke was causing the trouble. We couldn't see our mate get a hiding or anything like that so we helped. If you had a private fist fight straight out that's a bit better than this bloody Sunday business. You had no hope there. Like when they were after one person well that was it. This was the Law but not the Snake they call the Rainbow. If this boy was making trouble they brought him in to this Sunday and made it like a big school. They'd take me and this one and you, or anybody, all young boys and put them on to this turnout to educate them you see. It wasn't circumcision. It was just to straighten your head, teaching what you were supposed to do because you couldn't go wrong. Initiation came later. They gave you one go, and a warning if you did it again. Well next time you look out. If he did it again well they put this other turnout up again after the holiday, when they went for a holiday, and well they'd just knock him on the head. But for circumcision and that other [subincision] they played a big lot of corroborees and had big fun with the didgeridu or some sort. That was different again see. This Garimalang, whatever they call the Snake, well the girls couldn't see it. They had to be away from everybody, children too.

So, what did you do after you were bush those three years? After the bush I came down and worked on Rosewood Station thirty miles this side of Waterloo on the Territory, at the end of 1933. In 1933

I was with the mailman. We did the job round and then came back

98 When the Dust Come in Between and in 1934 I worked at Rosewood. I was with Jack Kilfoyle for about fourteen years on and off all the time. You'd have a blow in the wet weather. That was where he started me off on the wages work. I was on eleven bob a week. I didn't know that. I didn't know what eleven bob or five bob was in those days. All right, after that I reckoned I'd go for a bit of a change somewhere so I went to Spring Creek in Western Australian country in 1941 then and worked there for old Billy Skuthorpe. When 1left him, got tired of the place, I went on to Texas Downs Station with my old man that reared me up, old Jimmy Cline, and worked for him then you see. We'd taken a mob of bullocks you know from Argyle, Rosewood, Auvergne, Newry and Ivanhoe, from Argyle into Wyndham. And old Jimmy Cline passed me at the Behn when I was at Rosewood there when I took the bullocks off to Waterloo. Then we went to Texas and I left him there and went bush again for a holiday with just a cock rag and a bit of tea and sugar. I decided I'd go back to Sandstone again you see, back in my country. Texas Downs belonged to all the Naughton family. I worked there for five years with the old feller Jimmy Cline. But he got a bit - you know, I got sick of the place myself though it was a nice place to work on. I reckoned, 'I don't want to be on the place, I'm going'. They said, 'A'right, ~ o u ' r ea silly bugger! 'Well look there', I said to him, 'I done a lot of work for you now. I'm not getting enough money. I don't work for fun eh?' Well he said, 'Go on to Lissadell and get a change there. Try Lissadell out.' So I came back then to Lissadell and worked there two or three years. They were horse breaking in there when I came and when the stockmen finished up, 'When we gone', they said, 'if you want this camp you can have it! I didn't want that camp so after that I took on droving, starting with the droving plant and everything. See they couldn't get whitefellers to do droving you know then. Well we started bringing bullocks down past this hill at Carlton Reach here into Wyndham, taking mobs of seven or eight hundred bullocks. Now the road trains have them all. That was all right. We used to meet drovers here you know. It took two or three days before when they delivered the bullocks. Well we used to bring the bullocks along here, give them to them and they'd take them to Wyndham. That went on for about every two or three trips. Sometimes we used to take them just about to Wyndham. But most of the time I was running the camps all around till I got sick of it you know. I was head stockman, the boss. You had about sixteen boys and the cook. I kept that going for a long time you know, branding

Bill Laurie: Station Times 99 up and getting the bullocks ready, horse breaking and everything, then I took this droving. Anyway I left there and went back to old Reg Durack on Kildirk. He asked me to do droving for him so I went over there and took the bullocks into Wyndham. And Reg Durack offered me the job then. He asked me would I go back and take a job on Rosewood. 'Come back and work for me', he said. I said, 'I don't know! He said, 'Don't turn me down, you come back'. 'Well', I said to him, 'I can't go back. I'm tangled up with the Naughton mob. Fifty quid with this.' That was Tony Naughton, a big feller, twenty-four stone. The way he sat down he'd put a motor car to its side. Well I reckoned it was best for me to go back and work for them you see to get the fifty quid. And Reg Durack wasn't paying that. I said, 'No, let him take it out of my sweat. I've been working there long enough.' You understand what I talk now? Instead of them paying me in cash money I drew my rations and they took it out of my wages. Anyhow I went back and worked for them there and Reg Durack gradually got me back. I worked for him four or five years. I came back to Argyle and worked there for two months. Then I went to Rosewood and took a job on there saddling a little bit, doing the gear up for the station. I only stopped there for about five months and then I left there when they changed the manager. I went on to Kildirk and Durack saw me. 'Oh you back here?' 'No', I said, 'I'm working at Rosewood. And the manager wouldn't give us tucker to go tending musterer.' See well that was the thing that made me no good. I just put the saddle on the horse and yarded the cattle up and I said to the boss, 'Here, there's your bullock and there's your horse and I'm finish! 'What's wrong?' he said. I said, 'What two day, bin out along the road and no tucker. He's no good to me', I said. I worked at Kildirk for three or four years. I worked there twice. That was my second time.

What do you think Aboriginal people thought when they first came into contact with white people? Before that last war they had here in 1941 if you had a boy or a halfcaste in your plant they wouldn't give you bullocks to take into Wyndham. You had to be real white coloured. If you had one blackfeller or half-caste in the camp they didn't want him. You could work for the boss drover but you weren't allowed to drive the bullocks. You had to be horse tailing. But since that Second World War broke out and everybody galloped away we poor buggers took the bullocks down then when they bombed Wyndham.

100 When the Dust Come in Between You see we were only like ordinary blackfellers. We didn't know anything. Well they reckoned, 'What about take the bullock into Wyndham?' and we were a bit doubtful about that. They used to take the bullocks off the blackfeller's hands and we had to stay on the homestead all the time, never move off. They wouldn't have a blackfeller on the job in camp that's for sure, and no they wouldn't have a halfcaste, that's me. The government didn't like the blackfellers taking the bullocks in, not only in the meat works but before again into the jetty at Wyndham town. The police had nothing to do with it but the government themselves who were running the show. The managers couldn't do anything I think because they knew if a drover came along they couldn't have a blackfeller in the turnout. They were blokes like Bob Skuthorpe and Bob Henderson. (He was killed somewhere out there round Forrest River mucking round with a black girl or something.) O r Nat Cooley and Tom Cole and all those fellers. There was a big mob of them. Say you were the head stockman. You're the white man and you have fourteen blackfellers there mustering the bullocks - they were mustering the bullocks out in the bush - then you had to hand them in to eight white men. What's the difference in it? Why couldn't those white men have blackfellers before? If they only had one blackfeller well he'd be either the horse tailer or wouldn't interfere with the bullocks. If you had one blackfeller there the manager wouldn't give them the bullocks because the meat works wouldn't take them, even the shipping mob. That was years ago see. I don't know whether it was written into the laws. I was only a kid that time. But if they're good enough to muster the bullocks they're good enough to drive them to Wyndham see. Say four blackfellers can look after the bullocks, turning them for five weeks or eight weeks till you get your number. Now what sort of old law was that in the first time? Now what sort of idea was that? The bullocks when they left there were just the same as when they got here. Well since that 1941 war all the whitefellers left. All the young fellers you know were training for soldiers to fight for the country. Well they were short of whitefellers then and they reckoned, 'Ah, this feller's a capable man, what's wrong with him? Let him take the bullock.' They came to me and said, 'Well Bill, how, 'bout you take the bullock in to the work?' 'Well', I said, 'I don't know. Would the government like it?' Ah well they had to have the bullocks in there so we took them you see, took their word. Well that was all right. We had no trouble. We drove them in to W ~ n d h a m did , a good job and everything like that.

Bill Laurie: Station Times 101 We didn't know whether we were going to get shot along the road or anything. That's the time we came up with the white man I reckon. 'Oh, somebody must like us in the finish', I reckoned, for doing the job. 'Oh well, we must be getting up a little bit.' Well that was how we felt, 'Now the white man give us a go now. Well we just like anybody now.' That war was before Kununurra was put up. See we were feeding bullocks all round here all this area now you're looking at. And they went down there to the government bore instead of going way around to Ivanhoe and back this way. When we came up as men when this last war began there were young fellers running away everywhere. Here's the tank, there's the meat works. Well they took them right to the nose of the wing yard, yarded them up there and you were finished. That's where you left them. You only had one manager, Tom Lawrence the head stockman who belonged to the government mob. He counted them out way out on the flat and you had to give him a hand. One man could do six or seven hundred bullocks. Now you must become equal some way. We might come right as far as work is concerned, to do just the same as the next one. After working for Durack on Kildirk I had a bit of a blow and came down here and stopped seven or eight years just mucking around working for the cotton farmers. Then I went back to Kildirk again. You know I was on and off. I came back then I went to Newry and worked there for two or three years and came back. I never settled down to one place. Well the only place I'd settle down in now was up there in this country Kildirk way.

Now when you first came here into Kununurra was the reserve there then? Kununurra had just started somewhere around '58. It had no pub then, only a canteen and a few places to live. See they built the pub while I was here working for a farmer. When I first came to Kununurra there was no reserve. We camped over there down where the convent school is now till we were shifted out of that and shifted down here. The bloke who was managing this big Co-op store didn't want anybody camping round there and we had to move from the bottle tree right back behind this hill here, Kelly's Knob. Well I had my motor car and I didn't worry. Three of them came and told us, 'Got to move from here. We don't want you camping here.' Then they built a sort of a lavatory you know with those light looking bags at the reserve before the reserve got up. See, and then they started working on it then and we shifted up there.

102 When the Dust Come in Between The people weren't here in that time. They were all at Ivanhoe.

I saw them all come in here a whole lot of them, Johnny Walker and Ernie Chapman even. See the manager didn't want them there those old pensioners and they came and settled down here. They sort of got used to it you know but they should run this reserve better than the way they run it now I think myself. Kununurra was the nearest town for the bushmen to come in instead of going way over to Wyndham or Hall's Creek or Timber Creek, especially for cattle. You could come in in the wet season and fill up your motor car with petrol and oil and a bit of food and tea. I reckon it's a good little town myself. Only this turnout here, all these buildings, it's just like an oven. This was the nearest place and they can't go walkabout anywhere else like before. They might finish up leaving their wives here or the kids and just go out and do their work and come in for the races time to see them. It would be better for themselves I reckon myself. Here now you're sort of tied up and can't do much yourself. They're too cramped and they're fighting all round at night and you can't get to sleep. The old people get tired talking about it you know. Well they just put up with it till morning and then give them a bit of a talking to, but they just do the same and go bush again, and the same thing happens the next day. It's been just the same all the way. When they first started here they were pretty good but lately you know they have a big enough row for about three or four hours and they keep everybody awake singing at the top of their voices. Well that's about one o'clock or two o'clock in the morning. A man should have a good rest. It only happens as soon as the races start and they come in. See if fellers don't go back to their jobs well they stop and do all this nonsense around. Most of the time I'm out in the bush and just come in to load a bit of tucker and go out again. I came in to Kununurra because all these kids weren't going to school see. They were at the Shedleys. I wanted to go out bush but they sent me a wire that the kids weren't going to school. A couple of times I chased them back to school no trouble at all but it's a long way from here to the school see and they can dive off any way between here and there. They liked school but they didn't like this walking about. And then some of them would reckon, 'Oh you're just nothin! Well I'd get into them properly with a whip or a hose. But they take to school all right. There might be one little bit of a rogue now who takes the other kids away. They're pretty good mates with the white kids there what I see with the sports and everything like that. They're pretty happy. Sometimes in the Wet you

Bill Laurie: Station Times 103

see a mob of them come down here and have a play about on the grass at the bank of the channel. Well look, now they've sort of slackened down, what I've seen, not like before. Two or three years ago here [l9731 you couldn't get a bloke to work. This time you might have a bit of a sleep, but when I was camping here two or three years ago you couldn't get any sleep. I thought the world was going to come down. Well they're a bit better this time. You know what I reckon myself? Just because they've got the OK and their right to go in the pub and everything like that. It's pretty good what I've seen of them like. First I thought they reckoned they weren't going to get another drink, because when you looked there were bottles and everything all around and they never had enough money to keep them going. But they get enough to make their heads ache. Well I reckon they're a little bit better now.

Ordinarily when you're working on the stations do you save a lot? You get one good manager running the station, 'Righto', he says, 'Boys you've done this now. What d'you want to do? You get pay end of the month and you'd like to go down and have a bit of a go with the bottle or something like that. Well, come back. Take a couple of days off.' Well I reckon that's better for anybody see, you feel more happier. See this young feller at Newry here still has the old time ideas. He's only a young boy managing that place and I reckon he has more idea how to work a bloke. He's a hard working feller you know but he gives you a break see. Well that narked me altogether here at Kildirk. The bloke there was a funny feller to work with. He had silly ideas how to work a bloke. Those poor fellers when they lived with all the bullocks and branded up the calves had no stop for five weeksgoing solid every day. Four or five young boys walked away and left him. I say he's lucky he still has a boy left. Like they said they could do without them, but I've never seen a place yet that could do without boys. All the stations two or three years ago were coming from a long way looking for boys, to take them away from here. They must be some use to the stations if they chase them, ain't it? Well some stations are pretty good, like Newry and Waterloo which pay the award. See if you worked at Newry and stopped there for the season you got holiday pay too about Christmas time, but not any other station. And Rosewood was a high paid place. In the old days we were given eight pounds ten shillings a week but if you went to

104 When the Dust Come in Between another place they gave you two pounds eight shillings. That would have been around 1934-35. Kilfoyle was paying well all the time to get the men. Lissadell was one station that had a bad reputation. See I had to ask for two pounds a day. They were paying about four pounds or five pounds a week and I was only getting about two pounds eight shillings. They had to pay me. I was doing good work for them. The feller I worked for, Jack Kilfoyle, looked after his cattle like his own sons and daughters. Where are your bullock bones? You know they're pretty cheap to buy. The cattle would knock you off the motor car to have a feed of that. They'd smell that thing and gallop up to you and they'd horn you all right. You bought it in tons and tons. They'd grind up the bones from the meat works and mix it up with a bit of bullock meat and fat and sulphur and things. Well Kilfoyle bought all that for his cattle. It was really good for them. They used to know the cows, the bullocks and the bulls that belonged to the country running there just like their sons or daughters or something you know. 'Ah, there's the old woman', they'd say, 'Ah yeah, there's old bull', like that you know. Well you look at it today. They don't know these cattle. And as soon as you go to the bore all you can see is a cloud of dust for miles and miles. You won't see a beast there eh, only crows eating ticks around the trees where the cattle have been lying down. Well why can't these fellers do that sort of thing now out in the back country? You send fifteen or twenty hundred bullocks to a white man and he inoculates them and they might get eight bullocks out of that with TB. Do the managers or stockmen know that? Nobody. The fellers with the stock inspector know that thing. They're the ones you have to call to test your cattle. Then you have to feed your cattle and nurse them just like your kids. They have to have the salt lick and sulphur and bluestone a little bit. That's for their blood, the bluestone, for their water system, and sulphur's to clean them up, and the salt lick's because that's their tucker. Well they get more meat. That's the way they look after cattle. But as far as TB and pleuro and red water goes that's all we know. Like we learned from the old time people what diseases the cattle had. It could be cancer or anything like that. For pleuro you can see pus coming out of their mouths like frost or soap lather and they can't move. You can't hunt it away, even the red water. And their eyes go with another kind of disease. I'll bet you no manager knows that. He has to get it from the stock inspector who's paid by the government to do those jobs.

Bill Laurie: Station Times 105 With the black boy's life, well we used to be pretty happy with that turnout all the way through. Then they brought this life up, after being bumped around and everything and now we're all here. That other life was a good life and I think we killed that life myself. It's a different idea see. One time they used to love the cattle work but now they don't like it. See it was more happier. Well this life I just don't understand what they want to really do to a bloke you know. They still like to have a feed of beef but well they have no intention to go back. If they had a job like this with a bit more money they'd sooner muck around here. See one time you went to work and everybody came back and did their work after the holiday. Well they went on then with no twist or turn. We just kept going, mustering your bullocks and branding up your calves and everything till the Wet came and you had holiday again. You just went for a holiday and then you were back with no trouble. But this time there's all the bother in the country. All of them are here now. There's not too many dark fellers round the country. You'd be lucky to see five hundred in this square mile. A hundred miles round you wouldn't see that. This mob here wouldn't want to go back to the bush. They're too far well into the place see. Now the young boys, one time you couldn't go out from the stations. They had to stop there till they were finished. Say I was working on this place Kildirk and there was another mob at Waterloo. Well they saw one another at holiday time. That was the only time. They didn't see one another unless they were mustering pretty close together, putting the plant up or something like that. Well those were happy years, good years. But these years now, it's real hard to put up with a bloke you see. YOUgive these young fellers a manager who starts singing out to a bloke who's been working all his life with the cattle. Well that's the life I'm looking for, not to say, 'Go on, do this', and 'Why don't you do that?' Well the blackfellers are the ones who've been carrying these stations up. You might have one head stockman, one manager, one bookkeeper and one or two cooks. Well that's all you had in the place. That was a good life. You knew who you were working for and everything. And now this life it's hard to put up. The boys don't know what work's to be done and everything.

I asked you about what you liked about Kununurra and what you didn't like. I've got to know more white people here and I've picked up now and a lot of my ideas have changed. I reckon we're pretty level now, equal

106 When the Dust Come in Between to be one. See the young fellers have it in their head now, they can all read and write. Well they can follow pretty quick eh? Like, I have to go and you have to tell me what to do. See with horses and cattle I could get up in the morning and pick up my bridle, have breakfast and away I'd go no worry. You'd go round to dinner time and get a mob of cattle. When you finished that you went on again till sundown and yarded them up, let your horses go. You'd have a wash and a feed, smoke a pipe and sleep. The next morning you did the same again. It wasn't like these farms everywhere round see. And I said to a lot of them myself, 'Where do you think you're born? Who brought you into this country?' Some of these young fellers would abuse their mother and old father. I'd wait till they were sober then I'd go and talk to them. 'Now', I'd say, 'That's way you treat your mother and father eh? You don't remember what he done to you all the time, bring you life in this country? You don't give him a thanks. Were you born from this stone here?' See if you talked to them like that all the time they must get all set good you know. If you still let them get away with it they'll get away with it all the time. But since then I've seen it all pretty good you know. You have no complaints from them and they don't drink like one time they used to. The first time you thought they were never going to pull up what I saw but look now. They're a little bit better, a hundred per cent on a couple of years ago. When they reckoned they were big men they were only just nothing. They'd stand over their parents for tucker and money, everything like that you see. The old people wanted to save their pension money. Well you're not going to give it away to young kids just to go and have a drink. Some of those old people are silly you know and give it to them all right. I used to go round and tell them, 'You shouldn't give 'em money. YOUspoil them if you give 'em money. They won't do no work. See spend it on you all the time. O h it's time they going to look after you ain't it?' See they have the old people to fall back on round here but you go out on the cattle stations now there's about twelve or fourteen men going out on the camp. Well away they go mustering all around. You don't see them for about two or three weeks until they come back then you might see them for a couple of days and away they go again. You see they didn't stop much. They might have that one day break and away they'd go. Well it's different from this town life out in the bush, a long way different. It was only the old pensioners who stopped in the stations. Every stock boy all went out and did their work. They had to go all the time.

Bill Laurie: Station Times 107 The white people were all right with these older fellers. They got along pretty well. It was only the young fellers. A lot of whitefellers I saw came here every morning looking for blokes for work, but no no no. It looked like they weren't interested in these farms or anything, even stock work. A bloke from Ivanhoe came once looking for stock boys. He was glad he got one you see. How are you going to put it into these young feller's heads now? Like, older boys you can get them. You'd say, 'I want stock boys now, come on'. 'All right', they'd say. They'd go and try you out and if it was good enough for them they stayed there. If the manager was no good you could just tell him, 'No, I'm finished, I'm going'. But this younger mob now they're grown up but they're like strangers, unknown to the work and they don't like it. What I have against them is sort of these young people you see around here, well after three months they sort of drag. That's the time to give them a break see. I tested them when I was running the camp myself, 'Here chaps, you want to go?' You have to give young boys a break. They have no wife. They have to go and see their girlfriend or something. Well after two or three days you've got brand new men. They come back there and start all over again. You see one time you couldn't do this; this time you can. You have motor cars and aeroplanes. That's one thing I don't like about the town myself, it's too much in your pocket. Anything you want to eat you have to buy all the time. When you're one man you're right but I have a mob of kids. The costs are too hard. When you're out in the bush it costs you nothing. Every Saturday you had your money in your pocket and plenty of tucker, free beef and everything. Well that would see you going for a long time. Kununurra is a good town to come in only for two or three days. Like I'm not up against anybody at all. I'm up against my own pocket you see. If I had money right I'd sit down. If I had no money who's going to give it to me? The poor old government eh? Now I saw a big mob working together o n Rosewood there, about fifty men in the camp, half-castes, blackfellers and white men, a lot of young fellers. Well in those days we couldn't go and drink grog. If our mate went in and did it, poor feller, if he was caught he got six months or was fined, that sort of business. Well that was no good. But we used to get away with it you know. They used to sneak in and get some grog before they were allowed to be in the pub. That was only four or five years ago wasn't it? Now the poor old fellers have all the worry in the country. I was twenty-five years old when I had my first drink. It was on Rosewood Station with two old Italian and German blokes working

108 When the Dust Come in Between on there as well. I used to work for them. It was rum. I didn't like it myself. Anyhow they said, 'Drink it, it's good for yer'. But the older you get you know if you've been drinking all the time well you don't worry anything like. You go and have a drink and that's all. Somebody brings you a drink, I don't care, I won't knock it back. I smoke a pipe. We used to eat bush tobacco in the early days, chewing it. It grew underneath rocks here. You put it out in the sun and then mixed it up. It took two or three days to prepare it. The leaf you put it together and tied it up airtight in bark and then you had your tobacco all the time. It was just like that tobacco you grow up eh? But the way they're getting on at these meetings I don't know. This Miriwung mob is the cause of the disturbing all the time, only about ten or eleven of them. Well we've got no say here you see because this is their country, it's their hill and everything here. We blokes are a long way behind, about a hundred miles out. They have more control now round. They're more of a private sort of bloke. They have no boss at all the way they go. When they came here they had no boss. They just plopped in here and stopped. It wasn't like out on the station where you had a boss to get along with. They're all happy yeah, but I see like they're sort of private. They can choose when to work and when not to work. You see the motor cars go round and round here blokes looking for blokes to work and they pick what they can get. And a lot of times they couldn't get anybody. I put it this way Bruce, there aren't too many of the Miriwung mob here, you know what I mean with the languages you see, like Italian and German? Well there are only a few Miriwung around here now, see about eight or nine that's all. But there are more from different places. Well like I said I'm a Ngarinman. My father-in-law, old Binggal, is Garamau. Now there's only Mandi, Colin, and Bumbi and Michael, that's the Miriwung mob. Not too many you see. Waddi is, yeah, and Joe and old Paddy. Banggaldun, whether he talks Miriwung I don't know, he's Yilngali, a different language. But he was working ever since around this country. Old Duncan here is a Miriwung. Old Johnny Walker isn't. Albert and old Mulligan there talk Miriwung. That's about the youngest blackfeller in the lot of them see. They're arguing now you see with the language. The Miriwung people like to go off and work stick picking o n that farm. But where are they to do that job? They had to get another mob, this other language Guluwaring further more towards Turkey Creek. John Toby well he's halfway between the Miriwung and the Guluwaring. Well he took the people he knew. See there were only a few old Miriwung fellers here

Bill Laurie: Station Times 109 and you have to have about fifty. Well they want the idea in their own way. Say I talk to you and I'm a Ngarinman. You'd be a Guluwaring or Miriwung. How many would you have? I might have about twentyfive, or thirty, forty or fifty blokes. Well that's all I could gather up here. Where are they going to get the people to work? But if every different language went away what would be left? About ten. In my heart when I did work eh, in the station or anything running the camp, well in my nature I like to work and get it done for the white managers and make good for myself. I don't want to rubbish my boss. I reckon myself the old people are the most important, a lot of these older fellers, and some of the younger fellers too. You get most of the young boys now well you see how this mob act, but the older people are good respectable boys themselves. A lot of them have respect like old Mandi and Banggaldun and Jack O'Sullivan and old Johnny Walker. It might be their age. They try pretty hard and they're doing a good job.

You were treated pretty badly and then there was a change? To tell you the truth in my day you were one white man here sitting down they wouldn't be happy unless you were pretty good to them, you know laughing. They were real frightened of the white man before. This only came up not very long you know. See they couldn't say anything. If they did say anything the white man could pick up a stick and hit them over the bloody head that's all. We had a good time with them. Sometimes we made a mistake and got a flogging or two. They used a stick and everything, whip, rope, hobble chain, the first thing they could pick up in their hand. But in those days you see white people only had to tell you, 'You do this', and that was the finish. You went and worked. Those old people they didn't tell you twenty times. The first time was good enough and if you didn't take it in the second time look out you got a hiding. The people in Ngarinman country were wild not very long on. They were running away more the style before they got them all quietened down. See they used to belt them up too much you know then they'd get touchy and run away, run away to another place. Once they got going with the whitefellers it was all right. One or two would get a hiding. See if they weren't good enough to work they sort of tied them up and belted them up to it and they'd run away one by one. But a lot of blokes were happy just the same, the older boys.

110 When the Dust Come in Between The younger and middle aged boys were a bit of a nuisance, wouldn't work or do anything much good. Well you couldn't blame them for that. They'd take it into their heads you know, 'You belt my boy', but they didn't say that to the white bloke, they'd run away. Well they used to bring them back to the place they belonged to, before. You couldn't get a job here or go over to another place and get a job. They'd get the police on to you and bring you right back. And when the younger boys got into trouble they knew nothing much, you had to teach them up to it just the same as schooling eh, working amongst the cattle. See if another bloke was riding along not taking any notice well a stockman bloke would go up and plug him with a whip to liven him up a little bit. I heard about the Wyndham shootings when I was down that way. Only in my time I saw the manager come and tie two blackfellers up and put them on the tree. He took them away in the morning and that was the last we saw of them. They were two old boys who came from Sandstone. Well they were taken away in the morning and shot somewhere. O h they might have sneaked into the station for a bit of tobacco see and somebody must have told the manager, 'Two blackfellers there, two bushmen! Anyway the manager and the head stockman got hold of the two fellers and tied them up. This was on Waterloo. I was a big lump of a kid like these young fellers going to school. O h I remember that just like it happened this morning like. I know what the manager said to that old boy. 'This', he said, 'See this revolver here? I'll shoot you right in the forehead. You'll never kill no more bullock.' Well he took them away and shot them all right. He did something to them. We never saw them any more anyway. They'd take a bloke up and shoot him no trouble at all like because no doctor or policeman was around you see in those days. The policeman came round once in twelve months. Well now today you have a motor car and aeroplane pretty smart to get round and find what happened to this kid, what happened to that boy, and take you straight t o the doctor and find out. In that my time it was pretty hard. I saw Mrs Campbell who was sick at Waterloo. They sent a bloke with a buckboard to bring the doctor out but he was two days behind time and she passed away you see. Well those sort of things happened. What hope did you have? There was no motor car, no nothing eh? After those days we were treated pretty well. Now when we were kids the blackfeller was treated pretty bad. You could hit him with an axe or anything and kill him dead, chuck him in the rubbish there and burn him up. We're coming up gradually. I was about ten when

Bill Laurie: Station Times 111 I think it started to change and when I was about twenty-one or twentytwo I reckoned I saw it was a little bit of a good life then. The country had quietened down and you had the welfare and the policeman then. Then right about 1934 we started meeting the organisers from the union mob. I wasn't on the book during that time. I was only working for a stick of tobacco. Well we got three feeds a day and a stick of tobacco a week or something, and shirt and trousers. Well that was a pretty fair go. The last time I was talking to Reg Durack when he was at Kildirk I said, 'The only life that's a good life, beautiful life. You work no trouble no nothing. Right, when you finish, "Righto you boys go holidayn.You put your loin rags on, roll your swag - you might have a calico - 'way you go.' I reckon I was better off with a stick of tobacco a week in those days. I was more happy. Well in 1934 I was on the wages then for eleven bob a week. The old police sergeant at Timber Creek was the one put me on eleven bob a week at Rosewood. I reckoned it was a different life then amongst everybody you know, white men, half-castes and all. All were happy in the big camp. I reckoned that was different from what I was doing, cock-ragging round the bush here. And when I worked for Kilfoyle I was a good worker and he sort of liked me then. He said, 'Oh well he know his job. He's a good worker.' We had the stock moving about all the time. So he put me on three pounds ten shillings, three pounds a week first then he gave us another rise, another ten shillings. That was about 1936 when we got the rise. People were coming from everyway there. Today I reckon myself it won't be long before the white people will start arguing with the blackfeller. I know what they're like you see over their land you know, where they were born and sit down there they reckon. That's all they think about. Like you see a lot of these managers here for a length of time. Fourteen and fifteen and sixteen years they manage the places. Well they sort of get used to that manager. They know him. 'Oh a good boss this one. Nothing wrong. A good malaga', they'd say. Their word you know. Well when he goes for a holiday the boss comes, 'All right dear boy, I'm going for a holiday. I'll see you.' 'You go holiday?' they say. 'No, I'll come back.' Right they're happy. Well it might be two months and the boss comes back, 'Oh boss here now.' See they sort of like that bloke over ten or maybe twenty years. They sort of have feeling for him as well as his feelings for the boys. The name 'boy' round here isn't insulting. O h you can call anybody boys round here, they don't worry at all. But the only time they buck up is when they're called nigger. See that's the one now. That

112 When the Dust Come in Between

boy, you call anybody boy it doesn't matter who he is. That's natural for this country. And when they got new managers, 'Oh we gotta feel him first time for what he like! See they touch him like I touch this dog and if he's no good well he walks away. Well they gradually get used to him. But what their problem is the same time they're thinking of their manager they think of their country more you see. They won't leave the country. The trouble's only on the stations see but if they had a manager there for eight or nine years well they think the world of him like, just like their old country. If he went away and another one came along well I don't know how they'd get along. He might say, 'Get, go to bloody hell', and abuse them for nothing. Well that's the way all most blackfellers think about now. Not only blackfellers, myself. too. If he reckons we're rubbish we'll rubbish him bloody quick. But before in the early days well what you'd do to me, shoot me like a bloody dog here, anybody, the head stockman and all. If they reckoned you were rubbish you were finished. But the trouble is you know a man doesn't travel around, can't make any money to get around to see a bit of life. Well like you people travelling around you see life in different places. Well we're stuck up here in this little corner just back here and that's all the road we know. We've been to Wyndham and maybe a little bit to Turkey Creek. Well away from this we don't know anything.

About when was it that you got married? You met up with your wife and got married probably on one of the stations? I was married on Kildirk to my first wife Amy. They gave her to me when she was knee high. That's the daughter-and-wife what we say. It's just like you get married in the church but in the blackfeller rule they put her on your leg and you have to sit down till she's grown up. I was a big boy but she was little. Well I couldn't go away from that till I married her. You have to wait till she's ready and the parents all look forward to you all the time. Well they think of you more you know every time you go. When she's ready they bring her to you, 'Here you are, that your wife'. See that's in the tribal Law. You have to be the right marriage skin in your own Law. But righto, you look. When you go over the boundary this way along the Snake line, this Bumandu at Kildirk, well you go down Auvergne way.

Bill Laurie: Station Times 113

That's the crocodile mob. I'm from the top country sugar bag mob you see. See you might be the one to have a daughter and you're a different skin from me. You're what they call lambara in the blackfeller Law. That's father-in-Law. He's djangari. Well we have to give him back a daughter too sometime you know when your sister has her or something. The Snake line that's the boundary, the Dreamtime turnout. It goes straight from west and east. The girl they give you she's your cousin. They say, 'Right. A h we'll give it longa Bill', and I'm sitting down like this and you bring that girl over here and drop her on my knee. And that's my wife. I can't turn her down. Well, later when I left Lissadell over here I went back that way again droving for old Reg Durack. I went bush again, then when Reg wanted me I went back a few years after. She was a big girl then and as soon as I got back there well they gave her to me straight away. That was in '52 or '53 someway. Later Amy ran away and left me. Then I married a Garamau woman from Keep River way, Binggal's stepdaughter Auvergne Brenda Gunari. I was promised to another girl from the Gidja mob over this way but I didn't like that see. That was a long way from my country. I stayed with Binggal and we got on all right. You get more relations behind you. Binggal has more relations somewhere and I have more relations too. See we really have nothing to do with this Miriwung mob. We were brought up differently. We only just came here on account of we were working here and droving and one thing and another and this was the nearest town so here we came. Well we should have gone to Timber Creek see. We're all relatives. Say a hundred miles round there's a lot of fellers. Well look at one old girl up from a long way, Springvale this side of Hall's Creek. She might have a bloke from way down here, from Carlton. Well there you are. That's about a hundred miles round eh? They spread like a pumpkin vine you see. Like my people here I have three sisters full blood (four, but three have a mob of kids) all born down here round Newry and Kildirk. Well that's all the area we have. Their father was born down this side of Auvergne and I was born not far at Waterloo and my wife was born at Auvergne where her stepbrother Binggal was. Well me and my wife we stuck to one another. We had this big mob of kids and no trouble at all. Well there are a lot of good ways to marry and a lot of bad ways but I reckon I have a good wife given to me when she was a kid. She was always there when I went back, it didn't matter what time.

114 When the Dust Come in Between

And you were what religion? I don't know what religion I am but they put me in this UAM [United Aborigines' Mission] church where all my family go. We went on that from the word go like when they started the church around here. Well when we were at Kildirk you see that was the first time I saw that church. I didn't know anything about it. They were travelling around by plane. We went to that church then another bloke came out, a Catholic feller. And he was talking silly you know asking different questions you shouldn't ask. He was asking how the men do it every night riding the women, all this sort of thing. When one of the women told me that well I sort of said to myself, 'Well that not right. He can't be a Catholic', and I thought, 'Well now he might be a rubbish! So I didn't go to that church where they had the meeting. I didn't go near them. When that feller said, 'You come to the meeting?', I said, 'What meeting?'. 'Catholic meeting.' I said, 'No. What I heard about you', I said, 'I think you not a Catholic at all! This was long before. Kununurra was just starting that's all. I stayed with this UAM just to find out you know really, to see what's what and everything. But I still can't make head or tail of it yet. We went to this UAM church but we didn't want to be tangled up any way and this state school was schooling my kids all right and that was enough for me. It was a pretty good school. This Catholic mob were going to take them and I fought a bit of a battle to get one of the kids back. But I wouldn't know anything about why I chose the UAM church. It was just the church I followed up all the time, my wife, myself and my children. We reckoned we'd stick to one, that was good enough. I'm trying to find out ideas from them you know but I still can't pick them up like. I was in the church all the time see when they talked and I still can't make head or tail of it. We had an argument even out in the bush like, me and old Reg Durack. I said, 'Now this church business, who's first come this country?' Then he said, 'Well Jesus, he was the first feller come here! I said, 'What about that feller that bin chasing him, nailed him on to the cross? What about them bloke?' I couldn't get head or tail out of that one. But I said to Reg then after, 'How did you come to learn this here, them figures you know?' They're the figures you spell out words, writing and everything like that. I said, 'How's that come in this country?' Well he reckoned, before they used to put a cross with a stick like the old blackfellers. Say they sent a letter, they'd burn a mark with a piece of wire but they couldn't read the marks. The bloke who took the marks

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over there well he had to explain to them what it was all about then the other bloke sort of got it into his idea and he got it properly true see. Well Durack told me then the same sort, before, you see. Well it must have been right. See when you come to look at it properly those old marks used to be there before those words. So then they gradually got up to the words. Now you just scribble a note and give it to the bloke, a letter or anything, and he reads it out. See that was very good, but that old turnout you had to tell the people. They still own that marks turnout you know. Then they had the kids into the school and they learnt all this. See the church, well it's good to go up and see what they're talking about. We went mainly for the children. You see the blackfeller Law, well you sort of go in that school and you see something. With this religion now they have here I just follow it up to see what is what. But with the blackfeller turnout I can see it all the way through you know. Yes, it means more to me. See when you understand you can point out what the meaning is and everything. The religion is where the change is coming but it's hard to muster it up, thinking about it. The Big Sunday is a big turnout. It goes from one end of the salt water to another. From the west here you know between Broome and Derby where the sea goes right across it goes direct like this border line right through to Queensland on the next salt water. The languages in that Law are supposed to be our border line. See I talk Ngarinman. The Gidja people give you the language from Red Butte up here. Well we take it on and when we get to Limbunya somebody else takes it on then. The girls aren't allowed to look at the Big Sunday. It's just like a school you get here. The blackfellers come and tell you what to do. Like I've been in it but not for long. I still can't make it up you know. They look at everybody and say, 'Oh you so-and-so, you so-and-so'. You might be one of these Sugar Bags or a little bird. The Dream, that's what it's supposed to be you see. They're supposed to have been men before us. Well that's what they follow the old people but these younger people now they don't have it see. That's one word Dream. True, it's a white man word but you go anywhere and they'll tell you what it is, the older people. You'd go to one place here and to another place and they'd tell you what was there before. Then you'd look around and you'd see these birds. 'Oh that big so-and-so blackfeller before, what he was doing', and all that. You know we all have Jesus Christ on top of ourselves way up here? Well Eagle Hawk and the Crane they were our fathers. This Crane

116 When the Dust Come in Between feller burned that other feller inside the hole way up here. And when he ran away Crane came to another creek which ran down this way to Bullita and he followed it along. You can see his tracks on the rock the way he went. When he stopped there he looked back and he cried. Tears came out of his eyes you know because he felt sorry for a little boy who had been killed. And that Thing drips all the year round. The show's there for a lifetime I think. It left a picture. Well that's our tribal Law. Eagle Hawk and White Crane argued over the skins and everything and Eagle Hawk killed White Crane and planted him in a hole on the side of a cliff. That's where they had pictures there. You couldn't go up there and paint it and you couldn't come down from on top. And just like the rainbow colours you couldn't wash it out. That's safe to leave in the book. It's like the Christian Law or something like that. And this bugger Garimalang the Snake went past Limbunya and he finished way over there way down going on the east. We only went from here to there then another mob took over. There was Limbunya Station, Waterloo, Rosewood and Lissadell, Mistake Creek, Texas, to Wattie Creek (what they call the blackfeller reserve) and they take it on from there. We couldn't go any further because we had no language with them. We might understand a few words but words are no good. Malngin, Ngarinman, Guluwaring, Miriwung and Gadjerung, that's all we talk over here. Well this Thing is still travelling. We have to give it away there. That's the blackfeller Law, the Big Sunday where you and me can punish the bad boys. And there's another one travelling this way. When you get past Limbunya and Waterloo here there was a Flying Fox coming across a long way, that puppy-dog faced bugger. Well he went down this way to Kildirk Station. There was one of those big turnouts before in the Dream time when they pulled up Emu and a lot of these Cockatoos. They pulled up there but some of those fellers were going on through. 'We all go the way', they said, 'We don't want no night-time'. This old woman, the old Emu said, 'You got too many kids behind here! There was a big plain see to Kildirk Station where they were eating this paddy melon and they were sort of singing the corroboree, 'D'dip kaw, d'dip; d'dip kaw, d'dip', meaning to say, 'Stop and sleep'. Well this feller sang out, 'Come on, come on, come on! Then they smelled this Flying Fox going across, 'Oh hullo, who's that deep smell thataway?' That's what made them pull up. They were circling on the hill. Well

Bill Laurie: Station Times 117 then they kept on going down this way from way over round the salt water right down to another salt water. That was the Dream. See we passed this on. That's all safe for the book. You can keep it in, don't cross it out. It won't hurt anybody's feelings that Thing. That's only the Dream time just the same as that Barramundi which is supposed to come and sit down with this diamond turnout. Well they reckon that was a secret turnout but it wasn't secret. That was the Dream time before we were born about what they did. When we take the little kids in the Law we tell them what it means. They don't know till we take them there. But if they could read it they wouldn't know what it was talking about you see. If you took them to the Law well you'd give them understanding properly but there are no more blackfellers left. Some fellers when they read it might have a good head and say, 'Ah that's the way the Law bin go', but a young feller would reckon, 'Ah this rubbish', and they'd chuck it away. Eagle Hawk and White Crane, that Snake turnout, and Emu and Flying Fox, they're the main ones. There are three corroborees.

The next paragraphs are part of a session recorded informally, a kind of leave-taking which took place during the performance of a Balga on the reserve. I had been unable to catch Bill for a more formal farewell discussion during which 1 hoped to ask him a little about Kildurk Station but what he said on this occasion (placed elsewhere in this chapter) met that requirement admirably. What do you reckon about this Balga turnout eh, any good? It's a devil or ghost. I wouldn't know but that's what they say. Balga is an old corroboree but it's only an ordinary song just like Slim Dusty or anybody. And Djanba is only a young one. It only came the other day. They're the main songs in this area going across. I can't work that Djanba out. It's a smart looking corroboree. A bloke here now, Pannikin, has that Djanba. He found it one night. You see, you talk to him and he might tell you what it's all about. Pannikin belongs to Carlton. He knows all those songs because he made them up. He got a song in one night. I don't know whether it was a brolga dance, some sort of bird in the billabong. You see they talk a language I don't know. Pannikin's the one who took the Djanba over to Melbourne or somewhere. O h he's got a big mob of those songs.

118 When the Dust Come in Between That's the education, the Big Sunday. Well you go to school now to find out what's what but you had to run over two miles to see this Thing, and you'd be only there for five minutes and you ran back to where you came from. See the blackfellers would be all along the road with their shovel spears, tomahawks and fire sticks and all sorts of turnouts to belt you if you didn't run. You saw Something, then you ran back and if you weren't there in ten minutes you had to run back again. There was no rubbish in that Big Sunday, nothing. And you'd see the blackfellers dance this Fly, that green-backed feller who digs a hole out, and they'd have a big song: Zzzzzzzzzz. Well they reckoned they had nothing there in the Big Sunday, even this little house fly. Well you run there and you see bark with all blood in it from the arm, and all these flies: Zz zz zz zz, zz, zz zz. You didn't know what was going on but they taught you all this you see. These were stories about the old time. Then you ran and you saw a lot of Things. I forget a lot. Well that house fly he only gives you a bung eye. He's nothing. And that other one that goes eeeeee like that, he's a bit of a Law carrier, you know when he digs the hole out. They're all right for the book. The last one is this big Turkey you're fined five hundred dollars now to shoot. He's the king of the turnout. You run when they say and you look everywhere and you don't see anybody. Then two of them painted up with feathers and everything give you a hell of a fright. And they say, 'Ahhh', and talk back to front you see. A bloke might call you his sister's skin or something you know. Say our skin is djanama ain't it? They say, 'Nanagu you look this way', and you think they're talking funny eh? But they mean business to us. You look back this way, 'Well they talking to me', and they hit me in the head and turn me around, 'You look back here! They don't tell you unless somebody poked you in the neck or something to make you look. Then you see. But they didn't call your name or your skin or anything. 'You look about what's there', they say with language. Now you have to look and all of a sudden this turkey jumps out of the bushes making noises and you see these great big things like eggs, two of them that the boys were lying on top. He has bushes all over his back and when he jumps out he looks like a turkey with the quick look and feathers and everything. Well all that sort of thing you know. I was about fifteen then. It was a long while after circumcision, when I ran away from Waterloo. O h it was a big turnout. See they gave you a hell of a fright and everything like that and then you had another sort of turnout when they sort of drove you then. You didn't know where they were, perhaps in the bushes, and they kept on saying things to

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you back to front. They were talking among themselves but back to front. You'd see one bloke coming round this way to drive you and another bloke jumps up, takes hold of you and is going to bite you or something, and you get another fright. Then when they reckon you're right there they drive you right back to the bushes where they had the proper corroboree ground. The first time you went there you saw nobody. Then you saw all the other mob lying down like a snake and another bugger way up made snake-like noises with leaves and you think he's going to bite you. And they all move the same way. It gives you a fright all right. And then they hit you with a stick and say, 'That's what you bin looking for. Now you got him and don't tell anybody.' That's the school. Well that was the last one. Then they all get up and you have to rush on the whole lot and put your arm round them and they make you sit down. They have bushes just like a turkey nest and the four of us sit there. They have white paint and feathers and they put it over our heads. We can't say anything. We were like that for a month or six weeks. I couldn't even ask them for a smoke. Well after that they bite your finger and make you sing out. They'd do everything to you to make you laugh. See they take you up again like a new man. See the idea? They bring you from the rubbish and you become a new man again. It's safe to put it in what we went through you know. Well what are you going to really do with this? Well you might as well make a book out of it eh because the old people are finished you know. It can be read by anybody, what is the tribal Law. If you make a book about that you send it to my big boy Reggie so he can read it. I took him halfway but he won't understand things. There's no secret in this turnout at all. Only one thing is secret, everything else you can leave in. When you went through in those times when I was young you cast your spear and if it stopped here halfway well you weren't going to have a long life. They told you then right there. Well my spear went a long way and I have a long life. Well out of us four mates who were in that Sunday three of them are dead. I'm the only one alive. It might be true eh? That's the Law they had. It was a good turnout you know for young boys I tell you. It was a good life that turnout, a better life than here I tell you.

PART I1

JOB HISTORIES AND THEIR THEMES

Plate 6

Alfie Deakin, 1982, Kununurra

BORN ABOUT 1930, DIED

EARLY SETTLEMENT Recorded 7 June 1982: one session. His wife Ladi Barney is mentioned often in McGrath's study Born in the Cattle (1987).

I want to know where that old Ivanhoe Station was from Button's Gap or a bit of a ridge there before it was burnt out. Well see, old Tom Deakin he was on that place all right. He was my grandfather, and my father was Jimmy Deakin. What I know were the stories old Jimmy told me about that my grandpa old Tommy Deakin told him. Old Tom Deakin reared up Jimmy from a little boy. He brought him all the way from a place called Urandangi. That's in Queensland. He brought him right up, right down to Western Australia and started shooting all the Aborigine people. And Tom told him, 'If you gonna start shoot this people in here, them blackfeller in here'. But the old man said, 'No. I can't do that. They're my colour. All the same like me.' And old Tom he said, 'Listen. Son you listen. You got to do it. Otherwise I'll shoot you. You got to do it and don't think I'll be frightened to shoot you.' I don't know what sort of a bloke Tom Deakin was but I know my father. He was only a little stumpy bloke just like myself. But old Tom I don't know. He could have been a bigger man, a tall bloke. Both of them together came from Queensland. My grandfather reared my father from the Kaukadunga tribe. Well later o n he came back to Newcastle Water. See his brother was there. And it was a fair while that he and his young brother were working together so he left him. He had a lot of family you know, a lot of Deakins there too. My grandfather came round with a boat for my sisters and brothers and Jimmy Deakin was married to another mother of mine,

124 When the Dust Come in Between well another aunty on the Queensland side. He left her and brought his son and daughter, Captain Deakin and Jessie Deakin. And when he came round here he found a lot of people round and he shot all of them down and he picked up my mother, out of the Miriwung. See he was with Tom Deakin at the same time and he shot those blokes and chased them with the horses. They took off. He shot all of them down and my mother took off in a bit of a breakaway. My father saw her go in the breakaway and lay on the long grass under the bank. They came around and my father said, 'Oh, one girl was duck back here and went down the creek'. And they walked round. Now this Tom Deakin he walked round the creek and he found her. He yelled out to old Jimmy, 'Y'know he's here. I got to blow his head off.' And old Jimmy said, 'No, wait on! He said, 'Don't shoot this girl. I'll take him for my wife.' That bloke my grandpa didn't want it. He said, 'Ahh, y'can't speak with the English'. He said, 'Oh yes, I'll get him in the quiet. I'll tell him all the story of what this mean and all that sort of thing. You better not shoot him.' Tom Deakin said, 'All right then, you can take him with you! He picked her up and took her to the camp. They took her right back to the Waterloo old Station. She was only a little girl and she settled down. There was no other white man you know. So he got married my father, in the ordinary way [bush marriage], and they settled down not very far off. They found all Jimmy Deakin's family. Two died at Waterloo, my youngest brother and my youngest sister, and two others, a brother and sister, died around this hill here, Kelly's Knob. One of my sisters is still alive at Waterloo. There was only one boy out of the Deakin family. That was myself. And this old man, before I was circumcised he died at Waterloo. My sisters and myself were only young then but we knew everything that was going on. See that family of mine was all out of one father, old Jimmy, and there's sort of only two of us still alive. Those fellers talk about old Durack out on this land. I think they and the Deakins were together, the way that I just understand. This shooting was on no station. This was round the bush here everywhere they went. When he'd done all this Miriwung country Tom Deakin went right back to the Ngarinman side and all that Djaru side past to Limbunya, and all through the Mistake Creek country. That was where you ran into a lot of bushranger blokes. There were Jimmy Deakin and Tom Deakin, and there was a bloke named Jack Beasley. And he was a crook. And old Jack Colorado

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement 125

and old Jim Wickham and Jack Peterson. He was another crook you know too. Another feller then was on the Mandoora side down the bottom end there called Jack Brown's Pocket. That was Jack Brown. They called that hill there and the country where he lived by his name.

I don't know about any more Aborigine people but, o h yes, there was a bloke named old Boxer. He was a Queenslander with old Durack all right but I don't know who brought old Boxer out in this land. I can't get that story. But I've never been with old Boxer very much. I saw him in the lately time at Rosewood working for old Kilfoyle when I was a boy. And there was old Mulga Jim, the father of old Sammy here, and old Alec who died at Rosewood. They were old men who all belonged to the Northern Territory. But old Alec and Boxer and Mulga Jim, all those fellers, I don't know them like. I saw them later on because I was living with my father all my life and I know my father gave me all these stories. And there was one old bloke who died in Rosewood Gorge named Alligator Tommy. He was from Alligator River. He was round this land doing bloody shooting too. And there was one old gadia bloke named Alec Brown. He was a chairman. Ohh, I don't know about Billy and Jimmy Weaber. I think they were a bit later. And an old feller called Bertie and that mob were a bit later I think. They were around when I was a little boy. My father told me about all those crook men. Waterloo was the old station. Tom Deakin made it. They used to have just a brick wall. I never heard the story about Ord River Station, whether it was before those others round there. The true story I can tell you is what I know. I saw the buildings that had been with ant hills. A feller would get rock just like this here and set it up with cement, put it with the water, put it there and just shove the brick in. Well that's the way they made their houses, all with mud brick. I saw that in a place called Bareback Yard in between Mistake Creek and Waterloo. It was a very very old station about three miles out from where the station is now. Old Tom and Jimmy started it off. They lived there. That was the start off, with brick houses. There was one old Jack Beasley did and another one. Old Jim Wickham had a place in between Yuendi on the side of a little bit of a spring this side of Limbunya, in between Waterloo and Limbunya and Mistake Creek. Another one a bit further over was a lace called Colorado. Jeff Colorado had that house. It was all made up just all brick walls and everything too, no pieces of iron.

126 When the Dust Come in Between

How many years was this before Buchanan brought the cattle over? Buchanan brought the cattle over before the town of Wyndham was around. This country was supposed to have been settled by the coast because, before this land was brought up with all these buildings and the Europeans came on this land, I think the old person who came through here and found out nobody owned this land was they reckon a bloke called Captain Cook. He was a bloke came through from England going to the salt water right round Australia, driving a boat all round. Then they came out with the horses, the Butlers and old MP Durack. All those fellers brought bullocks into this country when nothing was out here. And old Durack, he came out here and had a station, old Newry. He couldn't stay. All right, he went to Argyle. He never stopped there. He went to Lissadell and put up that building there. He was still working around looking for the country to stop and live. There were no motor cars, only horse work, horse and bullock. All right, another feller named Jack Butler came out and lost all the horses. Half of them got away. That was all the brumbies which bred up. I don't know where Jack Butler was then. Well I'll say it was that old Jack Butler and all that Durack mob. I think old Tom was first. He came out and these old myall people came in. They didn't know whitefellers, they couldn't understand English. And they stuck houses all around. As far as I know that's what my father was telling about it, that's all. In between that Jack Butler and Tom Deakin other fellers might give you more stories than what I know. You see, my grandfather "Ibm Deakin was a white bloke. His father was a half caste bloke named Alec Deakin, and his mother was an Aboriginal girl who mated up with a white man, just an ordinary man who used to go out in the bush hunting for food. Tommy was taught by an old Aboriginal bloke named Dick Norman and there was some sort of Law for my father Jimmy. Old Jimmy and Norman went together on the riverbank or somewhere in Kaukadunga country. And that's where they were picked up, a lot of Aboriginal people. Old Tom and Norman George, two European blokes, picked up Jimmy before he got married when he was a little boy, and reared him up. He told Jimmy, 'Y'got to call me a father cause I reared you up with my food and all this, teach him how to ride a horse, and teach him with the food', and that stuff. And he said, 'Now you got to call me a father. Now, my name is Tom Deakin. Now, I'm going to name you, next name to me. You'll be name Jimmy Deakin.'

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement 127

And that Alec he got killed over here on Bradshaw just the other side of Auvergne. Some bloke might have killed him. And this other feller Norman he got killed by an accident with a horse at Newcastle. That was all that mob, all the one tribe for my father. And those people back to the Kaukadunga and right back to Newcastle and all those places, well they're all my brothers from Jimmy Deakin's youngest brother George Deakin. They have a son named Yuwi Deakin. That's the Mudbara mob at Newcastle. And they have another young feller named Gilbert Deakin, another feller named Harry Deakin, and Fred Deakin. They're all at Newcastle. One bloke came here last year to Kildirk. Well they had four sisters, Amy Deakin, Biddy Deakin, Jessie Deakin and Freda Deakin. Their mother's name was Joyce Deakin. And all those people there from Elliot they're all my relations that mob up to the Kaukadunga side, and all the Mudbara know them. You know, the Kaukadunga mob used to come back to the Mudbara and the Mudbara went to the Kaukadunga, back and forwards, and that's why they know one another. Well now that's on the Aborigine Law we can call what tribe we are. They say to me I'm a Miriwung because I'm picked up. I'm between now with the three tribes. I'm halfway Miriwung and halfway full Kaukadunga, and halfway Miriwung and half Mudbara. My mother was Miriwung and my uncle, the father for them, was halfway Mudbara and half Kaukadunga. Say if I go to Elliot now they might ask me, 'Who you are?' I'd say, 'I'm Alfie Deakin'. They'd say, 'Your father Jimmy Deakin, come on. You our relation.' Or even if I go to the Mudbara mob. They follow the skins. I'm djabidja by the mother namidj but I'm really djabuda by the father djulama. O n my mother's side they're Miriwung: old Joe Bandioak, old Waddi and Charlie Mulligan (Charlie's my full uncle out of my mother's sister). My mother was sister to old Gypsy here and Gypsy and Charlie Mulligan they're all sisters and brothers, and old Daisy Djanduin. Daisy's my step-aunty. They're the same old family. My mother was married to Banggaldun's people. My Dreaming is Flying Fox. That's from my mother, not my father. My father didn't have any Dreaming because he was born with the gudia. He didn't know any Law at all. He only just knew gudia law that's all. He didn't know what the land was and that sort of thing. He said, 'I dunno what the meaning like. Before I got to go, with the understood what the Law means, well you know what Dreaming and all that sort of thing y'know. See you know I have to go right in to the old people and teach me properly.' And he was going to do that

128 When the Dust Come in Between

too but of course he got sick and died. I got the Law from my stepgrandfather, my mother's uncle and I remember then what my father was telling me about. That never went out of my mind. I just think of today what was brought into my mind from my fathers and any of that sacred Law from my uncle old Waddi and that mob. I have both things on my mind. All the story I can bring it out any time if anybody came and asked me. And I stick up for my father's Law when he told me on the gadia way. Well he taught me how to talk English and my grandfather taught him how to talk. A lot of people round all these cities when I used to go in the meetings, in Canberra and Sydney and Melbourne and all that, they wanted to know whether I've been in school. 'No', I said, 'I've not been in school! They said to me now, You must have been at school because you speak pretty well! I said, 'No no, I taught by my father. My father taught me how to speak.' 'Well', they said, 'your father must have been at school'. 'Well', I said, he's been long enough with the white man! I don't know whether he'd been to school. I didn't ask him at all. O h he must have been at school, just because he didn't know any Law I think. Wyndham was the only town and old Tom and them went there all right, that was sure. When they came back from Wyndham the old feller got sick and he couldn't go any more further. He stayed at Button's Gap and he told the old man, 'See how far I gonna be, still alive. I might be going down.' So Tom Deakin stopped at Button's Gap there and he died. Tommy Deakin told my father, 'If I passed away you got to go and see the manager and I'll give you OK for this buggy and these two horses, what gear on the back of this wagon. Horse and buggy you can take it back to Waterloo.' And Jimmy said, 'All right'. When Tommy passed away he went up and saw the manager [of Ivanhoe] who said then, 'All right, we'll make a graveyard here and bury this old man of yours'. And he had a look at the paper and he said, 'Oh, you going to claim the horses and all the gear something, what in here'. Jimmy came with the little buggy right back to Waterloo now. I don't know what year. This was before I was born. In those days we never had anything there to check up on what month or what year the kids were born.

Have you any rough idea how old you are? Oh, someone said once I was about fifty or something but I wouldn't be that far. Some bloke in another mob reckoned I'm about sixty. That's

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement 129 what we should do with a bloke like you to help. Find out from one of these welfare what old boys are in here and how long they've been going and all this sort of thing. Of course I know nothing but I tell you, you know that Japanese war was on when they bombed Wyndham and Darwin and Broome - the Second World War - well I was only a young feller then. Like one of the young fellers here on the top school in grade seven, I was only about that size then. Well a museum feller told me when they come all the family can go out there to Button's Gap and clean up Tommy's grave, run the fence over, put the cement on the top of that cemetery and put the name. It might be next year you know, but I have to go through with the station manager first. One day when you come back next time I'll take you and show you that. I'll show you where my mother's grave is at Waterloo - my full mother who carried me in her stomach - and I'll show you where my father died. I was born on Waterloo and that's where my father was buried too. I don't know much about when I was little you know, not really. When I was a fair size starting to crawl around you know, before I started walking I used to walk and walk and fall, and walk and walk and fall and this sort of thing you know. When I was a young boy, as soon as I got some of a moustache I started working. In those days we used to work just for shirt and trousers, blanket and calico - no money at all - hat and boots and two sticks of tobacco. We used to get those twists of tobacco. We used to chew a lot of them. And most of us were reared on this part of the land. When I started working I was working in the morning tailing the horses, and let them go in the afternoon. Then you'd go to the camp and I'd get all the horses and hobble them up. You might knock off for the day then. And also they used to go out in the morning and muster the horses up and bring them back. They'd get my horse and saddle him up and put me on top of the horses, and I used to go and tail them. When we started getting mad on those horses, oh I'd chase them round galloping around. Then they used to put me in the cattle work. They used to go and what they called coach us you know. When they mustered them and made the cattle quiet I used to drive them along with the other people. As we drove along they used to muster and chase a mob of wild scrubbers into the quiet mob. Say they go out onto Kelly's Knob there, they chase all the wild cattle back onto that mob you're holding and drive them on. That's coaching. And when they used to see the mob coming with the bulls and that they'd say, 'Get out of the way little

130 When the Dust Come in Between feller, get away!' And I used to get away. I used to be mad when I was a little boy chasing all the calves around. I did stock work all my life and that's why I got crippled, by stock work. O h I was a wild man you know. O h I used to be mad on the horse bucking. That year, if I hadn't been hurt, in a month's time I'd have been in the rodeo because they nominated my name. Ahh we went out one day to muster a mob of cattle for Katherine and I rode a wild horse. O h he was really a bad horse too. I chased a bullock and it went across like this and the horse got thumped and rolled over. He locked his mouth and I couldn't turn him and he took straight into the bullock. The bullock was there and I was there and the horse was fallen right on top of me. And a bad break I had. I had a break down here just below my knee, and up here on my thigh, and my hip was out of joint. I went to Wyndham hospital and I was there for four months and they couldn't do anything. I was there three months and the month after that they were going to send me into Darwin, to the hospital there. But they sent the telegram back and said better not send this boy in here. The Japanese were going to raid Darwin at seven o'clock in the morning. So they sent me to Melbourne. I stayed in Derby waiting for the boat from Perth which was taking a load in Wyndham and a telegram came out from Wyndham the boat got drowned. That was the Koolama. They said, 'Now he going round, enemy's flying round this Derby, on the coast'. The Army got me on then. I jumped on the Army plane and it took me right to Perth hospital. The Army was round Wyndham and Broome and Derby and all those places, not in Kununurra. A big camp was in Perth. After my leg was crippled I was still in the stock camp. I was on that old Limbunya Station for a long long time you know, and I was in the camp at Limbunya station after I got my leg hurt. Then I pulled out and I came to Waterloo and ran a camp in there. And I pulled and I came to Rosewood and ran the camp as head stockman. I did a lot of jobs around since I got the crippled leg. I came out and worked at Newry now. I pulled out from there and came here round to Kununurra, and they took me off from Kununurra to Newry Station again. I stayed there. I was at there lately then. See the money was cut off for the stations you know, for the stock camp, and all the station fellers had to go into town and find a job. The government said there's no money for pay, to pay it might be fifty people, something like that. There was a lot of us from Newry Station. We all came here working farms. There was a lot of boys working on the farms till we got this place set up, Mungung Dawang. Peter Willis

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement 131 picked me out and brought me up here and I was the bloke over this lace. I wanted to work this place up. Well Bulla was in this lace then and he handed Mungung Dawang over to me because he knew I could work the place and he wanted to get that Dingo Spring badly. And by the way, I think between Dingo Spring and Mungung Dawang Bulla has a lot to say yet. O h he wants to camp round and find out what people don't do the right thing round here, but he didn't bother about it because he knew I was running the place well. I was never given any stories about the gold rush at Hall's Creek. Not very long I think at one of those places there they had this bloke, he had a big hole in the ground and he picked all the gold out or something like that. I heard a bit of that. I was only a boy then about two years old. I could have been right or I could have been wrong because as far as I know I can't tell you any further back. Well you see what the old feller told me. He said, 'Now this word that I'm giving you, remember that. Don't ever forget that if you can. Try to keep it on your mind. What you can tell a story about your own people or any European people coming out with, what bin done on the beginning and what bin going down, and what bin going up. You can tell all the story that for me, what I'm giving you.' Not only that but what he told me, 'Anybody ask you who the bloke bin giving you the story you say, "It was my fathern. You'll mention my name. And if they want to know who's Jimmy's father tell that European bloke, "Deakin's father that European bloke that Tom Deakin". And if they ask you where your father and your grandfather come from, they come from a place called Urandangi on the Queensland border.' My father was living on the Kaukadunga side for seven or eight years, shooting with the European people. He had a big mob of poddy cattle, poddy calves, and he sold them when he was going to come to this part of the country. The bookkeeper who was here last October 1981, he was making us chuck in $100 for the rent - some other people $40, some other people $100 - and buy a bus from one of the white businessmen. And he reckoned that was $500 for the lawnmower, and $5000 for that bus. And I asked him there, I said, 'Where is the bus?' 'Oh', he said, 'still in the town'. I said, 'After the people bin pay with the thousand dollars the bus should have bin standing up here! 'Oh', he said, 'No no no, because they want another five hundred yet, to make a thousand'. And he said, 'Oh it doesn't matter'. I'd love to know where the money went. He reckoned it was a brand new bus. And later on we found out that a businessman in town got the bus, the one that was going to be given to the community.

132 When the Dust Come in Between That's the one that bookkeeper was going to buy but he didn't buy it at all. The money was in his pocket. And all the rent money we were paying for the kitchen there, that didn't go through for the hostel managers. They didn't know anything. The boss of the hostel was that shocked you know that the manager didn't report it to him. He checked here and then he went back and he got that bloke in jail for doing that. That bookkeeper's doing it for eight years in prison in Perth because they stole money from the Aborigine people. That's a very important thing if you can put that bookkeeper on to the book because he did a crook thing through the people. They always seem coming and going. I remember an Egyptian and after that an Italian. The Italian didn't last long but he was not a bad bloke. And there was an Indian bloke. Well he wasn't too bad. That Egyptian bookkeeper was going to get on to those Land Council jobs in Darwin. Well he got to Darwin and found out another bloke named Jerry Blitner, so he went back to Perth. The Italian left because he didn't like to stay here very long. And that Indian feller, oh a few blokes had a row with him so he walked off. And another feller that was here, an Englishman, he didn't last very long, and someone reckoned he stole $600. That was later on, I don't know.

What's your connection with Bubble Bubble now? My connection with Bubble Bubble is just by all Ben Barney's mob because I'm living with a Miriwung family. My Miriwung mother was the eldest of Ben Barney's mob. That's why they wanted me to go into Bubble Bubble and try to stick up for them so they have their father's name. Because old Barney, he was roaming round at Bubble Bubble. He was born in this country before Newry Station was formed. That's the full uncle for old Gypsy. My wife's Ladi Barney. She's Miriwung, the same old family for Flying Fox and for old Topsy you know, Albert Wadidja's wife. Well Topsy's the youngest out of the whole mob and Ladi's the eldest. Flying Fox is Sandy Mulligan's wife, Ben Barney's mother, and Ladi's sisters are Flying Fox, Topsy and Sheba. I only had three wives. I had a young woman who got killed. They killed her, the boys on Mistake Creek, I don't know who. They had a fight and someone threw a blooming boomerang to shift some other boys and the woman was running across and the boomerang was struck right through her head. And I had another woman in Limbunya, Elsie, and now Ladi the last one. I had one boy named Warragil (a white name) from Millie the girl who was killed. Elsie and I had no children.

Alfie Deakin: Early Settlement 133 Me and Ladi had a boy named Philip. Ladi went to Perth with him and brought the kid back and he passed away at Newry, and they brought him up and buried him in Kununurra. I think he had some sickness on the chest. We didn't have any more children then. See what's going on here with all the Barney's mob, they reckon they want to get on to this meeting to talk about getting Bubble Bubble. So, there's about forty-one families belong to that area. That's only all the families for Ladi and Flying Fox and all those see, and that old Jeff Djanama's wife. And those families they have the biggest mob of kids. Paddy's wife has about seven or eight children, and old Dinggul's (Jef' S wife's) family has about four (or is it five?), and Ladi has eight or nine. That's only never counted through the mother, but I reckon forty-one without those two. All those fellers see, Katherine and Jessie Kumboi, and Dolly Thompson, Minnie Lumoi, Freda Limestone, that's five girls who were working at Newry. And they were married at Newry to five boys. See, Paddy had two. He had Dolly and Katherine. And Carlton George had Jessie Kumboi, and one boy calledPaddy was married to Minnie Lumoi before she married Lennie Turner, and Freda was married to an old boy called Jumbo. And this Doris was married to Newry Peter here. Well the six of them worked at Newry now and they got married at Newry Station, and all the sons and daughters really belong to Newry Station. One old boy called Tiger, he got his work one way too for Newry Station because he was born at Newry and he had a home there. And one old girl here, Ladi's and Flying Fox's mother - they're carrying her around and putting her in a wheelchair and all this because she fell down today - when she was young she was working at Newry Station. Well you get that thing written in a book with a typewriter, you might bring it out here one time and get all the mob together and talk it out. And they'll know that I've been doing something. They'd like me to get everything done up for themselves. That's why I came up trying to tell you about my problem, because I couldn't get anybody else. Of course I got that museum bloke and he said OK. Then Jeff Djanama told me, 'Why don't you put in for your grandfather, tell Bruce about it so he can have it on the book, and history for it?' you know. And I asked my wife and I told the family and they said, 'If you want to do that you can do it. And you'll have your record in there.' And I said, 'All right, I'll have a talk to Bruce when he come round again! Well I might forget about it but you'll have a bit of it here, and I'll know that you have the word. Somebody might say, 'Who the bloke got it? How did you know? How did the report come to me?' And I

134 When the Dust Come in Between might say, 'I'm not telling you any lies at all. Everything go through, my answer went through by Djanama.' Some other people said old Mandi and all that other mob you got them down. They're dead and gone. Well we know you got the stories off them. If I die well you know the story you got from me.

DON GREEN BORN 1916, DIED 1990

CHRISTIANITY Recorded 14, 19, 27 November 1973; 5 January 1974: four brief sessions, two ninety-minute cassette tapes and half a sixty-minute cassette, making three-and-a-half hours all told. Not proofread with Don but read with approval by one of his sons at Hall's Creek.

You told me first you're Afghanistan ...? All 1 can say is from the first time I came in this country and onwards. 'Darkie Green' is my nickname. Don's my proper name. O h well you know white folks in this country. The government was changing someone else's name. Well my proper name was Doug Khan. My old man was Paddy Khan. Afghanistan my old man came from. They call me Don Green. My father was actually Pakistanian. He came out in 1917 when the German war ended. I was one year old. Then there's what I saw happening to the Aboriginal people since I came fourteen. I was born in Hall's Creek in the bush way out from everywhere and I lived round the country for a hell of a long time till I was eight years old with my mother in the bush. I roamed round the bush for a while with my mother, my father being away you know. My mother was full blood of the Gidja tribe. That's mixed up into the Djaru mob, the same people. O h well you can call our group the Gidja tribe. There are a hell of a lot you see. Well my father started a claim until I was thirteen. Then we went down until I was fourteen and my father died, killed by a wagon. He was going down a big jump-up and it went over the side and crushed him. We went on from there. I went off with five horses and battled round the country dogging and one thing and another. Things were very hard for the Aboriginal people. I worked round the stations for ten years.

138 When the Dust Come in Between

Which station was that? For ten years I worked on Mabel Downs to something like I think 1929. When that drought came in 1932 I was the man that was dumped on the rubbish dump after saving millions and millions of pounds worth of stock. There was a long-handled shovel you carried from the trough baling out water for the cattle. We had no engines or anything like that yet and just dug wells in the sand. I was doing that for three years by myself. A bloke named Freddie Frazer was the boss. He was the manager. Then till the end of 1935 he went off. The seasons started to come good and I went away. I was still getting half pay of a stick of tobacco a week, shirt and trousers, boots and hat. I was just treated a bit better of course. See, we half-caste people were treated a bit better than the full bloods in those days. Here they have to be one way or another. That's to mean to say either you had to be with the whites or, you couldn't be with the two. But time goes on. You're all human beings. It doesn't matter what colour you are, doesn't make any difference. Then I pulled out and left the stations in the end of '35 and went droving with a drover into Queensland, with old Dick Winters. I was on that work in and out different years, up and down into Queensland and Wyndham and Queensland. And time went on. Then we finished up when old Albert Quinlan got killed. He was my boss. At that time I was running one of his plants up here on Ord River Station. He had eight plants on the road and I was running one of them until he got killed. That's when all his horses were sold out. So I started to paddle my own canoe, carried my swag again. And I came back and raked up a droving plant of my own. I managed to do that in three years. I had 147 head of horses on my road then, and I had six boys. Of course I went on contract branding then on Moola Bulla for a couple or three years and did all right there. The Aboriginal people were treated a bit bad that time in the 1930s. They were just black, and they didn't like the blacks. But they got the work out of them. Well they wanted them to work, nothing else. They didn't want to associate with the black people just because they were black. YOUsee, the Aboriginal people all over Australia worked for nothing, just a stick of tobacco and slaving your guts out. But since the 1942-45 war it made a slight difference for the Aboriginal people. They could feel the difference you see. During that war they were droving themselves and according to the Vesteys crowd,

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they told us, 'We never thought Aboriginal people can drive mob of bullocks into the works. We didn't think they was capable enough to do that.' But they did the job very well in those six years and it was very surprising to think to them you know. Well that uplifted the Aboriginal people a little and they looked up on that. During that war no-one was working the cattle, droving them into the meatworks and all that sort of thing, only the Aboriginal people. And only the managers were back on the stations. See everything for six years was very good like during the war, then things went on and got better and better. After the Second World War, a few years after, the Commonwealth Government started to get the Aboriginal people their wages. First time it was thirty shillings a week or I think ten bob. I just forget. It kicked off and all the way went on. I don't know why white people are getting too fucking jealous for the dark people. This country was taken from us. The jealousy is just the same because the government is doing a little bit now for them, a bit better since the Second World War. Well we are entitled to what they're doing for us because listen, I tell you, money was put here for the Aboriginal people. I was branding cattle for Moola BuIIa on contract then. When the government had Moola Bulla any outside people weren't allowed to go there. I don't know why. That was the law they set up here. But things were creeping up a little. People were getting a bit educated and that made a lot of changes. So what we are looking forward to today is to do some farming and some cattle station work. Some of the folks might want to start a station or farming, all this sort of thing. We want a part of our land. You see, the way we're looking at things now, we can do the same as the whitefeller. The white man can go out and work over there and support himself. Why can't we do it? We're Australians. Aboriginal people should do the same as the others. And we can do it.

What sort of work were you doing after the war then? After the war I did the same thing, cattle work right up until '58. Well I'm still working them now. I was up round Hall's Creek at Moonawaddi in '58 when they knocked my plant down. See the wagon train came along and took the butter and bread out of my mouth. Away it goes, 147 head, the wagon train or road train. Well it knocked all the drovers you see out of commission, but it's quicker. I went on. I went on and worked for the Shire Council in Wyndham sanitary carting you know and did that for twelve months.

140 When the Dust Come in Between Then I went on working for the PWD [Public Works Department] after that. Then I finished out at Kununurra here and worked for the farmers clearing the fields down there. Then I finished up with the Main Roads again. I went down as a trail hand then finished up as a ganger with them for three and a half years. I wasn't with them when I talked with you in 1973. I did casual work down here, a bit of concreting for Youngies' caravan park. But I thought that wouldn't be long going. We thought we'd be going out to Lewis Creek near Hall's Creek 340 miles from Wyndham. A bloke applied for that ground and got it, 7,000 square miles of country I think. Well we wanted it too for all the families. There are over twenty of us, not around here. O h well a few families are around here but as soon as we moved out there they'd all go up there. It's just the other side of Hall's Creek, all the left-hand side past Gordon Downs in the desert. It's very good cattle country. It's desert country but good for cattle I tell you. You fatten cattle there. If you came out there on a couple of year's time, oh you'd see the difference. These folks here are feeding cattle and out there we have flat leafed spinifex mixed with Mitchell and Flinders grasses. It's great country. It might be a little poisonous for horses but it's all right for cattle.

When did you meet your wife, a long time ago or just recently? I married somewhere round back in the '50s. My wife's half Chinese. Well her old father was a Chinaman and her mother was full blood. She was from round Hall's Creek, Djaru mixed. I have six boys and four girls. We thought that maybe we could get a school teacher out there. Of course we'd have to build houses first. There'd have been about ten of us from here, or more. I had my nephews to go out there, they'd come, and my sister's family, mother's, my brother's, and my eldest son's families. We had enough labourers. Actually we didn't want outsiders but we could always employ them. I'd have been the leader of that place until I disappeared and then my youngest people would have taken over. I would have been there to see that the income was paying good for all that time. I expected money to come back within about three years. I wanted to get away after the Wet. You see we have big rivers, the Sturt River over here, and we were very frightened to get across it then. See if the big rain fell up there we couldn't have got across. It's black soil way out there

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too. You get caught there you'd never come back unless you got help or something like that.

You said that after, when the war came, things started to get better. Some Aboriginal people were left in charge of a lot of responsible jobs you see when the war came, with cattle and stock camps and droving plants. The Aboriginal people were joining that. And some of them belonging to the Main Roads camps were left in charge. See, some of those blokes were gangers. And it made the Aboriginal people feel that we were trusted to do the jobs and that we should carry them out same as the white folks. Well that's how you lead people so they said. They saw what you were doing and they followed you on. It was all right for the Aboriginal people after the war. They weren't as free as they are just now. As soon as we got the rights, the dog tags, they were more free. The other way they were just tied up you see. They just couldn't step forward doing the same things as the white man in a lot of ways, different little things you know. The white man would chip you and all this sort of thing. When the government gave them their full right the black people said, 'Well we always had the same rights as the next man, now we can go along to and step along with it'. Well you see I was sitting in the camp where there were white folks in my time discussing things and they said, 'Aboriginal people didn't know nothing, didn't know how to turn his hand to anything at all'. I said, 'That may be so. We admit that. But didn't you know that time is creeping up for Aboriginal people. What's happening for Aboriginal people now today', I said, 'they stepping forward a little now, step by step. And you cannot stop this. You know, Aboriginal people very clever. You wait for the younger generation', I said, 'when the old fellers goes off. You wait and see then.' One of the white folks said to me, 'Aboriginal people beside white man brother! 'Well up to certain things', I said. 'The other thing I can tell you they're not beside yet, not properly! Well, I said, 'Aboriginal people cannot make boots, hats, clothing, tobacco, motor cars, space ships, boats. Not there yet. But Aboriginal people they are clever men. When the younger generation go to high schools, and they go into these big machines, laboratories, works and all these sort of things. Soon as they see how these things work, and they're working these things, soon as they make things themselves', I said, 'you can say they're beside you!

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In the early days those who weren't shot died from disease. I don't know about disease. There wasn't much fucking disease in those days. There might have been a few, but not all died out. All who bloody died out was through the fucking rifle. Like, from that time when the Aboriginal people were living in peace, living a happy life. In those early days if you did radically wrong well they'd go and settle it and finish it off out on the flat with so many groups of people on each side. As soon as a couple were killed maybe the thing was finished. And there was no more sentence of ten years, fifteen years, twenty years or five years. There were two or three hundred shot at different times, maybe a few miles away you know: fifty, sixty, twenty, thirty, to travel away there. They shot them down like dogs. Did you know that along the Canning Stock Route when the police went down there one of the bloody station managers went down with them. And when he came back, rode away and left them, he said twenty or thirty poor devils were shot - kids, women, men - shot by the Police Department down the Canning Stock Route to Wiluna. The manager told us this. One of the white men was killed by a man who was cattle stealing. This was just over one fucking beast, and that time of the year there must have been a couple of thousand Aboriginal people shot. He said, 'I never seen the terrible thing like it. I never should have went with him.' We've been working in the dust you see, all our lives pushing cattle, working in the stockyard full of dust yarding the cattle in. Riding the cattle into Queensland and into Wyndham. I've only crossed with the cattle to Meekatharra. Sitting in behind the dust all day was a rotten game but I sort of liked it myself. We had a rough life mind you, going down the river and up the river in a cloud of dust. Well it must creep back onto you in the long run. Some of them say n o but I say yes, it must catch up on you. A lot of people when they got sick sort of took different leaves off the trees. I think some of the people were picking red gums off the trees and mixing them with some other things to cure cancer. I think they drank it, I just forget. But I know they took some different medicines off the trees. I can tell if a man has leprosy and all this sort of thing. I can tell on your hand, on any colours whether you're white, black or brindled. I look here on the fingernails and the backs of the fingers. A doctor can use the X-ray, what you call the witch doctor. He can

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see with a knife. If he puts his hand on the water he can see right through your body, every part that's wrong with you, bones and all. And the white man uses electricity and every other thing to take photos. The man can only see in the night time, not in the day time. My grandfather was a witch doctor, and my uncle. I think there are a few around about now. See, my grandfather and my uncle they're in the grave. They died out now. But they said if you rubbed on like that you could see every part of your bones if they're broken or cracked. You might not believe it. He said, 'You've got bad blood there. I'm going to take 'em out.' And he sucked it out and put it in a pannikin. Now how's that for a joke? That bad blood was in the pannikin. Any other things, any complaint, any cracks you had, he'd tell you.

What made you move here to Kununurra? I moved here to Kununurra chasing jobs. This was our beaten stock route years ago, this gap and the stock routes into Queensland. There was no trucking in our days. After working in Wyndham, sanitary carting for the Roads Board, I tried to finish up this way. I went to Hall's Creek as a ganger for two years with the Main Roads then I came back here. I don't like Kununurra. It's a bit too hot. Hall's Creek has a good climate. What I reckon, it's very hot there. You have salt here and everything. This ranch out that way that we thought we'd got that time, we'd be pleased if we had it. I lived here for three years before that time I talked with you.

I'm very interested when you say the Aboriginal people came up with the eruption and also when you talked about the rain and the fish. Well see, this is what I think myself, when the rain falls a lot of grubs and all sorts of insects must come from it. And also frogs and one thing and another, the gilgai frog you see in the swamp. A couple of days after you see them floating around just with a long tail. Then another couple of days after you see them galloping round with four legs. Gilgai frogs start off with just tails, they get four legs and they're frogs then. Well that's what I think, everything came up with the eruption. They were formed from the rain and mud. That's how the Aboriginal people think. No one else put Aboriginal people here. That's the Aboriginal belief. I was brought up that way too. My father went like the Aboriginal people in a lot of ways. You see, my people the Pakistanis believed in and worshipped the fire

144 When the Dust Come in Between and the sun in their religion in the early days when the sun was disappearing [setting], what more I don't know. But say for me for instance, I don't believe in the white man's belief. That's yours, you believe what you believe. I believe what I believe. That's the way it goes. Why should I turn my back and cling onto yours and leave mine behind? That's wrong. I don't know the name of my father's religion. I was too young when he was killed. I wasn't interested about anything. I wasn't looking forward to anything. You know when you're young you're just here and there and think of nothing. The older you get you realise more and look into something a little bit deeper. But I think that's quite true, well what we believe, when you disappear you disappear. See, the end of your life you do not come back. When you disappear you go for the rest of your life mate. Of course you might form into these things and come back as grubs, insects sort of bred with water and mud. Some of those blokes said to me, 'I'll come back as God created this eruption'. I don't care. You can bring your top best scientist and that's the closest answer he can get to. That's what I told the Watchtower mob too. I said, 'There's no such thing as the human being coming from oversea. Black man come up with the eruption, was here before a white man, laying in peace, happy as Larry.' One of the folks said, 'Oh black man're dying off slowly'. See the black man had food and things here years ago. They lived a happy life, no jail. The only trouble between the Aboriginal people, they might form a little army and they'd go out on the flat and all fight out there. Whoever won, well he was king of the tribe. That's the way it goes, they were all settled again. Now they're getting ten, fifteen, twenty years, five years, all this sort of thing. But I mean we mightn't get this back but that was the best Law, no more jail. If a man did the wrong thing over there he had to stop, otherwise he had to die. There was no more jail, you fought out on the flat. A few would go off to each side and get that man. You were fucking dead and that was it, no more sentence, and no more way to attend that fucking life imprisonment. I mean they never had rifles but they had weapons that were good enough to destroy any fucking man without rifles then. The Aboriginal people used to pick up anything, a stick. Well what murdered a woman here once, a rifle? No, a bloody short stick.

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Now you also mentioned this morning that you wanted to say a few more things about keeping up the old culture. You see it's this way. In my time it was missionaries and churches, and of course I was in the bush all my life ringing, chasing cattle all that time. These churches only came after the Second World War. So many of them spread in. It might have been in the big cities but not out back. It was to make all black people believe Christianity deeply you see, but what about the Aboriginal belief? None of those churches and missions are better than others. For instance, since the Vietnam War everything changed pretty fast, what I've seen myself. Some of these missions might try to look into a lot of these things. I don't know whether it's different now because I never got involved with them in many ways. I was out bush all the time you see. What I think they do, well I went into a few churches myself but I came to a blank, to my way of thinking, in the end. The church is all right for young fellers, to teach them from doing the wrong and right things, but apart from that the other belief doesn't work with Aboriginals. See this religion here sort of broke up Aboriginal culture. We don't mind going into church but they want us to believe their belief. A bloke who came from Queensland was supposed to be a Christian. He had a go in here one night, I wasn't about. He said, 'Do you thoroughly believe the Aboriginal way of living or what are you?' They said, 'I am Aboriginal. I thoroughly believe Aboriginal way of living. I believe Aboriginal belief.' See, why should we believe this feller here? If there was any power here mate, why doesn't he use this power to stop all these wars, stop people from slaughtering one another? No one put Aboriginal people here. They had their own belief and all this sort of thing. They had their own police. They had their own government in the way of tribal Law. And the white folk come out and educate these Aboriginal people to say that they want to believe the white man's belief. Well we can believe the white man's belief in lots of ways but not in Christianity. I might go to church once in a blue moon just to please them. What education I had? None. I was dumped from the cliff and that's the way I rose from, that's where I battled from. I battled through

146 When the Dust Come in Between my way with five horses as I said. I can't read. What I look in to learn these things is with my own mind. Well the churches sort of broke them up. That's what upset a lot of the Aboriginals today. See they went to church and everything and educated them and all this sort of thing, and these priests, church or whoever they are, when the young people came old enough these women and boys were married in the wrong tribal way. That's no good. You bust the tribal people up. Say for instance I marry nambin. Well she's my niece in the tribal way and I should not marry her. Nangara is my mother-in-law in the tribal way, I can't marry her. I'm djungara, my wife would be nangala. The one I have here is nyuru [naulal. She's my second wife. I said to her, 'We're a little bit wrong but you are my second or third wife! You marry nangala, nyauru and nabanangga. Those three I'm allowed to marry in the tribal way. Nowana's my wife in the tribal way and that woman was made by power for me to marry. Those other things they called aunties, in the white man's way, see from my mother's sisters, they're all mothers in the tribal way to me. And I have four uncles. And my mother's sisters have sons or daughters. They're not cousins in the white man way, they're sisters or brothers to me and I cannot marry them. I can't marry any woman away from those three. Years ago they used to kill one another. YOU couldn't just marry anyone. The moment you married the wrong skin they could kill you. If you married a tribal woman of the Aboriginal people it must be your own blood so your children will be royal blood, you know, not in-bred. Well some of them say in the white man's way you can marry your first cousin. That's a terrible crime to the Aboriginal way. You cannot do that. It causes terrible hard feeling. What the church teaches about marriage doesn't fit at all. They're breaking it up and we want this straightened out. Young people are beginning to marry wherever they pick up girls. And another thing. In the tribal way I could marry three sisters or four. This was done from the beginning if I wanted to, providing there was the mother's and father's consent. No one else could interfere providing they were my tribal wives. And if the parents agreed to give them to you in their own consent you couldn't say anything unless you travelled away. This was going on for years. The white man came and broke up that sort of business. And then years ago they used to marry older boys to younger women, then older women to younger men, because that meant to say the flesh was never formed into a man or a woman yet, not properly

Don Green: Christianity 147 set; not to be formed into a man or a woman until she's twenty or a man was twenty-one, something like that. That's what balanced the breeding off. Well you know they're still chickens, the flesh is still not formed in the man. They had to be twenty or eighteen but not less than that, from those ages upward. Ah, another thing. Say I have five boys. Any young teenage girl cannot enter in my camp until those boys are eighteen or twentyone. They're not allowed to come round in my camp until those boys have gone through the second big Law. Each one may have a tribal wife given to them, promised to them. No one can touch those girls. This tribal skin was a terrible thing too and is a terrible hard feeling for a lot of people today. Years ago it didn't make any difference to a bloke over in Alice Springs. He said, 'That's my wife over there was given to me by my tribe. Why did you marry that woman to that man? She's my wife and I'll kill that man.' He said that to the white man boss, who replied, 'You kill him, you'll be in trouble'. He said, 'You go and get the police'. He just walked up with a spear and knocked [speared] him. That was his tribal wife. Once promised in the tribal way you cannot break that promise. Anyway he knocked him. Of course they got the police and he got two years out of it for that. See, you can't interfere with that wife. Say my mother married any white man, providing her father and mother and relations agreed for her to marry. Right, you came automatically to their tribe. You marry naula, you're djanama, you belong to them now. You see a tribal man knows his skin and doesn't get away from the fact. He should know that he shouldn't break it. Say a white woman marries me, well she'd have to be nangala. She's sister to my wife. No harm's done. She's my brother's wife as well as mine, that's the tribal way. But he cannot corroboree with her, into sex. And I can't go mucking around with my brother's wife. But she's my wife just the same. You see those sorts of things are breaking up, no good at all. We'd like to get this Aboriginal tribal religion straightened out. We don't like to see it like that. Some of them are married to mothers, tribal skin mothers. They had no right to do that. Nieces also. That's coming from his sister. He shouldn't marry them. Those sort of things are no good to him, it makes you sort of look silly. When you get a real tribal wife it doesn't matter who they are, you travel with her just as your wife now. We don't have to go and sign pieces of paper or anything, it's just straight, no mucking around. That was going very well for years and years. You can see people now marrying their blood relations. That's no good.

148 When the Dust Come in Between The churches ought to step carefully and look into these things. The different ones don't understand their custom and it affects the other people. You see you can cause murder between the Aboriginal people by doing that. It's no good if you're wrongly married. They didn't know but by Jove they're not doing anything. You see this will have to be brought back, not thrown away.

l don't know that Aboriginal Law of that kind, you know punishment for crime and so on, I can't see how that can go back to the old ways. The white man came here to break up Aboriginal custom. Why did they break it up and take over this country? They even have the bloody cheek to sell the land back to the bloody Aboriginal people. Aboriginal people didn't sell this land to the white man. They very well broke up the land intentionally. Why did they shut the Aboriginal people out? One of those folks told me, 'We didn't take the country off the black people! 'Well what the bloody hell they shot him out for?', I said. 'You going to tell me', I said, 'this country never been taken over by the point of a rifle? They bloody well did', I said. In five generations the mixed marriages will breed the dark people out. Well they're all right in lots of ways but you're breeding the Aboriginal people out by doing it. I mean, we don't say that we don't like the white people but we want the Aboriginal people to increase. Well every year the different colours are increasing in millions. What about the Australian Aboriginals? The poor buggers were slaughtered down. For what we lost we want to increase. But my way of thinking you see Aboriginal people are trying to get closer friends to white people today, but you can say a little discrimination is still reflecting. Well we now mix more freely than we used to, like in the early days. A lot of white folks are very very good. I've worked amongst them. A lot of them I've had very good mates. Of course we'll be too pleased living side by side with white people. As I said, we want to come closer friends to the white man, as close as we can. A lot of our people are no good too.

What do you think now about the things the government is doing to help people get stations and that kind of thing? Then I said to these folks, 'No look, what about Aboriginal people, they had money in Australia'. He said, 'What sort of money?' 'Well', I said,

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'in rocks. Gold, iron ore, silver, lead, copper, byrites, and asbestos and uranium. They didn't know but', I said, 'the time is coming up to realise that. That money dug out of the ground from the Aboriginal people. And that is true.' You see the money came up with the eruption, with the Aboriginal people. Listen here, don't think that we black people were poor. They didn't know they had money. The money was laying here for them. The white man came in here and took the money, from the blackfeller's rocks. They're taking it out now. Truly speaking, when Captain Cook came here he reckoned this was virgin country. This wasn't virgin. The black man was living in this country. Then years came by and people streamed into this island from overseas with the boats and shot the black people out. You see they had a black government here. Did the black government sign this treaty with the white government here? Did Captain Cook sign that paper or what, in the Aboriginal's way? No. The black man was living here before the white skin came. The black man got nothing because he was black. They say you'll get your royalty. Where's the royalty gone for millions of quid in Perth? I think they owe us a lot of money. The mining companies, the white people, had no right to do this sort of thing. Where's our cut from the minerals from the Australian ground? It doesn't matter who did it, whether they were a mining company or not. Not even a quid. Not even one cent. Where is it? We should get some of it back. We want to use it in business. Some of the folks say the Aboriginal people are not ready. We were ready like thirty years ago. I don't know why they say that. Just pure jealousy, that's what I put it down to. But I say we have no grudge against any white man, that is clean and clearest as crystal. That time all black men were frightened from the white skin. They had every order from the white man. Well the Aboriginal was kept down by the white man in the past and up till now they're trying to keep him down. He had his fucking big foot down on my fucking neck and I was one of the slaves. Well the Aboriginals are trying to step forward a little but in a lot of ways the white man is still keeping them down, in a politeful sort of way. Like, inside he says, Tuck you, you're fucking black'. I mean he doesn't want the Aboriginal people to come up, some of the white folks. We were ready for this fucking twenty-five, thirty years ago, some of us. We never had the opportunity to go ahead. Well we had the opportunity but we never had the money. Well don't you reckon the government should do something for them now, after what's been taken away? That's all fucking jealousy.

150 When the Dust Come in Between Like in the future today they're looking for what they're going to live up to. We want to live up near the white man's standard in lots of ways. I mean you want to self-support yourself and have a good home. It might be farming, it might be poultry see. But that doesn't say that you want to turn your back away from your own. The rule of carrying things out in the tribal way has to be straightened out. We don't want those sort of things broken. We didn't interfere with the white man's things in the past. We're very much pleased that the white government's helped for what we're going to do, farming and all sorts of things, cattle ranches, education for the younger children in the white man's school, in the white man's way. The more we can get Aboriginal people in higher school all the better. Educate them so the younger people can read about these things, what was done in the past. What I said before, the Aboriginal people have no grudge against the white man for what was done in the past. You see we don't want any discrimination from no white skin. Those things cause trouble. There are a lot of things we think about. You see the way the Aboriginal people are running their life today at the present moment doesn't run smooth, not like they used to years ago. You didn't hear the Aboriginal people drunk, howling, fighting, swearing filthy language and all this sort of thing. That's terrible. You know one time in the past the Aboriginal people were shamed people going well. Those filthy words were never used. They were the shamest people going. The way they're carrying on today sort of hurts the elderly people. We know that Aboriginal people may be lazy. Well a lot of them are lazy and a lot of them will work. What about a few of us? Not all are lazy. What makes us think they're lazy is - what about what they did to the early settlers in the past? It's them who were made to grow fucking cattle stations for the white men. Only manager and head stockman came to the ranch, and a mob of Aboriginal stockmen who branded the bloody cattle for years and years, forty to fifty or sixty years. Who branded the cattle for them when the poor bastards were only fucking slaves in those days? Who grew the fucking cattle to make those bastards rich? Black people. Some are looking forward you see. They want to get on their feet like the Mirima Council. You don't class every bastard as lazy. Well all I can say is some of them haven't got much punch in them to go ahead and some of them have plenty of ~ u n c hin them to ~ u s h things along, to make it pay. We haven't got the bloody dough to carry on. I should have been fucking well out there on my station.

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You see the likes of us, we battle ourselves from the beginning, battled all our lives. We know what the hard times and the good times are. The full blooded too were battling on their own that time. A feller made me real nasty once and I said, 'You dirty mongrel. You criticising coloured people. You mongrel of a thing. Why did you shoot the fucking black people in past? You shot 'em just through his fucking woman.' A bloke out on a station said that to me. 'You bastard', I said, 'You took his fucking woman away there and sleeping with her over there, whether he likes or not, just because the poor bastard was printed black, and you white skin! I said, 'Your gun made you brave. Then when he got sick and tired of you he has to go and fucking well kill one of you blokes in the bed there. That's only way he can get his bloody woman back. Then, away he goes, two or three hundred black get shot. Just through one.' I said, 'How do you like me go and pick up a white woman over there and I'll sleep in there with her all night? What would you do to me?' 'I'll shoot you.' I said, 'Same thing apply to a black man, got the same feeling'.

Did we talk last time about drinking and the reasons why people drink? Years ago when I was a kid if a drunken white man came through a lot of Aboriginal people would take off and hide in the gullies and creeks. They didn't like drunken people walking into their camp. Today they'll go and swim in it. There must be a way of stopping this. The only way you can stop it is when the Aboriginal people go in the pub and get their drink, do not sell any quantity of grog to them to come out back to the camp. It's the only way to cut this down, it doesn't matter if they're multi-millionaires. That's what we reckon discussing it between ourselves. And you must have Aboriginal police to control the Aboriginal people. There was quarter-caste, three-quarter-caste and all that bullshit but we didn't know enough to wake up in those days. The older you get you look into a lot of things, right from wrong. See in the past I used to take out a permit to work another Aboriginal. Well that wasn't right. All my life I say to people, 'Why should we take out a dog licence, in your own dung hill? Don't you know you're an Australian citizen? Well you bin born here. We don't have to carry no packs. And this is your Australian ground for Aboriginal people. They was put here with this ground. They roamed this ground without clothes.' You see the police came to me and he said, 'You got your rights?' I said, 'No. What d'you mean by that? I'm Australian born. I belong

152 When the Dust Come in Between to the Australian soil. I wasn't imported here. I was born in Australia. I've been thirty-six years in the country. I roamed this country, with horses, on foot. I was a slave. Why should I take a sheet of paper, make meself a citizen of the country, when I know that I'm already Australian citizen?' They used to call it exemption first, give out exemption to halfcaste people so they could enter the licensed premises to get a drink. Well we used to call it a beer ticket. Citizen right, it was not a right at all. It was a law they made themselves, which is wrong. I don't think it will get worser and worser but drinking is the biggest problem. Money goes away. The Aboriginal people are making the publican rich. They have families. Why don't they save their money and try to start a little business if they want to? See their great grandfathers and mothers never had any grog here. They didn't know what grog was until the white man brought it in. They even didn't know what flour was, even didn't know what poison was. Poor buggers, they were putting poison mixed in with the flour. When the black man got his drinking right he was rubbishing himself in front of the white skin, taking too many grog and swearing and using filthy language and all this sort of thing, fighting, drunk all the time. And a lot of the Aboriginal people don't like that. They want a way of turning up and showing the white man what they can do for themselves. The coloured people are trying to keep as close friends as they can today but discrimination shows up a little yet. We notice that. Well discrimination comes from the white race, not the coloured people. I walked into the Six Mile pub once with a white bloke. We walked in both of us. 'Oh', that barmaid said, 'You have to go round to the other side before we can serve you. We cannot serve you with that bloke with you.' 'Oh', my mate said, 'you go round t'that bar over there. We got to go back round here.' So I followed him to get a drink there. I was with a white man. The white man was working under me. We were wearing the same sort of clothes, had just fucking blown in from the bush. Then I was looking at the others coming in from the work, especially the whites. They went into where we went in the first time. Don't you reckon that's discrimination? Then I chatted this bloke back at the camp. 'See you know', I said, 'when we walked in the other side the woman told us to go round the other way? It's fucking discrimination showing straight away. If you had any bloody decency why don't you knock the fucking drink back?' I think I've been here once and just had a cold drink. But why have two or three bars? That's showing discrimination eh? O h we

Don Green: Christianity 153

understand that part of it but see this feller chucking people out all the time, he should never do that. What's the matter with him? Maybe they make too much noise but I heard that people are lying there drunk and they stick the boots in and all this sort of thing. Well that's not right. That's what they said about the police. That's no place for the police to do that. That's bloody bad. Several cases here we were complaining about they never took any action. Two cases were very serious. My wife's sister who was living with us up here was raped in town by one of these Aboriginal people. Nothing was done about it. She broke away from him and all this sort of thing you know and he chased her up and caught her up and knocked her about and knocked her out, and stripped her down. Well you mean to tell me that's not rape? She told me everything like. She went to them next morning and told the police to pinch them. I don't know what happened. The welfare woman knew. Then the same feller did the same thing to another Aboriginal girl from Hall's Creek, tore her dress down. He belongs around here but those other people only just travel down there. That sort of thing's no good. What would happen now if we went and knocked that bastard, put a spear through him? White men used to come to a camp near mine different times for weeks and weeks until I put the spoke in the wheel. They went past me down to a camp nearby, around the back and turned round, and pulled up and turned round. So when he turned round over there I jumped out with a bloody axe. It's a wonder he never put the wagon on me you see. I was watching out for that though. I'd step aside and I would have smashed his bloody head in. 'Eh', I said, 'What are you up to? Listen here, I don't drive around all the bloody hours of night, turn into your bloody camp. You no come down here any more, otherwise you might be dead. Get going right now mate. You making trouble here, get. If you want any of this Aboriginal woman, lie with him fucking down on the street. Don't come back into camp. We've got growing up girls and boys here. We don't want them to see what going on. They'll learn enough when they're old enough. Get going. G o now.' The town would be better if they have the Aboriginal police to control them. You must have them. It's the only way the younger people will straighten up, if the Aboriginal people handle them themselves. Before, they had fear all the time from the beginning of their life, from the early days when the white man shot the others. But there's no grudge against, I mean to say. They had to fight all the time

154 When the Dust Come in Between you see. We know that there are thousands and thousands of coloured people all over Australia and overseas also. But then there's good and bad in all races. See we don't want any discrimination here. When the time comes for too much discrimination there might be civil war.

Where did you first hear about Black Power? Absolutely nothing's been mentioned about Black Power in any shape or form here, only in that moment. No one among the Aboriginals knew anything. Now we went to Wyndham and found all these things out, where they came from and who was making all this up. I found out just from these yellow folks here and white blokes. Well I went there to find out whether it was true and I moved my kids and women out from the bush. I ought to take my kids out, from being shot. We heard that the white folk were going to shoot women and kids and we had to move them out. We found absolutely nothing in Wyndham. They blamed it on someone. Well if the white men come up here and try to fight you with rifles we're not frightened of that. Say for instance we'd have to fight them for sure, we haven't any firearms at all. We're not going to just gallop away just because they've got rifles. Someone's got to die for their country and this is the Aboriginal's ground. This ground wasn't sold to any white man from the beginning. The white man just stepped in here and took over. And that's true if you want it bloody straight. From the outside world they're pushing these things through. We must only be a handful here but there are millions of our people living far away. They have their ears open for what handfuls are here. We might be just a few thousands here but thousands of black and white folks are behind us also. We want our rights, properly like. We want to get along with any other person the same as anyone now. We don't want no shit. We don't want no dust. Since 1931-32 the Aboriginal people started to come back a little, bit by bit every year, increasing. Back from that time I said when every bastard was shot down. The money was grant for us, to Aboriginal people to step forward a bit with some of the other business. Not only just for the cattle land, some of the other things like y'know. They don't all have to be business people but some of them have a bit of intelligence like to do this and that, to try and support themselves in lots of ways, and to try to lead out the other people. That's what we're trying to do for them. The younger generation can see how one of the other blokes kick off on his feet. See, 'We can do the same too. I think we'll try', they might say.

Don Green: Christianity 155

They are different people. Whatever bloke can put a garden in if he has a mind screwed on to think like that let him go ahead and do it. He might grow grass, he might grow cotton, he might grow rice, he might grow sugar cane, he might grow vegetables, he might grow poultry farms, or he might grow a cattle station, something like that, if he has any go in him at all. If he can do that we Aboriginal people will be sort of uplifting ourselves gradually. Raising cattle is what I want to do. I was born and bred with them and slaved to help the early settlers to grow the cattle looking after their ranches. I looked after millions and millions of pounds worth of cattle during the drought with a long-handled shovel and calico troughs and whips, as I told you. We dipped the water and panned it through the trough. In those days there were only just buggies and carts. And I was one of the slaves. Well you see my intention, if I had had the money to establish Lewis Creek I wanted a couple of thousand cattle to do any good, to make your income come back in a short time. That's what you want, a thousand breeders. You can't go wrong. We wanted to establish the place and get our income back within four years, start to pay it back and gradually get bigger and bigger, but I waited around too long.

I'm not sure how the book is going to look yet. You think any of the book is turning up all right now? Well it's no good a man putting these things because I have no grudge against any white man, by slaughtering dark people years ago. As I said, when the dust comes in between it blow things off you know. You know, we're trying to become closer friends as we can to any white folks. A lot of them are all right in lots of ways. The likes of you and all this sort of thing and some of the other individuals, it's all right, they're good mates. But some of these other fellers they think maybe they're Jesus Christ or something like that. Well they're not you see. Say for instance I put out these words. A lot of things I say, especially this thing I was talking about a while ago about these churches breaking up Aboriginal culture, that is right. This is the thing we didn't like, breaking up the Aboriginal tribal Law. I mean you can go to church but do not break up the other things. That's what we're against. We had our own belief before. Why should we believe too much Christianity? They don't believe ours. Why should we believe theirs, the white man's way? You see my people worshipped the sun going down. That doesn't alter the fact that I'm an Aboriginal of Australia. I was born here fifty-four years ago [recorded

156 When the Dust Come in Between

19741, well what's the difference? I claim myself an Australian Aboriginal and I am one, descended from an Aboriginal's family. Well we've covered all the price and the wind and dust that's dead and forgotten. We're looking for to sort of turn the leaf over into new things. We're looking for a new life. We ask what we want. We want little farms and so on like, different things you know, trying to support ourselves. We're looking forward to what we're going to establish and we'll be happy as soon as we can get it.

Plate 7

Edgar Birch, 1990, Kununurra

EDGAR BIRCH BORN 1912, DIED 1978

SECOND WORLD WAR Recorded 29 August 1970 (note book); 15 August, 12 September, 5 December 1973: four sessions, three tapes. It was not proofread but draft copies were given to his widow Grade who expressed her approval. Well really I don't think there are too many people living today that know my age but I'm told I was born in 1912 o n 29 May at Quonban Station in the Fitzroy area three miles from Jubilee Station. I didn't know my parents very much because we were taken from them. My father was head stockman at Quonban. O h I knew my mother. She died after the war years, but the old man I think he died in Adelaide. He had a big orchard in Adelaide I found out after. We still accept him as father you know. I'm a genuine part-Aborigine descended from Afghans. My father was white and my mother was native. I just forget my mother's tribe, you know, where I came from. I was a long time away from her. She could have been Djaru. No, Nyigin. Yeah that's it. That's the Nyigina language you see. I don't know what skin she was. Well as far as I remember a mob of us left Quonban on the mail coach to Derby, to bring us into Derby and put us o n the ship called the Bamberer. There were ten of us all together, five girls and five boys. We were all related you know. We didn't know anything that time. That was a long time ago. It was that old boat which brought us into Wyndham, I remember that. They tell me then that I was about twelve or eleven years of age. That's as far as I can remember. I can't remember anything back from there. When we got there they sent us over to Forrest River Mission. I think it was 1921 or 1919 in those years some time. By that time my mother was still alive, and my father was still alive you see. They were

160 When the Dust Come in Between broken up. See in those times any art-Aboriginal kids who were around the police used to round them up and put them in the missions to educate them or something. A bloody good job too. Yeah, that was one of the early government policies. Well you have to educate the people like that see. Oh it still goes today. I didn't have much of an education but I'm very intelligent. I left grade four at twelve years of age and was working since. Anyway I stayed over there from that time to 1932, then I left Forrest River Mission. I was big enough to know what was going on. 'We're not going to get any headway here', I reckoned, so I just walked off the place there. Not walked off like. You know, I reckoned I better go out and do a bit of some good for myself. No good sitting round a mission all your life. I came to Maliaga Station. The proper pronunciation for the place is Ma-li-a-ga but the white men couldn't pronounce the name so they called it Biranulla. Anyhow I stopped there. That was the first station I came to and I got a job there. The manager made me head stockman. I was only a young feller then. I don't know how old I was but I was pretty smart at that time. There were only two of us, him and me see, and well we worked the whole place o n our own. It was government property. Wyndham Meat Works owned it see. Fifteen shillings a week was my wages there. It was about thirty-five miles out of Wyndham I think, to be sure of it. That was 1932 I worked there. I stopped there for about, '32, '33 and I came up here droving in '34 in the droving season you see. I drove for Con and Docherty Durack, those old Duracks. They don't exist around here any more now you notice. I was in my twenties. After that, after I did a couple of years droving see, I got my job back at the Meat Works. I used to work at the Meat Works. With the Duracks I worked from Argyle, Ivanhoe, Newry and Auvergne, their four stations. I'm getting ahead of my story because in 1932 I should be a police tracker see. That was the same year I was the head tracker in a search party for that German flier Captain Hans Bertram. He's down in history I suppose. You'll find a book written on him. I think it's called Flight to Hell and Back or something after that effect you know. Well they came over from Timor to Darwin in a sea plane. It was 13 May 1932, that was the time we found them you see. You can check on that one. And he flew down from Darwin at two o'clock in the morning and a storm blew him across the other side of the Gulf to Lacrosse Island down this way to Cape Bernier. Lucky they had a sea plane you know because they landed out in the water. They ran out of fuel see. But when we got there it was thirty-two days after, when we found them. Thirty

Edgar Birch: Second World War 161 days is a long time you know. Anyway, when we picked them up one bloke went off his rocker. You might notice there was a bloke, the author Tommy Ronan. He writes a few books. Well he was our cook that feller. I think he used to be at Katherine but he left there. One book I know he wrote was The Moleskin Midas. Well quite a few books he wrote but I never read the others. I only read that one. And there was Fred Johnson a grader driver now at Halls Creek, and Hector Djalnga a native boy. In 1967 I went to Perth to check upon the policeman I worked with, Constable Gordon Marshall, but he'd died. I must have been sixteen at that early time. Well I was over twelve months with those fellers you know. It was no good like, too much desk work and no action for me so I came back droving. I was head stockman on Ivanhoe. I've always had a little bit of responsibility wherever I've been. Then when the time came up - you've got to be with the time they say you know - I took on truck driving during the war. Then I was a mechanic. After the war jobs were a bit scarce and I took on yard building, contract yard building and that. I worked for Flinders Transport in Wyndham for ten years, for DJ Davidson for three or four years, and for Vestey's for a few years - Lord Vestey you know, bloke with cattle and horses. O h yes, and North States they called them, at Lissadell and those places. When I worked for them I won a free trip to Melbourne. I bought a ticket in the Catholic art union and got a second prize to go to Melbourne to see the Melbourne Cup run. It was a good trip with the two of us, Grace and me. We had a great time there. We flew around as first class passengers with TAA aircraft and we lived in a first class motel in Melbourne. Television and everything we had. That was the first time I'd seen television. I met my first wife at Forrest River Mission. She went away see, somewhere with another bloke. I don't know what happened to those two but it's their problem. I met my present wife Grace in Wyndham seventeen or eighteen years ago [recorded 19731. We're not legally married. One day we may. There's no crime you know. As long as you do the right thing in life you must be right. Grace left school at grade five and worked when she was twelve years old. When she was fifteen she was head cook on a native settlement, Moola Bulla Station. She did cooking for various stations and was a good cook too. Her parents worked on a station and her father was a head stockman too. O h I had a lot of jobs. Yard building, I was way down on the coast over here, was transport driving in Darwin in '56, a mechanic there

162 When the Dust Come in Between for a long time. It was different from here, rubbish country, not good. Desert sort of. It's rich country here, a different class of country. You see the best season over there, the cattle they're still poor. Here if you get hardly any rain you still get fat cattle, you noticed that? But I've seen a lot of changes in this country. I was a windmill expert, what would they call it, a bore mechanic or something? I had that job for a long time, round '58 and '59 when Kununurra was just beginning. After that I came back. I carted some of the material for the old buildings around Kununurra. I used to drive for old DM Sharp, old Sharp not the young feller. I had to work for him only a few days. We were friends. I've worked on the wharves and with Public Works. I've been through the lot. But I'll never take a job on unless I stay two or three years. This moving business is no good. It doesn't matter how hard your work is, you've got to fulfil your time there. I was truck driving from Wyndham all round the town here and those places where there was n o road at all with a six wheel drive vehicle. No good any other vehicle, no good at all. Did I say six wheel drive or four wheel drive? Yeah but this six wheel we did have, BMCs. They were ex-Army, ex-Airforce out at this Truscott airport out from Kalumburu. They paid 100 pounds for them. O h beautiful machines they were, had never been hardly used. They were fuel tankers, see, by right. I was truck driver for one contractor ten years without a break, and a head stockman and drover on all the stations round here in the '30s. I was a bore mechanic Ithis role is mentioned in Green (1966, 192)], windmill expert, yard builder, well sinker, saddler, tinsmith, blacksmith. YOUhad to be a man of that type in this country to get a living, especially for coloured people. Now I'm a Grade 3 construction worker on the MRD [Main Roads Department], a labourer in different grades. I was a ganger before. Gave good service and left on Grade 3. Prior to here we lived in Wyndham. We both came here when Kununurra started in 1962. The job itself attracted Grace; the new town attracted me. I was with the MRD survey and helped build the aerodrome. It was no good staying in a MRD house in Wyndham and there was no trouble getting a house here. You had to be reliable, that was the main thing in life. If you're not nobody wants you. I've been with the firm a long time and got a house out of it. I was treated the same as everybody else, got responsibility, was left alone, and was paid for a holiday every two years. I had no complaints, can't see anything

Edgar Birch: Second World War 163 bad against most people I worked for. They treated me just the same as they treated themselves. I earned between $4000 and $5000 yearly. Grace liked sort of making a home here with activities like fishing and going out to picnics. Kununurra's a nice little town today. I wouldn't change it for any town I've been to. It really hasn't altered much. The only thing is if you like to make something of Kununurra you have to get in and put your heart into it. A lot fall down on the job and aren't here anymore. You have to carry it out, that's our point of view. There are a few strange faces. Quite a few old-timers went away. I work in the Main Roads yard now, just potter around it. I'm too old for active service like. O h I still carry the same work as anyone else there, but I refuse to drive a truck. I used to be in charge of the yard, one part of it, before they shifted out here from Wyndham. I was a ganger on the Main Roads here and everything in my younger days. I built half of this road here. I've been in this house for ten years or more waiting for my long service. And we take a trip to Perth every year. I've been to the eastern States, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide. Travelling was an education. We were the only coloured people from here to see the Melbourne Cup in 1960. Well there you know, what else you want, living comfortably?I've had some rough times too. Life's not all easy you know.

There are a lot of your relatives, kinsmen around particularly in Wynd ham aren't there? We are the oldest settled people here, the Birches. You see, there are the Lee Tongs. They're the oldest, and we come second. Then there are the Chulungs and the Gerrards. They're all big families see. Here we started our own family. Our people are still back around Derby way. Only ten of us came over here. We were all relations, grew up here and got married here. But we didn't marry our mob. We married other people's see, and now we have Birches everywhere. See, I have nephews and their sons. I have Reg, Teddy and Lorrie - and they have their families too. I have grandchildren here sixteen years of age now. I'm really a sort of a Rajah amongst all these fellers. There are nine in my family. O h I have no more family. They're all grown up and gone you see. Well I lost one. One died, poor little girl. There have been no sicknesses at all in my own family except for that, and apart from colds. The kids had their tonsils out. My complaint is bronchitis. I had a big operation. Another one of my brothers in Wyndham, he's got a big family too. The other feller died, the eldest one.

164 When the Dust Come in Between I'm Church of England and Grace is Presbyterian. With church life here we're not forced to go, we go when it suits us. We stick to one religion. I was brought up Church of England and stayed that way. We go to church at the main times, Christmas and Easter, seldom in between, and we brought the kids up that way. I'm a very busy man. Quite a few go and quite a few don't. Mostly the older group go to church. There's nothing much to make the town stand out. There's a lot of friendly people here, probably in the country, not anywhere. Here people say good day and you're invited to parties. Being coloured people we've got to be careful where we go, you see what I mean. That's why we like it here. There's really no colour problem. We speak for ourselves. Me and my wife have no colour problem. One colour problem is every time coloured people go to the hotel asking for their drinking rights the publican tells them the book's no good. He won't accept it for some. That shoudn't be. They try to mix it with the community but these fellers won't let them. It must be a money matter, can't be anything else. I work with mechanics and we get on all right. My son's a grader driver, a bitumen operator. He's paid well and looked after. He gets well paid on every other job too. The union controls that I suppose. The trouble only happens around the hotel and nowhere else. All other places they have the citizen rights. Fifty or sixty miles away you don't see anything at all. I was treated as a white man at all times, by natives even you know. See in the early days they used to tell us either be one thing or the other. If you wanted to be a native well you stayed a native. If you wanted to lift yourself up they let you. O h the old white fellers told us that. Very strict those fellers I tell you.

In your time all the unrest and fighting ...was pretty much quietened down. We had no trouble at the Forrest River Mission. It was well managed. But we had a rough time while we were there, especially the partAborigines. Well we didn't know where the next feed was coming sometimes from. We were only living on ground wheat, porridge, that's all. Things were tough over there. We had to grow our own food mostly. I think they did the wrong thing there myself, breaking up Forrest River Mission. It was a well-established place but something went wrong there. They had cattle and horses. They had everything they could think of. They had a beautiful place to grow a garden. They had

Edgar Birch: Second World War 165 water laid on. But I wasn't there at the time. I'd never been back since I left. Although I was raised as Church of England I used to know a little bit about that native Law too. Some you can't work it out, some you can work it 6ut. The only law that really existed at those times in the native Law was very strict here for any wrong doing. Death was the penalty. That's why the native had more control over his own mob than white man law for rape or anything like that, see. If another man ran away with another man's wife, death was the penalty. But he was given three chances, no more after that. Now you go to court cases. They laugh at court cases these days because they're too lenient. In my younger days I was interested in the Law but it's too far gone now. There's no good worrying about it, is it? If I had the same education as you or something, you know a bit of a college education, I might have been all right. I had nothing at all. Anything I know I taught myself, or just about that. I was in Forrest River a long time and used to go to school sometimes. We were made to work all the time growing cotton with the lead donkeys you know, two donkeys pulling a sort of plough. All day this was going on. The crop was good. I think they used to send their crops to America. It was beautiful, different cotton to this, some little cotton and some big cottons, all different kinds. And we grew in the garden and things. Carpentering, we had tradesmen missionaries who used to teach us a lot. I know a little more than most of these people who knocked around here, self-taught practically, but I learnt from those fellers you see. Well in my lifetime my ambition was I'd like to have studied law too. I was a very active man in my time. If I had to live my life over again I'd join the air force. I always took to the air. I've flown all over Australia, I've chartered aircrafts, I've been down in broken down aeroplanes with no door on them and everything, old de Havilland Dragons and things like that all the time. I was a very cunning man. I'd pick up anything. But the air force really got me in. Well they were going to make me a full-time policeman, but it's all right. There's more work attached to it than you'd think, in my time anyway. When I was a police tracker I used to walk half all hours of the night looking for these murdering natives. We used to pick them up. You walked all night looking for them and you had to catch them unawares and all this sort of business. You'd camp all day you see and you'd track them all night. You ran the risk of getting bitten by snakes, falling down gullies.

166 When the Dust Come in Between There was a Native Welfare bloke I met about the same time Wyndham was bombed. It was a funny turnout. That bloke wanted to put me in jail for working natives, or fining me fifty pounds or something for employing them without a permit. In those days you had to have a permit to work as a native, and in those times I was classified as a native and I didn't have to have a permit you see. I said to him, 'Since when a blackfeller got to have a permit to work another blackfeller?' See, well he didn't know what to say about that. It was under written law.

You were going to tell me about [when] Wyndham was bombed. Wyndham was bombed round about the same time. Well I used to be employed by people who serviced the planes. Arthur Bruton owned the Six Mile Hotel. I worked for him, servicing all the mail planes and the bombers and fighters you know, military planes. There were about twenty-seven yanks down there you see. They had nothing, not even an aeroplane see, but they were stationed there as the air force ground crew. There was one pilot amongst them but he had no aeroplane. And this particular morning - I used to tell these fellers, 'Get ready for the Japs are coming'. Well I think they got jack of me in the finish and they took no more notice of me. I think the Japanese had already attacked Darwin by then. So this particular morning a MacRobertson-Millerplane came back from Darwin and when it landed all these pilots who knew me told me, 'That'd be twenty-five minutes from now on will be another plane coming in'. It was one of those old de Havilland Dragons, a Red Cross plane. It had a big red cross on it. It was flying from Darwin to Wyndham, and from Wyndham it had to go to Drysdale Mission to pick up some people who were bombed on the Koolama. That was a ship on the Wyndham Meat Works jetty now. Some got off there see and went back to between Drysdale and Wyndham. Anyway I filled the Lockheed up - the Lockheed Electra, not the big one, just a twin engined one. And pilot Woods the captain, he's retired now, and his CO-pilotCaptain Colin Brown when he was leaving said to me, 'Get ready for the other plane to come in', see. So I put the engine bowser away and shut the engine pump off. The other was a hand bowser for low grade fuel, 73 octane. They were both 73 I think. Well I was walking over to this hand bowser and I got it all ready. And I could hear this thum you know - dum dum dum dum - a different sound from our planes. I said, 'Here come the Japs', straight away. I knew by the sound of them. These yanks were all lazing around

Edgar Birch: Second World War 167 in the sun in front of the hangar. I didn't waste any time. I got going you know and they all followed me then. I headed for the DCA building up the side of the hill in Wyndham? Well you see a water tank on top. That's where I headed for. I ran, oh it must have been about six or seven hundred yards and I was really moving. I looked back and I didn't see my boss coming, old Arthur Bruton. He was a bit old you know in his sixties by then that time I think. He was taking down all the fuel. So, I couldn't leave him behind so I ran all the way back. And by this time when I was running back the zeroes, fighters were under the hill. You know the hill on the other side of Wyndham there, the other side of the aerodrome, on the opposite side of the airport away from the Gulf coming towards this way. Well by that time they were under the hill now coming in. I was still running down to get old Arthur. I hit him on the shoulder. 'Come on Arthur', I said, 'There's a raid on. Get.' And the old feller, old and all he was he beat me to it. O h he really moved. He lost everything you know. He threw everything away and off. And he fell in the wheel rut on the old original road, after it had been churned up you know. He fell in there and he stayed there. I kept on going. When I got over the rise they started machine gunning. By gee I just got away in time too. Nobody got hurt. I gave them the notice you see. There was a wireless station on the far end. A young feller called Roger - I forget his other name - was the operator. And a bullet went through the corner of the building. He was sitting here and the bullet went in through there. He heard this noise, phrfft, you know. Of course he was all locked up inside, the wireless operator. He rushed out to have a look and everything was in flames and smoke. Aeroplanes were flying everywhere. Seven fighters, that was all. This plane I told you was about to land, when he landed the Japs came onto him straight away see, and the pilot, I told him to get out too. I said, 'The raid's on, better get going! The plane was standing there and he ran across past the wireless station. There was a bit of a marsh between the airport and the Six Mile. Well this bloke the wireless operator raced out of the hangar, out of the wireless station, and beat the pilot to the scrub. It took me three hours after that to find him way up in the hill there. Well there was hardly any Three Mile at all, only Wyndham there. They were unloading the Koolama, the big ship the Japs bombed out at sea. When they saw those fighters everybody just abandoned the

168 When the Dust Come in Between town see, so she heeled over see, the Koolama. They had the pump going and everything but when the raid came on well they thought there was going to be a bit more raid on and they went and ran away and left it there. Everybody abandoned the town except for one old Scotsman. Anyway, the police officers even, they all went too. There were two policeman. They built a big camp here at Crocodile Hole, a bit of a stock pile for tucker and things for everybody. Anybody who wanted a feed he could go and get a bit. Everybody just left and went down to Derby way. People were evacuating for weeks before that time. The funny part of it was there must have been something going on because we were carting fuel off tankers, drums, for three weeks, and the day we knocked off carting, the next morning they came and blew the lot up. O h well, there was something fishy going on eh? How did they know that? The Aboriginal people were gone two weeks before. I'll tell you what frightened them. There was a bomber, a Lockheed Hudson bomber, came over from Koepang. It had been out on a raid see. How I came to know was because I worked on the aerodrome. And she came in this time of the night, around 8 pm, a fortnight before this raid business. And she threw a flare to find out where the airport was. The aerodrome at those times had no landing lights. And that was the end of the natives. They were gone that night. That flare frightened them you see. They thought it was the Japs. Anyway this Hudson bomber landed and there was one dead gunner in it. I serviced the plane. That was how I came to know all these things. I was there when everything quietened down a bit, the fighting and one thing and another over Darwin, and they got the Japs a little bit under control. There was a Lockheed Hudson Venturer, later than the Hudson see, came down with the brass knobs off. They were coming round to check up on hospitals. You know, they might have made a bigger hospital for soldiers and things. And this bloke - I don't know who he was, a big shot - he told this corporal who was a groundsman, 'You heard of Captain Hans Bertram, the German flier got lost in the loneliest part of Australia?' Well he was a prisoner-of-war in Australia. I chipped in and said, 'Oh I heard you mention Captain Hans Bertram! He said, 'Yeah'. 'Well', I said, 'I was one of the blokes that found him, saved his life, yeah! Anyway seven days after, the bombers came in, Japanese bombers. There were seven but by this time I was a long way away. You know the Ten Mile where the old pensioners are living? I was on top of the hill there with a field glass watching them coming in. They threw

Edgar Birch: Second World War 169 a few bombs but they never did any damage. After they went away there were three fighters came back and machine gunned anybody on the aerodrome. They nearly caught a couple of blokes only they jumped in the bomb holes. There were still a few people around Wyndham then. O h it was the tail end of us. Either twenty-four or twenty-five of us were left there for a long time. Nobody ever came back. And I was one of them you see. We used to get our perishables on the plane. That's as far as the plane came you know, but it had to be clear of course. O h they didn't waste much time moving back into town, and they came too the Aboriginal people. O h yes, they all came back. Of course some of them were born there.

It was about that same time Dumas had his expedition to survey for the main dam didn't he? That was in 1941. A little after there came Dumas. Frank Buston I think was his main surveyor hand if I remember rightly. I think he's dead now. Me and Johnny Walker worked together at the time, and Frank Buston I think went down to Kalumburu too after he surveyed this. You know he went down with a main road team. He was head surveyor up there at the time, a long way from civilisation. I went across there. I forget what year it was, a long time ago anyway. We used pack horses. I wasn't with the Dumas expedition. I was droving here for the Duracks. He started off this research station here, Dumas, near the old pump station. O n your left-hand side there's another island there. You turn off to the left, same place where Rigby's caravan park is, on the opposite side of the creek, in the corner of Lily Creek. You know might go down there one day you'll see a post or two still there. It was inland you know. It looked like an island. O h we gave Dumas some hot chili one time. Another thing too, that same place where they built it there used to be a store, years and years ago before my time. I don't know who built it. I think an Afghan might have had it. But they built a research station there see. There's a woman in Wyndham here now, Mrs Mills, whose husband used to work there I think. O h a lot of people worked there. I think most of them are dead.

What would you say have been the biggest changes as you've seen them here, since you've been here for quite a few ...? Well I think the biggest change was this Kununurra, myself. There's one thing I notice, this is true. Years ago you never saw an Aboriginal out

170 When the Dust Come in Between of a job. Now they have no jobs. That's a big change. You never saw a native starving or looking for anything, never in want of anything, but now all that's gone. They're in sort of poverty. Money's given to them. It's n o good to them. Well modern times I suppose is the cause. Well I think that having to move from the stations to the town might be the cause of it. Everybody were contented on the stations, everybody were happy. If I was working as a young man well my people would be still there getting three feeds a day, things like that. But now there's everybody in trouble, you notice? All this goes for the young and old. But the only thing you know, you can't blame the government because it's done everything for them hasn't it, everything possible? I tell you one thing the government did really good was to give the old fellers a pension, the same invalid pension to everybody else, any individual. But I can't work this out. Well the same as before the war, everybody had homes and things. Now you have no houses. What's gone wrong? You have them all crying for houses. There are less people now after the war than before the war aren't there? Well there were a lot were killed out weren't there, and they still can't find houses. You know, all over the city even. The old native fellers they made this country. Old Johnny Walker and those fellers. Poor old Johnny. It's a pity he lost his eyes that feller. My God we used to work together. He was a very smart man that feller, a good cook. Bread, o h beautiful bread he'd make. Old Ernie Chapman, he was a smart feller too. We all worked together. Me and Johnny Walker used to work together at Ivanhoe Station, and Ernie Chapman. We were yard building together, me and Ernie Chapman, in 1937 and those times. All those boys on the reserve used to work under me, Mandi and the boys you know. Jeff and all them, they were born in my time those fellers. I think Jeff's from Daisy and her first husband Paddy Turner. Others you named they must be after my time. I don't go in there very much. I don't go at all really. But there I only know the old timers. They still respect me. I can say good day. You know old Grant down there? We worked together. But I don't like cheeky natives myself. As far as that goes I don't like anybody cheeky. But the natives do get very cheeky with grog you know, very very cheeky. See they knock about in groups. This is n o good to them. That's the reason I don't go anywhere, to the hotel and things like that. I give them away you know. Lately there's been a lot of violence, all the time. But there I don't go. I used to go to the hotel and have a few beers with some friends and one thing and another in my younger days.

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Well years ago when I was only a young feller in Wyndham the natives used to be different then. Every weekend you saw them all dressed in their Sunday best and they'd go round to the Three Mile and play basketball there. Not what they call basketball now. In those times they used to call it bulya. But that's all they had to do. None of this drinking business you have now. They were best dressed. All the womenfolks were properly dressed. There were no motor cars in those times, would be all bombs they had, and they walked round. When I first started droving and so on there was no such thing as everybody was equal. We all worked together, no problem, but as soon as this big money came into play -. We were only getting two pounds and threepence a week those times. I don't know what the threepence was for, but that was our basic wages and we were happy. They're better off without the stations now. The stations didn't want them any more because they had to pay wages, that's all it amounts to. It was all right when they weren't getting anything. They might have been better off too. But when they started paying them big wages well they didn't want anybody sitting on the creek. But every station had a little tribe of their own all happy in -. that group see. Ivanhoe brought a Miriwung mob see. Another mob I don't know what at Argyle. Well there's touches of Miriwung in them. The stations used to pension their own natives off one time. It was all right when they were working for nothing. They call it slavery. Well I don't think it was altogether slavery because everybody was happy. When you're a slave you're not happy. One man would be employed and he might have a crippled mother and father in the camp. The station fed them, clothed them, looked after them, didn't matter what the cost was. Now the native welfare came in and said they discriminated them, never paid them wages. They're worse off now than ever they were. I tell you what, nobody's happy now that's for sure. There's nobody on Ivanhoe now, only two old native women. See I worked on various stations. When the holiday time came they might have twenty natives on the station. They all came up and got their ration bar five who were running the place while the other had a holiday, walkabout. But their ration was taken out to them every two weeks and they had a killer out there for them. They sent a bloke to do it for them. But now my friend, when they finish work today they get paid off and if you only have two bob in your pocket you're told to go. You're finished. Nobody wants you. Those times the stations looked after their natives see, clothes and mosquito nets, tobacco, as much as they wanted. You reckon they're discriminated. They aren't

172 When the Dust Come in Between discriminated, not that I know. I don't think so anyway. The government only brought this up lately. But why blame the stations? Look, policemen employed natives in here for years and never gave them a cent. Same thing isn't it? All the government officials employed natives in Wyndham in the early days. The only people who use to pay them a few bob were private people. There used to be a native hospital there one time. They were employed at it and were never given anything. Why discriminate the stations?The stations used to do a lot for them, paid all their medical, hospital bills, put them on aeroplanes. Well what did they get the flying doctor service for? O n the stations it was all right. They were told to build houses for them which they did I think. Vesteys built beautiful houses for natives but I think there was too much interfering from the native welfare or somebody. I worked with Vesteys over on Kirkimby Station. People from Darwin could come along in charge of the native welfare mob and check how much money they had in the book and they could take the lot off them. Well in my life you know I don't think that's right. Why did they take it over? You know some of these older ones used to bank their money. They looked ahead for the rainy day like. When they went on walkabout they had enough money to keep them going over the Wet. That was in 1958.1took a mob of horses over to Brenner Springs Station way down below Elliot round about that time. I've been brought up different you see with the old timers. You see in my time we part-Aborigines -. Old time whitefellers they didn't mess around. They were straight men like. They wanted to bring us away from the natives seeing that we were their offspring. See what I mean? Well they wanted to better us, take us away from the natives. But if you went back to there well you just stayed there. You'd be treated as one. Mightn't be fair but that's the way it was with us. That's the old time doings. If you wanted to be a blackfeller well be one. But seeing that we were half they wanted to better us that's all. There's no discrimination or anything but if you wanted to be a blackfeller, be one. If you didn't want to be one well it was either the one thing or the other anyway. Well there's really the blackfeller has no objection or anything against the whites. You hear them talking about colour discrimination and all this, I think the natives discriminated themselves. See in every race there are some loggerheads who want to be the ruler over other fellers. It's not just in the natives. It's mostly in these part-Aboriginal fellers see. So I say the poor old native blokes, the real Australian natives,

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get blamed for the lot but they know nothing about what's going on. The part-Aboriginal is more bitter. You can take notice of that. There might be a bit of jealousy. You see I don't knock around with anybody. But you see you drive past in a motor car, 'Why he got a motor car and I haven't?! Things like that. I've heard them talking that way. And they're even jealous of me what I've got. Well I've had to work for it. The part-Aborigines still living in the reserve and things, I'm crooked on that myself. They should show a better example. That's how I was brought up. Look I've seen them in the Main Roads camp. They get treated just the same as you and me. See a coloured man working on the Main Road he'll get treated just the same as you and me. And if anybody caught them talking, calling you 'nigger' or something, out you go, There's a bloke out at the camp who'd dismiss you immediately. You've got to be treated just the same. Well I don't know where it's going to finish up. There's no work for them. Well Main Roads and Public Works will employ them certainly but that's all. What it looks to me, the government promised them something and I think they're waiting for it. Well you take me for instance. I've never had assistance off anybody, never. I wouldn't ask. I've had to work. You've got to work here and do the best thing you can do to get yourself where you are. And don't be getting round swearing and abusing people. If you've got a family rear them well like I reared all mine, educate them. I educated some of them in Perth and Alice Springs. But a lot of people are crooked on the white people. I don't know what's the reason for it. They really can't say that because the white people have done a lot for them. At least one thing remains in my book, they all had a certain amount of education. I mean blacks and part-Aboriginals. See now the law says everybody must be educated. Therefore in my book everybody has a certain amount of education, not much. If I had an education as good as some I see, as good as my son Johnny here will do me, well I'd have been on top of the world a long time ago. He's got it made. I was offered a lot of good jobs in my travels but I just couldn't carry them out. The people in Darwin wanted to give me a clerk's job. It was a big job too. 'No', I said, 'I wouldn't impose on you! I brought myself where I am with my own determination and I live with the whites. I never interfere with their problems and they don't interfere with me. But I don't want to go more further than where I am. I've nothing to do with the reserve or anything like that and I never interfere with their problems. I'm strictly business on my own

174 When the Dust Come in Between like. I mix with whites all the time now. I'm invited to big high class parties, high society, and I'm not discriminated by anybody. I can go anywhere and people say good day to me. I go to hotels and places like that and I'm a long lost father when I go there. I don't have to buy my beer. Everybody buys me a beer. There's nobody boss over them, nobody pushing them around. The government gives them trucks and things to do something with eh? Well they should be able to save something for their future now. Full bloods and part-Aboriginals are in the same boat by the look of it. They boss themselves now like, any people for that matter, any nation. If you have no boss well you just do what you like isn't it? Lately the last few years you know there's been a lot of fighting and things going down there. It's got a bit out of hand and nobody seems to care. I can't see those sorts of things have to happen. There'll have to be something done about it, two killings in Kununurra and one in Wyndham? The same sort of thing has happened there you know, belting their wives to death. The police are trying to keep them under control and they do a good job. But you can't fathom them. The government have their own ways of doing things. They might do us any good but I can't work them out at all. But you see Bruce, you know one time there was no such thing as that. I used to be a police tracker but I get on with both parties, natives, part-Aboriginals, anybody at all. I've worked for some of the hardest men in this country, very hard too. They didn't talk to you till ten o'clock and you bloody worked too, no messing about. But that might have made me as I am. Well my outlook was to go ahead. Without money you can't do anything can you? I'm a very smart man in my own rights. I can do anything, a trade you know, but what can I do without money? Nothing. I can't start a business without money. I'd like to hand my intelligence down to somebody else. I know a lot of things. I could do a lot of things. You know in modern times or anything at all I learnt this myself, picked it up. I'm a very quick feller to pick up, but what can you do without money? One feller I know was a good cattle man, a very smart man, but he has too much bloody laziness in him I think. The other day he came and told me about Bullo River Station. He happened to be there when they bought it all. The government bought it for them or something. But his idea was to get the money and spend it see. And he said to me, 'We sold 850 bullock, where's the money?'. But I said, 'Listen, you've got to run the station. That money go back to the station.

Edgar Birch: Second World War 175 You get your wages, your tucker. Wear and tear of the station, horses and shoes, those things. How you want it? Just get the money and spend it, and wait till next year? That's not the way to run a cattle station is it? Yeah, who going to run it for you? Let whitefeller be the boss. He make sure that you get a fair go.' But his idea was to sell it, 'We'll get all the money and come in and spend the lot! Buy a couple of claptrap cars that's their idea.

Would you say that of all the problems there are for Aboriginal people here that this one, the drinking one, is the worst? Everybody make it important to drink, the elderly and young people. They have the idea that you go to drink after you finish work, the younger generation. If it wasn't for the pensioners' cheques those young fellers wouldn't be hanging around there. They were never like that before. It could be that drinking's gone up because it's a bit hot and one thing and another like that, but they have a different idea from the white community. You look at it this way. We go to work don't we every morning, but at nine o'clock you see them all march down to the pub. Well who's earning the money to feed them? That's another point. Really myself I have nothing against anybody but we have to live in this country don't we? We have to live with our fellow man. But I can't see that's going to carry on to any length of time. I think the drinking one is the worst problem. Not only for our people but all the way down the coast just the same. See I've come up the coast three or four times and I've seen it worse down there than up here. Round Port Hedland and those places o h it's terrible. I don't think they can do anything about it but they'll have to do something. This murder business, they'll have to do something about that. It's too much booze. Of course they're free. Everybody's allowed to be free. They're only human beings but there's no control. That's something, they've cracked something along the line. And it's the weakest sex out of the lot of them you see. Look it's this way. You and your wife say, you're equal. Not in the native Law. The woman she's a slave, see what I mean? She's a slave for this husband. She has to be there any time he likes to wake up. She has to be there to get him a drink of water. She has to be there to give him a feed. But see your wife can go to play tennis and things like that, or go swimming, and you don't bother about these sort of things. But not with the native. She has to stay home cooking the tucker for him. And

176 When the Dust Come in Between he can't leave her behind. They have a different idea from you and me altogether. It's really not the natives that are causing the blues. It's the part-Aboriginal blokes. That's what I put it down to myself. It's not the poor old blackfeller, but he gets blamed for a lot of things other fellers are doing. I tell you what, there was some of the smartest men as God put their best into it, at their own game of course. But now they don't know where they are. It's money problems that have caught up to them. There's too much money they don't know what to do with it. I've never seen natives drink in my life. They never had this before. Well there's no man grudge another man for drinking eh? I used to have a drink myself. Still you're not going to let the grog get the best of you that's positive. See a lot of people read about natives in the paper and that's all they know isn't it? They've been led to believe they're no bloody good or something but they haven't seen their part of it themselves. That's all they get in front because they haven't been here long enough to take any notice of them. I've knocked around. I've travelled. That's a little bit of education isn't it? I've got no education where education's concerned but travelling is education. You see the other part of the world. But these poor buggers haven't been anywhere to see anything. I've tried to explain to them. Mind you they treat me with respect. That's a funny thing now. In everyday life they seem to be all right. They don't interfere with natives you notice that, the white people. They treat them in the shop just the same as anybody else isn't it? You go in the shop to buy anything you get treated just the same. Women treat them just the same at the till. I've heard storekeepers say treat them just the same as anybody else. I've heard white people say that. It's very hard to explain. Really there's no problem. It just amounts to one thing. If they give them the rights everybody should come under the one jurisdiction. I don't know what they're trying to prove from now on. It's got me thinking. I get treated like you or anybody else see. Well it should be the same for them. I'm a member of the Club. I have the ticket here. And I've been a member of the Wanneroo Club in Perth too for three months, you know when we were visiting. Me and Jackie Saville were the only two Aboriginal members of the Club here in 1970. I think he went down the west at the bottom end somewhere.

Edgar Birch: Second World War 177 There's no trouble at all for opportunity. All the opportunity in the world here. When they were building this dam here well they put on all corners, native, white, brindled. Anybody got a job there. O h Christ they nearly built Dunham bridge those fellers. They used to come and go same as anybody else. A fortnight or three weeks. Full bloods and part-Aborigines too, and white, no different. And this was an opportunity for some of these fellers to stick to that job and learn something. There's a lot of them have woke up to this drinking now. One of the native boys said to me when they first came out, 'This is free rights. I've woke up to myself old feller. That drinking is no good.' Well I haven't seen him drunk since, the same bloke. 'And it wasting money', he said. I said, 'You've got to have a sugar bag full of money to drink'. He said, 'Can't get it'. 'Well you know', I said, 'why do you go there for?'. 'Oh', he said, 'because everybody else go there'. They work for it see. Other fellers just tag along. Well you know in their own ways they always give. They talk about Communists, these blackfellers are the best communists in the world. You'll never starve while they're around, no. That's why in the early stages say you had the citizen's right and I didn't have one. Well it wasn't fair for you to sit down and drink a bottle of beer, right, you had to share it. You get to the trouble straight away. That was the trouble all along. Look at Albert Namatjira. How many times he got in jail for supplying the natives? He wasn't supplying, he was sharing it wasn't he? Now they've abolished that. It will get a little better as the time comes I think. It's eventually run out you know. Might be a few odd ones but the same goes in every race, you know all coloured. It has to run out, can't last forever. Just, they had a free citizen's right all of a sudden poor buggers. It just struck them and they don't know what to do. It's very hard to describe changes I'd like to see. Everybody are pulling together aren't they? I don't think anybody dislike people around here. They all seem to be mixing together, drinking together down there. Before they respect you you have to, take my place, never interfere with anybody's problem see. They look up on you see. You're not just going to be a common drunk knocking round there. They have no respect for one another like that you know. You have to be in my place before they respect you here. The main thing is never give in. If you give in where are you going to finish up? Down the drain. You should be there the next day and never give in. You must

178 When the Dust Come in Between take hold of yourself. I think the grog has got hold of those fellers. What else could get them down? They mix well here. Americans and Europeans mix with everybody and we mix with them. They're very friendly people, especially the Americans. We have nothing against foreign people, criticising them. We reared two Yugoslav kids here for two years till they could walk. There's n o bad attitude against anybody. If there is it's among one or two. The general attitude is very good. You're treated just the same as any white man in the street. This is in Kununurra. I don't know about other places. You're picked up by the Public Works Department in vehicles. That doesn't happen any more but that shows no colour problem here. Full bloods are treated the same as part-Aboriginals or white men, no different. We're half Aborigines ourselves but we have nothing against the natives. If there is a problem the Native Welfare Department made it. There's something wrong when they make wards of the State. Any man who can walk on his feet shouldn't be called a ward of the State. I don't think black children are any different in school than white kids. Everything should be the same. I tell you what though. The black kid if he's given a proper go in school will pick up quicker than a white kid. That's been proved. How many scholarships have been won here by coloured people? But there's a gap there from the time when he leaves the school till he gets to work. Well the law says he can't work till he's seventeen isn't it? I reckon not only for natives. I reckon for all races white and black, part-Aborigines too, there's a little gap. I think that's a killer. They don't cater for teenagers. You could have dancing once a week and form little groups for sport. Me and my son started a band here one year at the Civic Centre but jobs took them away. You have to keep the teenagers together. Just the same people all come to patronise Kununurra, from Wyndham and even Katherine and Darwin, to play sports. It seems to be the centre here. Therefore this place must be a growing town. It will be in the near future I suppose. You can't control mixed marriages I don't think. You don't see a white woman marry an Aboriginal man, not here. I don't know why. We had a part-Aboriginal boy down there married to a white girl late this year, working o n the Main Roads. A nice couple too. Darwin's full of it. Natives and part-Aboriginals are married to white people over there. Aboriginal women who marry a white man might be treated better or get a bit more than the poor old native in his own right who never got anything, has he? I couldn't pin that one down. Queen Victoria's law said you can marry who you choose eh?

Edgar Birch: Second World War 179 There's no more tribal Law these days. That was abolished a long time ago since the white man's community came. As soon as they got their rights they weren't supposed to be blackfellers any more anyway. They were supposed to come under the white man's jurisdiction weren't they? Of course I don't really mix with these people but you can read between the lines. Those kids there they still come under the white man's jurisdiction. They go to wedding ceremonies white man fashion don't they, and they go to picture shows. I still do a bit of tinsmith work but I've given away being a mechanic. I do saddling. In the past I was strong on sport and fishing and my wife did the same, and mending around the house. We like to go out bush for a day or so, sleep in the open air and get some fresh air into you. We'd take our kids and a lot of white kids too when they asked their parents. If there was a special movie we'd go to the pictures. It has to be a good show interesting and educative. We teach the kids that too. They don't go all the time. Grace shops daily and works around the home. She does shopping two or three times a week and we live well. I'm accepted the same as the rest. We don't come under the Native Welfare Department any more because we have citizen rights and when there are family difficulties we generally take them over ourselves. Relatives from near and far all come to assistance.

STEPHEN EDWARDS BORN 2920

FLOGGINGS Recorded 26 November, 5 December 1973: two sessions, two-and-a-quarter hours.

I was born in 1920 at Forrest River. My father was Guluwaring and my mother was Wunambal. And just because I was born I was the only son and they kept me. Well they used to let me go to school and go back every night. My father had a place away from the mission, a peanut farm. We used to sell peanuts to Wyndham on the boat. They kept me at home and supported me. The other kids also stayed with their parents. I'm the only one brother, the eldest out of our family, and I only have three sisters. So my father decided to stay with us, with my Mum over there. Well he learnt their language and I used to stick with Mum and talk her language. I have a little bit of both languages, mostly Wunambal, and I can understand my father's language Lungga. I can speak a few words. I can understand Djaru and speak back Djaru in different words you know. Well when it's all boiled down it's all Gidja from Hall's Creek back. From Bedford Downs, Alice Downs it's all Gidja. Lungga is the same language. Gidja and Guluwaring are the same language. But Wunambal was my mother's language and Worora. Miriwung and Gadjerung are just, you know there's a little bit of difference in the both languages but they can still understand one another. Well I can tell you exactly what happened. My father went to Perth working for this firm that owned Rosewood at the time [Rosewood Pastoral Company: JJ Holmes, RH Holmes, T (Thomas) Kilfoyle]. He used to ride pretty well, handle a horse race and ride a rough ride you know and they took him to Perth. And when he got down there he got mixed up with bad company and started drinking and that. He went to sleep on a railway line one day and his arm was cut off just below the elbow, both arms. You know how you go to sleep drunk with your arms spread above your head. So when the people sent him back from 181

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Perth to go back to Rosewood again they said, 'Oh he's no good now like. He couldn't work for us now. We'll send him to a mission.' They sent him to Forrest River Mission where he found Mum. They made it up and of course they found us now, me and my sisters. We were born there in other words. So we were all reared there and they put us in the school there at the time.

What sort of childhood d'you reckon you had then? D'you reckon you had a happy one or. ..? I was forced to go to school. I went right to the seventh grade and I can read and write. It was all right but the teacher was a bit rough with us. They used to rough handle us in other words. When we didn't do our lessons right she didn't let us go home. We just stayed there and drank water for dinner till we got our lesson right. That was the roughest life ever I saw. These young people nowadays they're getting it blooming easy. It was so rough in both sides. The teacher used to give us the whip when we didn't do our lessons right or dictation or anything, and the Father was very rough too. Look I've been struck with a blooming green hide whip when I didn't do things right and I've seen blokes getting belted with a blooming pick handle, a brand new pick handle mind you. They had their own jail-made place there where they used to deal with us on the mission. It had a mud brick wall and a little-little hole for air just down the bottom. There was no window or anything, just a hole as big as my fist to let the air in that's all. And they had one wooden door with a lock outside. They didn't put us there when we were kids - no, no. That was the punishment place. We used to get chastised, get a good hiding with whips. The jail was for the grown up people. My skin is djangari. Billy Joe who brought me here just now [1973],his father and my father were two proper brothers and they both drink the same. They married different women but he respects me as a brother because my father and his father were two full blooded brothers. I'm full blood. In our Law I respect him as my brother. My Dreaming was that red hill kangaroo with the white breast. Well in the Wunambal side, my mother's side, they call him walamba. If I went away and left my mother and father for say five or four months and if they were dreaming and one of them dreamed about this walamba they'd say, 'Oh djangari coming today. I dreamt about him last night.' Sure enough I'd turn up. Say my boss might run me into Wyndham see. 'We dreamt about you last night', my father would say.

Stephen Edwards: Floggings 183

I can't tell you exactly the date I got married. It was early in the Jap's war that me and my wife evacuated from Wyndham and we had to walk. We only had one child, Jerry my big boy. We had a little bit of rations, not enough to take us where we wanted to get to. Then we came to Kununurra. Kununurra wasn't here at the time. There was only a little bit of a research farm just down there near the diversion dam. Kimberley Durack used to run the show. From there on we walked up here then I ran out of tucker. I ran out of food for my child. We went up here and we ran some cattle into the bog and got a feed that way, killed a clean skin heifer. My wife and my son were just waiting for me to do this. I had to get a feed somewhere for my child. Then we went on to Argyle. It took us about two days from here to get there. This was in 1940. And I happened to have, knew some friends up there. Well they knew my father because I was just at the mission at the time. And they gave me enough money to get tucker. You know gave me coupons to get tea and tobacco and things. In the war time you couldn't get those things without coupons. Well that's what I did. They gave me just enough to keep me going till I could go further and get a job. And I went to Kilfoyle. Old Johnny Kilfoyle was managing at the time at Rosewood. Not managing. He owned it. And my father and his brother who were still living at the time were there and I had no problem getting a job. When I went up and saw him he said to me, 'Oh, what time you going to start?'. I said, 'Whenever you want me! He said, 'The stock camp won't open till another month's time. Can you stick around?' 'Oh', I said, 'Yeah. I got nowhere else to go. I don't know anybody up there.' Well being a stranger you know. 'Oh well,' I said, 'I'll just stay with the mob! Then when the season started I got a job with no trouble. Kilfoyle supported the whole family while I was out. When he owned the station at the time we never used to come back there for about three months and he was only paying two dollars a week at that time. And I tell you he made us earn every bit of it too. From 1944 I worked there on Rosewood. I was there till he sold out. That was from pre-war times till he sold out about four years I think. Just after the war he sold out. Bucklands took over from him and they couldn't improve the station so Hookers took over from them. When Kilfoyle sold out he took us all into Wyndham - there was no Kununurra there at the time - and he said, 'Just order what you fellers want. Just go into Lee Tong's.' Only the one store. O h we bought clothes and suitcases and riding boots and shirts, fancy shirts.

184 When the Dust Come in Between All right. And when he left there he followed us halfway along the road and he said to us, 'I wouldn't be in this position now if I didn't have you people in this'. Well the missus and him started crying and that and all the mob on the truck started crying. He said, 'If it wasn't for you people Rosewood wouldn't be what it is today'. And he gave us cash. After we bought all that stuff we wanted he still gave us cash o n top of that. I didn't live in Wyndham. I went straight back to Rosewood again to work under this new manager, a bloke called Dick Hayes. I was his right-hand man in the stock camp. O h he's dead now. I had a fight with him during the Japanese war. He picked me out again there and we had another fight and we all pulled out.

What did you fight over? The fight was over the time he bailed me up with a revolver in the prewar time when he was a stock inspector at Lissadell. And when he came managing Rosewood I wanted to bring this up again and have another fight with him. There were good melons o n the river coming down from Lissadell and I just jumped off to pick up a melon. This drover boss I was working for you know picked me. He said, 'Oh you was down there chasing gins. Why don't you stay with the bullocks?' I said, 'I wasn't. I was just eating melon. I just jumped off to get a melon.' And bad tempered and that he pulled a revolver out and was going to try and bluff me. I was in my prime at the time so I just grabbed him and twisted his arm till the guard o n that forty-five revolver hurt his finger and he let it go. So I made sure, fired the six shots out and I said, 'Here, you can have your revolver back'. And there were two of them double-banked me at the time - Dick Hayes and a bloke called Frank McMahon. And one of them pulled a hobble chain from the horse's neck that he was riding and hit me across the eyes and put me out, put my lights out. Well I couldn't fight three. I said, 'Why don't you listen to reason? Let me explain it.' No, no. Whack, whack. They knocked me out. They dragged me like from here to that tree away, put a chain around my feet and tied my hands onto this tree. I had no swag and this was blooming real winter time too, wet and cold as hell. They tied me up there for the night and made me get on a horse the next morning when I was too crook. I couldn't do anything. They made me get o n a horse and go drafting cattle that were to go to Katherine meatworks that time. You know Wyndham was closed. And gee I was sore. I couldn't

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eat. I couldn't even drink water. All my throat where they must have kicked me in the neck or something like that. So I did the trip to Wave Hill. We delivered the mob there and picked up another from there too. Well I couldn't do anything because I knew he had the squirt there. I just had to do it whether I liked it or not. He wasn't a bad payer. Like I got all that I earned. He was only paying ten dollars a week there at the time. Well I was more than about three months on the road. See we picked up a mob from Springvale, went to Ord River and delivered the mob there, then we picked up another fifteen hundred head from there to go to Ellen Spring just past Newcastle Waters. O h he wasn't a bad payer but he'd get a bit cocky at times you know. O h I could have run amuck in the time in between that but I thought my family was up there and I couldn't leave my wife and kid so I just stuck to him. But there was a lot of discrimination in that time. From there I came back to Rosewood. I forget the bloke who was boarding there. There was a bloke called Harry Williams driving from Wyndham carting a load from Derby. There was no jetty. It was blown up at the time. When I came back from Ellen Spring I bought stores and things for my wife for the road and Harry Williams he had a driver at the time. They used to both drive for Rosewood Station, driving for Kilfoyle at the time. It wasn't Hookers at the time. So I asked him if I could get a lift back to Rosewood and he said, 'Yeah, you can! So me and my wife came back to Rosewood and I never left there since when from that time till 1958 I think. Kununurra was in here that time, only a few tents. We went from there to Lissadell Station and I happened to know the manager there. He said to me, 'Look, want to stop there and cook? Can you do the cooking?' I said, 'Yeah I'll do it. What you going to pay?' He said, 'Two dollar a week'. 'No', I said, 'I won't have it o n two dollar a week. If you give me ten dollar a week I'll do it.' Of course he happened to know me and he said, 'Oh all right. Give you ten dollar a week and you going to support yourself.' I said, 'How can I? My wife and family are here.' O h we had a tongue-bang there for a while and he finished up coming my way. 'All right', he said, 'I give you ten dollar a week and your wife still gets ration, cost you nothing'. O h well she used to get a big supply like potatoes, onions, cheese and butter, tinned butter at the time. I was there two years. And he was pretty good till I fell out with him. Well we had a bit of a dispute between me and my wife. I was playing up a bit, going with other girls like, drunk and all this. Of course they used to allow

186 When the Dust Come in Between

us to buy grog at the time. They used to send away and get it, you know what I mean? I was playing up and my missus found out and that. Tony Naughton the travelling manager (the Naughton mob had Lissadell, Mabel Downs, Texas and Alice Downs) said to me, 'I think you better leave. You're causing a little bit of disturbance.' I said, 'In what way? You've got no proof.' He said, 'I'm managing this place not you. You go on this Toyota this morning.' So well me and my wife left and I went back to Rosewood again. Bill Stuart was there at the time running the place after Dick Hayes and he used to charge us for sauce, pickles or anything like that. I said, 'We only getting four dollars a week. I'm not trying to be cheeky or anything. Can't the station support us with these wages we're getting?' He said, 'Well I'm not charging you! But out of my store accounts you know every end of the month I checked up and I thought, 'Something wrong here somewhere! I said, 'They even used to charge us for clothes and tobacco, that's all you supposed to charge us for with that four dollars a week'. That was under the law at the time but he was charging me for sauce, pickle, cheese, tinned butter all the time. That was supposed to be thrown in you know. We didn't have to pay for that, it was our ration. I finished up pulling out. I went to Hall's Creek. Had a couple of weeks there. Then I came back with my family on. My brother-inlaw gave me a Chev-4 because I'm a station driver like, and me and my family came back to Rosewood again. We still had a job after me pulling out. My fifth child, a boy, was about seven years old. My wife has the record of all that. Like, seeing I was a drinker and all that she used to check o n me. All the ages, she has all the birthdays with these kids and all. There were eight that time. Five boys and three girls. But I lost one boy here. They murdered him here, made it look like an accident, but I wouldn't have a clue who it was. They killed him down off the blooming bitumen, then they took his body, stripped his clothes and left him lying on the bitumen. This big truck came and ran over him. That was in 1965. Anyway I went back to Rosewood again and put the twelve months in. It was that way with them in those days you had to give them a week's notice so I said, 'Now that it's getting closing up time I want to go o n a holiday. I want to go on walkabout over Lissadell Station and take my wife to her family.' We finished up getting a job over in Lissadell. So that's the way I finished up. I went from there to Wyndham I think working o n the pipes. And I was getting the union rate and I didn't have a union ticket, on

Stephen Edwards: Floggings 187

the pipe line from the pumping station to Wyndham on the King River. There were some leaky pipes along the way and we were putting in that asbestos piping instead of the steel piping. O h it was big you know, about nearly two foot in diameter. We were putting them in all the way, and when my foreman Mr Coledrake went in well I reckoned I couldn't work for the other one. He used to stand over us and wanted us to do more than the others just because we were dark. So I gave him a week's notice and I left them. From there I went to Auvergne contract fencing with Steve Widdell. Then I pulled out when that job was closed and I came back to Ivanhoe for a holiday but I finished up getting a job there. The town wasn't here then. It was a camp on the foundations there. The Shell garage was in progress. That's where they used to get their fuel. None of these other buildings were here, Ampol and all the other places. There was only just a camp in here and the Public Works quarters. One big block was the canteen and the number two and number one quarters were way back. We used to come in here with no rights you know and just come round and ask blokes, a mate like, 'What about getting us some gallon of beer?' They didn't sell bottles at the time. We used to come in with a gallon tin or something like that and they filled it up for us.

Did you move from the station then into here? No. I stayed out there till my younger children were at school age so me and my wife shifted into here. I couldn't get a permanent job. I used to go casual with these farmers and that. I shifted in here because I had to put my children in school. That was about 1962 I think. I just had my own tent then and me and my wife had a camp there at Lily Creek. I kept all my children there and sent them to school every day because the Education Department was kicking up a stink. I had to send them. And I had to come in with them because I couldn't trust anybody to support them you see. Some days they might get a feed. Some days they wouldn't you know. Me and my wife reckoned, 'Oh well, got to go in and stays with him'. The first thing I came and did I went stick picking, burning in a new field. And then after that I went tractor driving for nearly a couple of months. You know after the cotton was all harvested and all that. That job didn't last and Mrs Bostock came down and picked me up again. She wanted to take my wife back to Rosewood so we left the children with Teddy Farqueson and his wife Evelyn because I knew his wife didn't drink. Of course he drank I know pretty well. I used to

188 When the Dust Come in Between

send money every month, about forty dollars for sweets and the pictures and all this. Teddy had n o house. He was down the camp there. I've been here since because I can't go on the money down there on Rosewood. I did lawn mowing for a bloke called Alfie Gerrard, each yard here for $6.50 an hour. I might do three or four places in a day but I didn't get all that money because Alfie owned the machine and I only got paid so much a day. I rather like it here. One place I wouldn't go into is Wyndham. That's my old home town. Well I just can't get on with the people there. I'm satisfied. I've got all my families here, my married families. You know all my sons and daughters are married and I have no worries. Even if I'm not working, well I have a place to go back and have a feed or a drink of tea of something. I'm not having any trouble with my health but I've been to the doctor different times with ulcers in my stomach when I drank too much and didn't eat. That's the only time it affected me.

Do you go to church or have a religion or do you follow your own people's Law? I have a church, a religion. It's Church of England. A lot of us around here are Church of England. I have to follow my people's Law too. We train our young people through that Law before they go to the white law. I don't think it fits into the Church of England at all because say if you were a boy and I wanted you to learn something in the tribal way I'd have to take you away from your mob. And if I happen to be your brother-in-law I have to make you understand that you do exactly what these old people want you to do. Look when I went through it I couldn't do a thing till I got my instructions from my brother-in-law. That's the person who has to look after you and see that you get your feed. If you have an uncle or a cousin-brother in the mob they can come and while you're having a feed like that they can snatch your tucker away and you can't say a thing. O h that tribal Law is very hard, very hard.

What do you think over the years then have been the biggest changes for the Aboriginal people here in this country? Well there's been a lot of changes here. When I was a boy there over at Forrest River blokes used to come and shoot my relations, my father's and mother's relations, when I was about eight or nine years old. My

Stephen Edwards: Floggings 189

father and mother used to talk about it. Well now that things are they have it worked that way there's no problem at all, not that I can see. Look when I was a young feller there was no Aboriginal department in Wyndham or Kununurra. As soon as these people took over to support these Aboriginals there's been a lot of difference, for the living standards like. They put up reserves. That wasn't there years before, wasn't even in Wyndham. Well I reckon that's good giving something to the family man, a shelter in the Wet. Not like us poor buggers. We just had to live under a tent for a while till the KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association] mob took over. I thought they were getting well looked after the way things are now. I'm talking about the whole Aboriginal people. But a lot of us haven't got a shelter. We just sleep under a tree, cover ourselves with a calico in the rain time. Well in the Aboriginal way I reckon they're supporting themselves somehow. You know with the trucks and things like that. If they can better themselves and make money to return to the government well they're getting a better spin than us. O h well I mean to say .we have nothing. We're just battling. I'm no different from them but I don't live down there. That's why they put us all aside. When this KAPA takes over this business that's coming in progress now I think we'll have a little bit of a go. We'd send for houses and that, twentyfour that were going to go up. Well I'd have one for me and one of my sons and his family so I'd have a start. I'd have to get work somewhere too. Well we have to prove that as soon as the KAPA gets going. I can't see how we're going to lose because we have Alfie Gerrard to organise it better than down there. Well I put in for a house and I want my family to have a shelter in the Wet. We were only just living under a tree but I have no intention of leaving. Well I think the white people have more to say about the way Aboriginal people feel about them. Just in the pub or round about there's a lot of discrimination. I've been around to all the Aboriginal people and there's no hard feeling against white people up here. It's the opposite thing see. A lot of them have discrimination for our colour. Well you know they don't like us mixing with them just because we have our rights and that to go to work. They had a big blue over it one time then. The dark people were fighting the main owners of the pub and one bloke went to the hospital and had stitches in his head and all this, a white bloke, one of the bar tenders. No sooner you poke your head out there they just said, 'All right, get. You was in that business last night', something like

190 When the Dust Come in Between that. You didn't have to get drunk at all, just because they reckoned you were with the blokes who caused a disturbance the night before. I had it done to me a lot of times and I still go back, well just because I want a drink. Well they're putting their heads together and the publican knows they can't have it their own way. That Black Power business didn't turn up. Nothing happened. Well I got an idea there were a lot coming up from New South Wales for a conference. I didn't want to get involved in it, you know why? I didn't want my mother or my children or my grandchildren to get shot down if there was anything from the blackfellers. From what I could understand if they came and asked you to join them you had to. You had to go whether you liked it or not see. If not well they'd just put a bullet through your forehead or something like that. They'd shoot you on the spot if you didn't join them. I thought that would happen here, a civil war was going to start. One man just disappeared from here and we got an idea he might bring the Black Power back. It was good in the old canteen before. We didn't have our rights and we used to walk in there after we did a day's work and get a jug. There was no discrimination then in that time. But on a Sunday here when this pub first went up we used to get two bottles. You could walk in there and get a bottle of rum and a bottle of beer. They only allowed us two at a time. We didn't have our rights but we could do it you know. It was a different thing in Wyndham I noticed. I had a Morris Minor car and I went in there one weekend from Rosewood where I was working and I said to the boss, 'Can I get a carton of beer? I'm travelling through.' He said, 'You can get anything you like providing you don't drink it here. Anything you want to take away you'll get it.' So I bought myself a bottle of rum and a carton of beer and I went home. See the difference? You can in the Territory and the publican there in Wyndham knew us. He was on a cattle station before and we once worked for him. Well to tell you the honest truth when you have an Aboriginal bloke with any responsibility away from town they can work, they can prove it. Say for instance now I was working out here on El Questo and we had a full blood head stockman over us. We got more bullocks than we had with a white stockman and we used to do our work properly. When we came on to the station the manager was too pleased. We were out for five weeks mustering the cattle, branding them, and brought the big stuff back. We had about three loads we sent to Wyndham and he turned around and brought us all in here and paid us all off properly.

Stephen Edwards: Floggings 191

Well I think they know when they have a good mob of a team working for them. In the early days we used to work for just a shirt, trousers, boots and hat, tobacco and that. But they know they have good people, good men working for them. Well it's different now than in the early days. When I was a boy turning twenty we used to work for Johnny Kilfoyle and he used to pay only two dollars a week. We carried him on our back till he sold out. Well a lot of these managers now they know when they have good men because they can see it. They can prove themselves when they're doing the job.

Have you been in jail very often ...? What do you think about drinking? I haven't been in jail that often. I was told the next time they caught me they were going to take me up habitual drunk. O h drinking's all right you know but it's the blokes who cause disturbances in there and the wrong people get picked up. They drink too much because they have the money to keep drinking with. I drink a lot when I'm with bad company like, with money and that. Well you can't just walk away and leave your mate there when he offers you a drink. I know when to pull up. I don't want to get caught. I was caught three times and after the third time you're up for habitual drunk. Well that's three months. The last time I did twenty-one days and they said, 'You watch your step the next time! That was only my last chance and I'd be called a habitual drunk. I don't want that to happen. Those buggers in the pub there they just watch you till they get all your money and when they see you've had enough instead of trying to tell you to go and leave the premises they call the police. Well that's not right after they took all your money. Listen I reckon what's wrong, they should go back to the tribal Law first but they don't want to be interested in it. That's what I'm crooked on with a lot of the young fellers in there. Well these old people they rough handle them I tell you. You know in this tribal Law they make them do as they're told. They won't just come and ask them, they make them do it. That's why these lot of young fellers don't want to come and join us old people. They had to in the past. There was no way out of it. Well it's getting civilised every day and they go and live, mix with civilised people you know. They don't want to come back and join us. They go to another town, Katherine or Darwin or Kununurra and mix with civilised people. They leave the stations to come here or Darwin or Katherine and they don't want to come back to our Law.

192 When the Dust Come in Between

Any way you can think that would fix this? Well I reckon it's only the old people like me and the ones up at the reserve to put our heads together and talk it over with them and let the young people join us when we put our sacred meeting up the next time. No women are allowed in this. You already know this. I still follow my old Law although I went to school. It's very strong and we still have Law men here. Look if a young feller misunderstood and made one slip he was dead. That's in the tribal Law even today. If he had a girlfriend back up at the reserve and he ran away from the sacred ground he had to die. There was no such thing could stop it. He'd die with the spear. It could still happen now. That's why a lot of the young fellers don't want to associate with the old people like us. It could happen if we put our heads together, if we wanted a certain one to go there and they didn't come or something like that. Just lately I saw a girl who walked into this. They were hunting sugar bag down on the Ngarinman side at Mistake Creek and she walked into this sacred turnout that belonged to us the turnout people. O h those old fellers said, 'Which way did you fellers go?! 'Oh we went over here longa certain place.' 'Who run into that turnout? Somebody's track round there.' And a week after that same girl was dead. They sang her. That was about in 1958. Well when they pick a good fighter he's the leader. It was only just between the older generation. These young people they can't join this turnout. It was a different thing altogether with Alfie and July. They were both good fighters even in the tribal way. They could fight with boomerangs and spears. But it's not in them. They don't want to use it. O h they'd done it before. That's what makes them leaders now. They can fight and they can talk in the wise man way too. That's the best part of them. That's why we all ~ i c k e dthem as leaders. They could support us in fight or even talking. They could talk back better than I mean me or any of those old fellers. They offered to get us houses and all this seeing that we were living under tents and trees with no shelter for years. That's why we had a lot of respect for them. The white people have a different way to our standard of living. Of course we haven't stuff to blooming live like them, say furniture and groceries and cookery things and all this. It's a different way of living with the tucker line. We just live rough. Well I've associated with managers and all this and I think that's the best way of living the way they live on the stations. I ate at the same table and ate the same food as them. I reckon that's all right. -

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Srephen Edwards: Floggings 193

What sort of worries, if any, do you have day by day? Do you have many? I don't have that many worries. It's only sometimes when we run out of cash. We might be short of a feed or something and we'd go and report to the Social Service and they'd help us out with it. But we really haven't any problems daily living you know. I'm still working but in here I can't save. A lot of the grown up boys of mine wouldn't go to work when they saw me work. They'd stick around till I was broke. But I shouldn't run them down at all. I just don't like the style. Why don't they work for me for a change? Well I can say that I'm only an average bloke you know. I had a little bit of education. My children had more than me. Well what I can see of it now the Aboriginal people don't seem to try and help themselves. But well you're talking about my point of view, from my vision? They're quite prepared. All my boys were quite prepared. They were anxious to hurry me about this. They said, 'Dad, if you can get early before next year you don't have to work. You can just come and supervise and we'll do the job for you Dad.' O h a lot of other people felt that way but a lot of them didn't have the education enough to go and see about this sort of thing. It's a lot better now than my time. I reckon they're getting a better good chance. There's been a lot of improvement as far as Aboriginal advancement goes. We appreciate the help we're getting now from the government and the Social Service. I reckon we're getting a better opportunity than we had oh three or four years back.

Plate 8

Alfie Gerrard, 1973, Kununurra

ALFIE GERRARD BORN 1929

FORREST RIVER, THE 1940s Recorded 14 January 1974, 2 August 1983: three tapes. Alfie first told me his story in 1974 but most of it was lost due to a faulty tape recorder. Many years later in 1983 he was swept into a Christian movement and at the age of fifty-four was taking stock of his life. He recorded his reminiscences in preparation for my visit but the tape cassette was loaned out and we were unable to recover it before I was to leave Kununurra. That evening he drove to the relative quiet of the Kelly's Knob lookout and there re-recorded his recollections and passed them on to me the next morning just before my departure. The original tape reached Adelaide a few weeks later. It had been virtually a dry run for the more ordered narratives of the later version. Both versions had a rare energy and spontaneity, besides which their subject matter was of special interest. A n account of Alfie's Moola Bulla days was prepared by us for the bicentennial volume Australians 1938 (Gerrard 1988, 4-63). Here are told. his experiences from late childhood to early adulthood centring on Forrest River Mission. Anyway that 1940 we were lost then, no more teachers. At the end of 1940 my parents came along then. They came in. And they stayed with us all of November and two weeks in December. And they said, 'Look we're going away now. We're not too far away, another week before Christmas. And the last truck in now. Only truck. Me and Mum will have to go back', my Dad said. 'We'll have to go back. But we'll do something about you boys. We'll try and get you. Y'know there's no teachers and now everything come to a stop, and we'll try and get you two boys back to Forrest River Mission. But all we can do just go to

196 When the Dust Come in Between the Father.' Father Bush at Forrest River Mission [1933-35, Green 1988, 1201. 'We'll see what we could do. And he'll get in touch with Jack Woodland here, see if we can have you back at Forrest River Mission.' And we were very pleased. 'Yes Mum and Dad. We want to get back to you. We seen very little of you all our times but the years come now we want to be with you. We think of you y'know. We don't want to be away from you all the time. This too much, away from you and Mum.' And, right they left. Then the loading trucks came. And when they went Mum and Dad said everything was OK for them to go. Jack Woodland said to the driver, 'You got a passenger to go back to Forrest River Mission. Ah, do you have room for them to go back?' And they said yes. And Mackellar came up with the truck where we were camped and got Mum then. Mum pulled down their tent where they were camped. They pulled that big tent down and everything went down and on the truck, and away Mum and Dad went together. A big hug and kiss and we said, 'Oh well. So often been away from Mum. This is another time we'll be without Mum and Dad. So well, this is it.' Away they went. That was the end of 1940. And we thought we'd hear no more from Mum and Dad. But early in February of 1941, '41 went by. Everything carried around on Moola Bulla. No schooling. We just carried on doing our work, with the wood heap carting wood, my brother and I. Daily routine I was just getting wood in with the covered wagon, mustered their donkey. That was our job. And 1941 went. And we never heard any more till the very end of the year 1941 Jack Woodland said to us, 'Look, maybe there might be a little talk about you two boys going back to Forrest River Mission. Maybe next year in '42 we might send you two boys back to Forrest River Mission, see your Mum and Dad. How you feel about that?' 'Oh good', we reckoned. We had been so many times away from Mum and Dad. Anyway '41 went through, 1942 came up. January, February, March, up came Jack Woodland. And he said to me and my brother, 'Eh you two boys. Want you up here. He brought you up, left Wyndham and it should be here tomorrow. Will you be ready to go travel back with him?' 'Yes', we said, 'Yeah we'll be ready to travel back. When the loading truck be here?' He said, 'Tomorrow. So you get everything ready and go.' 'Well', we said, 'We have got nothing very little to take with us just how we stand that's all'. 'All right', he said, 'You be ready to travel back when Mackellar here. You'll probably get a ride with old Mackellar.' 'Good, Jack', we said, 'That's a very good news'. Back to Mum and Dad.

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And the next day came along. And he got loading that morning. He got in about ten o'clock and he was finished midday. Had everything unloaded the two trucks were ready, serviced ready to go back. One o'clock we went. He had empty drums and everything to go back, fuel drums, and all reloaded again and ready by one o'clock. Two o'clock we left Moola Bulla. And we was fitted in with old Mackellar. And we headed back for whatsaname. Take a week like I said. That was in March. We kept over the road then. It was all starting to dry out properly then. And they brought us back to Wyndham. That was in '42. The war was still on then and that's the year when Wyndham was bombed. The Japs got in there and bombed the place up just before '41. Blew the old Koolama passenger boat right in Wyndham harbour there beside that jetty now. The passenger boat it sank down. They weren't able to recover it. It's still there. And put a few holes in around the aerodrome there, the airstrip of Wyndham. They bombed that. And they bombed the little house beside the airstrip. They put a machine gun right there. There're bullet holes right through that little house. And they cleaned up round the place, then they went. This what the Japanese done. They were right down there in blooming Wyndham, Darwin. And it was full of Army people there. Old Hovenden that boat they had and all that used to transport everything mail and food out to Forrest River Mission. It's name was Hovenden that launch, that big one. My Dad was the skipper of that and he had six workers under him. He had a crew of about five I think. So they'd take out all the stores. And there old Lee Tong. They used to buy their stores through Lee Tong. Old mother Bessie Lee Tong's still there. From their shop. Tong Feng was the other Chinaman they used to buy off that. And old Flinders was there too. But the Army was in there too. The Army camp was out at Twelve Mile and we used to get tinned biscuits and things off the Army. Well the Army blokes was there on guard, used to watch the foreshore at Wyndham make sure the Japs might come up there. The Army was in Wyndham and they had the crew of Hovenden when Neil Davis was in charge. He was the skipper. And they were claimed by the Army, the snipes. They were trained by their light coming into the port of Wyndham near the gulf. They were trained with their lights when they coming in at night how to work their lights. They know the signals on their light and they knew their voices and the words they would speak. And then the Army trained them what the answers and all this, and give the OK sign to come in. And if it wasn't work like that well you know what was the next, a good crocodile feed. But

198 When the Dust Come in Between this is how it was. The Army had it all trained so my Dad could bring the boat in without any trouble from the Army guards. They know it would be the Forrest River boat coming in. And the launch coming in for goods, for their stores, for their mail and things like that. And I was very pleased that. I was standing there and watching the Army and they told us, 'You see what this old man got to do out here when he comes in there with his signals'. And then they done it. They were good. And the old man my Dad brought the boat in that night, tied up beside it for a while to the port and met us. And he said, 'Are you boys coming along up. You got your swag here?' We didn't have much of a swag here. We said, 'Oh we got something here Dad, just a blanket'. Well, 'Yes that's good', he said, 'You can come aboard this old launch with us and we'll anchor out here where we usually anchor. And tomorrow we'll get loaded up and then we can go out to Forrest River Mission. And, you'll be welcome by your Mum and your family, your aunties, your uncles, all your relations. You are the two boys y'know, we are looking forward to having you back with us.' So the night went on. We went out and anchored for the night. Course the tide goes out and the water got very [low] and we didn't have much rope to keep on tying the boat see. And the wave you see just had to break the rope or lose the lot. So we went out to anchor. So he anchored outside on one of the buoys and we tied it up and it was tied for the night. So we went to bed then. Next morning [we] got up and had some tea, coffee for us. Dad always had a primus so you can make tea and boil an egg or something like that, make Weeties. So we had a couple of slice of bread and some Weeties he gave us the next morning and toast. And he called in when the tide came in. He went in and anchored and he got all his stores what he wanted to take out on that trip for Forrest River. Checked if there [was] any mails and papers. And so everything was delivered to us. The Army checked it through, made sure. And, well we went out to Forrest River, not knowing whether we'd meet the Japs on the road with their submarines or anything like that o n the way in the gulf. But we went. And it took us about three hours I think, three to four hours out there to work in with the tide. We got out to Oombulgurri, Forrest River Mission, and there we landed. We came off, Dick and I. We hadn't much of a swag, just a blanket. And Mum was there. Well what a wonderful warm welcome from our dear old mother. And our sisters. And the eldest brother and our sisters. We were most welcome by our aunties, our relations, uncles. O h we were very happy. We were in the arms of our Mum again. And big cry from

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Mum in her joy, a big cry with joy for every one of us. The lost boys have returned. And we were very glad too to be in the arms of Mum again. So they took us where Mum had her house they took us up. So the long lost boys were very happy back with Mum again, meself, Dick. And they told us many stories and we had to go by the Mission rules now. They told us the rules, what we had to do. See they said, 'There's no more Moola Bulla rules you have. This is the Mission rules now we have here. This is the Church of England rules. And we have two meetings going, two church meetings. Six [o'clock] in the morning and sunset. Whatever the sunset in the afternoon, the meeting. And so you have to get ready, get yourself going now. Get yourself ready. Get into practice on going to church.' And we said, 'That's nothing now. We'll be doing that.' And they said, 'We can come and see you, wherever you want to go, walking, hunting, anything with the other boys or anything, come and see us before you go. We want to know where you two boys are heading for. If you going different ways come back and let Mum or myself know where you two going and we'll be putting the weekend or the day, going out.' So we went along there in that year now. We even had practice for going to church. And church, that was my right foot forward. I used to put my best foot forward to go to church. And I loved church. I still love it now. I always look forward to go to church. It might be I'm a born Christian. I been born twice now. I gave me heart to the Lord not so long ago again. I was born again by the Holy Spirit and by water baptism again. I'm not ashamed of being a Christian. I love it being a Christian. The old Oombulgurri church, the old Forrest River Mission church, it used to be packed with people. O h it was beautiful to hear the old hymns, the prayers from our pastors - you know the Fathers of the Church of England, priests them days - was so wonderful to hear the word of the Bible. Well I believe it, it was beautiful. I used to love listening to that Mass. Whatever priest was there, were three when I was there. There was Bush, Johnson [1936-381 and Best [1942-471. They were good. They were very good to listen to. They were Church of England and they were all English people too, Pommies. And we started going back to school in '41, right through we had to go, my good mates now within two months without staying with our parents. Now we had to be drafted away again from our Mum and Dad to a boy's dormitory with some of the Fathers. Thompson [Tenny Thompson], he was the Superintendent for the boys. He used to look

200 When the Dust Come in Between after the boys. They had a maid looking after the girls. And the Superintendent priest, the Father or Superintendent of the mission he was Bush at that time. And there were nurses, there were teachers. They had a clinic going there too and one of the nurses used to work in the clinic. The other was part-time, a qualified nurse for Oombulgurri. But she used to help a bit and do more work down in the girl's dormitory. She was the boss down there. She was Sister Mary. I lost the other name to it. Also we had a white mechanic. A very good mechanic. He used to keep everything working there, the lighting plant and a lot of things like that. And they had a sawmill going. They usd to cut their own timber up. Beautiful sawmill was going there. And there were a couple more working round the place there and their wives, in the Aboriginal community. The Aboriginal people weren't big as Moola Bulla, weren't that big. Probably about three or four hundred. That's kids and all. Say four hundred, kids and all. And it was same again through all the mission rules again, the dormitory rules. Boys we had to go south and the girls had to go north. We go the other areas. Next weekend we go north and the girls go south, or girls go north and we go south, swap around again. Plenty areas around there we used to go. But the mission rules with the girls and the boys, they always had the head parents. Head parents would go out on the weekend. Wherever they went for the weekend they had that, head parents for that day. For Saturday they had the head parents who made sure the girls had to be back at the dormitory at the dot, so they'll have a clean-up and be ready for church at that sunset. And this is the same required to the boys. We had our head parents for that Saturday and we had a different one for Sunday. And same with the girls. They had a different one for Sunday. Things used to work out pretty well but it was different at Forrest River Mission. We used to go out and fish. You can throw a line out for barramundi. There was plenty of barramundi, no shortage of barramundi. Deep sea mullet. We used to go in for that. Plenty of mullet. Spear that. Plenty of places where we can dragnet at Oombulgurri. Drag just ordinary fencing wire net. Use that for dragging. At O'Donnel Crossing, a big creek out there one of the old arm points that running off the river, Forrest River. And it used to fill in the salt arm. Plenty of the fish the barramundi used to flow in there during the big tides. And during the wet season they go up there. There were plenty of fishing there. A h you couldn't get all the fish in one hit, in one drag. We used to spread it out. In certain weeks in certain times you go in there. The

Alfie Gerrard: Forrest River 201

crocodiles was not that bad in, but now they're very sick the crocodile these days. They're very sick. And us boys when we used to go out down to Donnel Crossing we used to get onto these wild donkeys. Well Oombulgurri had hundreds and thousands of donkeys around the place. There were plenty of cattle there at that time too, cattle everywhere. And plenty of pigs was there. They were quiet pigs. They were looked after at Forrest River, had pigs there. And goats there. O h there must have been about three or four hundred goats. That's fresh milk we used to get there for the mission supply, from cows and goats. Same as what they had in Moola Bulla, We used to have cow's milk, go out and milk the cows. The boys, that was our job to get out and milk the goats. We had about six boys today and every day there was a different group there. We had six or seven. And every day was a different team going out to milk goats first thing in the morning. We used to do that seven days a week. That was the boy's team. There was enough boys there, maybe two hundred boys. A lot of them they've got married and went away, and a lot of them died. There was a big mob of us. And we did a lot of silly things too when we used to go out on that Saturday holiday. We used to chase these wild donkeys and get them into a place where there were a lot of boys waiting. And lot of working donkeys in there too. They had wagons. They used to go out and get wood too and put out to the stock camp and use that as the - . Dick McCail he was the head stockman and he had a team of donkeys that would take his wagon out over them great big hills. O n the other side were plenty of cattle. And they mustered their cattle and branded them. And have cattle going round the meat works in Wyndham. Dick McCail used to do that. He had a lot of working donkeys. And we used to sneak out on these donkeys on the Saturday and we used to wait down a boggy place there was no yard and wait for them on a tree anywhere we'd like, and run these donkeys straight into this Doraman Flat or salt arm there, a boggy spot there. And there some of these donkeys would take it a bit steady going in and we'd be springing off the tree onto their back, and some of the boys would be bucked off and felled and kick and screaming. And some of them jumped on when they got in the bog there. The donkeys find it a bit hard to puddle through so they'd be all flying on their back. And a lot of us you know we got that way we could ride these things. We could lock our legs around there and hang on with full arm locks around, and

202 When the Dust Come in Between hang on as much as we can, we just stick to him. After riding them for a while them donkeys would take notice then. They couldn't get rid of us, some of the boys. Some of the boys had longer legs and they could wrap their legs around the belly and just hang on for the grip of their life. And when they did come back they come back and pick the other boys when they had him quietened down. We used to get on a lot of things. We used to watch out for the quiet ones too our little blokes, and we knew the quiet donkeys and fly onto them and go for a ride. And we used to go all the way round there and we were chasing cattle with the donkeys and, y'know, go for a bit of a muster with them we doing wonders foot [walking]. Lucky we didn't get caught. And a lot of places, in that Oombulgurri up to Forrest River Mission got many many springs. They got plenty of beautiful spring waters in them hills right along there. That ranges is full of springs. And all different varieties of birds, beautiful colour of birds there. They never let a bird catcher go on the Forrest River Mission. They keep the bird catchers out. And there's where the birds are. Beautiful colour. Beautiful to see birds like that. And they're not destroyed. They're still there. Many times was there bigger man, y'know used to go out. There were millions of ducks, millions of ducks. Geese, millions of geese. Turkeys, there were, and kangaroos. The place was full of kangaroos one time. Big plain kangaroo, big white thing, used to stand up. You could see them y'know for miles and you go up and just get one that's enough for the team, most of the boys. And, that headmaster of us, wherever the head parents used to take us out, take the boys out, or girls, they used to do a lot of hunting of kangaroos for us. Get one and take it back where their place, where we decide to have our dinner camp. And the boys would have big fire going, great big hole dug. The hot stones and things in there. And they put this in there, Aboriginal oven. And the name of that oven was gumbun. They put this in the hole, gumbun, cover the meat up, that gumbun, that kangaroo. And it, all you got to do when it come up put it on the grass and brush it off and get, and it come out real clean. Then with the whole hide you just peel the hide off. They just make this nice and clean. And it's cooked. Beautiful taste about it too. And that's, well that's just cooked in steam. The steam used to do the cooking. If you know how to put it in, the turkeys anything fish, y'know do gumbun. That's the Aboriginal word. And it's all steam. Fish, fresh meat anything like that you want to steam it. Just wrap it up in bush and put it with the right bush. Ah and that mangrove tree

Alfie Gerrard: Forrest River 203

they got there that grows on them salt arm stands, the mangrove tree, they used to wrap that meat up in that bush now that mangrove tree and that salt. Y'get that salt right off that mangrove leaf right onto our meat and when you cook it, it goes right in, take it in. And I tell you Bruce it's, no lies about that, it's fair dinkum stuff. And you can really sit down and have a good feed. The salt's gone right into your cooking. And it put that taste in there, in that bush when it's cooked. And they used a lot of gum leaves too. Leaves with that cooking. It's a lot of different ways, and that steam take it in, the steam. That's all it is, the steam. That take it right into your meat. And it's beautiful, the salt go into it. And it's so nice. And, this is how they cook the Aboriginal people. They cook their meals just like that. And that year went by. We had a lot of times where we used to go through there. Lot of corroborees we used to go in down there too. There were Wangga and Balga. That's the only two corroborees Balga and Wangga through that coastal country there. They were very good on Balga. They had good Balga music and Balga dance. And it's a slow dance to Wangga, very slow dance. That's the Wangga you see here at Kununurra, very slow. But it's good music. And that was very heavy. We used to slip out and get into that, weekends on Saturday too. We asked the pastor or we asked the Father or the superintendent of our boys that we have the leading parents could take us to that corroboree on Saturday nights so we can sit down and watch. And if we been a good boy that week they'll let us go. If one or two or three boys played up well we lose, we wouldn't go. We used to look forward to go down to the corroboree camp. And get in, get right in with the old tribal and they'd teach us how to dance and we used to get in there and dance. A few of the boys would get in and sing. You had no didgeridu with Balga nothing, you don't blow the didgeridu, just stick and sing and dance. And it was wonderful to be in there enjoying yourself on Saturday night in dancing. And we loved it. And they used to make up the same like that what they used to do in Moola Bulla. They used to make big dampers. A h they used to call it 'full moon damper'. They make big damper, any kangaroo, any fish, crocodile, they spear crocodile. Any crocodile like that it's got. Anything in meat line used to go through that ceremony, dance, but everyone get a share. Everyone of that Oombulgurri Forrest River mob. O n them ceremony nights everyone shared their meal. They would eat their meat, ah their damper. And what they were going to cook up that

204 When the Dust Come in Between night it's put up there on the bush. Everyone comes in and help themself when it's time to eat. They have a special time in between the two dance. They have an hour or half an hour or something where everyone sit in and have a damper to eat. And it's real good stuff. Plenty of tea, plenty of damper, and I think that's what the boys used to look forward to, for that damper and a bit of kangaroo meat or crocodile or fish anything like that. And goanna, plenty of turkeys too. They used to put it through so everyone share what that meat, what that meal was. And right through that year then, '42 went by. Christmas came real good. Big Christmas tree, which I haven't seen in Moola Bulla. Right in front of the church. Church went on, Christmas present hanging up on the tree. Mission there was different. Everything was more towards the Christian. Christmas tree, everyone would love the Lord and the present was there for us. The church service went beautiful. The big Mass went on beautiful. Everybody was. Looked so pretty too. I wish I had a photo of that Bruce, of them days when everyone used to dress up for Christmas Day. And the boys well we didn't have shorts by then. They used to have surplice around us, surplice and top shirt. And I still remember we had a blue shirt and a blue surplice. And that's Christmas Day. The girls were there. Well a lot of our girls, that's where I met my wife Edna now there at Oombulgurri. That's where our first love started there, Forrest River. We used to have a very very good time through there. And '42 went by and Bush had to go away right towards the end there. And when Bush went and I was, towards the end I was the boy that used to go up and I had a mate named Sam. Sam Albert. Sam Alberts and meself we used to go up and set everything up in the church. We used to look on the board and pick the hymns we liked and had the numbers put up on the board. So when they walk in they just look on the board they know what number, what hymn to sing. And it'd be there so they didn't have to ask. The hymn books in front of them, we used to put all that out. Bible, hymn books out on front of them, and their stool where they kneel and sit. One had a stool right through. And right at the very front too there was a Bible and whatsaname there. So they could walk back. They wasn't at the stool, they can go back and get it from the very front. Or we'd be there, Sammy or meself would be there and we'd take it to the ones that haven't got it and hand him a Bible for that service or a hymn. And we used to set the altar up. We used to carry the cross in front and bring the priest around from round the back with the others. We'd carry the cross to him and we were the candle boys. Used to walk up and light the candles.

Alfie Gerrard: Forrest River 205

And that was part of our work with the church you understand. And Bush, we got really in touch with Bush, the Father, Superintendent. And he told us toward the end of November he said, 'Look, I got to leave yous. And December, first week in December you'll have a new Father here, Superintendent Father. That'll be Johnson, Reverend Victor Johnson.' 'Oh.' We thought he's the bloke that we heard before. He came here once before and he belt up a lot of man with a pick handle. Maybe that's the same bloke. 'Well he came here, this his second time up.' 'Yeah that's him.' So up he came and Bush had to go away. And that was the end of him. We never seen him since the Superintendent, the Father I mean. That Bush. Never seen him since he went away. Ah that's late in '42 anyhow. And Johnson came and we just went on doing the same work Sam and I what we done for Father Bush. And Johnson and I got on very very friendly. We were good mates anyhow at the end toward Christmas there. And he said to me between Christmas and New Year, he said to me at the end of '42, 'Eh Alfie, what are you doing?'. I said, 'Oh we got to have a - '. 'Oh no', he said, 'I think you better get all your mate and things and bring them up here, you and Sammy. You two can have this room at the front here. O h you can stop here with us, with me.' 'All right. You can set the term. You the boss. What you say we do.' So we went down and got our swag and our blanket and we met Sammy, mattress and we shifted up there in the office. There's the room and a bed there and I had a bed. He had a bed, I had a bed. And we sort of settle in. And Sammy and I carried on doing the same work we were doing and we got more in touch with Johnson now. We were really good friends there. And y'know that Christmas went by. We had a beautiful Christmas, oh lovely. And '43 January then, New Year big one. And 4 3 he had to leave in February. And he came up and asked me and Sammy, 'I got to go away and leave yous now. I came up for three months and my three months is up. I've got a church going I'm now a new Father. I'm the minister for the church in Merredin. I come up here on a three week course to do this, so I'm going back to my church. And you'll have another Superintendent Father coming here, he's Best. His name is Best. He's a married person and he'll be up here to minister and be your Superintendent, Father for the Church of England here and Forrest River Mission.' And all right, that was in January. 'I'm leaving first week in February.' End of January, somewhere around the end of January. And before he left he must say how things worked up. He said to me, 'All.

206 When the Dust Come in Between Alfie, how you feel about coming to Perth?' 'What?' 'Perth.' 'Yeah I'd love to', I said. 'I'd love to go down in Perth and do something down there, or a bit of schooling, if you can learn a bit of schooling, go further in your schooling.' 'Oh good', I said, 'I'll be very very happy to do that. I'll be only too pleased to go out and do this.' And I said, 'Can I tell Mum and Dad this?'. He said, 'Yeah you can tell your Mum and Dad. But I've speaking to them too. If you willing to come down, if you want to come down I'll get everything arranged for you, pay your fare and get you down, end of February or early in March this year.' Ah, '43. And all right the week went by. He the one that spoke to me Mum and Dad. Called them up to the office and speak to them. And I thought, 'Oh well this is goodbye'. I never heard any more y'know, more gadia stuff was, more that I'd never see again. But he told my Mum and Dad, 'Look I want that young bloke to come down to Perth with me. What d'you think about this? And I want to further his education, see he get a better education down in Perth. If he can only come. What d'you say?' O h Mum and Dad was very leased about it and I was too. And then he said, 'All right. Got everything here. I promise you I'll arrange everything for him to come down. I'll get him all set up to go down, and I promise to let you know when he'll be coming down, whether it's early or late in February or first week in March.' 1943. So he left in January and up came Best. And end of February he was right. And Father Best came around and he said, 'What d'you feel like going to Perth? You feel like this end of February, within a week or two weeks, as soon as I know when your seat's booked. How you feel about going to Perth?' I said, 'Oh number one! And he said, 'I've got to see your parents, your Mum and Dad, and see what they say'. And right so he called them up to the office and Mum said, 'Oh that's good. O h we're very pleased to hear the young bloke going to go on and do his further education. Very good. We'll be pleased! All right, within a fortnight the end of February went and up come March, the first week in March. *Eh,I've got a ticket here for you to go on that plane next week.' 'Oh that's good.' And then Mum and Dad, I put my arm round Mum I was very pleased. And they were pleased. And so the things went on. And I was sent down to Perth then. Cause on that mail plane a very old trip this one. A very old trip that '43. All the same around this area never no light. No lights on the airstrip that night. They just carrying it during the day and landing. Everything had to work by day. So it was a very old plane, an old twin engined Douglas, and

Alfie Gerrard: Forrest River 207

MacRobertson-Miller. A h that the older. Avro Anson came in then. me up at Forrest River Mission brought Smaller a lane came in to ~ i c k me into W ~ n d h a m .So I had to change lane there. So I camped in Wyndham. They got a place for me to camp at the hospital. Gave me a bed there and meal and breakfast. And I was taken out to the airport and we got on that another plane. And this old Douglas it done all the station run. It went up through Lissadell, Ord River, Gordon Downs, Flora Valley, Hall's Creek, Fitzroy, Noonkanbah, then Derby. And Derby, Broome, Port Hedland. And then it took us, we got on this plane next morning about eight o'clock. It took a full day to get to Derby by all them stops around that area what I've just mentioned. Delivering mail, picking up mail, visiting the station, doctor run, flying doctor look at some of their patients, and all this, same time. From where we got into Derby. Right that's one camp. Then we had to go to another place. We go through these stations, the flying doctor's service there. And from there we went to Geraldton, camped in Geraldton. The next day we got into Perth. And it was late when we got into Perth. We didn't leave Geraldton till about nine or ten o'clock in the morning and got into Perth about six that night. And Johnson was there to meet me, Father Johnson. O h and he took me up with his arms around me at Perth Airport and he said, 'Look, put your swag down there. There's my car over there in the park.' And, 'You look very cold! I said, 'I am cold. This place is a very cold place Father. And I am in a pair of shorts. I didn't think I'd come into a world like this cold weather.' And he said, 'Look I'll get you into the car'. A big black Mercury Ford. 'We got heater. We'll get the heater going. And we'll get you up to my brother-in-law's house up there, see if we can get some warm clothes for you.' And he gave me a warm welcome the Father and away we went. And he took me to foster dad and I said, 'Good day Father', and he said, 'Up we go'. He gave me a beautiful seat. He warmed up my blanket and he took me up to his brother-in-law's house. That's up on Darlington Ranges. I still remember where the house is. I been there not so long ago and seen it. Down there '74 till '79 when I left Perth to come up here. And we went in there. And his brother-in-law was Keith Marshall. His wife was Edith. And that was his home on Darlington Ranges. 'This is me brother-in-law house.' And, 'You most welcome here.' We have some coffee then off to Northam. But first have a hot shower. 'And here's some warm clothes, see if it fit you.' Some boy's clothes, warm clothes. And they said, 'New socks, shoes. Try them on. And

208 When the Dust Come in Between some jumper. Get yourself all rugged up in woollen! So I had a hot shower and I put on the long woollen strides, fit the shirt, and try on the jumper and everything was right. And Johnson he going go back now into Merredin for a better school. So things went well. We got out to Northam and next stop the Father's house there, the Church of England priest. And that was all arranged. And the first thing his wife hit me with ice cream. I said, 'Oh. Why do we come into the ice cream in this cold weather? O h no thank you. Give us a hot cup of coffee, a biscuit. Not ice cream.' And that was hard. So they gave me some coffee and I was warmed up and sat in there while they talked. I listened in. And we decided to move on so off we went to Merredin. That's a big hike from there then from Northam, a big jump. So anyway we arrived in Merredin about three o'clock in the morning in a Ford V8 motor. He pointed out where the room I was staying. He said, 'That's your room. I'll see you at the breakfast table in the morning.' 'Oh thank you Father, that's wonderful.' 'Ah, do have a hot shower in the morning when you come to the table.' 'Right.' And he come and wake me up and I went down and had a hot shower, brushed me teeth. I had to do the proper gadia stuff there now. Brushed me teeth, cleaned me fingernails and brushed me nails. Dealing with gadia stuff now, do all the dandy stuff. I said, 'Oh well, here's back to school! And I went in and met mother, Mrs Johnson. Ah, Edith her name was. And she wrapped her arms around me, 'Bless you my son'. Gave me a warm welcome. She treat me as their big son. Cause they didn't have any children of their own. So I treated them two as Mum and Dad. And they got everything going for me. I went and meet the people. They took me out in their car meeting people. Showed me around Merredin and showed me onto the farm he had. Big farm just out five mile up on the Albany road there, or three I think. Away from Merredin on the Bruce Rock road. First farm on your right there going out to Bruce Rock. And there I was in my school. G o back to further education, further my education. Milking cows, feeding chooks, feeding pigs, set rabbit traps. I had to feed the dogs and go and bring the cows in, go out and let the cows go. Make sure they had their hay put out for them. Make sure the chooks were fed. Ah make sure there was no broken down fences. I used to ride the fence. They had a quiet horse there. I used to go round on horse ride, make sure there was no broken holes so the sheep can go into some other paddock. The fox, make sure there were no foxes. Stayed two years.

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This is all part of my job. And went in rolling on. And I run behind with the harvesting time, running behind the machine and just stacking hay and spread it out. I used to ~ i c kit up and stack it. Easy things. This is all my education. And then I stuck with them. I keep asking, 'Look, when I got to go back to school? Am I going back to school? Or do you want me to carry on doing this work?' 'Oh ~ e a h , you just carry on and do your work Alfie, what you do. Ah, I'll see what we can do for you.' That was all going. And it into twelve months this was still going. And he also had a partner out there. Jacobson his name was. Reverend Rector Johnson had a partner Jacobson. He had a big family and everything going out to the farm. Their kid was going to school and I used to keep saying, 'Look at Jacobson there and he going to school and I'm not. Can you do something about that?' And didn't come on. So this is all the work I had to put up with. That's my further education. And twelve months was there he went into bit more after there. '43 then right into '44. And middle of '44 we shifted down and bought another farm at York. That's on the Albany Highway too going out of York down the Albany Highway. That's only two mile out of town. Beautiful farm down the York River there. O h beautiful sight. I stuck with the old feller there right up till '45 then I started getting homesick. Well towards the end of '45 I was getting homesick. I want to come home. I'm doing everything silly now. I had a pushbike, started running away to Perth, leaving the farm. And no education, no reading and writing, never went to school, always behind. Only machine picking up hay, stacking hay, and always feeding the chooks, always milking the cows, feeding the dogs. And this went into '46. By the end of '46 I had more of that. He came down to Perth when I jumped on me bike and went down to his brother. They found me the weekend. This copper they spotted me. He came and picked me up, took me back there, gave me a big talking. And I said, 'Listen Father. I'm sorry I do this. But I come down here to get further education but it didn't come off. And I'm homesick. If I going to work I want to go back to the cattle station. I'd rather go back to the cattle station and work. So please give me back my freedom. Send me back to my people, my Mum and Dad, back at Forrest River Mission.' I said, 'I bin always parted from them. Never seem to have a good year like the other kids have for their Mum and Dad. Nothing like that. I always bin parted from my Mum and Dad. Will you please send me back?'

210 When the Dust Come in Between And they talked about it all then and they didn't want me to come back. They wanted me to go on slaving for them because they knew they had to pay someone. They knew they had to pay someone to do all the work I was doing. See I was right in doing a man's work. And very hard work some of it. It was very hard work. When you're running behind a machine and stacking hay that's very hard. When you bundle this with about eight in the bundle you got to stack it ready for the - . Then you got to take it to a header and chop it up, and make it for the cattle feed and horse feed out of it. And bales. You got to sew up the bales and all that. Woolshed. I used to work in a woolshed...

Here the second tape ends. T h e first 'trial r u n tape had the following ending. I'm not ashamed of it. I'll be very very happy to help you and give you some more good news about the Aboriginal ways. About the setback we had back in them early days, in my days... We had beautiful yarns you know. Dream more story about Dreamtime story.

Plate 9

Ernie Chapman, 1972, Kununurra

ERNIE CHAPMAN BORN 1893, DIED 1982

A LOT OF FUN Recorded 12 June 1970 (note book); 31 July, 5 September, 27 November 1973: four sessions, two hours. Proofread 1981 with Ernie and Winnie. Ernie was a friendly and gentle old man who savoured the travel and new sights of stock work in his earlier life. One important theme is the lifelong friendship between Ernie and Johnny Walker and their wives Winnie and Biddy. One section of the original transcript was a joint conversation between Ernie, Johnny and myself. Johnny Walker's life story is told in Bush Time, Station Time (1991~). 1almost placed Ernie's story with that of Johnny but because of its shorter length held it over for this volume.

I was born in 1893 at Borroloola in the Northern Territory on the Gulf out of Camooweal, a long way this side on McArthur River Station. That date's in the books in the hospital and every way. See old Borroloola had an old police station and a pub one time. And I hung around there for a long time round Eva Downs and at Anthony Lagoon - they're about fifty miles apart - and all over that country there. My father was a white man looking after a cattle station in Borroloola. My mother was a native. I wouldn't know my tribe. They called my lingo like Binbinga all round there right to Eva Downs where I hail from. And when the old feller passed away that's where I left to come out here with another mob of people. Me and my sister were the only children that's all. We travelled over with a dray, the old people in the early days. I was about six years old when I came over in this part of the country. All those old people brought me over, the whitefellers like. They all passed away after, here. None of them are left now see. My mother died over here in the east Kimberley. She came with me and at a place called Frog Hollow Station she died. My uncle

214 When the Dust Come in Between old Sam [Muggleton] bought that country and he formed that station. I worked on Texas then with a feller named Jack Kelly and I was brought up there. We lived there with him for quite a number of years. There was a white woman, Jack Kelly's wife, reared me up on old Texas Station. Old Texas was before they shifted into new Texas this side of Ord River Station. I was only about ten or twelve years old. I had a good place, a good home. Mrs Kelly was a good mother to me.

What sort of person was your father? Well to tell you the truth I never even saw my father. He died before I knew where I was. Mrs Kelly wasn't related to my mother. She was just a friend that's all. That was long before I came here. O h I was a man before 1 came around this part again. I had no brothers. I had a sister. She left me and went to a school in Darwin. My sister married a Filipino bloke something about 1913 and 1914, one of the Spain brothers who used to be in Darwin. That was Phillip Spain. He had a paper shop selling newspapers. They had a boy called Ernie. I don't know where he is. He must be still alive somewhere round Sydney or round here somewhere. And there was Yuna Spain who went away. The main bloke Phillip ran away and left my sister and of course she was on her own like. I saw Phillip in Townsville when I was there in 1918. He was working on the railway line there. My sister was in Darwin for a long time. I can't say where she died but it must have been in Darwin because I got a telegram in Ivanhoe when another manager was there. He said, 'I got a telegram here for you. Your sister died in Darwin.' That was around 1963. And my niece in Darwin, Louisa, was killed in that big cyclone. She was married to a half-caste bloke, an old soldier bloke name of Dick Butler. He'd been in the army a long time in Darwin. He was away on some party and of course the cyclone came too quick and a tree fell over the house and killed her. When I shifted from Texas I went to Bedford Downs. That was a long time ago. Then I came back to Ord River Station and I worked on the Ord for a couple of years or more, cattle work. Stock work just like Johnny [Walker]. I never went to school. I can't read though I can a little bit and I can sign my name. I could have been taught out in the bush but it was no good. I hated it. There were plenty of people wanted to give me a start you know. Now as soon as he got the news that they wanted people in Ord River the agent said to Johnny, 'I got a job for you at the old C

Ernie Chapman: A Lot of Fun 215

and D'. So Johnny came over now. Albert stopped here for a while and he went back again. They called him back. But he had some complaint you see. Johnny was about twelve years old then and Albert might have been about the same. I never saw him mind you and I don't know his other name. But I saw old Johnny. When I knew Johnny in 1914 he was here on Ivanhoe. I asked old MP Durack his age alongside of me, and old MP said, 'You were about twelve year old Johnny when you left Darwin! I tell you me and Johnny stuck to one another as soon as we met together. We were sort of split like and came back again, split again and came back another time. Now we stick together like. We know we're just about getting ready to go off and we're here today. We had no row, no argument. Not that I know of. It's been all a lot of fun like that's all. That's between me and him and our two wives [Biddy Walker and Winnie Chapman]. O h there were a lot more boys on the Ord from Darwin and Pine Creek and all those places. When there were very few natives round this way they used to get some boys from Darwin and round Adelaide River and Pine Creek. I knew all of their names. They're all dead and gone a long time see. There was old Pompey and old George and Alligator Tommy. He came from Alligator River old Tommy, and he passed away here Ord River way. I never heard about all those people. That time they only had the one name. I know there were two or three others who came from Darwin and used to work on the Ord then. This was after Buchanan. I knew all those Buchanans. They used to own Wave Hill and Flora Valley and Gordon Downs. Well Gordon Downs Station had a different name. It was Gordon Downs first in the early days and of course when the different time came and they sold it they changed it then and called it Birrindudu. There's still a place called Gordon Downs but it's not the same place. Birrindudu is between Gordon Downs now and Inverway, between Gordon Downs and Wave Hill. And Flora Valley that was all Gordon brothers I think, Gordon Buchanan. The Buchanan mob used to have that country then. And of course when they sold Wave Hill to the Vestey brothers, and Flora Valley, they formed Bedford Downs. That other place that used to be Sturt Creek one time they changed again to Soakies Creek [possibly Sophie Creek, personal communication Mary Durack, though Ernie's explanation for the name suggests otherwise]. In the desert like there were a lot of springs around there, from soaks. And Inverway belonged to Farqueson Brothers. Two fellers named Kelly and Sexton bought Bedford Downs from Gordon

216 When the Dust Come in Between Buchanan. That was a long time ago now, 1910 I think or 1908. I used to work for those two partners. They came from Adelaide in the early days. He was a South Australian old Kelly. I don't know about old Bob Sexton but I know he had a home in Cape York Peninsula. That's in Cloncurry some way. And they split the partnership. They couldn't get on to one another like. Bob Sexton had a place on the coast at Burketown some way and he sold it and came over and he and Kelly were together a long time as partners. They shifted a lot of cattle off old Texas onto Bedford Downs. They had 2,000 head of cattle and 100 head of horses and they took up more country. That was 1914 when they sold Wave Hill and Flora Valley to Vesteys. I took a mob of bullocks into Wyndham. That was the last shipping. I finished up with old Kelly. I left him and went and worked around myself. I travelled round the country. Nineteen sixteen, 1915, 1912 I was working the northern stations up on top here when I only got two pounds a week, right up to about '54 or '55 when they raised the wages a bit. We were getting a fiver a week and tucker at Ivanhoe then, and when I came back again they put my wages up to ten pounds a week, a tenner there at Ivanhoe. Well they pay more now but I left the stock work. When the First World War started in 1914 I was in Wyndham, and I went to Darwin and saw my sister and came back. Johnny was here like. We saw C and D on Argyle, Con and Docherty Durack. Then they shifted Johnny to Ivanhoe and he was there for a long time. I worked with Billy Weaber. He and his brothers were drovers. Of course he had Ningbing then. Jimmy Weaber was his brother. They were here for a good while. I don't know what happened to them. That was the last I saw of them when we took all the bullocks into Queensland in 1916. Billy Weaber and the Farqueson Brothers took 2,000 off Lissadell and Mabel Downs. And Billy Weaber bought from all the other places, from all the other cockies, the different small stations on the Kimberley. There were three mobs, about 6,000 going in. Farqueson Brothers bought 1,400 off Mabel Downs. They used to call that Frog Hollow, then they changed it to Mabel Downs. And I went in with those cattle into Queensland, halfway anyway. O h we had a very rough trip too. But I left Farqueson Brothers and joined Billy Weaber then right into Austral Downs on the border of Queensland. And he said, 'I'm leaving 1,100 bullock here on agistment. I'm taking 600 into Dajarra! Leaving on agistment like [Ernie

Ernie Chapman:

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said originally 'on the jaspan'] that's how they rent the country. O r if you have a station like you leave the bullocks there you see and another drover comes to pick them up next year. They were too tired to go any further. They shifted that mob of bullocks from Dajarra into Townsville then on the Ross River, and when they did that trip they came back here. Old Billy lived down there at Ningbing till he got stone blind and he bought a car. I pulled out at Austral Downs and worked on a place called Avon Downs in the Territory. Alexander was one of the biggest cattle stations then with 40,000 or 45,000 head of cattle on it. Dajarra was the trucking station. They used to truck bullocks there into Townsville. I worked in the stock camp there for a while at Avon Downs then I left that and I went back to a place called Sedan. That was an outstation off Alexander. Jack Beasley was running Sedan then. Then I shifted over to Alexander, and I went back to Sedan again. Old Beasley wanted me to come back. So I worked there for a while and then I went to Townsville in 1918 from Sedan. I was there for about five months. The war finished when I was in Townsville. It ended that night at eight o'clock. And I came back again on Alexander. Old Beasley was still there and I worked there at Sedan for a few months and did the next door station, that Avon Downs. Some fellers there they called a strike for more money see and we all got paid off. And of course I went in with the drover blokes into Queensland then. Right into Charleville, down through Winton, through Black Hole and all down there. And I came back up and I got a job in Winton with another drover. He was trucking a mob of bullocks and ninety head of horses. I was horse tailing right back to the Queensland border at Urandangi. That's a small country town. And the bloke I was working for he died at a place called Rosedale. That Spanish influenza was very bad that year [1919]. Well he died there and he had a partner. His partner came up to me and said, 'You better come back with me to Rosedale and take this plant back! I said, 'No'. I said, 'I had enough a bit. I'm going bush.' Anyhow he paid me. Now I came to Austral Downs. A bloke I knew he was camped there and cooking there and I went up to have a drink of tea with him. 'Did you see the manager?' 'What for?' 'Well he's might be a job.' I said, 'I don't look for job this time of year. It's on to nearly Christmas.' 'Oh you never can tell', he said. 'Come over.' I went over. He said to this young feller, 'You there Mr Rudd?' That was the manager of Austral

218 When the Dust Come in Between Downs. He came down and the old cook went away and left me to it and I turned around and asked him for a job. I said, 'Anything doing here Mr Rudd?' Bill Rudd. 'Is there any job?' 'Ah, well now. I'm sort of slacking down now', he said, 'Getting towards Christmas now! And he said to me the first thing they always asked you that time, 'Can you ride?' I said, 'Oh I can ride a pig root that's all! What they call a pig root is a buckjumper horse. 'Now', he said, 'Where you heading for?' I said, 'I'm heading for Camooweal! 'Ah well I got a agent in Camooweal. Sennet, Murray and Schole.' They were a Burketown mob see. Anyhow he thought a bit and he said, 'If I get first storm of rain here I'll call for you. You call into Sennet, Murray and Schole and I'll ring up, when I get a storm or two around the run.' So I went back to the camp and he came along in a car about daybreak in the morning. I pulled my swag off the road. He said, 'That you Ernie?' I said, 'Yes'. 'Oh', he said, 'I changed me mind. I got a job for you. How are you on team driving in the stock camp?' 'Oh well', I said, 'I'm not much of a team driver but I'll take it on if you stuck for a man'. This was a horse team, only one wagon and about ten or twelve draught horses. I got a job at Austral Downs for nearly eighteen months or two years then. In 1920 1came out here at Anthony Lagoon and got a job there breaking in some horses for a bloke was doing a bit of contract tank sinking. They were lough horses. There was no riding, only just handling them and quietening them down. Well I stopped there nearly two months at Anthony Lagoon building this big earth tank with the plough horses. They had a big plough and a scoop. And that dry country did for me from Anthony Lagoon to Eva Downs, Brunette all the way through to Newcastle Water. I struck another bloke there at Newcastle Water. 'Oh', he said, 'Come with me. We got some contract muster on Nutwood Downs.' I went about 500 miles out of my road. He had me on a wild goose chase. When I went up there he had no contract muster at all. Well I came round. O h I travelled right through all that coast country to Austin Downs, to Elsey Station, to Maranboy (that's a copper mine place), and I came to Katherine. From Katherine I went up right up the river then up to Wave Hill, up to Hall's Creek. And I got to Hall's Creek for Christmas. It was in 1922 I came back round the west again, in Western Australia. I knocked around here for a few years droving in the stock camps. I travelled out on horseback like. I had horses and I started over here on the Ord droving with the drovers into Wave Hill. We took

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bullocks off the Ord River Station into Wave Hill backwards and forwards. I left that and I came back and finished up then. I took a mob of bullocks into Wyndham meatworks a couple of trips. I went back to the Ord again to a place called Turner and did a bit of horse breaking in there for one month. Now I gave up that altogether and I bought a truck. I went on contracting work. Yard building, fencing and all this sort of thing to all these stations here, Ivanhoe and Rosewood. I got a surprise when Mrs Miller showed me her book what work I'd done there. That's 1923 I started at Rosewood. I was there 1924, '25, '26 I was still at Rosewood. I was seven years on Rosewood Station in good health. Johnny was at Argyle then and he shifted down to Ivanhoe. But before he left for Ivanhoe he came up there to me and I came down here. Johnny and I joined in with the drovers droving bullocks into Wyndham meat works for a month or two both of us. I've lived like this all my life even when I had my own plant. See when I had a truck and a wagon and did the yards and paddocks on the station we had our own camp. Then I'd leave. Sometimes I used to give up the work and they used to put me on the station then. Well I lived in the house at Rosewood. I bought a motor car. I sold that and bought a truck and I did a bit of work on the truck. That was the year on Ivanhoe when I started in 1932 or 1933. See I came down to Ivanhoe and worked on this station with those Duracks for quite a while, fifteen years. Johnny came up to Rosewood and he asked me like. He wanted to get away from the native camp you see. He wanted to get on the wages. They never gave him wages, only clothes. And he came up and asked me, 'What is the best way?' And I told him like, explained to him, 'I'll see a drover here. He'll be coming here directly taking bullock over.' I can see Kilfoyle. Anyhow you can get a job at Kilfoyle. I'll put in a word for you.' And this drover came along. It was old Jack Beasley. 'Well', he said, 7 want him, come with me droving'. We went droving with old Beasley into Wyndham a lot of times, and he got wages then. Kilfoyle gave him wages again. Then we came down here again and Durack offered me some contract work yard building. You know, fencing. And of course I took old Johnny with me. Both of us started at Ivanhoe then. We were too busy yard building there for a long time, building yards and paddocks and all this sort of thing. That was 1936 and '37 before the last war. Johnny went back in the camp then and I went away up to Rosewood to Waterloo Station and did a bit of fencing there with my truck, and

220 When the Dust Come in Between

I came back up here again. I sat in here at Ivanhoe and was there all the time ever since about. I must have been there about fifteen years on Ivanhoe, me and Johnny. I was contracting fencing and weekly working on Ivanhoe. We did all sorts of work you know. They took me off that and still I was on the station. I was Jack of all trades. Painting, butchering, gardening, a handy man, all sorts see, right up to about twenty years ago back there.

How did you meet your wife? When did you get married? I was married in 1935 by the tribal Law. I met my wife there at Ivanhoe. She was working there. Her boss was working there a good while after then at Ivanhoe before we shifted up here. We had no children between us but we had one boy we adopted, Harold like, and one girl Rita who was my wife's daughter from another husband. A girl was the first one and a boy the second time. Ritals married to Alfie Gerrard now and they have ten children in their family. They sent Rita to Forrest River Mission and she was there for nearly a year. I went and lived down in Wyndham then around 1949. And when they came back from Forrest River to Wyndham for a holiday I put my foot on her and put her into the Wyndham State school. I went and saw the Superintendent of course. We were hanging round Wyndham a long time. I did a bit of work round there on the Main Roads and I did a bit of work round the Six Mile as a yardsman round the pub there for twelve months. Then I came back again to Ivanhoe about 1953. A feller called Gordon Arnold was managing there at the time then, a new man. Johnny was out but he came back after. He left Ivanhoe too wandering around, scattered around. We got back together again at Ivanhoe. The manager told me to get him back like. They wanted a musterer's cook and the bloke who was managing Argyle - well he was a part owner of Argyle, Eric Durack - he got me to get Johnny back. Well of course I broke out a couple of times. I left when Arthur Milton was there. A h he was no good that feller. Johnny was at Ord River when Arthur Milton came and tried to get him fixed. He said, 'I'll pay you time that you left right up till today! And he did. Later Johnny was at Mantini when I left him. He had to go on with a yard and then he went to the Nine Mile. While he was camped at the Nine Mile the Carlton manager came and picked him up and Johnny worked on Carlton for quite a while. I was working at the Six Mile and Gordon Arnold the new manager at Ivanhoe said to me,

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'Y'better come back to Ivanhoe you and Johnny. Try and get old Johnny back.' See. I had a truck and a boy and my wife and I left them at the Bend of the Ord. Gordon Arnold sent a few ~ a c khorses down. But I went there and Johnny just left that morning went out on the run. The Carlton manager said to me, 'Ah what d ' ~ o uwant to take Johnny Walker back? Johnny's working for me. He get more money here than what he get at Ivanhoe.' That was the end of it. I came back. We packed up that evening and came to Ivanhoe. I came back again the following year and got Johnny back. He was camped down at Galamanda then, Bob Skuthorpe's place at Goose Hill in 1954. He was there when there was a big flood in the Ord in 1955 before the dam was up. Galamanda's further going towards Wyndham about a mile after you pass Goose Hill. There was a government dip at Goose Hill one time when they were shifting all the road cattle. Galamanda is an Aboriginal word [galamandameans dew: Kofod 1978, 3001. We heard Johnny was there and Gordon said to us, 'Well I want a cook. You better go down and pick him up.' I did. Johnny started there for a while but he didn't want to stop there at Ivanhoe. After about ten days he went to Argyle. A feller called Charlie Silk was the manager there and they gave him the job. Hector Fuller was supposed to pick him up but he didn't come so I took Johnny up at Argyle and left him there. And I picked up more people there building a house. Charlie Silk said to me, 'That man you left there I'll put him on! The cook was Jimmy Ward. Johnny went on cooking for Jimmy Ward in the stock camp but I don't know what happened. He finished up. Johnny took 1,200 bullocks out from Ivanhoe to Newry one time when Hector Fuller was there. Then when he came back there was sort of a muddle somehow or another and Jimmy Ward went into his house. He came back and said, 'Turn Johnny out. Don't want him.' Right. He said, 'The boss wants you up there! You see Johnny knew what was going to happen. He knew it was coming. He went and had a bogey in his room. He put clean clothes on and walked up there. The manager said, 'Good morning'. Johnny said, 'Good morning'. 'Ah,' said the manager, 'D'you know you're finished?' That was all. Johnny said, 'Thanks very much'. That's all he said. All right. So Johnny worked with Bill Laurie who had a sort of a two or three mile fencing contract. He worked with Bill for a bit till they finished the fence and Bill Laurie left him. He stayed on his

Plate 10 Johnny Walker, 1970, Kununurra

Ernie Chapman:

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own at Argyle. Nobody was there. Only a boy came down to talk to him, and a couple of girls. Then Bill Grant came down. The manager told him, 'There's a chap camping down the river down there. I don't want him.' Bill Grant said, 'Look you mind if I take him away?' He knew Johnny you see. He came straight down and said, 'What's the trouble?' Johnny said, 'Oh I'm pushed out that's all, when we finished the fence'. 'Finished the contract?' 'Yeah, finished that.' 'Well what about coming with me? I'll pay you well.' Johnny said, 'OK. Where you camping?' 'I'm camping along Flying Fox.'Johnny packed up straight away and went with him, They shifted the camp down the point there and Johnny was with him all the time down at Point Camp. That's just o n top of Flat Rock where the fence came in. They were supposed to work o n that fence. So he said to Johnny, 'What about we going in to Wyndham to get some Christmas tucker?' So they came down to Wyndham. Johnny didn't want to come down with him at all and he had a big argument with him. Johnny said, 'I'll going on with the fence', with all the posts. 'Ah,' said Bill, 'We got to have a big argument. You better come down. You bin too good for me. You've cut nearly 500 timber. That between you and I.' So Johnny had to go with him then. And as they were coming out at Button's Gap they had an accident. Johnny and his wife were in it like but Billy Grant got his leg broken that's all. Johnny stayed there. Then he went to the office at Wyndham to report but they didn't want him so they shifted him back to Goose Hill, Galamanda. And Gordon Arnold told me to get Johnny back. 'I want a cook', you see. Yeah well then he sent me down with the station truck. I went down and picked up old Johnny and his wife and brought them here to Ivanhoe. He was cooking there right up till he started to go blind and couldn't do any more. Several managers were there you know coming and going but Gordon Arnold was the last there. He went away then to Queensland and we had a different bloke. They never stopped long. Old Eric Durack he was at Argyle and was sort of over them. He'd stand no nonsense old Eric Durack.

How did they feel when they had to move off the station? You say they were hunted off that way. I was last o n Ivanhoe Station working and in 1966 I came up here then and settled down here. I've been here ever since in Kununurra. I came because it was closer to where I could get tucker and I didn't like the

224 When the Dust Come in Between station manager. O h we had some reason to leave Ivanhoe. You see the manager was no good. We were on wages then and of course the company told them to cut things down very fine. And they did cut it down very fine the wages and everything. The manager didn't do it. He got the order from the company. That was about 1958 I think when this manager came down there. Of course they sort of swapped this station for another station in Queensland there. They had to give this station and another station to the Peter River Company. Hooker took this station then and before they took it over Peter River made a statement telling the feller to cut everything fine. The manager he was pretty rough but he had to do it I suppose on order from the company. We were camped across the river at Lily Creek. Then we made a camp back of Kelly's Knob there for a couple of months and they built those houses here at the reserve and gave me and Johnny a couple of houses there then. O h a few more others were there. I was the caretaker then for six months at the reserve then I chucked it up. When this feller Les Brown took over the management of Ivanhoe he hunted all the natives off the station, hunted them all away. That's the people now living on the reserve. A lot of kids there were down the river with no tucker. One boy went down to Wyndham and saw the welfare and they brought some tucker out. See me and another whitefeller we put our heads together and gave them our own tucker. We sent it down to them to give to the kids because they were starved. This bloke was starving them. When he hunted them they all came up for their lunch at the station and I don't know what happened only he hunted them all. All the school kids and mothers and everything all packed up and went down to the crossing. Nearly all Ivanhoe came to the reserve that time then, about eight or nine stock boys. They were all scattered about. And the girls. They're all here now and some of them are all scattered. There might be only one or two here. Three or four boys from Ivanhoe, three or four girls from Ivanhoe. They changed about. When they had to move off the station they had plenty of bush tucker, game you know. They never went hungry like but they were living on white man tucker all the time you see and they sort of missed it. But they wouldn't go hungry. They'd go out and do a bit of hunting. There's a lot of bush tucker out in the bush and in the river. Goannas and all sorts of things they get. But the kids were the trouble. They had a mob of kids. Of course they buy their own tucker now and get

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their pension the old people like. But the young people of course they go wandering around and get a bit of tucker here and somewhere and chase a bit of work. Some of the women do a bit of work around town. When they came in off the stations they managed to get on all right. I got a State house when I left the reserve and I was there for a few months. Then I was very sick and I had to go to Perth hospital. My wife was still living there but when I came back they'd shifted her to the Shedley's hostel so I stopped there, where I first met them. Now I'm on a pension: $41.50 and fifteen bucks every four or five days at the Civic Centre. My wife got the same as myself, $41, and she worked down at the Clinic here every Thursday, the treatment clinic down near the Civic Centre. She was just cleaning up inside, sweeping up, polishing the floor and keeping everything tidy there. I'm well satisfied. I have a house to live in, paying rent, and it's comfortable here.

Ernie what have been the biggest changes for the blackfellers here? Well I don't know the biggest change. I can't explain to you that much. They were a bit wild and savage you know but they were all right. They were good people but the whites stirred them up you see. Well they got that way they'd kill somebody then. Amongst ourselves they'd have a bit of a fight, a war. I didn't have much to do with them and Johnny came from Darwin way. I don't know much about the Law like. I can't talk about that you see. I was never brought up under that old Law. I was brought up amongst the whites all the time and did stock work most of the time. It would be a different thing if I was mixed up amongst the people like that. I'd know how things go with the Law you see but I can't talk about it. All our life was in the stock camp, even the native boys. We were all in the white stock camp you see on the stations. We were brought up on the stations. When we finished stock camp work we'd go in the yard building fences in our spare time. They kept you on all the time those station managers. Of course they weren't paying much but that's how they kept you on. Only two pounds and threepence we were getting. We were working all the time. Sometimes we might ask for a holiday and get a month out of it. O r a week or a couple of weeks. That's all. And back in the job again. Then the camp started. The camps closed you see as soon as October, November, December and there was a holiday till about the first or second of April when they all started

226 When the Dust Come in Between the camp again. In the slack season they let all the stock boys go for a holiday. None of this place was here then. They used to walk about on the river. They let half go and kept half back to keep the station. They gave them plenty of tucker, rations and that for the holiday, but we were on the book all the time. We never used to walk about. Well as long as I can remember back it's the native boys in the stock camp here and the girls working on the stations, they did more work before ever the wages came in. Before, the stock camp boys used to brand up and make ropes and hobbles in their spare time in the Wet. They'd go out bullock mustering and get the branding done, get the bullocks done. When the bullocks were driven into the meatworks they were driven by natives from every way. There was only one white man boss with the contracts and he'd take the bullocks into the meat works, and he'd have two or three or five boys and no wages that time. They were given clothes and tucker and tobacco before ever the wages came in. O h well I think they're doing all right now. They're getting fair wages now when they're working on the stations a lot of them. They're getting it fair too in the town see, what bit of work they have to do. But a lot of them won't work that's the trouble. Plenty of people, farmers, want men see. All the stations want men now. But they won't. They're hanging around on the reserve a lot of the young fellers. But a lot of them go out in the bush working on the stations. I don't know now about their future. It may be all right. They think they're doing all right but I don't talk about those people much because we don't know them like. The young people are all right. They seem to get out of hand a little bit you know. Some of them will work and some of them won't. They just muck around down there and get on the bottle. There are a lot of good stock boys though. See they've been working on the cattle stations all their lives before ever the rights came in and of course they started doing this drinking and they've buggered themselves. They won't do anything now. A lot of them will. They do a lot some of them but they get that way they start stealing something. I don't know how to take those young people now. I don't know whether they believe in the old Law. And the children here seem to be getting out of hand some of them eh, what they're doing now? A lot of them now the mothers don't look after their children. I used to drink now and again but I'm not interested in those things. I don't drink myself now. Both of us knocked off tell you the truth. I knocked off about thirty-odd years ago now. It didn't do me any good. I knew it like and chucked it off. Johnny knew himself it was

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no good for him, that it'd only kill him if he drank too much. It was better to cut it out. Drinking tea was better. Another thing between us blokes talking about us. When the white men took over the stock work all the boys sort of didn't like it. Well when me and Johnny took over the stock camp Johnny did the cooking and you couldn't stop them. You know they worked. We did nothing. We didn't have any row with those people. Johnny might tell them to go and get some wood, something like that and he'd say, 'You a bit slow getting the wood. See Ernie come back, boss man come back he kicking around with me. So why you don't have the tucker cooking?' All that sort of thing you know. Well the next time Johnny would do the camp and I did the cooking. Both of us shared around and we had no row with anybody. Now they're all still here those boys and they always like us all the time. You understand what I mean to say? Like they always say goodday to us and everything else. They'd come down and have a talk to us something like that, this mob here. We liked this country even before Kununurra was put up. We liked this river. We used to go round here picnicking right up to old Argyle and down the river here, picnicking all around. We never thought there was going to be a town here. Me and Johnny were mustering cattle here. We were branding over there right through this run here, mustering bullocks and branding. And building yards of paddocks and everything like that, two of us and a mob of boys. We had no trouble, going just the same. No row, no argument, nothing. We just got the work done. The boys I think were satisfied with us. As long as there was one boss in the camp see, not two bosses. Only one boss. I never had trouble with all the boys before stock pay. I've worked a lot of these Ivanhoe stock boys. A lot of good boys here in the stock camp and they used to like Ivanhoe. The mob here now well their tribe is named Miriwung. They're only just round here. I can understand what they say, anything like that you know in language, and I can talk a few words. But I can't talk right through. I've been living here for years all over this place. That's only English I was brought up with. I can't talk my own lingo round Borroloola and McArthur River all round there where I came from. Of course I don't understand a lot of their ways either. I've never lived among them the life before. I've been with the whites ever since. See I was reared up by a white woman when my father and mother died. I never thought much about what they were going to do or how they were going to do it and all this sort of thing.

228 When the Dust Come in Between

What do you think that Aboriginal people are looking for most? What they're looking for is land or what? You hinting it that way? It's all right if they get land but they won't work it. And whether they can carry on with it I don't know. They could get the land all right but there's no leader amongst them you see. When there's some older people like to give a lead for the young generation it would be better for them. They don't give that much of a lead because they haven't much savvy yet. Take a lot of these Territory and Queensland people. They're a different mob altogether aren't they? They go on ahead. They're building houses for themselves every way. Well these fellers here they're trying to do it but they want someone to lead them all the time and push them on to it. See, before they never thought about what they were going to do or get. When they were working on the stations they used to go bush. They're thinking about getting land and cattle, a few horses and things like that. But they were asking too much. A bloke would say, 'All right. We'll put in for so and so.' They'd all say yes. And another bloke would say, 'We want that, we want this, we want that! And it's too big. They won't get it. The only way I'd like to see it, they're going ahead and that's all. Going ahead for themselves. But all they think about is going down there in the pub. They don't think about building up their home and making it look better for themselves. If they lived a good way and made it look better for themselves the whites would say, 'Oh they're all right'. They're sort of getting better. Getting worse and getting better. What bit of work I've done on these stations they all seem to be satisfied all the owners and managers. See any work on contracting I was taking on my own I was doing all right for them. I have a good bit of friends around here and around these stations. I like Kununurra better than Ivanhoe. But I liked Ivanhoe when I was working there. There must be some reason somewhere a man likes Kununurra and settles down you see. I found people here are all right with me.

PART I11

CONTEMPORARY ISSUES

Plate 11 Martha Laurie, 1988, Kununurra

MARTHA LAURIE BORN 1949 THE CHILDREN Recorded 2, 20 October, 3 December 1973: three sessions, three cassette tapes, two to three hours. The Laurie family in Kununurra is well represented in these memoirs and elsewhere. Martha's mother Amy Laurie is referred to often by Ann McGrath in her important study of Aboriginal women's roles, Born in the Cattle (1987), and a life history of Amy, also written by McGrath, appears in Fighters and Singers (1985). My earliest memory I remember driving with my Dad taking cattle from Lissadell down to Wyndham with horses. Well there wasn't any road through here yet. I mean no real road. Only for heavy trucks you know. They were using that old cattle road. Among my earliest memories is living on Lissadell. I can't remember much, only about the flood that was there. Can't remember the year but we had a big flood. That's where they've got this new station up. They shifted it a few years later because every time the Wet started the old station always got flooded out. There were five in my family. Myself, two brothers and two sisters just counting the children. I'm the second youngest. My brother's the youngest, Reggie Laurie. There's Tex and Phyllis. Phyllis was the first then there was Pearl, Tex and me, and Reggie. I had a happy childhood travelling with Dad, I mean droving. We used to really love going with him. O h he was a good father. I mean he was strict and all that, never let us get away with anything, but he was a good father. Mum was good too. I grew up mainly in Wyndham. When I was six I started State school there and I went on until I was sixteen up to the seventh grade. And I did two years' high school and left just before doing the Junior Certificate. I was living with my grandfather Sandy McDonald. He lived in a camp. That used to be a camping area in the Four Mile just straight down on the side from where the new hospital is.

232 When the Dust Come in Between

Most of my childhood memories are of around Wyndham. I used to go on holidays out to my grandfather. That was my father's dad. That was my mother's dad the one I was staying with in Wyndham. I used to go out to - do you know where the new Argyle Station is now? Well they used to call that 'The Gorge' before and my dad's dad used to have some goats and things there. They used to have sort of a farm there, grow your own vegetables and everything. It was right on the river bank.

What caused you to choose to come here and settle in Kununurra? We came to Kununurra because Mum wanted to come and live here. I went to school and everything here as well as in Wyndham. I was about twelve then. I just decided to stay too, liked the place. That school was out at KRS [Kimberley Research Station] in 1960. There weren't any buildings here, just the camps for the workers. When the town first started Mum was living down where the hospital is now. O h most of the people were living down there then. And then when they built the diversion dam everybody decided to go down to the river. It was close to the water and everything. Then they started the reserve so we all shifted back this way. That means three times we moved. I had one job at the hospital in Kununurra. You know where the hostel is now? That used to be the old hospital. I worked there as soon as I finished school right through until the day I got married in '65, and I stopped work then. It's permanent this job I'm doing now. Three hours a day that's all. It involves all kinds of work. I mean I'm supposed to be a homemaker really. That's what I applied for in the first place. Since I started I've been mixing up with oh everything you know. Driving people round, taking the mails down, helping them sign their forms like unemployment benefit and helping to do the taxation papers. And I help the girls to cook the lunch for the kids. O h a little bit of everything. Really it's my people I'd like to help. I went down to Perth once to see the supervisor about this job homemaking. It was only for a night and a day. Well when I went to school there was no one helping the Aborigine people like they are now. There's Father Willis and this Mr Shedley. They make sure. I mean they get the kids to go down to school now, down to Perth. And they've got accommodation and everything down there for them. Well when I was going to school there was nothing like that. I just had to help myself. School was all right. I liked it. I passed there.

Martha Laurie: T h e Children 233

I liked working in the hospital. That job was there at the time I went there so I just went straight from the school straight to the work. I did a first aid nurse assistant job. Well I'm trying to do typing now I've taken it up but there's always something comes up you know. I mean I'm always moving around and all that so I never had any chance. Now that I'm working I only have in the afternoons and I've got my little boy to come back to. He's a foster child. See I've got two. He's fostered from my other sister. She had twins and she had another little boy who was only one at the time the twins were born so she couldn't really handle three. So I took little Harry. I have another State ward child, my sister's again. I lost my own so I just rear these two of my sister's. I mean in the Aborigine way they help each other. They always have and I suppose they always will. Well I got the idea to help my people down at Roebourne when I was working down there with my husband. We're separated now. See every time when I read a newspaper there was always something about the coloured peoples. That was about eight months ago [recorded 19731 now. So when I came up the welfare lady offered me this job. She said I had to go down to Perth to apply for it so I said I'd take it.

What was there in the Roebourne situation which made you - ? You said there were things in the newspaper and so on. Well you see there's one thing I can't forget is the chap up here who lives up here and bought a piece of land to build his house on. And just because there were a few Aborigine people living next door to him he said he wouldn't have his house there. He wanted the State Housing Commission to shift him from there but he couldn't really because they'd been there before he put his house there see. And it's just those sort of things that make me - . I mean you can't help it. Aborigine women are having children every day, babies, and you just have to live with them or just get out of the way you know what I mean? Just like a white woman has a child well they're having children every day in Kununurra. I mean every few months you see an Aboriginal woman up there at the hospital. And if they don't like it they just have to live with it or just have to go away somewhere, the white people. There's Aboriginal children growing up every day. An Aborigine woman won't take the pill or any other thing. They won't take it. In their own way they prefer to have children. They think it's God's way. God made them to have children and they don't want to

234 When the Dust Come in Between stop themselves from having children. That's in their background. You might get a few now to take the pill or something but only a very few. They all know about these sort of things but it's just in their belief. That's most of the women living here. As long as they have Aboriginal blood in them it doesn't make any difference. Say my mother is a full blood and I'm part, but I've been brought up to believe what she believes. So you get most of the women around here they won't take the pill.

I was only there at Roebourne for a year but I never got out much because I was working. There was mostly work on the camp. It was a big Main Roads camp and I was working in the mess where my husband was working helping with the food and everything like that. He was the cook there. It was an MK camp, you know the blokes? The iron ore company. There were over 500 men. A few of them had their wives there and all that. They had a caravan park and everything. It was a bit rough down there but I mean they were more free and easygoing than up here. I mean how do you put it? They sort of mixed together regardless of their colour. Wyndham's a bit like Roebourne. They sort of mix and don't care you know. And Darwin's a bit like that. I've been up to Darwin for three months. I'd like to live back down in Roebourne. They're more friendly than they are up here. I reckon Roebourne, Wyndham and Darwin are like that. Kununurra's not like that. You get very few people mix with the coloured people, the whites. It stands out quite clear. Well most of them are quite snobbish I reckon, a lot of them. Take the people that go for their ration for instance in the store. Now the shop assistants in there don't like that. They don't like it at all. I go in there a few times and I see some women and men go in there with their ration paper and these girls could be talking running them down to their face, and that's not nice. It's got nothing to do with them really. I mean it's the manager isn't it? If he doesn't want these people to get it he has to say it. The ration paper is for the people who are unemployed and a wife gets it if her husband's not there, some of the wives who are deserted. They've got no-one else, a lot of kids in their camp and they can't provide for them on their own. Take my sister. Her husband ran off and left her and she can't work because of her little boys. I've got one of the twins and he's only two and she has this other little one and she can't leave them. She can't afford to leave them with a babysitter or anything. Even if she did get a job she still wouldn't have enough to pay someone to look after the kids.

Martha Laurie: The Children 235

What's the attitude of Aboriginal people to white people mainly...? You get some coloured blokes and women and some white men and women they respect one another. I mean a coloured person could respect a white man for what he is. Say I have respect for you and you have respect for me. Then you get a few - I don't know how to put it I don't know if it's just for the fun of it or - . Some of them just don't like white people. Just like the white people some of them don't like the Aboriginal people. Well you'd understand it if it was an older chap but you just can't understand with the younger blokes. Take the younger ones, they went to school with white kids and all this. They grew up with the white people. Take Wyndham. There's more places a white man and a black man could meet together. They've got just about everything there. You go to a dance on Friday night. You go to the hot rods. They have everything in there which Kununurra hasn't. What have you got here where you could mix? Only the pub. In Wyndham they have a dance on every Friday night where a white person or a black person could go and sit down and have a dance if they want to and mix with other people. Well take the Club up here for instance. D o you ever see any Aboriginal people go in the Club? Jackie Saville yes. He comes from Queensland. And Edgar. I mean he's working up there. But do you get any of the people from the reserve up there? See what I mean? In Wyndham you get the young blokes and the elderly blokes. They just mix together. I was here then when Kununurra first started. I was living up across Lily Creek there. It was worse than this. I mean it's settling down a bit now. I'm thinking of drinking. Well they didn't have their rights then did they the Aboriginal people. They just drank their grog and just sort of started fighting. They only had one canteen. Well it is a habit to drink in the bush. See when they didn't have their rights to go in the pub and buy their own grog they used to get someone else to get it for them and then take it out in the bush and drink it. Now well, now they've got their rights they still do it. Then when they get a bit drunk they go back and start a row smack in the pub and all this. They just have no understanding of it all yet. Kununurra goes back to 1960, '61 up to '64. I can't remember any Aboriginal people working on the dam. There weren't even any Aboriginal men working on the top dam. Of course I was there that

236 When the Dust Come in Between time they were building the diversion dam. My husband was working there and I was living out there in the caravans. Well now hang on. It wasn't like this then because I know my mother she had a few friends here in Kununurra. I mean between white women, elderly women. It was better than it is now, you mean in mixing not in drinking? Well I reckon the changes have a lot to do with the younger people, especially the younger Aboriginal boys and the girls too. But I mean the boys as soon as they have a bit to drink they want to fight. Take those who are seventeen or eighteen years old, they just don't know how to handle their drink. And the younger girls, you get a lot of young women now here. Do you ever see any of them working? Do you see many young girls around when you're driving around in this car? Anywhere, town, uptown, reserve. Well you go to the cafe at night you'll see a lot there. They all seem to come out as soon as the sun sets. They don't want to try and make anything for themselves. It's just with the girls themselves that's all. I mean one girl could go from here. She could be stony broke and dead sober. She'd come back with money in her pocket and dead drunk. Now I'm trying to get as many young girls as I can and get jobs for them and mix them up with the basketball team. Well I asked the doctor's wife if I could use this Miriwung Centre [health clinic] some time to have a meeting with the younger girls and try to get something organised for them like sewing classes, cooking classes, anything just to try to teach them how to look after themselves and try to get them a good job and settle them down really. I mean their fathers and mothers never really taught them things. As soon as they want to go up to the cafe and have a drink the mother won't say anything and the father won't say anything. And they talk back to their parents. That's the sort of thing I never did. When I was younger there wasn't much grog around when I was going to school. There was not much drinking and not much this sort of thing that's happening now [prostitution]. They both play an important part now. See these girls, as soon as they're fifteen or say thirteen years old they think they're their own boss. They don't want anyone to talk back to them. Even ten or eleven-year-old kids you get them now. They don't like the idea of their parents telling them what to do. They talk back to them and that's how it all starts. Once they let them go they just keep on going. Well I reckon the parents were a bit stronger in the past. They all had steady jobs and they were most of them right in the stations. Even if they did come into town they never did drink very much. And they always had their own camp. Not like now when one camp is for everybody.

Martha Laurie: T h e Children 237 I asked the blokes down there at the reserve. The welfare woman ordered some gravel to make a basketball team down there every night to save them walking away up here and they wouldn't do it. They still didn't do it. That's the blokes with the big truck, the Council. It's things like that. You've got to be there to push them to do it or they won't do it. They'll say yes to you. Soon as you turn your back they'll forget all about it sort of. It's really hard really with the Aboriginal people. It's just the sort of thing, say when a young girl gets into her teens she starts showing and everything. You know what I mean? Well a long time ago they used to take a young girl, just all the elderly women. They'd sit down and then explain all these things to her. They really tell her all about life, how a young girl goes through the first stage and all that business. Well it's just like a young man but there's no physical thing down this way. They just explain all these problems to younger girls who'll have them later on. I mean she'd have her period, she wouldn't know what that is and she'd take off straight to her mother and start howling and all this. Her mum has to tell her all these sort of things first before she has them. Then she'll know what to expect. But say in my nationality it's done by just about ten or fifteen women together. They go and each one have their own say in it you know. It never happens now. I went through that. It was only ten years ago or thereabouts. Just in that short time everything's just forgotten. The main problem is the younger women. Well I suppose the men are responsible too. You get more and more younger girls pregnant every year. They could be fifteen or sixteen [years old] outside of marriage. See some of them don't even know the father of their baby. And the mother can't do anything. She either has to kick them out or just keep her you know so she takes the easier way out and keeps her. And I think that attitude about contraception's still there. Well to start with if we could get the younger people, get more things going for them. The older people are all right. They'd understand what you're talking about if you have a good talk to them. It's only the younger ones that I'm really concerned about, the ones who are fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. There are a lot round here. It'll take another five years before they can improve things between them.

You say you've got your Malgnin people along here. How many languages are in that? From the camps as far as the garden up to here near the Miriwung Centre they're all different languages. They're like me, Malgnin from the camps starting from my grandfather's [Sandy McDonald's] camp

238 When the Dust Come in Between

right for all this along here. That's Miriwung down there at the reserve. There's not only one language. There could be about four or five languages I speak. There's Malgnin. There's Nyining. My brother-inlaw he's Walbiri. And there's Gurindji. It's a hard one. Take Walbiri. You could have one name and it's just some of the words would be a bit rougher but they're all the same words. That's just all mixed together but you've got to know the meaning of the words to help you. So I'm half and half of each you know. Malgnin's from Flora Valley. It starts from up Flora Valley, Ord River and Nicholson, all those places. I don't know how we got down here. They were all scattered round the stations. But say my people, well my Mum and Dad and all my family and most of these mob over here they were working here about two or three years before the Miriwung people even came here. I think they get on reasonably well with the Miriwung people anyhow. Alfie's mother is Malgnin. He's a full blood and his wife is Miriwung. Say Rita's mother old Winnie Chapman, she's Miriwung. But Alfie's mother she's a close relation to my mum. O h well Alfie's father came from Wyndham, Forrest River and all that. They've a different language altogether. There are twelve camps of Malgnin here with on the average husband and wife and five kids. Most of the people on the reserve are most Miriwung people. There's my dad there but he's not Miriwung. He's Malgnin. Yeah Ngarinman close to Malgnin. That's how he married my mother you see. They're both close tribes. I mean when you speak the words they're just about the same in my mother's language as in my dad's language. I speak Malgnin, Ngarinman, Nyining. I understand a bit of Walbiri and I understand a bit of that Port Keats language. There's three languages at Port Keats, Garamau, Djamindjung, and Murinbada. Well I only know they're Garamau people. Dad now he's married to this Brenda. Well she's a Garamau see. And how I know their language well I've learnt from her. I mean you go and live with someone for a while you'll pick it up easy. They could be talking in front of you, you'd pick it up in say a month or something. And there's her mother a Djamindjung woman. And Binggal their stepdad he's Garamau. The Port Keats people are not close to Miriwung except in friendship. It's only because of the corroborees that the Port Keats people and the Miriwung people get on. See because they're the people that bring the corroboree to these people. They only have one corroboree and that's that what they dance every night.

Martha Laurie: T h e Children 239 There aren't many Gidja people here. Only Stan Brumby and his brother Sam. They're the ones who are way out in the desert the Gidja people. And there's Nungga. That's way over this other side of the Malgnin people past Flora Valley. They're sort of close to the Malgnin people. They all come from the same direction anyhow.

What would you think most Aboriginal people here in Kununurra want? Most of the Aboriginal people here would like a house, a place where they could call their own you know. Well that's what most people want, a piece of land or something. I suppose most of them want what they can't get. I mean it costs money for these sorts of things and you've got to work it out first. You can't have both at the same time, a house and a piece of land. I suppose you could. You have to get land. If you want a house well you've got to buy the materials to build a house on it right? In the old days they just shifted around in the camps much. I used to live with a couple up here when my husband went to Roebourne. Well they were an elderly couple. My impression of their home life was that they were happy-go-lucky people. I stayed with them for a year and I was always welcome in their house and all this you know. I could go there and have a cup of tea and everything, have a talk and things like that. I've visited a few homes around Kununurra. Well they were pretty much the same to me. Some of them were just young couples just starting and they never had much of anything. The older people, some of them were more settled and all that. They had what they wanted anyhow, furniture and things like that. I don't think the white people's criticisms are fair. I mean even I can say a lot of the Aborigines are lazy yeah. They like to work for one day and then the next day they like to have a sleep. But they're a pretty clean people I reckon as far as cleanness is concerned. Even if they're not working they still get up and have a wash. I mean they're used to those sort of things from growing up in the stock camps. They had to get up about four o'clock in the morning to get the horses in. Well you have to have a wash and liven yourself up a bit. Well most of them never really had a job like they do in town, a pick and shovel job. A lot of them come from the stations and when you're out on a station you're out with horses just riding along and you fall asleep in the saddle. So it's just one of those sort of things. You can go under a shady tree and just sleep there and nobody would worry about you. They wouldn't know you'd gone. I suppose it's from that.

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You were saying that the attitude of white people towards Aboriginal people here is not a good one. I reckon the person who wears the white socks won't even, I mean his spit would be too clean for an Aboriginal bloke. In the way he walks past him, you know what I mean? Say a bull catcher comes along. He'd say hullo and all this. That's still something you know. Even if he only said hullo and kept on walking. I can remember one thing but it's quite embarrassing really. One night at the pictures I had a car like this but it was a white Holden and I was leaning on it one night. I'd just parked there waiting for the lights to come on to go into the pictures. I was leaning on it and this couple came up to me and told me to get off it. And I asked why and they said it was a friend's car. It was my husband but they didn't know I was his wife. You see what I mean? It's a bit embarrassing really. O h after I told them they apologised but I wouldn't accept it. I mean it just made me feel a bit - . It could be my friend's car there and they could have been leaning on it, I'd just walk right past. I mean it won't make any difference if you lean on the car a bit. I mean you've got to know whose car it is first before you can tell them. O h it's happened a few times to a lot of people down here, similar things like that.

What do you think that the Aboriginal people think of the movies they're shown, because they see a lot of different things? The first time I saw a movie was in Wyndham when I went to school. I was about six. Well a lot of them believe in them you know. I mean they don't think it's something somebody made up. They really think it happens. And it's harder to explain to the older people that it's not really true, it's just fiction. Say take those monster pictures and those moon men, all that. They really believe it you know, think it's happening. I mean most of them know that it's not but the older people you just can't make them understand it's really not true. I like westerns but I'm not really that keen on pictures.

Maybe a good example of misunderstanding would be that Black Power thing that happened last week. Where were you when it happened? I was here working when that Black Power scare started. Well they said these people were coming out here to try and force the Kununurra mob

Martha Laurie: The Children 241 into a brawl with the white people here in Kununurra. But these people didn't want to. They don't have anything to do with this Black Power business. Here in Kununurra things are just looking up for the Aboriginal people and well in Wyndham things are just about pretty much the same there. Well these people, take the Miriwung people for instance they're doing more. Now they have this truck the government gave them they're doing work with it and everything. I don't know how else to put it but well in Wyndham [this man] was supposed to be like Alfie Gerrard is here for the KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association] people and I suppose he didn't like the way Alfie was handling his people up here. He couldn't do the same with his mob in Wyndham. Well I don't know what happened but that's what started it off. Well he asked a few people here in Kununurra if they wanted to join the Black Power. I don't know if he was just talking drunk or sober but that's what a few boys here in Kununurra said. So everybody just thought when he went back to Wyndham again that he'd gone back to just get it all started up you know. Well I don't know what started it off on Thursday. Someone told somebody else and the news just spread out. Most of them just never took any notice of it. That's what they told a few of the coloured people they saw up at town, not to take any notice of it. I don't know what they meant by that. None of them took any notice of this thing that was rumoured, only the coloured people. I didn't see anyone acting strangely in any way. Well they were all frightened I tell you that. I mean they all just wanted to pack up and go out, go out of the way because they didn't want to have anything to do with the Wyndham mob here if they came and started a fight up here. Well I reckon they were more afraid of their own colour, I mean the Wyndham mob. I never heard anybody mention any white people. All they were talking about was the Black Power that's all. That's all I heard. Well I was a bit frightened too but then again I just never thought about it much you know. I mean at first I was frightened yeah, then after a while - I waited a day - and after a day just never thought about it then, just went to work. It's just coming slowly. The Aboriginal people are just beginning to wake up to themselves now you know. They're more outgoing and they stand up and speak to a person. Well take the girls down at the basketball. They're more friendly with the basketball players than they used to be say about a year ago. They'd speak to each other without any shyness or anything. They don't think of their colour when they're speaking. Well I'm glad it's happening. I'd rather see both nationalities mixing together.

242 When the Dust Come in Between

When I came back from Roebourne all these sort of things were happening behind me and I didn't even know about them when I left. I mean all these KAPA and the Mirima Council and all. They never even had a truck when I left. They had nothing. They were just like they were about four years ago. When I came back a lot of things had changed. They were having more meetings and more get-togethers and they're not talking now, they're taking action as well. Well see they have to have another meeting about mixing, all the KAPA and the Mirima Council mob, to see if the Mirima Council wanted to mix with the KAPA mob. And to talk about this village they were going to make. This started off see. We were talking about the school lunches and the doctor thought it might be a better idea to give the kids breakfast in the morning. He asked them what they thought, if they were supposed to mix together or separate to help each other. There was only me and another girl there and we just thought it was a good idea. And then old Mandi came out and said it might be a better idea if we were to live over there and just all the Mirima Council down here, the Miriwung people. Well I'd like to know why they don't agree. Perhaps it's disagreement. They wanted a big Miriwung Council office and the Homemaker's office and the KAPA's office. They already have this Homemaker Centre. We're getting that on the reserve though. The first thing, a leader's got to be the oldest. That's so he knows more about it to have his people respect him like Alfie Gerrard. Well his people respect him. I mean he knows what he's doing. If he wants to talk to one of the people down here he'd talk to them. He'd explain things to them before he'd do anything so that's why a lot of people have respect for him. I think July's good too. I mean he's quite contented with the way things are now you know. They're more free to make up their own mind where they want to go, where they want to work and everything. They just never had that freedom before. They can take their pick now as far as work's concerned. It wasn't like that eight years ago. They had to just stay on the stations. Couldn't get very much work in town. You see now they think for themslves. They've got to make up their own mind now even though some of them don't want to and still think somebody's got to make their mind up for them. When they used to work on the stations they always had the manager to make up their minds for them, tell them where to go if they wanted to go on holiday, tell them what to do. They never did anything without someone telling them what to do. It's a pity really about the garden because they just started selling some cucumbers and pumpkins and some of that capsicum. The

Martha Laurie: The Children 243 butcher was willing to buy them off them. But they just never kept it up. There were three lots. Mandi sold quite a few there, a few baskets. Well you can't get anything that has to go in a fridge. O h you could buy tinned meats and things like that for a few days but for meat and things like that you have to just get it every day. As far as meat and vegetables are concerned I buy it every day, get a bit for supper and dinner. I always find stew's the cheapest. I mean to make a stew. Say if I made it for lunch I'd still have some left over for tea. You know it's like that. It means I don't have to buy anything. I could buy one lot of things for two meals, meat and vegetables. But I get some tinned meat now and then. It's a bit expensive but still. Well I spend say about two dollars a day for food. I earn about $83 a fortnight for a part-time job. I don't get that separated wife's allowance. Well I get bread and some fruit now and then when I can afford it. I get a fairly balanced diet.

What changes would you like to see happen most? Well first of all I'd like to see the younger boys get someone to teach them how to work. I mean they know how to work and all that but see these boys, they just don't know how to keep on one job the teenagers. See you have to nail them down when they're quite young. It's not worth learning then now when they're twenty or something. I'd like to work and get a house then keep all these coloured kids that get into trouble, State ward kids. If I could get a house I'd like to keep them there and help them in all ways I can as a foster mother. It wouldn't be the same as a hostel. There'd be about only eight or ten. That's all I could keep. It would be a big job I know and I could get someone to help me if I wanted. It would have to be another woman. I talked it over with the welfare woman and she talked it over with the supervisor down in Perth and they think it's a good idea. We'd use one of those State houses. See some of them have four bedrooms, some only have three. If I could get a four bedroom one I could get those doubledecker beds. It would start slowly like. I mean the kids who need help I'd like to help them in all ways I can.

What do you think of what I've been asking? Yeah well you said you were writing a book about this right? Well I reckon it's a good idea. I mean to write a book. If I could do it I'd do it myself you know.

244 When the Dust Come in Between Postscript: Lakeside, Kununurra, 28 August 1988.

You're doing work which sounds a bit like what you were wanting to do years ago? Yeah well that's right. I really wanted to get into these sort of things you know. Like working with people, helping people. That's all I've always wanted to do, help people.

So in a way you've got really not much more you want to add7 No, not really... And, well now I am with Homes West. State Housing y'know? They are State Housing. Giving people houses. And trying to teach people to live in houses. Things like that.

I'm glad to see when they opened this subdivision over at Lily Creek that there are Aboriginal people living here too. Yeah. I made sure there were Aboriginal people up here [chuckled].

O h you had a part in it? O h yeah. I play a big part in it. Cause they're, all these, I've got three houses in Kununurra, Wyndham and Hall's Creek. And that's all under me really because I look after the Aboriginal people.

Well of course you know the history of Lily Creek how it used to be camp sites here and then slowly the Shire Council pushed or sort of persuaded the people to go and ... Well, the people they pushed out, they finally. Mum, my mum was one of them. That's when I was in Darwin [Community] College up there. And they went out here to Emu Creek. They're got a little community out there now see... Y'see what I want to do is help the kids now [about Emu Creek]. They've got houses there and things there yeah.

How many kilometres is it? About eight. Eight or nine ... I'm trying to get a little spring organised out here and turn it into a place where young people I could teach them

Martha Laurie:

The Children 245

y'know? I've met a lot of people in my travel and my work. A spring out here I want to turn it into a place for children who have been neglected.

A little settlement? Yeah. That's Yuna Spring I call it. It's Emu Creek. Emu Spring. But in our language we call it Yuna Spring. Yuna, Y-U-n-a.That's the emu ain't it, Flo...? Yeah the Emu Dreaming of the people. In my people. The Djaru people. [In Miriwung Yuna means a type of dance: Kofod 1989, 371.1 That's why it's called Emu Creek out here. That was given it's name by the Aboriginal people when they first started building a road through.

Yeah old Mandi told me how people got shot somewhere in the Emu Creek country. Yeah. Between, you see another creek there called Philchowsky's Crossing. Well he got speared there, further down in the spring... Yeah and what I'm trying to do now. It's taken me, I started when I first come back from Darwin. That was '85, '86, '87. And now it's '88. I'm still trying to get it y'know? They're not too sure whether it's on Aboriginal land or if it's just government land. Well so far I've tried, see, the Agriculture Department. They wanted to turn that into a quarantine yard. Put cattle there. But the DAA, Department of Aboriginal Affairs, said they can't do that because they've already got a community down there, Emu Creek community. Has a really long name it's got, the Aboriginal word for it.

Are many people in that community? Well they come and go but I know they, the older people [stay]. They've got five houses.

How many outstations would there be around here now? There's one out here at Biddy Simon's. Y'know Biddy? Murphy Simon1s wife. Old Djebabi. Y'remember Djebabi? Well Djebabi's son Murphy. His wife Biddy, she's got a place out here, Maralam.

That's on the Keep River? Yeah. Just between Legune and Carlton Hill Station. Somewhere, you remember there's a great big swamp out there?

246 When the Dust Come in Between

O h I didn't go to that country. O h you didn't get there. I thought you would have gone there fishing [chuckled]. Because they catch barra and everything in there...Well it's right close by to Ningbing. It's on your left there not far as you drive through.

They're still trying to get that Ningbing land aren't they? Yeah. I think that's been given to some people. Alfred Gerrard and them I think going out there ...

Alfie's retired. He's in Darwin. Yeah. But he's coming back for this out here ... But Biddy's got that Maralam. And old Michael Dinkum he's got this Flying Fox Hole out here? Other side of Packsaddle Plain. And Button Jones got Police Hole. Y'know the Police Hole going to Kildurk? Well there, when you turn off from the highway you have to cross Police Hole. It's on the map. And, who else has got a place round here? O h Ben Ward's got this Cockatoo Springs out here just off the track.

And 1 guess you can say that Bulla has Dingo Spring. Yeah he's got, yeah. That's his, Dingo Spring. Old Bulla.

What about Bubble Bubble? Alfie Deakin used to have... Yeah well, he's passed away but his wife's going out there, old Ladi Barney. She'll be going out there. O h yeah Djebabi's got Molly Spring. That's as you go down to Wyndham before you get to Middle Creek. This is by Middle Creek ... And old Kathleen. Mud Spring out here. As you go to Emu Creek you see a turn on your right. Crossing Falls.

O h vaguely yeah. Y'see back in '73 or '74 nobody ever lived out there and I never knew these places. It's a beautiful place out there. She's got mango trees and everything growing out there, Kathy... Mike [Martha's husband]: And of course they've got a few stations... Martha: Dunham River yeah. That's Doon Doon now. And Glen Hill. And, well Turkey Creek itself. That's taken over completely by the Aboriginals. A very strong community down 'there. And Kildurk's taken over by them ... That other side of Frog

Martha Laurie: The Children 247

Hollow...Bow River, that's coming up beautiful. That's been taken by old Joe... Yeah Peggy might know... O h yes, Nine Mile, Jerry Edwards... If I had a map on the wall I could point it all out which ones taken y'know... Yeah other side of Fork Creek this Gudal used to be. Old Aboriginal pensioners used to stay there down in Wyndham. Gudal. They used to call it Gudal... [The country along the old road is still under quarantine.] Can't go through. And because it's neglected that country, it's grown wild y'know. It's so scrubby that ...road. Unless you've got a boat ... Pelican Dreaming. And I showed it to Mick and I said, 'I know this guy who wrote it! I said, 'Because he used to come and get things off us, y'know. Try to make us remember how it used to be.' Y'know? That was up in Darwin when I told you I met him at the College...

Plate 12 Michael Dinkum, 1990, Kununurra

MICHAEL DINKUM BORN 1933

THE LAW TODAY Recorded 2 January 1974: one session, one-and-a-quarter ninety-minute tapes. Proofread 13 October 1990. Michael's battle with leprosy was beginning during the early sessions. Some years later I visited him occasionally in hospital at Darwin. His life story does not dwell on this unhappy period.

I was born at Newry Station. I was raised there for at least about threeand-a-half years then I had to go to school. I went to a convent school at Derby for nine years until about seventh grade. Well most of the time I was in hospital taking my treatment and I was doing my school work a bit too. I got leprosy when I was fourteen. When I finished school they sent me back to the station. So I worked on Ivanhoe in Western Australia. The date I was born was 28 October 1933. I'm full Miriwung. Both my father and mother were Miriwung. They passed away when I was about one month old and old Daisy Dinggul tossed me up, Jeff's wife. Later on Jeff was like a father to me. Before him it was a stepfather by name of Magadal. He died at Derby hospital. I was tossed up by Jeff Djanama, Daisy's son, and by Mandi. Bulla is Jeff's stepfather and he's sort of my father-in-law so he reared up some of my kids, the same as little Colleen. Well Colleen is Colin James's daughter but still old Bulla looked after the kid. Bulla is their father-in-law too. I speak just Miriwung, no other language. My skin is djulama (our father's skin was djabada) and my Dreaming is the Horse and Fire. I follow my father's footsteps seeing that my father was roaming this place before I was born you know. And when I was born I realised here was all Miriwung country so I thought I probably might have to stay in a little farm town like Kununurra and save me going elsewhere. In

250 When the Dust Come in Between a way I liked living in the town better than the bush, either living in the town or working out in the bush. Some people have different sorts of ideas. Living out in the bush for a while wouldn't be bad. But it seems when it comes to some kind of sickness you know I get ill so then I have to stay close round the town, better off. What I think for my part the old people need a bit more help from the young people than they can do it for themselves. Say they're trying to teach the young people how to run the Law, work with the Law. It's the both-way Law. The Aboriginal Law and the white community law. They want to try to keep all the one in, all together. I remember a woman in welfare who came and asked me in the Community Welfare office, 'What kind of law is the, from white man law to a blackfeller Law?'. See what made it different was that blackfeller Law was a bit more harder than white man law. I said in the white man law the police come along and pick you up and put you in jail. If the blackfellers wanted to do it the hard way they killed that man. That was their Law. But they sort of cut it off that. They don't want to do all those cruel things. They want to try to get it sort of even-even next to the white man law.

Do you reckon you've lost a lot of your old Law? Well we've lost quite a bit of Law I can say. Now for instance if a man came along and took another man's wife away, if he doesn't follow that man to bring his wife back he'll do what they call yarindi. That's the same as murdering a man. Say he can be twenty-five miles from here. That man's walking about. It gets him a little over nine or eight hours and he starts to get sick. They sing him you know. It's magic. I don't know what they use. That's from the Law in the early times. We've lost that. And another one is, say for when they only make a young man. There can be no young girls come into the Ring Place or no arguing or no children close to the young men when they have the knife. If they do they fight and kill the little child walking across, for nothing. Sometimes they're sitting close to the town but it should be out in the bush different from what it is. Well when the time comes the women and children can sit there when they start dancing, but when the time comes for making the young man all the women have to move out. See they have to go inside a house or tent. In the old days the young man's sisters would have two cuts made on their shoulder from their lambara, father-in-law. They lost that for a while but they still have it for people who are some relation. The brother-in-law would also cut the girl. And

Michael Dinkum: The Law Today 251 they've knocked off that barra [subincision] now. That was supposed to have been before like in the old days. Say for instance when it's time for blackfeller Business like that go out in the blackfeller Law and see the Sacred Law. Well there have to be a whole lot. It was only women had to stay in the camp. Men had to go out. They took the young people half way about as far as Kelly's Knob and left them with two or three old people to look after them. They'd go up and fix things up before they could see those Things just to show the young people how the blackfeller Law is. Well that was in the old day time. In that time when I had no beard they'd kill a kangaroo and when they put it in the stove in the ground you had to dig it out and put it on your shoulder and run about one or two miles. It was hot with ashes and coals. They still use it but not up here. More out in the desert they're using it now. They cut that Law because it was too cruel for young people. It's only the ordinary way we have to do today. Just go and make them bow their heads. Come to the Secret Law and sing a couple of rounds and tell them to get up and have a look. Especially like this time of year (January]. When they've been cut-around [circumcised] we take them to the sacred ground a week after. Really on the proper way, in one or two years after circumcision they put five marks on a man's chest. The old fellers have it on their chests but they cut it all off [discontinued] on me. A man's brother-inlaw would do it. That was the Aboriginal way of doing things, to marry his sister. Well two or three marks in there was reminding for the old feller so when he gets older he says, 'Oh this is that old man went to d o for me. I still got his mark here.' Well they've cut it off now. It was once all in one, say in one week or one day. Say early in the morning about towards midday they saw the secret Law and when they came to evening they started cutting them there just to remind. Well what we've lost is only just come by. The people are thinking of what's going to happen in the future. If they wanted to still carry it on they'd sort of make it bad for the white people who'd say, Look at themself killing theirself for nothing, no reason! That's why they cut it off. They have to just get on with [continue] these ideas about getting the young people you know. What we think now is we have to just keep it on like that. We won't lose it any more. We'll keep it as the Law is now. We've still kept a lot. We have the Law winan [exchangeof sacred objects]. We have the Law for young boys. We have the marriage Law and still promise young girls. Other thing is when the kid gets a young

252 When the Dust Come in Between man he doesn't have to move out from his family to go up to certain sorts of places. We still carry on with that because if he does [mix with girls when he should be in seclusion] the young girl will have to be auction. If a young girl came along to a young man's place and the old people found out they'd sort of squeal and say, 'What's wrong with you blokes?' The parents can't bring that girl back. They probably might make nothing of it and say, 'Oh she can go for auction! That's what they call wmk [sex] you know. It used to be a little over twenty-five men in the night o n the one girl. That was in the old Law. Well every girl used to have the force if she broke the Law. Say if she went and saw the secret places or went to a young man's place. That doesn't happen now. Well to make it easy we called it the white man way, auction. In the blackfeller way she had to do yudyudbain. In the night she had to walk around and make love to twenty-five men. She'd be feeling sick after that. Well the young people are moving out because they don't get enough education from the old people this time now. They probably might think, 'Oh we haven't got no Law. We have to move it on the white man law.' That's another thing we talked about in the meetings, about the young people walking away from the old people's Law. That's supposed to mean the old people's ideas about getting the young people to live the Law. To explain things to the young people what it really means and what is really important to the Aboriginal people. Asking for land and making a market garden came after. The first idea was to bring the young people back. There's another point, they're coming back to this but they don't know any further about what was happening before. All they know they can dance for the young men and make young men. They don't know what the Law is back of that you know. They don't know where it started from to come forward. Well it's up to the old people. They're supposed to get organised with them and take them back to the old-old age and give them experience so they can quite understand. So some of these young fellers say, 'Oh we haven't got no Law. We only got our sense. When we go have a yarn we'll go dance and that's our Law.' And they can't break it. That's what they're thinking but they haven't got the Law as it was in the early days. That corroboree Law is secret Law. Sense is the word for keeping up the Aboriginal way of Law. I don't know much about the Law they're starting in Turkey Creek. I'd go out sometimes but sometimes I don't go much. See the old fellers have more idea of that. They're getting more young fellers in now [1981].

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It's lost somewhere in the middle because there are not enough young people to come and make things happy for the old people. And that's because the old people don't teach the young fellers. There's roughly about thirty-five young people in this Kununurra I would say and they don't know what the Law is like. All they think about is just going dancing and drinking up and loving for the girls. They don't think about the Law that had been before. Nobody's following it what I've seen, say long enough in this secret Law since I was twentyfive. Well they have to be shown it after the cut around. We have to show them because they lost it. We're trying to bring it back to the time where there is the Law. Five young fellers we had one Christmas missed out on seeing the secret Law. Well we have to bring it back in the same old way now. It won't be lost as long as they keep it up for the future like what I said. When the old fellers are passed away we middle-aged people will sort of carry on with the young people and keep teaching them all. It's a bit hard you know. It's going to be a bit hard in the first year. Then when the next year comes we'll get some people somewhere else our age to get together and say, 'Oh here you fellers come on. We'll take you up the Business now.' It might take two years. [This did happen.] Well in the old days my grandfather used to tell me when I was a kid and someone used to tell me after my grandfather died how they go by the leader. To find out who were leaders they used to feel it in their beard. You go and feel Banggaldun's beard. He'll grow one sort of like a lawn after it's been cut. It's sort of stubby and when you go and touch it you get poked. Well that's why they put him as a leader because his beard was harder than those old fellers. You go to old Bulla and feel his beard like. He's not hard. He's soft. People like Bulla and Mandi they're leaders too but not so much as Banggaldun. See well in the old days they used to do that and they still carry it on. That's among all the full bloods. They make it more higher for him. He has to be boss with the secret Law. Bulla is what they call the ground boss and Mandi was the runner boss for the secret Law. Now that Mandi's gone Peter's taken over. Then the rest of the gang come in put together. The runner boss, see if you're going to get hidden Law from Wyndham well they have to call for Peter to go and pick it up. He does that and the groups come and help him along. Among the half-castes I'm not quite sure what makes a leader. I know July's an Aboriginal Business man himself with the Law. He

254 When the Dust Come in Between been keeping up with the Law since he was single. He doesn't hold it. He follows it some of the time. He's in second class and he follows it, When we say a feller holds the Law we mean he owns it and passes it on like Bulla. Bulla had some Law down at Argyle which is under water now. And old Mulligan holds some Law coming from Victoria River Downs on the Ngarinman side. He's a leader out there. They all share together, Banggaldun, Bulla and Mandi. And some of them come from that direction. Well Mulligan here you know leads because he's the boss. See they all bring the Thing up and ask him and he says, 'OK, bring it over here'. He has a different sort of Law on this Ngarinman side. They're still carrying their old Laws. And the Gidja have the same Law more in the desert. So July follows the Aboriginal Law. Of course he understands a bit more than Alfie. Alfie's a leader [in the KAPA (Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association)] but he doesn't quite understand a bit about the Law yet. When I said July's in second class that's because he was with the old people longer than I was here before I was born. He's older than me. First class are the old people the bosses. Second class is to teach the young people. Our generation is third class. Then come the young people. They're fourth class. In language we call it yauwurrung [many] when they're trying to come together from first class to fourth class. Well if my children were boys I'd learn them in my ways about the Aboriginal Law before, say the secret line, and to obey the Law for the Aboriginal people. At least a boy of mine can come into town, well he has a place there in the Aboriginal Law. Well he could say if somebody else came along and asked, 'Yes I got my Law! If they asked him, 'How you getting on for your Law?' he'd say, 'I haven't got lost. I got my Law back there.' It's very important not to lose it, to hold on to it. But he'll try to be the same as the white man. Well in the old days they believed in the spirits. Say if I woke up and left my wife, the spirit in the secret Things would sort of hurt my children, make them sick or something like that. Some magic man might come along and take a piece of that Law out of them. I've seen a lot of men doing that. Even old Banggaldun can tell you that because he once took a Thing out of a young man. Say if I left my wife and she got hurt. The doctor bloke might come along to an operation to find it and the X-ray. They'd take it out and put it on the plate and wonder, 'What the hell is this?' Well it's happened a couple of times here in the hospital. The first doctor who was here used to come round to the reserve and say, 'What's going on? What's this?' And then the

Michael Dinkum: The Law Today 255

older people used to explain, 'This the secret Law'. "Why?' 'Because he bin never bin obey our Law.' Well it's driven by the spirit. I don't know how. It's a bit of wood about one inch but it hurts inside. The hidden Law sort of follows me instead of going to the family line. By that I mean my son has to follow in my footsteps but it's nothing to do with women.

I have seven kids - Connie, Cecil, Anna, Christine, Brenda, Jacinta and Ingrid. Cecil's been through the Law. O n my kids I would like them to learn the same way I did. But their mother Phyllis has to see that Connie, Anna and Christine obey their mother's Law and learn as their mother did. Bulla is looking after Anna. I had too many kids in the house to feed so the grandparents said they had to sort of raise them. Winan can be one way, no return. But with sacred winan you do pay back. Well when they sent the Things down here from Fork Creek we gave them a present. It might be a big roll of all kinds of material. Cotton, anything you make clothes with, for the corroboree in the camp. A gift is the same as winan. Say if a feller's broke or something and looking for a few bob for his tucker or something, well you give it for nothing. Just like you make a loan any time. That's the same word as the winan Law. But sometimes I get a bit worried. Say when things don't go the right way about. Say there's a feller owes me money. Well I wait for that bloke a little over eight months before he gives me the money I gave him. Well I expect him to give me that much back. I'm quite happy about putting this in the book because some people probably might be able to quite understand about what was happening in seven years back [proofreading now]. When we came to you and asked about getting land around Mount Cecil and had all those meetings under the State house in 1970, that was the first council. That was why [the way] we came, trying to meet up with the white community then. The Mirima Council came from part of that. The country is Mirima, the country for the Miriwung people to live in. Later in the seven years the old people got wiser and they wanted to try to become independent so they formed groups. That was only Banggaldun, Bulla and Joe the first group. Then the natives all came to make it a council on the reserve. I asked the Native Welfare. Well it was Native Welfare before the Community [Welfare] came. So they agreed on that part of it. It was quite interesting for the people. They talked about what was to be done for the future, for the children when they grow up.

256 When the Dust Come in Between

Who had the idea to make the Mirima Council? Bulla and old Banggaldun had the idea to make the Council. It was only Bulla who was one of the first who came along and said, 'We bin working on the station for so many years. Why can't we have to change a bit?' And so they got in to form the Mirima Council and we had about seven others. It was back between 1958 to 1959 - especially in 1959 - we made that. Father [Willis] wasn't in it until 1970 and when he found out that the Aboriginal people realised that they wanted to form a council he made a progress report about it and put it in a paper. 'Oh well if they want it that way', he said, 'someone has to help the Aborigines to get in the farm! So we started off with President, Chairman, Secretary and Assistant Secretary. Well Father made all that up. Before that Bulla and Banggaldun were sort of head men until we got organised on the progress for the Miriwung people. It started a couple of years before then. It started slow but it takes time. Well after 1971 they started to call out what sort of tribe they are and I said this is all Miriwung country. Father said, 'What about putting us in Mirima Council?'. Something like that. And the people agreed on it. There was trouble with some of the half-castes. Sometimes we got together and sometimes we didn't because you see they tried to boss the full blood. You know what I mean? They were sort of pushing around like that, 'Do that, do this', or, 'Get off, get off your horse', or, 'Get off your bum'. That happened early in 1973 with the KAPA and the Council. There was a lot of trouble about that because all these old fellers had ideas about doing it their way but then the half-castes came along and said, 'Do this and do that and do this and do that'. I saw the things happen myself. My job was only just trying to help the old people you know. Helping them till someone else came along to give them more ideas than what I have. See blokes like me would like to help the old people like Banggaldun so they can come and help us. And we can help the young teenage people so when they're old and get quite understanding about things we'd sort of move back so they can come in and help the old people. That's their idea. That's what they want the stations for, to get it started. Well it's up to the middle-aged people to talk to the old people. Say we had 500 cattle on the paddock. 'OK it's time for meat works opening up. We got to put our cattle in there.' The old people would agree to that then our age would come along and say to the young fellers, 'OK muster the cattle up young fellers. We got a job to take,

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down to Wyndham.' You'd put them in from August to December. And they'd do that. Well it would work out properly if a man was given to quite understand how to handle things the right way.

I bin get a lot of story about old days. What you reckon about the way whitefeller think about blackfeller nowadays? Well if the Aboriginal boys behaved themselves against the white that's how they'd come to the white community. I've seen a couple of boys especially when they go up to the store, you know they don't use their manners. They don't respect somebody else. Once they're good men they'll think a lot about the blackfellers, at least one blackfeller. Say if he's a good man the white men will have respect to him all the time. O n my thinking I'd say why shouldn't there be Aboriginal people hanging around the town? Why shouldn't Aboriginal people do their own way than the white man? White men made the yellow fellers when things were pretty hard before. Well see most of the half-castes are born by the white man and go by the black and that's why they seem to be growing in half-caste groups in the years. Well it was pretty hard for the black female to go with the white man in Australia. It made the black man feel bad. Well after the community got together and the white man recognised the Aboriginal people they felt sort of close relations to the white people. I think we would be just about one race in the community. There are white men who don't want any jealousy you know with the Aboriginal people. All want to be happy. That's what the Aboriginal people think and want. They all mostly like it anyhow. The half-castes like to get together WO why can't the white man come in so they're all together? They need to get together badly. Cooperation is emerging we call it. That means all the colour together when they call in a big community, groups. See all go to the church. All want to work in the community. Whites and the black helping one another. That was all in the black meeting I went to once for the Aboriginal Affairs Planning Authority. Well mostly as far as the white community what I see of them they can't understand well how the blackfeller is living and how they're not living but rubbishing themselves. They don't understand how the blackfellers are trying to live for themselves. The Aboriginal people try to do what they think is right but to the white people it doesn't seem to be right.

258 When the Dust Come in Between The white people who live in Darwin used to say, 'Come to the home mate! You know things like that. They'd ask the Aboriginal person to go home and sit round and have a quiet talk. I've never seen it here in town. Well they live a bit more decent there than the Aboriginal people living in their huts with dogs and pussy cats and any other thing they have. They're a bit better off. That's how I'm trying to live with my family. Once a white man lives with an Aboriginal girl a couple of Aboriginal boys might say, 'Oh well he's living with an Aboriginal girl, well we'll come and have a chat with him, have a yarn with him'. But they come in there and he'd say, 'Oh what the hell you doing around my house? Get out of it.' Maybe they come wanting to talk in a sensible way, something like that. It mostly happens in Wyndham. I'm not quite sure about here but I think the white man's more willing to talk with a girl's relations than in Wyndham. As far as my knowledge is concerned it's not right I don't think for mixed marriages. They should marry their own colour. There's a lot of talk in the meetings. We've heard it in Darwin, Derby and other places where I went to meetings. They're always saying, 'Why the blackfeller don't chasing the white girl? They should bin stop.' Why? Because they say it this way, 'There's more white man and the half-castes than the blackfeller that living this here today'. In the old ways in the early century well they used to be just the black colour more full bloods. Some Aboriginal people find themselves silly you know if they're sitting down near a coloured woman who's more white than them. You sort of get a funny feeling and say, 'Oh he's a white man. I'm a blackfeller. Well I wouldn't like to talk to her,' That's how it is. Well mostly some of those people from Darwin do the same. Some of them marry private to themselves and some of them don't. When the girl's in love to a white person they make up their own mind about marrying the white person than their own colour. Well when they marry private they go elsewhere, somewhere you know for their honeymoon where people don't know them and then come back. I don't know why. That's different from the other way because if they all come say in the one community it's better than the white man running the blackfeller down when the blackfeller doesn't know anything about it. If you get married to a white woman you're together. Most of all what the Aboriginal people want is to work for themselves the same way the white people did it in the early days back before the century was up, back in 1920 in my father's time. They're starting to get the stations and put up a bit of a town and work for

Michael Dinkum: The Law Today 259

themselves. That's why the Mirima Council wanted to go back to the old time. Well the part-castes have to come in because they're between the white and the black and they have to come into the black to help raise them. I feel that'll help them along. And they have to get someone from the white community to help the Aboriginal people and get them to work amongst the white people. Say for instance your wife's a halfcaste. Well she's still got to come back to me to ask for my opinion about what's going to happen. That's on the community. They're the same sort of idea. That's say about four or five hundred people all tribes together you know. Ever since we've been to school we've been trying to get closer to the white man. And the more we get the idea from the white man we'll come back and tell our people. So we have the idea of white men and blackfellers in one waringaring (community). We're trying to teach some of the white people about this. Some are quite interested but some white men might think it's silly you know. At least they can be free to work, to choose the jobs they want. In the past they couldn't do it. They had to stay in the stations or some had to. At least if they want to work around the town they have to ask the welfare officer to get them a job. I can say the big changes will be there's the land rights problem. If you give that to the Aboriginal people then besides having a problem you might get a bit of a change than what they are now. That's the biggest change. Last year [l9731 we voted for Labor all the people on the reserve. They seemed to see the change between the Liberal and the Labor parties because Labor was trying the best to organise the Aboriginal people in Australia for themselves.

W h y do so many fellers drink so much? Drinking rights in 1971 were another change. In the early days they were not used to being given a drink. These days they can please themselves, do what they like. They see white men work for their own living and drink grog and that's how they come to get a bit of point, form an attitude about it. They can sit in the pub and drink and later on when the evening comes they start trouble. I don't know why. That's the biggest problem for the Aboriginal people. Some like to drink and some Aboriginal people come in to sort of stir up a bit of a mess you know. There's a lot of fighting. Some relax when they're drinking, others sometimes get happy. Others get sad and talk about all their troubles. There's a lot of blackfellers do that, half-castes as well. Of course they look at this good man who doesn't want to go over to the bad men and those bad people

260 When the Dust Come in Between would say, 'Oh he think himself a good man. We going to fight him', for no reason. And then they all fight together. I've seen it a lot of times. A lot of people tried to fight me and I said, 'I can't fight you for good reason'. You know I have to fight for a good reason after all. Some people get their temper up when they drink too much. Well I feel relaxable when I drink. I have a couple of beers then I go home and stay. When I'm sober I go to the pub and have a drink of beer then. It takes me maybe half a gallon drinking in the stubbies. That's in one day beer. That's good enough. I don't drink wine or rum or anything like that. Well I had reason to drink because I'd see my own colour going to the pub. I'd say, 'Oh well I'll try it! And I did try one, one day just. That's when I was a councillor, sort of ordering the council. I'd try it and then I'd stop off. And then when Easter came one year they invited me for a drink and I didn't know how much drink they had. They decided to sort of put the spoil on me and they came trying to tempt me all the time. 'Come o n mate', they'd say, 'Have another now. Have another now, another.' I'd say, 'I'm all right, all right'. Then I was flat on the floor. I found that was a bit hard and I had to sort of just give up the grog for a while just taking it quieter, a quieter drink now and then if I felt like it. When I drink I'd rather be heavy drinking you know with the white people than I can drink with my own colour because I felt happier when I was drinking with a white man who always respected me as the next white man. My people just seemed to do what they liked with anything I had in my house or turned me up looking for the few bob I had in my pocket. That's why I didn't mix with the others. Say when I was about between twenty to thirty that's about when I started drinking. I've thought about it. I was thirty-one when it became a problem. When I found it very hard to control myself I said, 'Ah well I think I'll just about - ', you know till I came to old age. Well some people have a certain time. Between thirty and forty they're having the time to live on. I was just thinking in my own opinion you know, one of my ideas I reckoned I'd have a shorter life. So I'd drink more and enjoy it more before you know the time would come up fast. Some people they take a shorter life because they probably work hard and they drink and they get all sorts of alcohol poisoning in their system. I saw it some years back how some of the old people who didn't take the grog the proper way started to get sick. O r they just drank and they dropped in the place where they drank. A man gets sort of indigestion in the heart. That's what the doctor said. Your lungs sort of get mixed up with the kidneys or something like that. So 1 sort of

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kept hanging back. I just had to take a couple of beers and that was fair enough for me. Sometimes I'd like to drink more. But if I drank more I'd get more trouble with my kidney all the time. When you breathe you sort of can't get your wind back and you sort of shake. I've seen a lot of people doing that. Well I don't want it. I can drink a couple but I cut down from the four or five gallons [two cartons] of beer they offered me to drink. And when I have a drink I stay quiet and doss off to sleep when I have a lot. Well some way to make it better for me to stop drinking was to go down to the station to work for at least about twelve months without coming in to the races. There were a few like me. A couple did that. I planned to stay in the town till they got that land and if they got Argyle I could work out there. I wanted to go out and work out in the bush and stay out of town [which he did in later years]. You've been asking me about what has been past back in the century and up till now and other people are going to talk to you. I'm not quite sure but there might be a different story in each man. Some of the points I probably might have missed out in a couple of your questions but I might as well say that as far as the council goes like I can give you more.

Mirima Village, 13 October 1990. Oh, well. The old way of Aboriginal Law, it has been changed a bit. But not really high enough to forget about the old Aboriginal cultures. Cause we must remind that, always here on the reserve. That's only the part of our culture. And, so what we want to try to get this young Aboriginal teenagers to learn bit more on side of the Aboriginal way, and a bit on the white society's side, so all together they can, y'know, think very much about how they're going to handle our problem when they grow up. And so they, this is how they can't lose their culture, Aboriginal culture. Yeah we working towards that.

I see you've got the Waringarri Arts. That's been running for a few years now. All the painting. Yeah. Well that's something that improved with our Aboriginal culture. That's, we try now. Put it down y'know properly... So this is how we can't just lose our culture, we must have, always y'know, going.

Plate 13 Colin James, 1977, Kununurra

COLIN JAMES BORN 1947

MIRIMA COUNCIL Recorded 19, 20, 23 December 1973: three sessions, three tapes, three-and-a-half hours. I was born on Ivanhoe Station round about 1947 and was raised there. Dot was my mother and my father was James Peter. My mother lives here and my old man's in the Territory. I'm full Miriwung. As well as the language Miriwung I speak Ngali. Those fellers down the bottom there you know. It's part of Legune and Carlton country. There's Miriwung and Gadjerung the same and Yilngali, that's Banggaldun's language towards Carlton too. Well my mother was supposed to be Djaru. That's the Gidja way or something. That's the one they speak at Turkey Creek. I can understand a bit what they can talk but I can't talk like them. My mother was born on Ivanhoe and my father was from that way, Bullita and all this. His language was further back I think, further down the Northern Territory side I think. It's Myali. That's up Pine Creek way. But my mother's mother is pure Miriwung. Fire that's my Dream. You know for that really big goanna lizard? My skin is djangala. I went to school for my granny Lily, Dandji's mother, at KRS [Kimberley Research Station] government school. I finished at seventh grade and started off on stock work at Carlton Hill Station. I started working my own life and then I came back about two or three years after to Ivanhoe and started work there. I worked at Ivanhoe for about five years then I came down here and had a bit of a row with one of the businessmen. O h I was cleaning around on his back yard garden near the workshop at his old Four Square Store and he just bossed me around and things. I got married to Mandi's daughter Doreen in 1965 (her skin's nawana) and we went to Argyle Downs Station. Mandi is now born to Teddy Carlton's mob, wibulirri. [So in 1981 it was now permissible

264 When the Dust Come in Between to use his name occasionally.] I worked on Argyle for about three years. I came back up here after that, stayed a while then went back to Carlton. We were at Carlton stock yard for about two years. I did general stock work and just trying to learn something around here too. So when I came back from Carlton I came up here and stayed around with old Carold Dickey [an American farmer] and worked with him for about two years. I went up with Jack Webber contract mustering out round the coast. He used to have a contract round Vesteys and everywhere. We were contracting for the stations. We came back for the races and after the races we went to Legune on the same contract. When I finished there I got back here and started doing work for the Mirima Council in the middle of 1972 after the races [August]. When I was about ten I had just like rheumatism. I couldn't stretch both my legs. That was all. I'm pretty right now. I had an accident on a horse. I fell on my back and I had two busted ribs. And that was it. I started to give it away a bit, on horses you know, and looked whether I could get a good job anywhere around town. I'm pensioned off now 119811 on an invalid pension. I look on Kununurra as my home town. This part of the country seems a good place. I grew up here. And I liked the job I had with the council. It's closer for your kids to go into school and you were always there if any sort of trouble started for the kids. I'd like to see them get a better education than I got, something like mechanical or carpentering or bookkeeping. Well I decided to be a mechanic but I got tired of it before I really got into it. So I stopped work and forgot about it. I still had any tools and things like that. One of the changes I'd like to see now is in the housing. That's a problem you see around here. Any other places I've been, for instance what I've seen now in Alice Springs, they have a good business and all this, houses with a big water cooler on top to keep cool underneath. These ones up here they're no good at all. That's on the reserve and just before going into town and everywhere. Housing's the main thing, Education's the other. And work, working hard. I wouldn't know how to make a humpy when I was a boy. Say for instance the old people will tell you about the humpies they used to make. Well that sort of changed. I might have a tent now.

Drinking The grog is the biggest problem for the Aboriginal people today. Ever since that happened a lot of blokes just bludge all the time. They might be still bludging yet living on unemployment. I can think of a couple

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who have never done any work. I think they drink so heavily because they have nothing much to do, just sitting round all day. They say, 'Well we going to get into it! Well any time I just like to have a couple of stubbies a day or something like that to forget about things for a while. I drink in my case sort of when I'm on the bored side. That's how I started drinking when I had nothing else to do. I don't feel like walking anywhere when I've sort of had one too many. I just sort of like going to lie down for a while. It sort of makes me feel happy. I think that's why a few drink.

Fighting A few blokes - not only a few, a lot of them really - when they reckon they get into a few beers they like to play up. It makes them look game I reckon for fighting. You sort of go and grab a bloke by the collar of his shirt and say, 'All right I want to fight you! This is in between, sort of in the white people and Aboriginal people, any one of them. A white person drinks the same as an Aboriginal. I don't know why they do it. It sort of makes them have the courage or something to go and do something. I've seen people who think as soon as they have a drink they say, 'Oh I'm going to fight him. Just wait till I have a few beers.' It'll be mostly in themselves the fighting. The Aboriginal people have a lot of good friends among the white people and a lot of white people have a lot of good friends with the Aboriginal people. Well there could be fighting between them all the time. Now say for instance two friends over there one whitefeller and one Aboriginal bloke, and there could be a lot of white blokes over there. They all want to go and fight those two. O r there could be a lot of Aboriginal people over there go and fight those two. It's usually round the pub or cafe. Say you and I go out to the pub now. Well one bloke over there might come up to me and say, 'Eh let your mate shout me', or something like that. He might put the dirty word on me if I said, 'Leave him alone! Well then if I got drunk he'd come up and sort of say, 'Well what you said to me you know you going to make your word to stand on that?' Something like that. And then we'd start fighting standing up for your mate. That happens a lot of times my eye! There could be a bloke hates another bloke you see for no reason. O r he might be just going and flashing his money around, 'Here, have a beer'. Something like being jealous. Well in the pub there was this colour bar. It's always been happening all the time. See a white bloke might go in and get drunk

266 When the Dust Come in Between and he sort of lies on the stool and sleeps it off. They let him do that. And say if that was an Aboriginal person starting to doze it off they'd just close and say, OK you're barred'. They'd wake him up and say, 'You're barred*.Just for sleeping which doesn't sort of cause trouble or anything like this. I've seen it a lot of times. Just for sleeping. I don't think it'll come any better. There was that time a few Aborigine people from Wyndham got into it just before the time they had the Black Power. That thing made it a bit worse now I reckon. I don't really know about that Black Power business. Somebody had a few drinks and was just talking I reckon, that's all. I reckon they said it was about one of those blokes from Oombulgurri who used to be in the boxing before. That's all I just heard you know on the side. There was the biggest mob coming from somewhere but it didn't happen at all. The only thing now today it might be somebody go up and when he's had a few beers he might talk to his mate a bit more harder. In Canberra there were people living in a tent right in front of the Parliament House. I think those ones were a Black Power mob they reckoned. We met a few there. Harold Chapman knew one bloke there who wanted us to go to the tent but we said no. He wanted us to just go and sort of do a bit of preaching and all this. That's why we didn't want to go and stay there. Some were full blood and some were half-castes. I had my car. I didn't like drinking at the pub because you have mates and mates and mates and then you have to run them back here and there and everywhere. Since I had the car I just sort of went in at the bottle depot, grabbed what I wanted and I was all right. I reckon it was all right for me not going into the bush to have a few beers. You go back and you're home then. It's better. At the bar you didn't know what would happen. For instance you might have two or three friends. Well you have to have a beer with them and then you might have one too many and get barred or picked up by the coppers. I reckon that's why a few like getting their beer and taking it out in the bush. I think Wyndham's always been the way it is, a bit rough all the time. Kununurra's a young town just started off with a good reputation and there aren't so many Aborigines here. I reckon it's a boom town now [l9811 with everyone coming up from the stations instead of to Wyndham.

Changes We've taken a long time to do things the Aboriginal people wanted to do. There have been a lot of changes. Well this sort of living like white

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people. That's the biggest part of our problem it used to be. It's generally getting better. Young people have started being in the schools and they have white people's brains on them now. They don't want to go back to the Law, the old rules. See they reckon they can read and write and they sort of forget the old ways. Well for instance those ones who have been going to camp school to Beagle Bay and Perth have really forgotten everything about it. They sort of go to school and do things the white way and then come back here and try to do it in the black way. That's a bit difficult ain't it? Well I still like to stick to the old Law, still quite a lot. I'd say there aren't so many as those drifting away but I think they might come back to it later on. By the time they finish their school they come back here and sort of think back to all this some of them. Some of them have really forgotten but it's not as bad as you might expect. I don't have any worries myself. Things are pretty right. To understand more about this Aboriginal advancement there's part of this Law business see. We'll bring our own Law with us sort of every time we go back to the bush. It reminds you about what happened a long time back. That's what makes them come in like you know. They've been in school and things like this the half-caste people, and now they're thinking of coming back to the Law. The ones in the camps here and in the town. And the young fellers just come up not too long ago trying to find out what happened in the past.

The Mirima Council When we started off the Mirima Council we didn't know what to do really until where Father said something about the Aboriginal Affairs up in Canberra. We began a little bit with about six leaders on the council in 1971. Old Banggaldun, Mandi, Michael, Bulla, old Friday Sullivan and old Jacko. Well we kept talking and talking and then we decided to ask about the garden. The first place we picked out to make a garden was where Jacko lived a couple of years later. We started a bit there cleaning around and then got word from Canberra to say we could go and start, pick out a place for a market garden. So we did. The Mirima Council started off by asking for a station first. We wanted to get this Carlton Station. That was our first plan. I wasn't around the year before [l9701 when they asked for Mount Cecil. We didn't get Carlton. We talked to Ted Egan and another man and then we just changed. We asked him for Dingo Spring and Long Michael Plain. This went straight back to Argyle now.

268 When the Dust Come in Between It came from the white people the council business. Aboriginal people saw how you white people sort of made up your own councils and thought they'd try to do the same. Now they have their own councils. I think the Mirima Council was Father's idea. I don't know how it started off the first time. I remember just a few places where we would just sit around and talk before it began. We were starting to talk about picking up [learning] something. Father came up later on I think. I never was interested in it then. I used to go out and just listen to these old people talking about what place they'd like to get and then they got in to Father. That was 1971 earlier. He used to come to them and he formed the council then on what they wanted already. The council started because the elders were interested in getting a station. Mirima is the name for the country somewhere in Hidden Valley, from the back of a Turtle in the Dream time. You know the little square things turtles have on their back? That's how Hidden Valley was formed, broken up into little valleys. One of the old fellers told me that. I don't know about this boundary running right down here but I only just know about this area around Hidden Valley. The council was just thinking on everything and then as soon as we found out about this Hidden Valley, that is was some sort of meeting place there before probably for here and everywhere, we said we'd call this council the Mirima Council. It was before Ivanhoe Station was founded or something maybe in my grandfather's time. It's not used now. O h we were using it for a while. We used to go and dance there for the tourists once every Saturday night that time I wasn't in the council. We were just looking for the name of a place and we thought it was more closer. Mirima is just a place but I think it was called the Mirima for the Miriwung people too. That might be why they chose it. I don't know who chose the name. All I saw was on the paper 'Mirima Council'. We got an earlier grant. The first we had was a Bedford truck I think. Well that went for a while but it wasn't brand new and it was starting to play up. So we asked them at Canberra, wrote to them to get another vehicle, a small Toyota. So they gave about $13,000 I think. Not just for the Toyota but for the both of them, the big one and the small one. We got the small one first, a Toyota. And then about a month later we had a big red seven ton Toyota truck from Darwin. As soon as they got both vehicles on their hands we took the $13,000 and just paid it cash on the hand. The money the truck made we used to put straight back in and use half for wages and things like that.

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We had a project account and then a general account which came first and was messed up by a few things. We had some trouble with one account so the next one they brought was the project account. That sort of worked pretty evenly then. I came in later when we started to get these other lot of accounts in 1972. They started to get a bit mixed up with this wages account and seeing that we had two trucks we asked to have a wages account and a truck account. Then somebody said there should be a medical, health officer I think and Michael was the first to go for it. But just this time I was learning a bit how to work the books and I still wanted his hand to give a bit more. Michael was on the books before I took over. He was the chairman and Father was the secretary. So they told Michael to stay on and give me a go, a bit of a chance to learn what to do. The first time they elected me for the Mirima Council and 1 started to work for them they started to expect me when I wasn't ready all the time. They said, 'When you're ready just let us know! Well I was waiting and waiting and so I told them, 'I'm ready to start off. They gave me a job and when I was on it I sort of got to like it. I liked the way they did the jobs too. I didn't get anything sort of hard to work and that. I just sort of pushed along steady. Well it sort of kept me in town. There was enough freedom to do something for myself at the same time as what I was doing. Sort of making me learn to do things more. I thought in about two or three years' time I'd be pretty much on my way. Everything was changed as soon as we had the small Toyota. We started to have meetings every Saturday morning and we got about twelve councillors. Michael, Banggaldun, Mandi and old Bulla. They were still there. There was me, then Jerry, old Mulligan, Stan Brumby, Bumbi, Miat Qeff), young Ronnie Carlton and Murphy. The council started to grow. Ben Ward was working at a Main Roads patching job and when they finished we decided to ask him to take the job as health officer. Then we started to get a few other accounts. There was the garden account, health account and a project officer. We asked for a project officer and they said if you want one from Canberra we'll give you one. He could have been a whitefeller so we had one here, Alfie Gerrard. He was on about $6,000 before he started off. So he went on and on and he wanted to take over the whole business. He didn't want to be just project officer and he played up a bit then. Ben just got tired of it and told him to go so he pulled out and then we picked up Eric Penning in 1973. I didn't know nothing then when he came in to be project officer because I was at Perth where I took a young boy to hospital.

270 When the Dust Come in Between Members of the council had to have a good reputation especially for the younger people there. For instance Murphy and Ronnie helped a bit on the reserve and did a bit of police work for old Mandi and Peter and old Banggaldun. Other people who came into the meetings just wanted to hear what was going on. By this time it was getting larger and larger because more people came to the meetings to listen. Then they sort of dropped off again. It changed again and we never got any more members after when they dropped off. Some councillors dropped out and a few new ones came in. Michael was one who went. Old Jerry dropped out, and Ronnie. Old Mulligan dropped out and came back in again. Well the council went real steady and stopped sometimes sort of. Nineteen seventy-two was our steadiest year and in 1973 we had a lot of trouble. In 1972 the work was still going through the wet season but I mean now in 1973 we went too fast sometime and stopped and had troubles and things like that. We were trying to reach the top and we couldn't. We tried to see if we could keep that truck for a long time and do short term work around the town with it and just keep the bank balance built up. We waited on a grant to start off again and planned to do things a little differently. We had to go back and sort of start a bit steady. I hoped it would go more longer than what we were thinking of I suppose. We just sort of tried to make it keep going every time sort of finding new ways of putting things in. As soon as they got that station I reckoned it would last more longer. I thought sort of a few young people would take over then. There are enough young people willing to carry on. I said that the ones who were not interested in the old Law weren't as many as the ones who were interested and that was true of the council too. Those council meetings seemed to be steady but they were sort of changed now. They didn't have them every week. They had a lot of meetings in 1972 and it used to help this work and as soon as we started off in 1973 it was very smooth early in that year. But as soon as we got to the middle of that year a bit of trouble started and the meetings stopped. Well we used to send the truck out to do some job and they'd go and load some grog on it and get drunk and not do any work. And for servicing the motor cars it used to be on the right time the mileage it was clocked at and things like this. But in 1973 things never went for about a month and there were times the vehicles should have been in for servicing a month back or something.

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And there were money problems. We spent it too fast I reckon and paid people who should not have got it. Say you had one bloke working today and then he's gone off and wasn't coming back for another week or so. Well if they got another bloke, as soon as he came back he'd ask round for his money for the work he did. Sometimes another lot of things happened, Like for instance one day they'd just go out supposed to do some job on the Packsaddle and for four or five days just went over to a big shady tree with cartons of grog and sleep it off for the day. Then when the week came they were paid for just doing all that. That was happening before I came in. Well we didn't know nothing about that till we paid them. And another trouble used to be a police problem really. A lot of the council used to go on the Toyota trying to stop drinking and fighting on the reserve and things like this. And the people from outside didn't like this because they used to go up and get the police. They wanted Banggaldun to do the patrolling. He had the right to do anything if he wanted to. If he thought the police had to be in it well he'd get them. Everything came smoothly again later in 1973 just after all the trouble. The garden was one of the projects I started with and I tried to keep it up. The truck got back into work. Later in 1973 the Toyota still had a seized motor but I reckoned it would be all right. In that coming wet season it was used to go down to Fitzroy [for participation in ceremonies]. Work on the garden when they were putting posts in was changing sort of steady and the only thing we were waiting for was that big seven footer wire netting. With that put up there would have been a lot more changes. You could keep your garden real good then because the kids wouldn't go in. And a lot of cattle used to go in there when I was around. Our members didn't have to be any age. Mostly they were all men but sometimes women. The women did the cleaning up in the toilets like and round in the bough shed there, the meeting place. They didn't take part much. Early in 1973 anyway we used to form up and make a bit of a meeting with all the people and ask them if they wanted to work. The older people asked the younger people and once they worked we just paid them. Before that they used to get jobs around town or on the farms. We had a few who were Roman Catholic. That didn't have any importance. They were Miriwung mixed. The council wanted more members from the younger people because they wanted their help. It could have been anyone. They just had to have a good reputation and

272 When the Dust Come in Between not be troublemakers. Some who came to be members always were all the time in the meetings. The others who didn't become members used to all come in and out again for a while. Some wanted to stay out of the council because they wanted to go back and work on the stations. Some didn't like to stay in town I suppose and some did. I reckon most of the Aboriginal people would like the bush but I preferred to stay here. As far as it goes it's more better to try to form one idea and that was to work together. It was a bit difficult I reckon. I hoped it would work out when it was going properly. A bloke working for himself could give them a bit of an idea, a better idea. He'd know how to help along a bit, come in and work for the council just to give them a bit of a hand then move out again. There are a lot of people scattered around working on their own but they can help out a little. When you were a member you had a right to speak in the council, give ideas and things like that. Suppose a bloke saw something wrong and wanted to say it. He could say it. It made a man feel different I suppose being a member and well known by the council. If the council wanted him to do anything he could do it. When people dropped out I reckoned they might think they'd had enough and just wanted to stay out of the council for a while. Well say they were talking all the time and maybe didn't take the speaker's word what he said to do about something. O r if he didn't like the way they were doing a job when anything went wrong and he said anythingl 'Oh this bin done wrong. Why don't you do it this way?' If they said, 'I won't do it that way', well he'd probably do it over and over and then get tired of it and just walk off. They had to let the council know before they walked away or something like this. They told it at the meetings I suppose. At least the leaders like Banggaldun and Mandi if they wanted to do it privately. The leaders were the old people holding the Law among the tribal prople from the black community. He's got to be one of those blokes who knows the Law right through. That's still strong. I don't think it was the same with the KAPA [Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association]. For the others like Alfie it wasn't because of the Law I reckon. It was just some sort of education for them the way they worked and did things. The white people outside knew about the council because of the way they worked, like how the truck was working all the time. Our leaders organised things and found out what was to be done. They'd sort things out in the council by having a big talk. They were mainly worried for our own people. Well I reckon they felt they were supposed to be one and look after things around the reserve, with

Colin James: Mirima Council 273

troubles. That was the main part of it. It sort of kept law and order in and I reckon it was helping. Membership stayed the same in 1972 when it was going smoothly. When the troubles came a few walked off. When I went to Canberra it was sort of on and off. There weren't many meetings. The younger men did most of the work and the elders didn't join in much. They didn't train the young men. In 1972 anyway our arguments used to be settled in the meetings. Say for instance a feller wasn't doing the job properly. A lot of talk would get around about having a meeting and calling him up, 'You come and front the council'. We'd have a bit of arguing and talking and he'd talk it over. It worked out all right. But in 1973 there weren't a lot of meetings. They used to do a bit of arguing outside and then they'd have a bit of a meeting about it what was going wrong and everything. Well all they did then was just go and put a bit of stop on them. At least we had three police trackers anyway, Aboriginal fellers. That was mainly to do with living on the reserve. They were council leaders too. Ideas used to come out from different places. Say this name Mirima Council. That showed it sort of came from outside. Well old Johnny Walker (he wasn't in the council) told them, 'Why don't, if you're going to grow up a council, why don't you call it the Mirima Council?' It was his idea. He would have known that was the name of the country around here. Stan Brumby's mob the Gidja people they saw the Mirima Council had been up to Canberra all the time. Well they came up and said, 'If we can get some idea from the Mirima Council and how do we start?' And things like this. How did we get this and that for instance? I think they went straight to old Banggaldun because when I was around there we were told they came up to the leader of the council. Even the Gurindji people used to come up here too. The Gurindji mob started before I suppose. That may have given the Mirima Council idea. And there was a tall half-caste feller - I forget his name - was one of those working for the Aboriginal people in the legal advisory service. He went all around. I suppose the KAPA got the idea to start from the Mirima Council. They worked together the council and the KAPA because they both had the same name. Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association and the Mirima Aboriginal Council. The KAPA sort of was there if the council wanted a bit of a hand. They were just still separate. The council had a lot of good friends. For instance the other new councils and the other people all living here. They'd come up with

274 When the Dust Come in Between new ideas and things like this, 'Why don't we start to form up a bit more stronger ways?' To talk a bit more harder. I think they really needed someone who could talk to be a member of the council. Several of the jobs they did were successful I think. Like hay carting. It didn't fail. The garden didn't fail. It was forgotten yes but for the time the things they did selling fruit were all right. They felt a lot stronger at the end of 1973. I reckon they wanted to try to get things done the same as they did before. 1981 proofreading. That's how Dingo Spring came up. By asking you know. Well we wanted Carlton first but then we changed. When I said talk a bit more harder I meant get more stronger and try and talk about something where you can get something. You have my word what I said before that time where I was working this way and that way. At least you brought my past back. It made me remember anyway how I started off. I might have a grandchild some time. Well they're going to read it eh?

Plate 14 Ben Ward, 1988, Kununurra

BEN WARD BORN 1949

CHANGE Recorded 20, 24 August, 10 September, 13 December 1973: four sessions, two hours. Well I don't have much to say you know because I was sort of mixed with the white people most of the time and I mixed with my own colour sometimes. That's why I don't have much trouble with them or with white people. You find probably a few white people you know probably don't like the way we. live or something like that. I was born in 1949 near here at Argyle Station and grew up there and I went to school at a mission, Lombadina. It's a Catholic mission out near Derby and Broome. I was down at school about a few months and then Mum and Dad pulled out of the station Argyle. That was Jeff and Kathleen. And they had to transfer me to another school down to KRS [Kimberley Research Station]. I was only back there for about a couple of months and I knocked off school and went working. I was about fifteen or sixteen and I finished school at grade seven. I've been round Beagle Bay and Lombadina and all like, the missions. Argyle was the first place I was working on stock work. We went back there again. See I was working there for about I'd say three or four years then we came back in town. That's when Kununurra started off, later than 1958 I think. I can't remember exactly what it was but I'm sure there was Kununurra then. And we stayed in town then for a while. We didn't have a house. We just sort of stayed in town and stuck it out living at the camps just like the old people living at the camps now. Then I stayed in with a few blokes and they invited us in for the wet season. Then I worked out on the stations again right up to Hall's Creek. We took some corroboree out there and I changed my mind and went out on the other stations then. I worked out on Vestey's Mistake Creek for about four years, probably three-and-a-half, and I got married there.

277

278 When the Dust Come in Between See what made me come and live here all my relations lived here. I'd live in a town if I had a choice. You know it's better for the kids. They can grow up and it would be nice to have them know how to behave in a correct manner. You know probably when they grow up they'd know how to look after a house and things like that when they're shown the right way.

Childhood Well I forget about the past. You don't want to worry about it when I was younger. Well I don't know anything about before I was born. You only know when you get about twelve or thirteen that's all. That's when you start learning. Before I was born sort of I don't know what all the old people knew. The first thing I remember is toy trucks and everything. You know all sorts. This was in the station. White people grew me up. I saw them from when I was born. My father was a half-caste Jimmy Ward and my mother Kathleen was full blood. My father was head stockman. I'm full Miriwung. Jimmy Ward is still half-caste but he's still out of the tribe you know. I don't know where he was born but he was from the Walbiri side. My mother was Gurindji but we grew up on the Djaru side. Every man sort of comes out of the tribe too. I'd say I had a happy childhood. My father went away and came back while I was big and Jeff is my godfather. He sort of grew me up. Jeff called me up from when I was only eighteen. That's why I have more time for him. Jimmy doesn't live here any more. He's up at Derby. I don't know what my Dreaming is. My father knows a lot about this and old Bulla should know. Not me. I have twenty brothers and sisters but not out of one mother. When my mother married she only had me, then when she married Jeff their children were Sydney and Annette who stayed at old Bulla's place. Sydney's a big feller you know with sort of big bushy hair. He worked a lot out at Carlton and is married with a young girl called Kathy. He used to stay at old Bulla's camp during the races. Jeff is Daisy's son brought up by Bulla. -

-

Have you been in Kununurra only a short time? I've been in and out of Kununurra since I was a schoolboy. I can't remember when the old people came off the stations. It was sort of hard for them to bring the sacred Law over. To find a good place for it. They had it out at Hidden Valley but too many tourists were hanging out there and they had to shift it to a different place. They just came straight in to the reserve and no complaints or anything when it was built. But you can't see them talking to anyone you know. They're too [very] shy.

Ben Ward: Change 279

It was sort of too many to mix with. Out at the station they had the manager and his wife and probably about two or three other white people that's all. In town they've sort of been too shy. They go up and do their shopping and things like that that's all. That's why Dave switched in [Dave Nicholson who assisted with shopping and transport as well as health care]. I never had trouble with white people or anything like that. It was like that from the beginning when the reserve started but it will change. It's changed already and it's still changing yet say for the Aboriginal. They're not fighting any more the white people. They just talk to them. But you don't get much of the white people talk. There's the old and the young. The young ones you probably can't stop talking. The older ones are still a bit shy sort of. I don't think they understand properly yet. Well I don't really know what's going to happen during the future.

What's been the history of the Mirima Council since you've known it? How did it start off? The Mirima Council you know started off just by following the Law on the reserve. That's the older council. That's the Mirima tribe who picked out the council mob. That's what Miriwung means now, Mirima. They're the same. Well Mirima is the name of the people that belong to the language, the people who are staying on the land. That's why you'll find most of the people here are all Miriwung see. Instead of saying Miriwung land they say that's the Mirima land. Mirima that's how I think they got the name too from that place up there now in Hidden Valley somewhere. That used to be a sacred ground which included Mount Cecil. That Mount Cecil country was where the young men used to go out to stop for a couple of months [during initiation seclusion]. Just like well they found out about [wanted] this Law if the white people got them their place and things like that. The council wanted to make their own place. Like to judge somebody they judge them by the Law there. Just like if you want to be doing time you'd probably do three months this feller goes up and gets his punishment. It could be any sort. It's the Law punishment. That was in the past, not these days. See a lot of young fellers, that's why a lot of them are going real silly. They've never been in any sort of Law. I'll tell you one thing to settle a young bloke down from the old people is by the Law. By their own Law. If they see that the old people are going to tell them what to do in the Law place they'd obey them quick and smart after that. Because you find a lot of the young

280 When the Dust Come in Between fellers that don't like to listen to anybody they've never been to the Law. You find somebody who's been to the Law and he'll follow you like. That's what you find with most of these people too you know. When the older people come to tell them what to do they don't do it. They think they cando what they like. They'll never learn to obey their own people till they sort of have something to be scared of. Most of them are all you know the gadia way. They don't bother about the old people. That's why these old people are saying there's already done some big Business. The work that Banggaldun and Mandi did as policemen sometimes kept the young people on the track. A few blokes. Like I said most of them don't take any notice unless they've been punished through our Law. You find out these days the people don't know that blackfeller Law in the tribal way. They don't go real strict you know. What they usually do is make the people get punished. I know I got a lot of punishment. Me. So I know what is the Law and I'll stick by it too. That's the safest thing. Say if you don't know any of that own Law you get into white man trouble. Some of them do. Just like you were asking me about marrying the wrong skinned girl you'd get into trouble like that. That's for my Law. That's got nothing to do with white people's law. They just get married any way. They don't bother about skin. It was always called the Mirima Council. I started in it in 1973. I can't see where white people fitted in the council. Probably only to start them off. They met different from the old way because in white man's law you can let whoever is invited to come. And in my Law if I ever invited anybody who had never been through the Law then he should go through it first before he gets in it. If he sort of sneaked round, stickybeaks or anything like that he'll probably get hurt. Well in the white man law you know you can come and hear what they're saying. But in my way you can't come round and hear anything. You have to keep clear if you don't know them. You have to join them first before you see them. Join the mob and get punished and everything.

There is now a Wyndham council isn't there, like the Mirima Council? I think they had a council at Wyndham. Probably not as good as the Mirima then because most of the Mirima mob like Mandi and them you didn't find them drunk every night at the pub. But the council there all of them hung up at the pub. And it was pretty bad at Hall's Creek they reckoned.

Ben Ward: Change 281

I'd have a few drinks now and again but I didn't go on the stuff. It's the one thing I don't like. Round the reserve how can I say? Well I've never done anything wrong to the people yet. We never asked them for cars, drove off with the council Toyota truck or anything like that. Nothing. Because I know what the Law is, the white man law and my Law. A lot of those blokes you saw driving around did what they liked fighting and they didn't even know the Law yet. I wanted to obey the Law, and Colin he was through the Law. But they never felt pretty bad you know like what I did. You'd find that young brother of mine Syd you know staying at Bulla's camp he was a lot better than he was. He used to drink heavily. After he went through the Law down here they tamed him down real fast. I took him up at Nicholson and he went through there and up at Ord River. He went through five or six Laws. Especially you'll find a lot of Law during holiday time the wet season. I've been through too many. Probably one tribe had about four or five different Laws and the other tribe had around three or four. The biggest change is that everything's getting better. You know we're becoming the same as the white people for work or anything like that. They don't have to work for the white man. They can work for themselves making gardens and things like that, something good for them. They probably know how to run their own things later on when they pick up or something when all the people catch on to what's going on.

You said that white people in the town usually don't have much to do with the Aboriginal people. I don't know what's a real problem. Trying to get them mixed is hard. Mixed to the white people. Next to them or neighbours or something like that. You see I don't think it would be the Aboriginal causes the problems but it would be the white people. The white people don't have much to do with the Aboriginal people because they probably don't like the Aboriginal people doing their own things, having their own things. Ahh by getting a house in town next to a white bloke. He probably wouldn't like an Aboriginal bloke sitting next to him next door. Fussy, probably just fussy. I'd say that the Aboriginal people don't have anything against the white people. It only happens to the white people who make complaints. They never say that white people are dirty and I'll tell you one thing. You don't get a black boy going out chasing white girls. You

282 When the Dust Come in Between get a whitefeller coming down and chasing black girls. I don't know why they don't like black men. Say I think if they ever do catch some bloke saying that they'll probably screw his neck. Some Aboriginal women they probably just live with or marry the white people and then they just don't want to be you know sort of involved with anything of the black people. They just want to do their own, live with the whites sort of. You'd probably say good day to them and they'd probably turn round and pull their face. Mixed marriages are OK with us only if it's a good bloke. The boy married to a white lady? If you can find one decent enough to marry a white lady. We used to see a lot of white girls chasing black boys but they weren't the right sort. If you get a white girl well she's probably got more responsibility, education say and she has more ways of using her manners. Probably the white girl doesn't even like the way the boys treat her. A white man would marry a black girl like a shot out of a gun. And another problem, the black girl likes the white man better. It's probably money. Say a black girl comes out of a poor family. She's not too keen on Aboriginal men and she takes off with the white man most of the time. She sort of gets used to the white man more than the Aboriginal man. The kinds of people who have respect are those who use their manners properly. I don't know how to put it. I don't know about the reserve and not that I know of in the town too. I've not been much around town. I've never been drifting to camps to camps. I'm sort of in between as a person. Well I can have respect for the Aboriginal Law and the white people's way. You'll get some white people who don't like Aboriginals and most of them do. I haven't had any troubles with discrimination. Not myself. Well I've had good respectable jobs. That's why they respect me too. But I notice it all with a few of my friends. They probably just don't like the colour. O h it's not only that. You'll get some Aboriginals who don't use proper manners. Well most of them are willing to mix in with anything. You know sort of half off and half on. They sort of like to mix in really with white people. Well you get most of the half-castes here they're trying to get colour-barred too you know. They don't even like mixing in with the blacks. That's why it's hard for the half-caste to make his choice. See a full blood can just make his choice. He had a one way choice. He can stick by his own if he doesn't like the white people's way see. But the half-caste he's got both ways, both colours. Half white and half black. It's sort of too hard for them.

Ben Ward: Change 283

W h a t do you think about drinking? Do you think it's good or it's bad? I reckon drinking's bad. They make too much noise, disturb the peace and everything, fight. I probably get real full but I don't make any noise or anything like that. I just don't know what causes blokes to do that. Probably they're just itching for a fight or something. They just probably love it. I drink heavily probably at a birthday or a party. I probably drink two or three cartons a day and that's all. Share them out you know. I'd drink about twelve. Not every day. Only probably one day and then knock off for about a month or something.

I was nineteen when I had my first drink. I drank a flagon then. After that I saw a bloke go berserk and I thought I might do that so I gave it away and I gave it away for good. I can only drink beer. Me and him were drinking and he went mad see. I thought, 'This thing going make me mad', then so I gave it away. The old feller I drank with sort of has the shakes now. From that time I never touched it again. I've had rum and I still have a few. A couple of glasses of rum and coke. That's all. No others. I've never tasted whisky or brandy yet. Well I tried drinking out now to find out what sort it was. When you sort of start drinking you're feeling on top. You don't want to be pushed around or anything like that. That's why all of those blokes enjoy drinking because they enjoy a bit of life in it. There's not much interest or enjoyment in other things that's why. Well I'd say like this. If they had a good job and they sort of worked and enjoyed it properly I'll tell you they'd work without any complaints at all. Drinking can cause stealing. When they drink they think they're a big shot. The grog makes them do that. They probably just like picking on each other. Say they have something when they're sober. They put it out when they're drunk. O h you see a couple of white people fight too for no reason. So one change I'd like to see in the town is for people to stop drinking. You'd see a lot of changes then. You'd probably see blokes doing other things they'd never done before. The whole lot drink. I only have a few drinks if somebody shouts me in a party. Well I don't like spending money drinking.

I smoke sometimes. When I don't have any smokes I don't bother so much. Bush tobacco that's a thing I'll never chew. I only smoke tailor mades.

284 When the Dust Come in Between

What are some of the things that are happening now to help Aboriginal people? I wouldn't know the best way of helping Aboriginal people. If you put it in a book probably some of them wouldn't like to buy it. Some of them wouldn't even know how to read. That's the Aboriginal people. I don't know about the white. A lot of the white people don't want to understand. Some of them do understand and they don't like doing it. They know but they don't want to understand it. Like they don't want to know anything about Aboriginals. A lot of them they give them cheap labour and things like that. That's where they cut it off again, get the truck and work for themselves. The white people who keep on hiring them and never pay them for labour they have cheap labour. That was when we first got the truck. That's why they had to find another project officer. You know what I mean? Some of the blokes were sort of sometimes too easy to white people. White people tell them to do this and they sort of go and do it. That's why they wanted to get someone who was real tough just like a young man who came in later. He was smart and tough. What I find most important in life is to enjoy it. Education is most important to me and I hope my children will be the same as I do, have the same jobs. That means if they like it. I'm sure they'll go to school. I planned for more training. It's good for a bloke to go and learn some of the different things you know. Among the biggest changes you see a lot of people, some of them you know give respect and all that. Show the proper way, manners and things like that. I don't know what changed them. Some have more respect and some have less, the older people and the young. The young most of them have a bit less. They were supposed to have the Law one Saturday but they all took off to the races at Negri. They had to put it off. Well I don't know what they think of their future. Some of them probably plan for a station. There's old Bulla. So probably some others are planning for a farm or something like that. What I'd like to see happen is everyone living up to top class. Up to standard you know with better housing and things like that. I'd like to live in a house something like the one at the Miriwung Centre with plenty of room. Something good anyhow. Not like the ones they have down the reserve. They're not even worth living in. They're too old and you need chairs and tables and things. I don't think they understand about the chairs and things because they were a bit too myall those days. They didn't know what

Ben Ward: Change 285

a chair was or fork and knife. They're getting used to it though. You see a lot of them you find them carrying a chair around to meetings. The first time when they had the meetings they went out in the beaten bush and sat down. I'd like to see them live in the town with the whites and all in separate houses. I don't find anything wrong with living with white people.

1981 proofreading. Up there at Alice Springs I was working with the Aboriginal housing mob building houses for all the Aboriginals. They have houses over there really good you know, not on here like the reserve. The ones over there had a lounge, fridge, everything. I worked with the Aboriginal council, a mob they called Tangatjira, and I learnt a bit more off them. They went round helping all the people living in the camps like carting. They were an Aranda council. We went there at the end of September 1979 and stayed for a year-and-a-half. We might go back probably for good. I helped them out now doing a little bit for a while at Dingo Spring. Alice Spring's not that bad really for discrimination. Not like here. But there's more blackfellers there you see. It was pretty fair but I never mixed with too many white people. It hasn't changed my ideas. Well nothing much really. Well I reckon the mining's not even helping them, all the people. They're saying they're helping them but they're bloody not. I think they're just going to ruin everything and just leave it. Ruin the country I reckon. Well say look, for the sacred sites and all that. You never see a blackfeller you know. If he puts something there he just leaves it there and never moves it. If you get somebody else come along and move it he's in trouble for my blackfeller way. And places around here, they brought this rubber bush [toxic cabbage plant] and it's spread everywhere. You can't even go fishing anywhere. It used to be good. It's buggered now. It's too much grass seed and everything. They're ruining the fishing place along the river there by making a park out of it. They're going to have a big park there along the Lily Creek. There's only one camp at Lily Creek now because the rest of the mob the Shire Council hunted them all out. They just told them to shift out. Gave them a warning or something. Like this you know for the report I reckon they ought to get somebody from outside the mob. Not the mining mob sort of but get somebody who's an outsider and he'll probably write a really full story of it.

286 When the Dust Come in Between

'Dateline', Special Broadcasting Service, September 1991. Interview with a reporter at Cockatoo Spring (Dingo Spring locality). It's better for us, sure, because we feel more at home up here. Y'know we have our own house and that. We have sheds, yard and buildings. And it makes us feel comfortable and more stable... The ninety-nine year lease, I don't think it's good enough really. Yeah, they said, 'Oh it's good. It give you a better chance', because they can't get anything definite on land rights or anything. But, y'know if they don't have any land rights in Western Australia it makes it a little hard for us to live. Y'know, as full as what we want to do... Y'see that's why a lot of people don't want to leave town because they're not secure living when they go out. Y'know they bin controlled by government no matter which way.

Plate 15 July Oakes, 1982, Kununurra

JULY OAKES BORN ABOUT 1918, DIED 1982

NO ONE TO TALK TO Recorded 18 April 1970 paraphrased from note book entries, 30 November 1973: two sessions, five hours. When asked on two separate occasions whether he wished to proofread the chapter July answered politely he was satisfied with what he said and saw no need to add anything new.

I was born in 1918 on the Ord River at Texas Station well upriver. It was washed out in the 1922 flood. That was about a hundred miles further than the top dam. My father was an Irishman, a station worker, and my mother was Aboriginal. My father was a good feller. He never drank. He was a swaggie with plenty of money. My mother was good. I liked them both. I was really crooked that I never saw the old man before he died. I'm worse off than them because my father had money and no worries. He worked all this country on foot and used to go south for the holidays. I had a rough childhood. I got into more fights than anyone. I'd get into fights with my mates. I wasn't keen on games but I used to play cricket. I was good all round they said. It was all right as a kid at school. I used to behave well. I was a good runner and high jumper, the best of two hundred children. I was a good worker. Mostly followed hard work right from the jump and worked with tough men when I was seventeen. My father was a prospector. My mother was a station cook. I have one younger sister. My mother was a Roman Catholic but I don't know what religion my father was. He left me when I was too young. Went to Melbourne and lived there. We had a letter about twenty years back that he died. My mother is seventy-three still living. She had no schooling. My father must have been pretty well educated because he was a returned soldier when he came here. 289

290 When the Dust Come in Between

I left my mother when I was twelve and went to a State school at Moola Bulla. I lived in a camp there with my relations. O h I was only in school for four years. My first job was offsiding for a windmill man. I started on windmills and engines. I could have been a good carpenter, mechanic, jack of all trades. I can practically do anything now. Learned all by myself watching other chaps doing cement flooring, repairing motors, riding a fast horse. Then I became a stockman. I was a good stockman and I can read and write a bit. Before I was married I used to knock about doing station work. I went on Argyle cattle station working for the Duracks. I worked there for a hell of a long time. I went and worked on Rosewood Station for Kilfoyle. Well I worked up till I was twenty-five then I went away droving to Queensland. I never drank then. We took cattle to Queensland and during the war time we used to take fats to Katherine. I came back round about when I was just after twenty-eight. I worked on Spring Creek Station for Bill Skuthorpe and I started drinking then. Other stations I've worked on were Victoria River Downs, Limbunya, Spring Creek, Mount Samford, Moraginni in the Northern Territory, Inverway, Moola Bulla, the Wyndham wharf, the Main Roads, Texas Downs Station and Bullo River Station. I've been to Queensland droving to Camooweal, Mount Isa, Waroona Station, Brunette Downs, Alexander in the eastern part of the Territory, Elliot, Darwin, Katherine, Derby, Broome and Perth. I've travelled by road train hitchhiking and by plane. My last job before I came here was head stockman for Argyle. Two of the oldest men there are Grasshopper and Daylight. The people who were working with me on Argyle were all against me. I was working too hard then or something and I was put off. You have to be young and strong to do station work. It's dangerous for older people. You're likely to get a horn or be kicked, fall under a horse and get killed. I have a crook hip which was broken by a horse. I came here in 1965 and lived down at Lily Creek for a year. I was back again in 1967. I've been here for four years on and off. I was working here when Kununurra started for ten months when they were putting in the bridges. I thought I'd get a good job and stay here and get onto a better job later. Lately I've been changing three or four jobs, about two here this year. I was on a tractor job farming for twelve months a year ago. I don't do part time work. Wages aren't too good but when the big jobs start more will come. I'm a labourer now for the PWD [Public Works Department].

July Oakes: N o One to Talk to 291

It wasn't what I expected it to be the way it is between the whites and the natives. I didn't think there was going to be a reserve. I thought they were going to be in the town. I think the reserve was put up for the pensioners. A nursing sister told me I could get a house here at the reserve. I put in for it and got it. Life here isn't as good as in the stock camps. You don't see many people. But I'm well off. I don't worry much. White people in the town welcome me for a cup of tea and so on like the wife on the poultry and pig farm or the PWD foreman. Yet they can't come here. You see quite a few boys live with the old people with no job and drinking. It's not their fault the parents. Are they supposed to get them jobs? They sit around. They need someone to put them on the job, to find out and tell them they have to work when the season's on and save money in the bank. This is what I wanted to take up and go round telling these people as a native officer. I need to talk to my people, tell them not to pull out of the stations and take a friend with them just because they had a row with the manager. I told the Native Welfare Department about thirteen months ago. The Native Welfare Department people from Wyndham just come and go. There's nothing much we can do. They're working for another feller in Derby at the head office. The health sister is a big help and she's quite nice with us. Other people sometimes are a bit wrong. The Native Welfare Department are only assistants to native people who themselves should become clean and sensible. But there's no one to talk to. A European child when he grows up his father is straight on to him and takes him out to a job. A native feller has no good job for himself. He's sort of forgetting about it. When they were single they didn't have much to carry. Had no bother and used to travel and get jobs here and there. That's how I used to live till I got married. You start to realise you can't move around because you have a wife and kids and have to buy a motor car to cart them around. I earn a hundred dollars a fortnight and pay tax. I have my own car, a second hand '56 model Holden and a refrigerator and bunks I brought with me. I have my own table and plates. My house is rented from the Native Welfare Department. I could save my money but I have kids to look after and a car to keep. I drive to work each day. I have a savings account but nothing more than ten dollars in it. Rent is one dollar a week. Food is mainly meat and sausages, vegetables, biscuits and tea, ice cream and cool drink when the kids want it and that's every day. I use the butcher's shop and the Four Square store. Meat is dear.

292 When the Dust Come in Between

I spend twenty dollars on top of tobacco, smoking and kerosene for the fridge ($2.56 for four gallons). This is my second wife. My first wife died. I had no children with her. This wife Charlotte was born and reared on Argyle. We've been married for six or seven years now. She's forty-five. She didn't go to school. There weren't many schools there. She worked on the stations all her life but she's more sensible than I am. She's looked after herself in her work. We came down here and were married by the Bishop. She does mainly housework but hasn't worked since we've been together. In our households now there's myself, my wife and two children, Ambrose and old Smiley. My son is twelve years old in grade four. Both our children went to the kindergarten at the Australian Inland Mission home. They should go to college for education. I'd like to see my own people do apprenticeships, nursing, all those things. I've not followed my schooling up but I'd like to see my boys go up to a higher school. They have nothing for their future. When they've finished school some parents teach them to work. Others don't get the chance. This happens with white children as well. If we had a high school in the north Kununurra would be the best place. You'd have your white kids and native kids there. White kids have their own homes. They know they're not allowed to go to other homes. Here they let them go wild from one shed to the other. There aren't any games like football and cricket. The Main Road boys play a bit of basketball but there's nothing to encourage the young children here. If you wanted the children to go to higher school it's up to the parents. I hope my two boys will get jobs as mechanics, good mechanical operators when they grow up. All the boys and girls from the stations visit a couple of nights. The family next door are cousins. Sheba was from my other mother [mother's sister's daughter]. My sister and mother are at Texas. My sister's married with no kids. She was a cook on the new Texas Downs Station. They're a big family. Some relations are in Darwin. Some are in Adelaide. Scattered everywhere. I didn't hear from them in Adelaide but I've been to Darwin and seen my aunty. We can write letters. We sent one to them two years ago. Half the children are in Darwin and wouldn't know me. I haven't seen Darwin for eight years. I actually have no friends only these white people. This chap Ambrose is the only one here. He works at KRS [Kimberley Research Station]. I used to follow cricket but I don't play it now. I read a bit but I have no glasses. A kid chucked my eyeglasses under a motor car once so I have to hold the page away from my eyes to read. I haven't

July Oakes: No One to Talk to 293

been too well lately. Still I get on well. Short term I'd like to have a home and a job. I'm not worried about long term ideas. I might never have a long term. I'd like to go back and own a station. Kununurra's more or less for the farmers isn't it? Without the farming Kununurra would be nothing. The town is divided into farmers and people in the PWD. People are all alike here. They seem to be friendly. Natives and white people seem to get on well working together. They like each other. The only trouble is here we can't find jobs for the womenfolk like in a laundry. You want a good town organiser I think, a town mayor or something to get jobs. Sometimes the police come and see native people with no jobs and tell them to move on. But they might like staying here. You can't push people around. If they have troublemakers with no job all these things make it bad. Where you have good people they're all working, enjoying fun and minding their own business. That would make it good. The police seem to mind their own business here unless we go down and pick them up. They can't do anything about white men taking girls. I could have but my wife told me not to go to the police. I'd have stopped them very smartly if I was on my own. Why can't the police do anything about it? People don't like other people who drink and go silly. That's in every town. In Wyndham and Derby the native people can't talk to the white people. Here they can. People of Kununurra like the native people and they behave well. Sitting in the pictures that way is only what they're used to. The old people have been frightened by the white man and kept down so long. They have to wait for white people to tell them what to do. O n the other hand the half-caste people go forward. A lot of native people do good work here. Some white people are a bit inquisitive and want to know what's going on, what you're up to and what branch you're connected with. Money mostly is among my worries. I can get food. Mainly it's to live good. Not making a nuisance of myself like getting drunk but living peacefully. There's nothing I dislike strongly. I'd mainly like to get these people to understand and know how they should be and what they should be doing. They've nearly forgotten what they're doing. I'm Roman Catholic but I still understand what -the old Law was. I was taught it when I was younger. You've got to teach the younger people otherwise they're all running wild. I reckon church is good for people. Drinking's not too good for all people white or native. White people have been told since they were children that it's no good to them.

294 When the Dust Come in Between The native person hasn't been told this. He's given grog, has great fun and goes berserk. When they come to their senses they see what they shouldn't have done, the white people. But native people want to go on drinking. The publican's against the people drinking, white and black. If anyone buys grog the police know where it's been taken through the publican. I don't drink. I get drunk on lemonade now. The citizenship book I wouldn't buy it. It's only for drinking rights. I had shaking trouble for two years but everything's going well so far. I think it's getting better. I'd rather buy a block of my own and grow a garden and work from there. I'm thinking of having a block of land for myself. I wrote to the Lands Department and the Native Welfare Department. I'd have to save and buy. I could get a block now if I had the money. The Commonwealth people can lend money. I'd need six hundred dollars. They'd give a loan if I had that much. I like the living here and the people. You don't get it elsewhere. Towns have different ways. I've been around and I think people get on pretty well here. All I want is a few bob and a block of land and I'm right. I'd make good use of it. What I was used to isn't worth anything. I would never try to go back and live like I used to. This life is better but it could be even better. We're all in to get a few bob. The native people have nothing except stock work to fall back on. Only half-castes get jobs on the MRD [Main Roads Department] and the PWD. I think native people don't have the chance to learn anything, to put their hands to anything like machinery. I work at the PWD but I don't get much chance to talk with these people. They're only pulling weeds all the time on the farms. When young ~ e o p l eknock off at the stations they're looking for jobs. I go around asking to have the place cleaned up but you can't do much except to have a holiday. The main problem is there are only little houses here. You have married people in houses where they could have their own toilet and shower bath. This is for younger people. There should be a kitchen here for young girls to learn how to cook for the old people. The pensioners would be able to save money that way. Three bob a meal. I've asked the Native Welfare Department at meetings. I'd like to have my own garden and have a job working for the Native Welfare Department. I'd like to see my people clean and sensible with jobs and friendly with white people. We're equal I'd say. I want a job to go around and talk to my people.

July Oakes: No One to Talk to 295

1973. July was now an elected member of the National Aborigines' Consultative Council. When asked by a visiting journalist to talk about 'white backlash' this is what he said. There's nothing yet but this will happen when the Aboriginal people become self-supporting. When they start doing their own projects and having their cattle stations. It'll come from the station hands the backlash I think. It might take years or a couple of years. It might take ten years but it is going to happen I should think because of a shortage of station hands. All these stock boys now they'll be coming working for our Aboriginal people throughout Australia. That's if we get grants from the government every year, say four or five thousand dollars a year just to develop into a big community. This is where the backlash will come, from the stations. I think it would be a good idea to educate the white community. We could have a booklet which should be established throughout Australia [this is what the journalist proposed to do]. In it I think you should put the ideas to the white Australians what is coming up now with the Aboriginal people. See the government is all ready, set to give these Aboriginal people part of their choice and their home, their cattle stations. Giving them back what they took off them. I think this should be fair, what do you say?The white community should be made aware of the facts that what the government is doing is compensation for our losses. A lot of the people now are still asleep. They wouldn't know what was going on as far as we're concerned. A lot of the people now in this outback country wouldn't know any different. All they worry about is getting a few quid. What I mean by goes on between the government and the Aboriginal people, see still half the white people aren't aware of what goes on now. All they know is about the wars on the other side in Northern Ireland and all those places. But the people living in their own country there are three or four different kinds of race in Australia now, and see the Aboriginal people they have to get their cut. The government's already asked them to go in and help themselves and this is what we're trying to do. To get back a few things that they lost out of the land, to get the land back. Well the majority of the people here I would say the people like the Public Works Department and the Shire Council who used to pay out all the big jobs throughout Australia in

296 When the Dust Come in Between the past they understand. But I think the booklet would improve a lot of things.

W h a t do you think have been the biggest changes for Aboriginal people that you've seen? Well the biggest changes here were done in the last few years. Where Aboriginal people used to work on the stations they were contented. But ever since then things have changed altogether. They were happy. Well most of the people grew up on the stations and they didn't know anything, never went to school. That was all they knew you know the work on the stations, and they grew up to be stockmen. And then the wages came on. They started paying them wages. And later they changed altogether. They had to put a lot of the womenfolks, married people off the stations to cope with the wages they were going to pay. That was around 1968. Well from there on the Aboriginal people were working on casual rates on the Main Roads. Well some of them used to get paid out on the stations. They'd get a job there and then they'd pull out because they were good men but they had to cope with the white people. Well they had white stockmen still with the wages. Well then they couldn't cope with the white people because they knew more about the stock work than the younger white people. Around the stations the stock boys used to know how to work horses in the proper manner. Not overworking them or anything like this or chasing, letting cattle out of the yard and just letting them rush. They used to take the cattle out of the yard and tame them for a little while then let them camp. They'd just ride away and leave them all lying down. That's how they used to work the cattle the Aboriginal people. Well they knew this. They were just letting them out of the yard to gallop for miles and miles without blocking them since they had these new chum stockmen and new managers. But the old white pioneers used to handle cattle better than that. That's why you see no native feller. He'd say, 'Ah I wouldn't work for that feller up on the station there. He don't know the first thing about cattle and horse. I'd might as well be down here get a few quid down here somewhere. Work on farm or buggerise around here till I get a good job.' Well it doesn't matter where you go now you only see a few stock boys out on the station unless you go way back around Nicholson and Sturt and all those places where they're still tribals you know. But up around here around this town area where there's Kununurra, Wyndham or Hall's Creek you see them all around town. -

July Oakes: No One to Talk to 297

There's been another big change because they have their drinking rights now and that seems to bugger them up altogether most of the people. They don't know what the grog does to them. Now they're the parents who rear the children up. Now white parents they have their children who've been told hundreds and hundreds of times before they grow up not to drink grog the way these people drink. Now the native people haven't been given a chance like this they wouldn't know. The younger parents have never told them what grog does to them. I was twenty-eight when I first had a drink. My first drink was rum but it never affected me you know for a long time for two years. I used to drink a hell of a lot but after that it sort of caught up on me. I was up in my forties then. Well I just couldn't put up with it and I gave it away. Well I just knocked off drinking for six years now. It made me start again when I got drunk on the time I went to that land rights in Darwin. I was with a lot of mobs. Well Christ only knows what we had there you know. Well the land rights meeting wasn't that good. We were sort of having rows and after the meeting I said, 'Bugger this. I'm going down to have a drink on this.' I went back and I drank there but I never went on with it after I came back here.

Of course, that was only a couple of months ago when you went to Darwin. What was the trouble there between yourselves then? Well see they were people from New South Wales and Tasmania and there were a lot of these fellers still fighting for their rights and things. But if you were looking at them like this you wouldn't know whether they were white or black because they were all - . In those places see the main Aboriginal people all died out and these people were only half-castes, You could tell by looking at their eyes and their hair that they were Aboriginal in descent. O h they got excited because they couldn't see that feller Mr Woodward so everybody were arguing and somebody said, 'What about we protest on this?'. So we protested on this up the road you know. They marched the street. What they asked for they wanted there and then and they were barking up all the time you know. They didn't speak in a good manner. They'd rather act rough that mob you've no idea. Well I reckon it's not right wanting to get something all at once. My idea is the way we're going about it now is the right way. Say if we're getting something a grant this year, well we want to know something within twelve months what we did with the money, what we did with the houses whatever

298 When the Dust Come in Between

it was. And then we could ask for more grants you know. But these people they were doing it the other way round. They wanted to shit stir all the time. I wouldn't know deeply how they go about it but I know they do a lot of things. They only got different ideas to us. I wouldn't know what Black Power was doing. I got it from the police sergeant the first day but I don't know where he got it from. I didn't know whether he was referring to me. I said to him I wouldn't know anything about the Black Power. I wouldn't be able to give an opinion. Well what could they do? The Aboriginal people haven't got the weapons to fight with. They know that. They're not that silly.

What's the history of the Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association then? How did it all start? Well the KAPA started off from the Mirima Council. The Mirima Council never saw any improvement and then we thought now we'd try and form a group. This is me and Alfie and this mob. I still belonged to the Mirima Council too, was still the adviser. Well I said to them, 'Listen you boys we got to try and get a bigger group now and to incorporate with you. See? So that we can get these things. We can handle the book. Use the book and work the money out, fine as we can do the job in a proper manner. So that we can all become one. By having KAPA it'll be here for ever and ever.' The Mirima Council wanted a cattle station but who was going to handle their books? That's what we said. Our intention was not to split. What we were trying to do was to help the Mirima Council as well as the KAPA. Look first whatever they're going to do if they got a cattle station and we had the KAPA we could buy the cattle station for them. As far as handling their business it had nothing to do with us. We were going to work together in the account books. We couldn't handle their money but we could do their books. They were going to pay tax and things like this and from our department we could handle all this for them. As far as their own money that's theirs. We don't intend to take over their whole business but you know summing up we'd give them assistance. We felt sorry for them. One part of it they thought we'd gone mad. Remember the time we were working on that garden? We sort of told them, 'You better you know try and do the best you can! And we're still going to help them in lots of ways. See when we get the backhoe machine we can start to finish that garden off for them and give them a start and what profit they make out of it that's theirs.

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to

Talk to 299

There are about thirty-six members in the KAPA. They're all working. A lot of our people will be working in a cotton farm. That's three hundred thousand dollars down there walk in walk out. That's the main project to build up a bit of money. We can still hire the truck if anyone wants to hire a truck or a backhoe. Well we were thinking of later on we'd start making bricks but it'll take another twelve months or so before we decide. We're working a group. This KAPA it's not for me, not for Alfie. It's for the whole bloody group. Otherwise you'd never get anywhere. We're only asking for what we want from the government, just farming or something like this. We want the village here so we can develop and make money to pay back the government. That's what we intend to do. As a group like this we can help. We can have homemakers to help the people keep their places clean. You can have a couple of blokes to go around and water the garden, the trees and things and keep the kids out of mischief. Just now there's no one cares about kids or anything see. Well you can see all the papers there now. We want to make it better for the whole. Look it's been tried now through the Community Welfare and the Aboriginal Affairs and they haven't changed yet. But I think if we handle it with the Aboriginal group to show them discipline and cleanliness and have plenty of principle and look after things. It takes the Aboriginal people themselves to do all this. I reckon it'll go a generation after generation. See you have to teach the young fellers discipline. Now you see young fellers coming home drunk and they go and bash their old woman and go mad. When you have two old fellers down on the reserve they couldn't handle it. You have to have a big young feller with plenty of power behind him. When those police boys patrol down at the pub well the others know this is supposed to occur. They accept it. The native people know Banggaldun and Peter are the police. Well they're more or less frightened to see a feller from their own people. They do a good job. If we had the KAPA now we could send some more big young fellers up. There's a lot of young fellers will take it up. They know it's the only way. This is going to be discussed through the police department. That's another KAPA plan. I reckon for thirteen weeks they can put them through the training. I spoke to them in the last Consultative Council meeting in Perth about this. I reckon that booklet's fair because if you have nothing written about what's going to happen well the people will be going mad because they don't know what's happening and blaming the government and

300 When the Dust Come in Between blaming the native people. White backlash has been there. Well that's an old attitude but you know the way things are now if nothing's done about this and there hasn't been any booklet well it'll be a lot of lash out. It's the grants I think, the money. See a lot of the people now they're thinking why is the government going silly? Why are they doing this? They're giving the Aboriginal people back some of the land and then giving them these grants. Well they can't see in the paper where it's established what it's going to do to the Aboriginal people or the white people. A lot of the white people aren't looking twenty years ahead. They're only thinking to the end of this year. They think this Australia isn't going to change.

Plate 16 Sandy McDonald, 1977, Kununurra

SANDY McDONALD BORN 1908, DIED 1982

CITIZENSHIP Recorded 3 July 1970 (note book), 19, 21, 25 November 1973, 27 August 1974; proofread 23 and 24 February 1980 after publication in Aboriginal History (1978, 122-39): seven sessions, four ninety-minute tapes plus original twohour notebook interview. Sandy's life story is complementary to that of his old friend Don Green. The short version that follows brings together several themes of this book.

I was born in 1908 on Inverway Station in the Northern Territory. My father was a European and he had a station called Kirkimby. This was on Farqueson Brothers country and he had permission to live there. He came in the 1880s as a station manager from Alice Springs. My mother was a full-blood Aboriginal woman, you might as well say Djaru and Nyining, sort of mixed. They spoke the same language and were almost one tribe right across. Her father was also Nyining and Djaru mixed and I suppose her mother was the same because every Aboriginal was born to speak two languages. From Hall's Creek to Wave Hill you could speak the same language, and Kirkimby Station was in that area. Every Aboriginal language had a boundary, a territory of its own like the border of the Northern Territory and Western Australia, but only a small area. Both sides understood both languages. They never married across, only at odd times when they shared women with the other side. They don't believe it now. They just marry anyhow now, even their blood relations. We found everything going well in those days. My father had no trouble with the Aboriginal people working for him. All of them in the camp followed the Aboriginal rules and customs and went on well, no fighting, no row. All through the Second World War they were good. They never stole anything. You could leave a truck down the creek, 303

304 When the Dust Come in Between

or packhorses, packs and camp rigs and things like that, and grog. They never used to drink grog until after the Second World War. Of course gradually they were getting grog from somebody, and the Certificate of Citizenship right was granted to them, even to halfcastes. They weren't recognised as an Australian citizen until they bought this ticket for two dollars. This ticket was the so-called Certificate of Citizenship, which was wrongly named. That book should have been named a beer ticket. The station I was on was fairly good. Some of the small stations that started off like it were really good. They relied on the Aborigines to do the work. A lot of those stations now today were built up by Aboriginal people. One squatter taking up a pastoral lease had no labourers except the full-bloods and he had to rely on them to muster the cattle and brand them. He'd go out with them but a lot of the time he didn't, when he had to go to Hall's Creek or Wyndham or the nearest town in the Territory to get rations. Everything was trusted to the Aborigines and now today they're condemning them and saying they're no good. They never give them a go. There were three half-caste and two black people in my family. See a boy had my mother before my father got hold of her when he was a boundary rider on Ord River Station. I had one half-brother and one half-sister, that was all. How that came about of course was the old feller had a lot of natives in his camp and through their custom they gave my mother to him. That's why in those days a lot of the whites didn't have any trouble with the full-blood Aborigines. The elders gave them wives, promised them just like in their custom. That was how I was born. My father married my mother and had a bit of a ranch, brought all his cattle onto the block of country then. There was myself and a brother named Duncan who was the youngest. I was the second youngest. That was in 1922 the old feller had to sell out. He sold the cattle to Vestey's northern agency and bought a mob of horses and went to Hall's Creek. We had 300 of them for breeding purposes and to sell down in the Fitzroy area, but the drought came and killed them all. I was about fourteen when we came to Western Australia and I have never been to school but I can read. The old man started to teach me once but he died too soon, in August 1926 at Hall's Creek when I was sixteen. I had to go and work and keep the tucker bag full and learn to read and write at the same time. The old man started me off and of course I had to back up myself. I used to do saddling, mostly for drovers, and work as a stockman. In those days we had slate and

Sandy McDonald: Citizenship 305 chalk instead of a lot of books like today. There was no school in those days but everybody used to send away for slates and we could get little books you know to write A, B, C and all those things, 'cat', and 'dog! After I'd been living around Hall's Creek with the horses I went with an old prospector across to Alice Springs three years in the desert. We had no trouble with the Aborigines out there. They showed us water and helped us in every way. Of course I learnt nothing out there, never saw a paper. In those days you couldn't get newspapers like you do today. We'd go into some of the nearest stations round that area say every three or four months till some time we rounded up and went back to Hall's Creek. This old white man I was with couldn't read or write and I had to read all the miner's rights and a lot of other things to him. He had a diary and I read all that. This other man, he went out looking for gold see and he was supposed to have found a big nugget but it was too heavy for him and he couldn't carry it. The least thing he could have done was to cut the gold up in pieces - he had three packhorses - and put it in the pack. That man tried to lead the people to believe there was gold out there. And a lot of them went back and found nothing in that area see. This is a different story from Lasseter's reef. We rode on camels around and round and round for two days, right out of the gold-bearing country into the sandy desert. And on the west side we came to the edge of a lake and couldn't go any further - Lake White - and of course we came back. We told the other prospectors we found nothing. And the longer I stayed out there I got tired of that prospector I was with. You know how a man gets that way he gets full of some of those old settlers. You start arguing the point over something. I got tired of him and so I never learnt any more after that. I had nothing to read then, not even a diary, and I forgot a lot of it. I'll ask you a question. Now why do they call a half-caste 'halfcaste'? The least thing they could have called us was a part-European. That's just to correct the people you know, to put them on the right track. You get what I mean? I asked the Welfare in 1934 about that and he said, 'D'you really want to know?! I said, 'I want to know from my personal reason! 'Oh', he said, 'I'll tell you. One-quarter on the mother's side, one-quarter on the father's side! 'That mean I have one-quarter Aboriginal blood?' And he said, 'That's right! You know who they used to call a quarter-caste? When a white man married a half-caste woman and they had kids, they used to call the kids quarter-caste. That's why we should have been part-European. Almost they had no time for the

306 When the Dust Come in Between full-blood. I never went through the Aboriginal Law. You see, they wouldn't interfere with part-European kids. In those days too the white men on the stations didn't treat part-Europeans well although they treated me a little differently from full-bloods. When you had a row with them they ran for the rifle. I nearly was shot one time by the man I was working for but of course when he picked up his rifle I picked up mine. Mostly part-European people were carrying guns, not the full-blood Aborigines. I said to him, 'What are you going to do with that? You better put it down', and when he saw me with one he put his away. I said, 'Never you do that'. See I always had something in my swag like that. And from that time I never worked on a station without a pistol in my shirt. I learnt that lesson. A few of us carried pistols. I had a gun all my life and a pistol too. I was treated like a white man except for that one particular day when the bloke picked up a gun wanting to shoot me, was the one time in my life. I was seventeen then, just after my father died. Any other time I was always treated as a white man. The Colt '32 and the '32 and '44 rifle used to be commonly used here. They pioneered Australia with that. They were lever action rifles with fourteen shots and seven, fourteen for the full magazine, full length of the barrel, and the half magazine like they have today, seven you see. In those days we used to get a nine-inch Colt '32 revolver which would take a '32 rifle cartridge for both rifle and revolver. We had a single action and a double action. With the single action you cocked the hammer and bang. The double action you just pulled like and bang, bang, bang, bang. I was about twenty or twenty-one when I came back to Hall's Creek. I didn't want to go back in the desert after three years there and naturally I went to Hall's Creek and got a job. I went out again working on the stations and got a job there with an old teamster on a donkey team. I used to take any kind of contracting job and liked the work. I didn't like stock work because it was a risky job for little money, two pound and threepence per week. Some stations would pay a little more but not much. O n Rosewood Station in the Northern Territory you received two pounds eight pence. There was one European on the donkey team and we had about four full-blooded Aborigines. I was put on as a cook. My friend, old Don, did the same kind of job with horses. After I finished there I got a job at Mount Amhurst Station about sixty miles from Hall's Creek. I went down there to break in some young colts and when I'd finished they kept me on till Christmas time.

Sandy McDonald: Citizenship 307 So I came back. And the second year they wanted me there and I returned and worked for them a second year, and left once more somewhere around October or November and came back to Hall's Creek. I looked for gold but couldn't find any - the gold rushes were earlier in 1884-86 - and spent all my money on tucker. So I had to camp there, couldn't go anywhere. A n old bloke who used to be working round there for the local road board years ago took a block of land out from Hall's Creek. He said to me, 'You come with me, I'll give you a job'. So I went with him and helped him brand up what he could get around his country. Then he said, 'I'll sell you bullock, and you start butchering in Hall's Creek'. 'Right', I said, and I bought all the bullocks he had. This was in 1931. And I went on butchering and was doing all right. Meat that time was sixpence a pound, not a lot even in those times. I went on killing and we got on together well until the year after in 1932 when I was still butchering. I left Hall's Creek in 1933 and I came down this way then with a drover to Rosewood Station, opposite Argyle Station up here where the dam is now, and got a job there in the stock camp for four years. And I was talking to one of the boys there. They used to come over and talk to me around a mob of bullocks. There was a young man who came from Western Australia, a cook. I knew him and he knew me and my father who reared him up. He knew the boys as well. And the head stockman said to another boy, 'I'll sack Sandy McDonald. I don't want him any more.' 'Why?' asked the boy. 'He's talking to that boy over there.' The boy said, 'You sack him, you sack me too. See that's the thing you can't do. If you sack Sandy you sack me, and you'll probably lose them boys. You'll have nobody with your cattle. Never you do that. He's talking to his relations. That boy is a relation. I noticed that. He only talked to one boy. Don't you ever come at that.' Of course when he went away with the bullocks and I came in to have my cup of tea the cook told me this, 'If he sack you Sandy, you and me and the boys, we'll walk. I'll go with you, and so'll the boys too.' That was fixed and we never heard any more. Then I left and in 1940 I got a job for a drover and went as far as Newcastle Waters in the Northern Territory near the highway, a few miles from a town called Elliot. I came back from there to Wave Hill and me and another feller started back to Hall's Creek where we did a bit of work for the local road board. But mostly I was working for contractors. This was the World War in 1942. On 19 February 1942 the Japanese dropped a bomb in Darwin.

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I did a bit of saddling in one particular station out from Hall's Creek and I was a caretaker as well when the manager Jack Skeen was away droving. He happened to be part-European too, the father of the Skeens who live here. He died in Derby from heart trouble so I got a job for fourteen months on Lissadell Station, pumping. The windmill man there had to go because he couldn't get on with the manager so the manager came and fixed me up to take the windmill job on. All through that there was a bit of a drought and I had to pump all the time, sometimes stayed out there by myself and fixing up the engine, things like that. In 1942-43 I was a butcher again doing it for Skeen while he was out droving for two years. In those days there was a Native Protector. They've changed it now to Welfare. It was similar to welfare. In those days they called them Native Protector but they should have called them native enemy, not protector. They were local men. One had the job, then he died or retired and another local man took over, and he was worse. He had no time for those full-blood Aborigines and he had a row with them a couple of times. You know if you had a smart sort of full-blood Aboriginal, a stockman or something like that, he'd take him off you. He'd want him on the station. He didn't want you to have any good stock boys. I had one boy from the Territory and when we went to Hall's Creek he tried to claim him. We were out working for a contractor and he told him, 'I want that boy'. 'He's not mine', said the contractor, 'I got nothing to do with the boy. See Sandy. He come here with Sandy.' 'Oh well', he said, 'What I say is law. He got to stay here.' So we finished building the yard. My boss the contractor never told me and when I came past Moola Bulla he was ahead of me, going back to his station Rockhole out from Hall's Creek. Well he bought Koondji later, another station. 'Oh', he said, 'did you call in and get your pay?! I said, 'No! He said, 'I left it in Moola Bulla! I said, 'You had no right to leave it there sitting there! 'Why I left it there', he said, 'he wanted to get that boy you got! It was funny he didn't see me and ask me about the boy. So I called the boy up and said, 'I'm going back to Moola Bulla this morning! 'Righto', he said. I added, 'Alf George wants you back at Moola Bulla. He wants you back there. If you don't go he's going to to tie you up and put you on a chain and give you a bashing. Now what you going to do?' He said, 'I'm not going back there. I don't want to go there.' 'Righto, that's enough.' I said to the contractor, 'You hear that, hear what the boy said? When you get out there you tell Alf George to come in and see me

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in Hall's Creek, and tell him that this boy do not want to go there. And what's more, tell him that he cannot force this boy against his will.' 'Oh', he said, 'righto! Of course when I went to town and camped down I saw the constable in charge at Hall's Creek. 'Righto Sandy', he said, 'Tell me your trouble! 'Oh', I said, 'Alf George wanted this boy and this boy doesn't want to go back there, and he's never asked me and he's never asked the boy. He want the boy to go there and he told Ernie Bridge the contractor that he had every right he said to take any boy off anybody and give them a flogging.' 'Yes', the policeman said, 'I know all about that, giving boys a flogging. They stick to me and now under my care, and they not going back to Moola Bulla. You camp down there for a few days. When he come there just send the boy up to me. I'll fix him.' 'Righto', I said. He said, 'Don't you let him put it over you Sandy. You come to me. I'm after that feller.' Anyway I pulled up at the old post office straight opposite the two double doors which were open and there he was leaning over the counter for his mail. I went in for mail too. At that time I happened to be working for another contractor, a water borer building a tank, and he'd asked me to get his mail too. The feller rushed out of the post office and said, 'You're the bastard that's spoiling all the Aborigines. You had no right to take the boy back like that.' And I said, 'Wait a bloody minute. You the bastard that's spoiling on the Aborigines, and putting them on the chain and flogging them, bashing them. And that's why there's six Aborigines here under police care, in charge of the police until the Prime Minister for the north, Cobbly coming up. There's six boys in the camp now and you trying to force this boy against his will.' 'I'll fix you too', he said. 'And that'll be the day you fix me', I said. 'You know what'll happen to you', I said, 'Long enough for me to put a cartridge in the breech of this rifle here. And that's how long you going to last. You flog me and see how far you'll go.' 'No, no', he said, 'We don't want to have any row! 'Well shut up and say nothing about it', I said. The postmaster put his head through the window. 'What did he say to you Sandy?' he asked. 'Oh he trying to stand over me. You heard what he said to me. He called me a bastard and things like that. Wanted to flog me.' 'Mm', he said, 'That's bad. I heard him, heard what he said. He had no right to say that to you. I'm glad you stood on your dignity.' That wasn't the second time I had a row with him, it was the third. After showing him my '32 rifle he went away and never said any more.

310 When the Dust Come in Between The next time I saw him I'd stopped for a smoko with a new boy about four years old. That was Allen, the big feller here who was only a little boy then, a poddy with no mother like they call a poddy calf. I reared him on to milk after my first wife died in 1941. Allen wanted a feed so I pulled up and boiled a billy to have a cup of tea while he ate his breakfast. It was about nine o'clock and that feller pulled up and said, 'How are you? You broken down?' 'No', I said. 'Any help?' he said, 'You want any help? I'll give you all the help you want.' 'No thanks Mr George, I'm quite all right', I said, 'I'm not broken down.' 'Oh', he said, 'Well don't be frightened to pull me up any time I come in if you're broken down.' 'Righto', I said, 'Thanks for your offer'. And the second time I went out near the same place, but half a mile apart, and I pulled up again. The third time when he came in and saw me doing the same thing he asked, 'You always pull up and make a fire like that?'. 'Yeah, when the kid want a feed. When I eat in the morning I give him what he want, and I have my cup of tea too.' 'Mm?', he said, 'That boy here, where's the mother?'. I said, 'Mother died a long time'. I suppose he wanted to know where the mother was so I told him the truth. I don't think he was planning to do anything. We were on better terms then. I met my wife at Hall's Creek. I think she was a part-Aboriginal but not by a European, by a half-Maori I think. We had only one child, that big son of mine. My wife Molly remembers those bushranging days. She was a girl big enough to remember, somewhere around 1910. She could have been born around 1900 or 1901-02. That feller Mr George didn't have the grudge against me all the time, only sometimes when he got wild and on the spur of the moment. If you didn't pull him up well he'd go a bit further with it. He was the only man who said that to me because he was a Protector and he was trying to bounce me around you see. But I said, 'Don't try to stand over me Mr George. I'm not like those Aborigines you've got over there. I always have something in my swag. I wasn't dragged up, I was brought up.' After that he was pretty good, couldn't do enough for me. Dragged up meant dragged out of the native camp. They'd take a kid from the native camp and put him up there in the stock camp almost when he was about fifteen or sixteen. And Moola Bulla. In those days on the station they didn't give them any education. But I was brought up just like white children. YOUknow I wasn't dragged out of the native camp. You might as well say I had a mother and a father and they brought me up see. Otherwise a lot of the Europeans didn't

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claim their kids. Others tried to claim them and send them to school and the Western Australian government used to object, at Moola Bulla. They wouldn't let the fathers send their kids to Perth or anywhere else, only to Moola Bulla Station. The reason for that was they didn't want them educated. After the Second World War we had no butcher in Wyndham and everybody there used to go out to Goose Hill and get a killer, all the town people. All the well-to-do including the police. And Hall's Creek used to sell their meat without an inspector. It's only lately they have an inspector here now My trade as a stockman included station hand, general station hand, yard building and anything like that, a windmill man looking after windmills, keeping them in order. Engines, diesel, petrol or kerosene, they were all the same, no different, worked on the same principle. As well as doing stock work I was a truck driver for the Main Roads Department from '43 to '45. When I was driving a truck for the Main Roads Department we were camped about twelve miles from Sturt Creek and I came back with the calves on the back of the truck and we put them on the table and I helped the butcher cut them up. I'd go out and get a killer at the station. I helped the cook cut it up, salt it and put it in the freezer. And one of the blokes who had not been long in the Kimberleys, had come up from Perth with a truck, asked me, 'Where's you go today Sandy?'. I said, 'I went to Mistake Creek'. 'What's Mistake Creek, what is it?' 'A station', I said. 'How's it come to get the name Mistake Creek?' I said, 'I couldn't tell you! That went o n for a few years and I found out after. How I found out was I came back to my camp and started thinking about that for a couple of years after. There were two Mistake Creeks, one in the Territory and one in Western Australia not far from Turkey Creek. There were two shootings you see, both white men shooting blackfellers. It happened to be a police party this time at the one near Turkey Creek somewhere around 1890 just when the telegraph line was completed over in the Northern Territory. Some white man didn't like this shooting and he reported it down south through the telegraph, sent a wire down. There were white policemen and police boys - they generally had two or three - and sixty natives were shot on the chain that time. They were on chains but were not taken into Wyndham jail. You see they were making money out of the Aboriginal people getting two shillings and sixpence a head at that time to feed the prisoners. And when they got a telegram to let the Aboriginals go and get the right

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man who killed a bullock - you see every Aboriginal couldn't be all cattle killers - instead of letting them go that's what happened. They took them off to this particular creek and I think that's how it got its name Mistake Creek, through that. Well of course when they received a telegram to let the Aborigines go they'd made a mistake arresting them and putting them on a chain, and instead of letting them go they shot them and burnt them. You won't see that in the newspaper, not like the story of the Wyndham shootings. In 1950 I finished up there and went into Wyndham. Next I got a job out here at Argyle repairing the yard and then I went over to Newry Station in the Northern Territory. In those days no priest was up here. They all came after the Second World War. They weren't here much in 1950 but they poured in in 1960. There were all station people, no missions and only one welfare station at Moola Bulla thirteen miles out of Hall's Creek. It used to be pretty bad Moola Bulla in those days, the time I had a row with the superintendent. It was somewhere around 1956 when they sold the place and let the Aboriginals go. It's owned by a company now. I came back in 1952 and got a job in Wyndham, first with the Main Roads then I switched to the Public Works Department. I worked with them from 1952 to 1956 and in that last year I got a job with the Public Works Department laying water pipes for the Wyndham water supply in from the pumping station. I was put on as a leading hand and a fitter and turner but I didn't stay there for too long. I left in 1957 because I wasn't given a fair go. One reason I pulled out was I wasn't getting enough money. I had to put the sockets in the asbestos pipes and test them myself and I was doing two other men's work. The engineer came up from Derby and I showed him a lot of faults in them and he gave me the job to test them. After leaving them I went to Hall's Creek and worked for the Main Roads from '58 to '59 and in mid-1959 I went to Alice Springs and worked there. I had a job there with a contractor putting down kerbs and guttering in the streets, forming the road up and things like that, both me and my boy. We worked there and in 1961 we came back here to Kununurra and have been living here ever since. (I've never lived in the bush, only out on the stations.) They'd just started building the diversion dam in that year, had never even poured the cement. I was there when they poured the first cement in and I think they finished it in 1963.1 came up to Kununurra on the strength of that job working on the dam but I didn't get much work on it. I was working for a contractor in that, carpentering. We camped down at Lily Creek then shifted to a camp near the reserve in 1967.

Sandy McDonald: Citizenship 313 While I was in hospital in Darwin ordinary sick, the welfare put my wife and two grandchildren on the reserve and gave them a house there. Of course my wife flew up to see me and I said, 'Well I'll be out. You stay in the house until I come there.' So when I came back we packed up the same day - I had a van - and we shifted to a camp away from the reserve. I left the reserve because they had no right to send my wife there. (Not too many natives were there then.) Before I went to hospital the welfare came out to see whether I wanted a house and when I told them I needed one I distinctly said I'd not live on the reserve under any consideration because the name reserve itself is discrimination. 'You're a fool', I was told but I said, 'I'm not a fool. I'm a fool to stay there. I don't want you to push me around and stand over me.' It was a principle. 'I never was brought up in the native camp', I said, 'and you want to push me back in the native camp'. I put in for a house later. We lived together with my son's daughter and son, two grandchildren Joe and Shirley. Don Green and I were good mates all along since 1937. We sort of worked in different places but we all stuck together in the Wet, and since we came here we camped next to each other for a long time. But if Don got the station he hoped to organise I wouldn't have been going up there with him. Before I got my pension I worked all the time here and there. During the wet season we'd camp out like we do now when everybody knocked off station work in September. In those days they didn't require any more labourers in September, not like today. Now I'm retired on an invalid pension. One time out in the back country you only wanted to say something out of place and look out they'd kill that dark man. That was the local law in these little towns in the outback. That feeling is still hanging on here. There's a lot of colour bar still, a lot of class discrimination. It's different in a big town like Darwin, different altogether. In the early days in the Territory they treated the Aborigines the same as here but after the Second World War they went up pretty quickly and sort of changed the law then. That didn't happen here after the war, only lately. I know way back in the 'fifties there were a couple of white men in Wyndham who didn't like their kids to go to the State school with the Aboriginal people. Before that the Aboriginal people or part-Europeans weren't allowed to go to the school in Wyndham. Did you know that? With the workers the Aboriginal people are all together with some of the foremen but not with the local government body regarding native rights. Workers and natives get on well but local government

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people have kept the native people down all the time, stations and missions. You can't get away from that. To them the natives are third class citizens. What all the full-blood Aborigines and part-Europeans don't like is having two laws on human beings, one for the poor and one for the rich. In the past just going back a few years the poor man didn't get justice. If a rich man gave a drink to an Aboriginal he was let off with a warning and some patrolmen did nothing about it. That was in the past. They had a good policeman in 1974. I have no religion but I believe the native custom and I follow that. I won't accept Christianity. Christianity is the ruination of the Aboriginal people. The church and school have done nothing for the natives. The welfare were on their back all the time and did nothing for the natives. They wanted to be master all the time. They didn't go and ask the native what he wanted but told him what he wanted. That was in the past but it's still not good. The Aborigines couldn't vote till they got their human rights in 1971 and that's the point. That was their policy. I've been here since 1961 and there's been a lot of discrimination in the pub by the publican, the owner. That caused trouble here. You go to Wyndham now, there's no discrimination in those pubs. They can drink and do what they like. If they're too drunk the police have to tell them to go home. Well here they used to ring up and get the police and of course when they start slinging dirt that's where the discrimination comes in. Naturally when the publican gets knocked over that's his own fault. He was knocked over once and I believe the bloke who knocked him got eighteen months. That was bad you see. That native boy came here from Darwin. He was a Wyndham boy but he'd been away in Sydney for a long time. He came down here for help but we wouldn't give it to him. He said to me, 'You come up to the pub?! 'What for?' I said. 'To stand by. We got to get into the publican.' He was sticking up for another man, was going to go there and cause trouble over one person. 'Not on your life', I said, 'I'm not going up there'. He then said to my boy Allen, 'What about you? Are you coming up here?' 'Look', Allen said, 'I went to school with some of these white people up here in Wyndham. I lived here in Kununurra and I'm well known here. I don't want to cause no trouble in the pub. So leave me out of it.' And I said to this Aboriginal, 'You see, you'll find yourself in jail tomorrow. You cannot do that.' That young feller from Sydney was trying to have the Black Power movement here. It started a month or two before that conversation

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I think. They knocked the publican down. That fellow was trying to cause trouble in Darwin but the Aboriginal people there wouldn't take any notice of him, they just ignored him. He was in Darwin a long time. He used to walk up and down there trying to cross up and he was trying to cause it here. I wouldn't know what happened to him. He was no good see with that in his head. There was a story that a big mob were going to come from Wyndham but nobody came. When they asked him he said there was a big mob at Fork Creek. They wouldn't come out here and do anything like that. A lot of them were friends and relatives of people here. I told him, 'You don't know what you're talking about. You gotta go home and go back to Wyndham. Otherwise you'll find yourself inside.' That rumour made everybody frightened but I stayed here. I never went bush like a lot of the others. Well if they were going to kill people they would have followed us out there and killed us just the same. I believe the white people every one had the shits properly. They were buying rifles and taking off to the police station to get them registered in Wyndham and here. A bloke told me that everyone got a lot of guns. I know there was one couple who took a rifle up there. Any other time you go to buy a rifle here the police won't give you a licence but this particular day they gave them rifles and a licence to carry firearms. A man wants to find out how many firearms were registered through that Black Power day in this area. I'm sure that if the sergeant had been there he wouldn't have issued any licences. Those kinds of things are wrong. They're looking for trouble. Since the Second World War everything was going well and smooth and they started paying the Aborigines wages. Now we have more welfare than Aborigines. Before the World War all the natives here were good but not now. Most of the young people today you see here were all bred up after the Second World War. It's become worse and worse. They won't do the work. You see they go over there for a feed and get everything out of the pensioners. In the old citizen right days when they used to sell this beer ticket to Aboriginal people they used to get the man with the beer ticket to buy the grog on the quiet and take it down to the creek where nobody could see and they'd all get together. The publican couldn't serve any Aboriginal people without a Certificate of Citizenship. To put you in the black book you had to pay two dollars. Around the pub the native people weren't popular without a beer ticket, the rights book. It was a disgrace for an Australian citizen to carry that. The citizenship right

316 When the Dust Come in Between was discrimination. In the Northern Territory it was different. Everybody was the same, all classed as Australian citizens. They could walk into any pub and were not asked for a beer ticket. It's slacking off and getting a little better but a lot of stealing went on here lately. Unlawfully using somebody else's vehicle and wrecking them and things like that. The younger boys like fifteen and sixteen, seventeen and eighteen, they're the ringleaders. They should stop the younger people from doing it yet they join them you see. There are a lot of young fellers here like that. And rape, a few people went up for rape. Aboriginal people didn't do that before, not until they started drinking. And they're causing trouble, cracks in the head and broken legs and being bashed around. They had a better Law that tribal Law, better than the white man. They controlled this Law, according to the anthropologists, for 40,000 years you see without a police force and no need for a lockup, chains and anchor. In the early days they sent convicts from England out here in leg irons. Well that wasn't fair. Their law was bad. Aboriginal Law was good. They ran their bit of country out, had a little block, a boundary here and there. There was no murder, no rape. Everyone had a tribal wife, their legal wife. You know that in the old native custom every Aboriginal hunted for himself, camped for himself and lived by himself. They had little wurlies not bumped up in a heap like they do up there. There was none of that in the old native custom days. You'd see one with a little mia-mia over there and another one over there, and another one over there, not all in a group. They had plenty of space in between them. It was the welfare idea to build one house and put all the natives in there. They started that by building a big bungalow and putting everybody in. You could have about twenty-four people living in one house. A lot of the natives didn't like to go in there but they were forced to and they accepted it. They were told to get in and they went because they were frightened of the bigfeller boss. Living in groups started with the stations. The Aboriginals camped in the bush had to hunt for their tucker every day. They did it themselves. They'd go out and get a kangaroo and when they brought it back they shared it out. You never saw a man starving, that was one thing. But the way the government works it now with the group of Aboriginals starting a garden I don't think it will ever happen, not here. If you want to start a property you start it by yourself. You don't want a group to go in with you. It was the same with me. I said to a bloke from Canberra, 'You gonna have

Sandy McDonaid: Citizenship 317

trouble with the group of Aborigines here! If it was individual it would work better. A man would grow a garden and he'd know when he sold the produce he'd get money. The way it was he was growing a garden for somebody else and not getting paid. The Aborigine used to camp on his own and go out and hunt on his own. When they brought a kangaroo or emu or anything to the camp they always shared the food among one another because they couldn't eat it all themselves before it went rotten. But even the idea of sharing doesn't work properly in a group like this. They're just too busy I think. And another thing with these young people now, they have to be forced in the Aboriginal custom. In their Law they had power over the young people all the time. They forced them. That was the only way you could hold the Aboriginal people working, put them from childhood right up. They couldn't do what they liked. As soon as the missionaries came in that was the downfall of the bloody Aborigines. The missionaries didn't give them a good education. There might have been one in a bloody hundred if he was intelligent and had ability and a cultivated mind. The old tribal Law shouldn't be broken. If you were a manager o n a place well you had to look after it. You couldn't neglect it. Durack had good men for years. There were only a few boys at Rosewood with Kilfoyle and no younger boys are living now. They're all old, sort of dead. When I worked on Newry a bloke by the name of Hector Fuller was managing the station but he never left the verandah. He used to send the boys to go out and muster and brand up the calves and get the bullocks. He'd say to one boy, 'You go out and get 500 bullocks. Get more if you can.' Well they went out and brought them in. Those boys had that experience you see. Some of them here are good. Tiger was one. He worked for Fuller a long time and used to be a smart man that feller. Bulla was a good man. He worked on Argyle a lot and was brought up under good men. He might go ahead. But some of the others have no idea. They can't control the reserve. They don't understand their own Law and its rights and wrongs and the things they do now they wouldn't do if they stuck to their own Law. And they should educate the Aboriginal people in their language as well as English, both. Well a lot of the Aboriginal people here can't speak the Aboriginal languages. That's wrong. A lot of white men can speak the Aboriginal languages and they'll tell you it's good. Used to understand, it's really good, see. I'm classed as a white man and those years ago I didn't have my citizenship rights. I stood on my dignity and said I would not sign

318 When the Dust Come in Between

a declaration to put myself under the Act. I didn't need it. The Western Australian government through the welfare department used to class the educated part-European ignorant and told him he had to take out a Certificate of Citizenship. I went into Wyndham one time when I came in from Newry Station with the manager, and the sergeant told me there, 'You come up to the police station. I gotta see you.' Right I went up there. He said to me, 'You working out at Newry Station I believe?'. I said, 'Yeah'. 'What are you doing out there?' 'Oh, bit of handyman job, looking after bores and windmills and looking after the cars, the engines and pumps. And later took on a windmill job, all the time I was there.' That was way back during the Second World War, in 1945. And he handed me two forms and said, 'Here's one for you and one for your mate'. I said, 'What this for?', and he said, 'So to get yourself exempt from the Aboriginal Act. So you'll be citizen of the country.' I looked at the form and the writing on it said I am 'a native within the meaning ...! I said, 'I'm not signing this! And I replied to him, 'Are you an Australian citizen?! He said, 'Yeah! I said, 'So am I. I'm an Australian citizen. I'm not a native within the meaning. I will not sign that.' See. And the sergeant said, 'Righto, we'll leave it at that. Everything OK, leave it at that.'

POSTSCRIPT My associations with the Aboriginal people of Kununurra did not end in 1982 although they were greatly curtailed due to changes in my own life history. In 1983 I was able to make two visits, one during May, the other in August. Circumstances favoured the latter month in subsequent years when the town was revisited briefly in 1984, 1985 and again in late August 1988. The most recent visit to the time of writing took place in October 1990. These field trips were little more than several days at a time though quite adequate to catch up with many persons and events. I made all together thirty-one return contacts to the district from 1976 to 1990, not counting the bulk of fieldwork in the earlier years between 1970 and 1974. Life continues among the families I knew but with the considerable difference that by the beginning of this last decade of the century most of the old persons I worked with have now passed away. Several of the old women are still living, and a handful of middle aged men such as Jeff Djanama. Many of those who were in their twenties or younger when I first began fieldwork have now taken active roles in the social and political life of their communities. These include Ben Ward, Colin James, Michael Dinkum and Martha Laurie from among the contributors to this book. And there are other community leaders whose stories may be recorded by generations of scholars younger than myself. O n that score, oral history in the east Kimberley and adjoining regions continues to be well represented. Further afield there is the publishing program of Magabala Books based in Broome with an exclusive interest in 'Aboriginal literature' including life stories. Aboriginal reminiscences have been collected at Turkey Creek (Ross and Bray 1987) and similar tales of massacres and cattle station life are echoed in Deborah Bird Rose's book on the history of Victoria River Downs where oral sources were also prominent. In Kununurra a language maintenance project is currently under way, the Waringari Language Centre (see Kofod 1989). One of the results of that work it is hoped will be the recording of life tales from several of the older women in

320 When the Dust Come in Between

their traditional languages, Miriwung and Gadjerung, with English translations (personal communication Frances Kofod). These more recent initiatives support what I have contended for a long time. Although there are difficulties in recording oral reminiscences in the southern regions of Australia, in many of the northern communities where traditional cultures are stronger there is still a remarkably rich field. My own work has merely scratched the surface. Other 'cultural maintenance' projects include that of Waringarri Aboriginal Arts which encourages the work of indigenous artists. Their Kununurra office is a clearing house for Aboriginal art work from other regions such as Turkey Creek, Port Keats and Kalumburu, and exhibitions have been held in Perth and Sydney. The Kununurra Waringarri Aboriginal Corporation which was formed in the late 1970s remains active. And the Mirima Council appears to stand behind an Aboriginal consultancy representing 'Miriuwung and Gajerrong Families'. These three bodies are headed by one or more Europeans in each case - 'white advisers' for want of a better name. The last mentioned consultancy was the brainchild of a European person who has lived with the Aboriginal people since the mid-seventies. The impact of these persons on the social history of the Aboriginal groups whose causes they espouse must await the judgement of history. Their presence perhaps meets the sentiment I found among many Aboriginals in the 1970s, including contributors to this volume, that it seemed necessary to them for Europeans to remain involved in their affairs and that this should be a two-way or side-by-sidepartnership. I hope those Europeans prove to be equal to that trust. AboriginalEuropean affairs at the local political level as well as the national level are a minefield. For one thing, attitudes change with the changing times, and here I shall end with a short methodological note. When I revisited Kununurra for two days in August 1988 I was surprised to learn about what seemed to be a widespread shift in community attitudes towards the viewing of pictures of the dead. Five relatives and friends of the deceased were very firm in their request that I include photographs of persons such as Waddi, Joe, Grant, Mandi and Johnny Walker in future publications. They represented three of the main age groupings: late twenties-early thirties, middle age and the elderly. Some persons said that ten years ago traditional restrictions on viewing photographs of the deceased were observed but now they have adopted European customs and indeed like to keep private copies by which to remember the old people. One (Martha Laurie) said that very close kin such as

Postscript 321

spouses should still be consulted. Another (Ben Ward) wanted to build up an album of photographs. This point of view was not unique to 1988. It was expressed similarly, perhaps even more vigorously, in 1990 and consequently I am meeting those informal requests where possible by including as many portraits as were on hand (unfortunately too few). The news came in time for the final production of the book Bush Time, Station Time (1991a) which tells the life histories of Waddi Boyoi and Johnny Walker, and that publication consequently includes two photographic studies of Johnny and one each of Waddi and his brother Joe Nurungin. Similarly, I have attempted to include a photograph to match each chapter in the present volume. Several persons who gave their life histories said they hoped their stories would survive to be read by younger generations of family members. These stories and the photographs that I was able to include are offered to those generations: 'for remember'.

CHRONOLOGY OF PERSONS Official records of birth dates were frequently guesses and often used the convention of pegging a birth at the start of a financial year. In several instances the birth dates given by contributors differed by a few years from those contained in the official records.

Ernie Chapman said he was born in this year. Johnny Walker and Jack Sullivan were born (Department for Community Welfare, Kununurra, formerly the Native Welfare Department). Jack Sullivan said he was born in this year. Mandi Munniim was born (Department for Community Welfare records). Grant Ngabidj was born. Bulla Bilinggiin was born in this year according to the records but his younger half-brother Jack Sullivan believed him to have been born several years earlier, that is around 1895-96. My guess is that Bulla was possibly born around 1899. Sandy McDonald was born in this year (personal communication). Edgar Birch was born on 29 May (substantiated by official records). In this year Johnny Walker and his friend Albert were brought from Darwin to Argyle Downs Station by Ambrose Durack, Johnny about twelve years old. Don Green was born around this time judging by his own account, but community welfare records give his year of birth as 1910, and 1920 appears in a family In Memoriam published in The Kimberley Echo (1991, 21). Bill Laurie might have been born in this year too. Peter Ngunung was born on 1 July according to welfare records. 323

324 When the Dust Come in Between July Oakes might have been born in this year but official records give his date of birth as 1 July 1923. Stephen Edwards says he was born in this year. Stan Brumby was born in this year according to welfare records. Alfie Gerrard was born this year (~ersonalcommunication) but welfare records give his year of birth as 1931. Michael Dinkum was born on 28 October (personal communication). John Toby was born on 1 July according to the records. Colin James was born on 1 July according to the records. Martha Laurie (nee Nixon) was born in this year on 23 August according to welfare records. Ben Ward was born (personal communication). Grant Ngabidj died in July. Death of Edgar Birch on 1 January. Mandi died in June. Biddy Walker died. Johnny Walker died in June. Violet, Waddi's wife, died in November. Ernie Chapman died early in this year. Sandy McDonald died in March of this year. July Oakes passed away in this year. Don Makeri, Daisy Djanduin's son, died in July. Nida, Banggaldun's wife, died in March. Keith Bumbi died in April. Waddi Boyoi died late 1984. Big Jerry, brother to the four sisters Daisy, Nida, Peggy and Marie, died in this year. Joe Nurungin died in September. Banggaldun passed away in December. Winnie Chapman and July Oakes both died in this year. Bulla Bilinggiin died in October. Amy Laurie passed away in this year. Peter Ngunung died in September of this year. Don Green passed away. Jack Sullivan died in February. Daisy Djanduin passed away in January.

GLOSSARY Morris (1972) and Wilkes (1978) were useful for cross-referencing and ferreting out many colloquial English expressions. Sandefur and Sandefur (1979b) was a helpful reference for Kriol. Colloquialisms in Australian English and creolised words and expressions are printed in lower case, for example auction, bin. Aboriginal languages mentioned in the text are printed in Roman script with the first letter capitalised, for example Miriwung, Djamindjung. Aboriginal words are printed in lower case and italicised, for example maundu, and place names and the names of songs and dances are italicised with the first letter capitalised, for example Bugunin, Balga. The language to which a word belongs is indicated in square brackets where I have been able to identify it, for example kobagal [M] where M means Miriwung. Names in the subsection system or corroborees are common to several language groups. M = Miriwung G = Gadjerung Gu = Guluwaring Gi = Gidja Y = Yilngali

Dj = Djamindjung Ng = Ngarinman K = Kaukadunga Mu = Murinbada Gur = Gurindji

As the writing program evolved I altered the orthography for some words as more accurate versions came to my attention. Hence 'bin' is substituted for the somewhat idiosyncratic usage 'biin', and the spelling of Miriwong and Gadjerong is now Miriwung and Gadjerung. Some of the changes followed the ways I heard an individual speaker pronounce the words. In other instances Kofod's spelling (Kofod 1978) recorded with Mandi and other members of his close family was adopted. Kofod herself has most recently been revising her orthography (Kofod 1989) but aside from taking the name Ruby Thoorrbiling (p 19) as an alternative to my original rendering of Bulbarring I have not adopted her phonemic policy.

Aborigine, Aboriginal: person indigenous to Australia. alligator: estuarine crocodile (Crocodilusporosus), the term sometimes used interchangeably with the word crocodile.

326 When the Dust Come in Between

apologise: to resolve conflict. Aranda: a major Aboriginal language group of the Alice Springs region.

auction: enforced sexual intercourse of a woman with several men as punishment for the former's transgression of the Law. Sometimes a term of payment for sexual favours. Buglug: a man credited with the powers of a clever madworker of magic. Possibly the stockman Boxer who worked for the early Durack brothers and came with them to the east Kimberley from northern Queensland in the late 1800s. Baimba: alternatives Baimbarr, Bemba. A northern Wunambal language group (Tindale 1974, 260). Balga: a style of dance (corroboree). barra: subincision. Said to be a non-indigenous, ie European, expression. battler, battling: struggling, having a hard life. beef: general term for meat of any kind. beer ticket: deservedly opprobrious term for the Certificate of Citizenship issued to some Aboriginal persons before the introduction of full citizenship in 1971. behind mob: the next generation. big men: notable elders especially leaders in ceremony. Big Sunday: sacred-secret ceremonies. billabong: waterhole, pool. bin: were. bin get up: advanced or improved in quality of life. bindji: stomach, belly (see Morris 1972, 30). Binmingga: alternative Binbinga. A language group in the McArthur River Station area Northern Territory (Tindale 1974, 222). blackfeller: Aboriginal person of full descent. Used frequently in self-reference, this term in the east Kimberley is not offensive to Aborigines there. blew them out: shot them. bludge: to avoid work, beg. blue, have a: to fight or make a mistake. bluff: to confront, intimidate, fight someone. bob: shilling in earlier Australian currency. bogey, bogey-bogey: to wash, bathe. boss, boss-boss: leader, master (see also big men). bottle spear: spear with head fashioned from bottle glass (see also stone spear, shovel spear).

Glossary 327

bottom camp: northerdwestern camp. bough shed: flat roofed timber and bark shelter. The same basic design was used for burial platforms or for the storage of sacred objects.

boy: Aboriginal man. In wide use in the east Kimberley for selfreference and therefore not offensive to Aboriginal persons there. The term is probably a borrowing from other colonial countries such as in the southern United States and shares a history similar to that of words such as half-caste and black. Elsewhere the term can well be pejorative. brains: thoughts, ideas. brumby: wild horse. buck: dollar. buck up: to become aggressive, angered. buggered: spoiled, ruined. Bugunin: Peter Ngunung's country near Legune Station. Bulgarri. Oombulgurri: language group of the Forrest River area (Tindale 1974, 243). The spelling Oombulgmri is adopted from Green (1988). bulya: a ball game perhaps like basketball. bushman: 'wild' non-station Aborigine. bushranger: outlaw, bandit or wanderer. bush tobacco: an indigenous plant which can be rolled and smoked or chewed like tobacco. Business: sacred ceremony (see also Big Sunday). butcher: term for the man who performs the circumcision operation. calico: strong material for tent flies, etc. camp: to sleep, place to sleep, or to make love depending on context. carry: maintain, as in the expression 'carry the Law! cheeky: dangerous, argumentative, insubordinate. chip: to reprimand, criticise. city slicker: person brought up in the city. clean skins: unbranded cattle. clever: a person skilled in magic and sorcery. coaching: chasing wild cattle to join a calm mob of cattle. cock rag: loin cloth. cocky: cattle station owner or manager. coloured: mixed Aboriginal-European descent (see also half-caste). come up, coming up: advancing, improving lifestyle (also bin get UP).

communist: in this context a reference to the practice of food sharing. con: to persuade.

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coolamon: carrying vessel made from wood/bark. corroboree: traditional song and dance of which there are several types. Also a euphemism for making love.

country: the traditional territory of a group or individual, the place where one was raised. It has special religious and social significance.

countryman: person(s) with whom one has especially close social ties of affection and responsibility throughout life. T h e camaraderie is cemented by ritual, mutual visiting, sharing, etc (see also mate). crocodile: freshwater crocodile (Crocodilus johnstoni) (see also alligator). crooked, to be: to be angry. cross up: to make trouble. cry: formalised wailing/greeting at meetings or departures, expression of grief. cunning: to lie, be full of trickery. custom: traditional practice or belief (see also Law, rule). cut around: circumcision. cut it off: to discontinue a particular practice. cut under: subincision. daamul [Ga/Mu]: bamboo. dangerous: term to describe sacred objects whose spiritual power may be harmful to those who approach/see them either unlawfully, that is, having not been initiated such as women and children, or without due care (see also mamerung). delaawung: long yams (see also Kofod 1978, 274 dhelawung). didgeridu: drone pipe. Musical instrument used in some corroborees such as the Wanga. different-different: very different, the repetition being a linguistic (possibly kriol) means of emphasis. dinkum: true, serious. djabada [M]: male subsection, skin name. djabali, djabalyi: male subsection, skin name. djabidja: male subsection, skin. djaguling [M]: pearl shell (from the north and west Kimberley coasts). djalyiri [M]: male subsection, skin. djambidjina [M]: male subsection, skin. djambiin, djambini [Gi]: male subsection, skin. Djamindjung: language group traditionally from the Timber Creek/ Victoria River region (Tindale 1974, 223). djanama [M]: male subsection, skin name. Djanba: type of corroboree associated with a benevolent creative spirit who often visits song men as a kind of muse.

Glossary 329

djangala [M]: male subsection, skin. language group traditionally of the Sturt Creek/Hall's Creek region, alternative name Nyining (Tindale 1974, 240). djauwalyi [Gi]: male subsection, skin name. d j i m i d j [M]: male subsection, skin. djoanta): male subsection, skin. d j u l [Gi]: male subsection, skin. d j u l a m a [M]: male subsection, skin. d j u m u n g [M/G]: spirit or devil. D j u n b a : type of corroboree, not to be confused with the Djanba. Djundagal: Rainbow Snake whose story is associated with Mistake Creek. djungarai: male subsection, skin. d j u n g u r a [Gi]: male subsection, skin. dog licence: another deservedly sarcastic reference to the old citizenship book (see also beer ticket). do him in: kill someone. doss off: to make camp, sleep. dragged up: part-Europeans who have been brought out of the full blood camp to be trained as stock workers among the white stockmen. Dreamtime: the ancestral creative period in which the present day moral and physical world was established (see also ngaranggani). drown: to be submerged in water and not necessarily to die from it. Dry: the dry season of the year from around April/May to October/November. even-even: very equal (linguistic emphasis), at the same level of equality. every way: everywhere. fat: the fat in meat, sometimes applied also to offal, which is often a delicacy. fats: fattened cattle. feeling: emotion, attachment, affection. find: to create, beget. Possibly has a literal connotation, as in the finding of a spirit child in a waterhole. finger: fist. finish: to die, perish; conventional exclamation to mark the conclusion of a narrative. first class: the oldest generation, top ranking elders in the age grading system. fiver: five pound note, old currency.

Djaru:

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flagon: general term for wine. fly: tent fly, large sheet of calico or heavy cloth used for shelter or as part of a tent.

forget: to put out of one's mind, to give up. fourth class: the youngest generation in the age grading. front: in context this referred to people close to the desert such as the Ngarinman, gadia: white man. Gadjerung: language group of the coast between Cambridge Gulf and the Keep River. gagauli [Dj]: long yams (see also delaawung). gaggai [M]: grandparent. G a l a r o n g [G]: Rainbow Snake (see Kaberry 1939, kalem). game: brave. Garamau: major language of the Port Keats area. Garimalang [M]: Rainbow Snake. get o n with: to continue. get jack of: grow impatient with. get their rights: receive citizenship. Gidja: language group of the Turkey Creek-Hall's Creek area. gilgai frog: frog from a small waterhole (see Wilkes 1978, 155). gin: Aboriginal woman. A term considered opprobrious in the south but used neutrally in the contexts where it appears in this book. girl: Aboriginal woman. As with the use of the term 'boy' it has no pejorative intent in the east Kimberley. give a go: give a chance to. going crooked: being angry. go on: to go against. go up: to improve lifestyle, advance.

grog: alcoholic liquor (originally rum and water), ground boss: the man who organises sacred activities on the cleared space where they are performed.

Guluwaring: language group traditionally south of Forrest River, perhaps centring on Goose Hill near W ~ n d h a m . g u n a m a a [Ng]: house fly. guts: offal (see also fat). hair belt: pubic belt made from human hair.

half-caste: person of mixed European (or other nationality) and Aboriginal descent. The term is used commonly in the east Kimberley without being offensive.

Glossary 331

half-half: bilingual or multilingual, mixed, intermarried between languages ('tribes').

have a blow: take a rest, have a work break. have the idea: understand. have the shits: to be frightened. hold the Law: be custodian of sacred knowledge. humbug: insincerity, trickery. humpy: traditional bush shelter. idea: concept or idea (see also word). jackaroo: inexperienced station hand, apprentice. jealous(y): racially discriminative. jump-up: steep hill slope. kangaroo marriage: marriage outside the European conventions of church wedding, registration, etc.

Karadjeri: language group near the south point of Roebuck Bay north of the Pilbara (Tindale 1974, 244).

Kaukadunga: language group of northwest Queensland. killer: beast killed for food, usually cattle. king: title given by Europeans to notable Aboriginal persons whom they perceived to be leaders or heads of their groups.

knock: to strike, hit. knock off time: end of work period, holidays. kobagal [M]: a kind of goanna.

ladies: white women. lambara [M]: daughter-in-law, father-in-law, son-in-law.

Larrakia: language group of the Darwin area. last mob: the last generation that knew the early days. Law: customary behaviour and mores embracing all aspects of life religious and mundane. A key concept in Aboriginal philosophy. By convention spelled with a capital (see also custom, rule). learn: teach. lingo: language - non-English. Lirrga: a type of corroboree. little-little: very small (emphasis by doubling word). lively: quick-witted. lost: dead, bereaved. lubra: Aboriginal woman. Used occasionally in the east Kimberley without insulting intent (see also gin, girl). Lungga: alternative name for the Gidja language group. magen, maggai [M/G]: wife. make a blue: make a mistake.

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make a young man: initiate, circumcise a young boy. M a k u m b a r r a n g [Gi]: a Dreamtime person (human) of the Lissadell Station area. malaga: old man, term of respect. Malak Malak: language group of the Daly River area. Malgnin: language group of the Spring Creek-Mistake Creek areas. m a m e r u n g [M]: literally, dangerous. The supernatural peril (power) of sacred objects and places. man to man: restriction of sacred knowledge to men (women also have their secret Law which is restricted from men), mate: friend, close companion (see also countryman)* m a u n d u [Gi]: killing expedition. meeting ground: ceremony place. melunggung [M]: fat. meself: themselves, himself. miat: brother-in-law. mia-mia: traditional shelter (see also humpy). might be: in context can mean either a possibility or be a definite statement. milinyin [M]: bamboo. Miriwung: language group centred traditionally in the triangle bounded by Argyle, Newry and Ivanhoe stations. missus: white woman. mob: group, can either be small or large. Originates from pastoral station life. more better: much better. Mudbara: language group from the upper Victoria River junctions towards Newcastle Waters (Tindale 1974, 232). Mulali: ancestral human creative being who in the mythology was pursued by dingoes. m u l i n g [M]: aunty, mother-in-law. m u n b a [G]: killing by stealth (see also the Gidja version maundu). Mungala: language group associated with the Karadjeri. m u n g u n g d a w a n g [M/G]: name of an Aboriginal community, mungung meaning stony, rocky or gravelly, and dawang meaning camp or place. Murinbada: language group of Port Keats area. Muringana: possibly Mulgane, a language group from the northwest of Kalumburu (Tindale 1974, 260). M u r u n d i : name of the Flying Fox Dream. Myali: language from the Pine Creek area near Darwin.

Glossary 333

myall: someone 'wild' or unsophisticated. Applied to 'bush' Aborigines and can be used pejoratively. nabaldjeri: female subsection, skin term. nabanangga: female subsection. nagada: female subsection name. nalyiri [M]: female subsection, skin name. namaldjeri: female subsection. namalngaln [Dj]: bush palm. nambidjina [M]: female subsection, skin name. nambin, nambiin: female subsection. n a m i d j [M]: female subsection. namira, n i m a r a [M]: female subsection. n a n a g u [M]: female subsection. nandjuwari: type of snake. nangada: female subsection term. nangala [M]: female subsection. nangari [M]: female subsection. Nanggigurrunggu: a language of the Daly River region. nark: to annoy, to be annoyed. native: Aboriginal person of full descent. Used non-pejoratively by some contributors instead of the term blackfeller, sometimes in self-reference, but like the terms 'boy' and 'girl' it can also be pejorative in other parts of Australia. n a u l a [M]: female subsection, skin term. nawana: female subsection. new chum: newcomer, inexperienced hand (see also jackaroo). ngabang [M]: father. By extension refers to the Christian God. ngaiyin [G]: mine, myself. Ngali(wuru): language group of the central Victoria River region. ngangana [Gi]: female subsection, skin term. ngaranggani [M]: Dreamtime creative era. The term can also refer to a personage (human or animal) from that era. Ngarinman: language group of the upper Victoria River region. ngarrang [G]: mother. n g a u r r u [Gi]: female subsection, skin term. (ngludung [Mu]: brother. nigger: term borrowed from the southern United States denoting negro. It is used rarely today and is offensive in the east Kimberley as it is in the rest of Australia. nothing: emphatic negative. nuganunga: female subsection, skin term.

334 When the Dust Come in Between

nulla nulla: fighting stick. Nungga: language group associated with the Malgnin.

nyandjili [Gi]: female subsection, skin term. nyaru: female subsection. Nyigina: language group of the lower Fitzroy River.

nyinyi [Gi]: ceremony (see also Business, Big Sunday). Nyul-nyul: language group of the Dampier Peninsula between Broome and Derby (Tindale 1974, 254).

old-old: very old (repetition for emphasis). old man: term of respect, can be applied to someone not necessarily very old in years (see also malaga).

Oombulgurri: the country of Forrest River Mission. I have followed the spelling in Green (1988).

out back: in the isolated bush country. pannikin: drinking vessel, cup. piccaninny: Aboriginal child. Originally applied to West Indian Negro children and derived from the Spanish word pequeno meaning small (Oxford English Dictionary). Like several other words in the east Kimberley social lexicon such as half-caste, boy, girl, etc, it is often used neutrally without offensive meaning though it is pejorative in other parts of Australia. pick up: learn. pig root: buckjumping horse. pissed: drunk. plant: can mean either one's equipment (eg stock plant), or to hide something (or oneself). play: to perform a corroboree or dance. play the wag: stay away from school. plonk: wine. poddy: young animal, hand-fed calf. point: argue, form an opinion. police boy: Aboriginal police tracker. Also used to describe the person(s) who maintains order at ceremonies. proper(1y): correct, true. pull out: leave a job, quit. punishment: ordeal(s) at initiation. Also supernatural retribution for having done wrong (comparable ~ e r h a p swith the popular idea of karma in the eastern religions). pussy cats: feral cats. Also domestic, camp cats. quid: pound in old currency. quieten: to settle down. Term comes from the cattle industry but is

Glossary 335

often applied to the establishment of European control over Aboriginal groups and country. quite understand: to understand well or fully. ranch: large cattle station. ration: allocation of food, sometimes money allowance. realise: to understand, appreciate. red: used sometimes to describe the colour of Europeans. reputation: one's standing in the community (see also respect, shame). respect: having good standing in the opinions of others. ringing: cattle work. ringing land: the cattle stations. ring place: ceremonial ground. road train: cattle trucks. rubbish(ing): to criticise unjustly. Racial discrimination. rule(s): the Law, custom. run: in different contexts this term can refer to grazing land, taking a lover, or organising and performing a corroboree. runner boss: the person who organises a corroboree by providing transport, picking up materials, etc. salt water: the sea, ocean. In the contexts often applies to the west Kimberley coastline, the Cambridge Gulf, or the Gulf of Carpentaria. Sandstone: Ngarinman country. savvy: to understand. second class: persons of late middle age, just behind the elders in the age grading system who actively teach the younger generations. see themselves: come to their senses. sell: to exchange (see also winan). sensible, sense: to know how to behave, etiquette. shame: sense of damaged self-esteem, damaged pride. shovel spear: spear with blade of beaten iron. show: ceremony (see also play). sit down: to stay in one place, be content. skin: a category in a naming system whereby each person is a classificatory (fictive) kinsperson to another. In the east Kimberley there are eight matching female and male pairs of terms. The system differs from region to region. See Berndt and Berndt (1977, 49). smart: intelligent, handsome, quick-witted. smoko: a rest pause in one's work. snout, have a snout on: to dislike, hold a grudge. some way: somewhere. spaying: castrating cows.

336 When the Dust Come in Between

squirt: pistol, revolver. stock camp: bush camp away from the homestead. stone(s): hills. stone spear: spear with head of stone or quartz (see also bottle spear, shovel spear).

straight: correct as in a straight marriage. stubbie: small beer bottle about 375 ml. sugar bag: wild honey. super: superphosphate. swag: bedroll, sometimes including one's possessions. tailing: looking after, following, herding cattle. tailor mades: manufactured cigarettes by contrast with 'roll your owns!

tending: patrolling the cattle run. tenner: ten pound note in old currency. Thing: circumlocution to refer to sacred objects or ceremonies. third class: the middle-aged persons in the age grading system. tongue banging: arguing. too: very. too much: very much. top camp: southern or eastern camp. top dam: the dam at Lake Argyle. toss up: to rear, train, bring up children (or adults, hence Bulla often said he tossed me up).

touchy: easily angered. tribe: Aboriginal language group or clan depending o n context. tucker: food. tuckout: to eat, often with connotations of eating well. turnout: equipment (see also plant).

waak: to have sex. wake up: become aware, knowledgeable, especially in contemporary political matters.

walamba: red hill kangaroo. walbarra: hair belt. Walbiri: language group of the desert, Northern Territory (Tindale 1974, 236). walkabout: to travel, go o n holiday. The term is used neutrally by Aboriginal persons themselves but among Europeans it often has condescending secondary meanings and is best avoided as a white Australian stereotyping of Aboriginal life.

Glossary 337

Wangga: type of corroboree from the coast. wanya, wanya-wanya: to make love, have a lover, the lover herself/himself.

waringari [M]: group, community, hence the name chosen for the present Aboriginal council in Kununurra, the Waringari Council. Warrman: name of the Turkey Creek community. water: circumlocution for alcoholic drinks especially beer. Wet: the wet season from around October-November to MarchApril. white backlash: term given to a supposed hardening of European racist sentiments in the 1970s following the federal Labor Party's new deal after 1973. I say 'supposed' because in my opinion the negative sentiments had always been present and were nothing really new. why: the way, manner, something happens. wibulirri [M]: rebirth, the reborn spirit of someone who has died. widjidji: small bird. Wilanggu: language group associated with the Wunambal and the people of Kalumburu. wild scrubbers: wild bush cattle. winan [M]: ceremonial exchange system, also the name given to exchange partners. wing yard: small yard with a wing-like gate used to separate cattle. wogs: white Australian derogatory term for southern Europeans such as Greeks, Yugoslavs adopted by Aborigines with as far as I can observe no pejorative intent. woomera: spear thrower. word: concept, important statement (see also idea). work by: work with, alongside. Worora: language group of the west Kimberley. Wuladjau: language group of the Forrest River area. Wunambal: language group of the Forrest River area. wurly: bush shelter (see also humpy, mia mia). yadanggaln [M]: wild dog, dingo. Yadanggain [M]: place located near a Dingo Dreaming site. yakkai: to cry out. Yank: American. yarindi [M]: to sing someone, practise sorcery in that way.

yauwurrung [M]: many (see Kofod 1978, 367, yawurrung meaning many).

338 When the Dust Come in Between

yellow feller: person of mixed European-Aboriginal descent, used generally without pejorative intent in the east Kimberley sometimes in self-reference (see also half-caste). Yilngali(wung)(-wuru): language group of the Victoria River region. Yirrbindji: a type of song, corroboree. yuarrin: name of the country painted on a man's legs for a corroboree. yudyudbain: to make love. yundabainmirri: making love, having a girlfriend/boyfriend.

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY Akerman, K. 1979

The Renascence of Aboriginal Law in the Kimberleys. In R.M. and C.H. Berndt (eds), Aborigines ofthe West: Their Past and Their Present, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, 234-42.

Baker, R. 1989

Yanyuwa Contact History, typescript.

Barwick, D.E. 1981

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Batty, J.D. 1963

Namacjira: Wanderer between Two Worlds, Hodder and Stoughcon, Melbourne.

Berndt, R.M. and C.H. Berndt 1964/77

T h e World of the First Australians, Ure Smith, Sydney.

Berndt, R.M. and C.H. Berndt (eds) 1979

Aborigines of the West: Their Past and Their Present, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands.

Biskup, P. 1973

Not Slaves not Citizens: T h e Aboriginal Problem in Western Australia, University of Queensland Press, St Lucia.

Blyth, R.H. 1960

Zen and Zen Classics, Vol One, Hokuseido Press, Tokyo.

Borges, ].L. 1962

Labyrinths, Penguin, Harmondsworth.

Bowden, R. and B. Bunbury 1990

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Brock, P. (ed) 1989

Women, Rites &Sites: Aboriginal Women's Cultural Knowledge, Alien & Unwin, Sydney.

Bropho, R. 1980

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Burnum Burnum 1988

Burnum Burnum's Aboriginal Australia: A Traveller's Guide, (ed) D. Stewart, Angus & Robertson, Sydney.

Buchanan, G. 1934

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Capell, A. 1940

The Classification of Languages in North and North-west Australia, Oceania 10(3), 241-72.

339

340 When the Dust Come in Between Garment, D., R. Maynard and A. Powell (eds) 1990

Northern Territory Dictionary of Biography, Vol 1: To 1945, Northern Territory University Press, Casuarina.

Clement, C. 1988

Pre-settlement Intrusion into the East Kimberley, East Kimberley Impact Assessment Project, Working Paper No 24, Centre for Research and Environmental Studies, Australian National University; Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies; Anthropology Department, University of Western Australia; Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia.

Cohen, B. 1987

To My Delight: The Autobiography of Bill Cohen a Grandson of the Gumbangarri, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra.

Davidson, W.S. 1978

Havens of Refuge: A History of Leprosy in Western Australia, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands.

Dhoulagarle, K. 1979

There's More to Life, Alternative Publishing Cooperative, Chippendale.

Dixon, R.A. and M.C. Dillon (eds) 1990

Aborigines and Diamond Mining: The Politics of Resource Development in the East Kimberley Western Australia, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands.

Dixon, R.M. (ed) 1976

Grammatical Categories in Australian Languages, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

Dortch, C. 1972

Archaeological Work in the Ord Reservoir Area, East Kimberley, Australian

Institute of Aboriginal Studies Newsletter 3(4), 13-18. 1977

Early and Late Stone Industrial Phases in Western Australia. In R.V.S. Wright (ed),Stone Tools as Cultural Markers, 104-32, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

Dumas, R.J. 1944

Development of the Northwest of Western Australia: East Kimberleys-Ord River Irrigation Scheme, Journal of the Institute of Engineering of Australia 16,

65-70.

Durack, M. 1931 1932

Rudolph Philchowski, West Australian, 16 May, 5d.

1935

Allabout: The Story of a Black Community o n Argyle Station, Kimberley, The Bulletin, Sydney.

1936

Chunuma, The Bulletin, Sydney. Son of Djaro, Sampson, Perth. Kings in Grass Castles, Corgi, London. Sons in the Saddle, Constable, London.

1940 1959 1983

An Outline of North Australian History from Cambridge Gulf to the Victoria River: 1818.1887 Journal of the Historical Society of Western Australia 11(12), 1-31.

Durack, EM. 1933

Pioneering the East Kimberle~s,Journal of the Historical Society of Western

Australia 2(14), 1-46.

Select Bibliography 341 Elder, B. Blood on the Wattle: Massacres and Maltreatment of Australian Aborigines since 1988 1788, Child and Associates, Sydney. Elkin, A.P. Social Organization in the Kimberley Division, North-western Australia, 1932 Oceania 11(3), 296-333. Reaction and Interaction: A Food Gatherinig People and European Settlement 1951 in Australia, American Anthropologist 53(2). Evans, R., Saunders, K. and Cronin, K. Exclusion, Exploitation and Extermination: Race Relations in Colonial Queensland, 1975 ANZ Book CO, Sydney. Fitzgerald, B. 'Blood o n the Saddle': The Forrest River Massacres, 1926. In B. Reece and 1984 T. Stannage (eds), European-Aboriginal Relations in Western Australian History, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, 16-25. Forrest, J. Report on the Kimberley District, North-western Australia, Government Printer, 1883 Perth. Fry, E. (ed) 1983 Rebels and Radicals, George Alien & Unwin, Sydney. Gale, F. (ed) We are Bosses Ourselves: The Status and Role of Aboriginal Women Today, Australian 1983 Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. Gammage, B. and P. Spearritt (eds) Australians 1938, Fairfax, Syme & Weldon Associates, New South Wales, 54-63, 1987 454. Genovese, E. Roll, Jordan, Roll: T h e World the Slaves Made, Vintage Books, New York. 1972 Gibson, J. Digging Deep: Aboriginal Women in the Oodnadatta Region of South 1989 Australia in the 1980s. In P. Brock (ed), Women, Rites and Sites: Aboriginal Women's Cultural Knowledge, Alien & Unwin, Sydney, 60-75. Gerrard, A. and B. Shaw The Discrimination was so Thick. In B. Gammage and P. Spearritt (eds), 1987 Australians 1938, Fairfax, Syme & Weldon Associates, New South Wales, 54-63, 454. Goodall, H. Aboriginal History and the Politics of Information Control, Oral History 1987 Association of Australia Journal 9, 17-33. Gordon, H. T h e Embarrassing Australian, Lansdowne Press, Melbourne. 1962 Green, D. Conversation, typescript, November 1973-January 1974. 1975 Green, E. 1966 Journeys tiith Gelignite Jack, Rigby, Adelaide.

342 When the Dust Come in Between Green, N. (ed) T h e Oombulgurri Story: A Pictorial History of the People of Oombulgurri 1884-1988, 1988 National Bicentennial Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Program, Focus Education Services, Cottesloe. Hardy, B. 1979 T h e World Owes Me 'Nothing, Rigby, Adelaide. Hercus, L.A. 1988 Review of B.Elder, Blood on the Wattle: Massacres and Maltreatment of Australian Aborigines since 1788 (Child & Associates, Sydney), Aboriginal History 12(2), 222-26. Holmes, J. Australia's Open 'North, Angus & Robertson, Sydney. 1963 Huffer, V. 1980 T h e Sweetness of the Fig: Aboriginal Women in Transition, New South Wales University Press, Sydney. Johnson, C. 1987 Captured Discourse, Captured Lives, Aboriginal History 11(1), 27-32. Kaberry, P.M. Spirit-children and Spirit-centres of the North Kimberley Division, West 1936 Australia, Oceania 6(4), 392-400. Keesing, N. Language and Dignity, Australian Book Review, November, 16. 1983 Kelly, S.M. Proud Heritage, Artlook, Western Australia. 1980 Kennedy, M. 1985 Born a Half Caste, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. Kerr, A. Australia's North-west, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands. 1967 Kimberley Echo, T h e In Memoriam to Dixon Green 14 February 1960-19 November 1985 and to 1991 Darkie Don Green 1920-9 January 1990, published 25 November, 21. Kofod, F. Miriwung. In R.M.Dixon (ed), Grammatical Categories in Australian Languages, 1976 Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra, 584-86, 645-53. The Miriwung Language (East Kimberley): A Phonological and Morphological 1978 Study, M A thesis, University of New England, Armidale. 1989 A Miriwoong Alphabet Book, Miriwoong consultants Ruby Thoorrbiling, Belan Flying-fox, Sheba Dilyngarriya, Gipsy Nyirrmooyi, Mirima Dawang Woorlabgerring, Kununurra. Lands and Surveys Department of Western Australia. Stock Inspector's Reports, Files 3114/38, 3115164 Laurie, A. and A. McGrath I Once was a Drover Myself. In I. White, D. Barwick and B. Meehan (eds), 1985 Fighters and Singers: T h e Lives of Some Australian Aboriginal Women, Alien & Unwin, Sydney.

Select Bibliography 343 Lennon, M. and J. Gibson Molly Lennon's Story: 'That's How it Was' as told to Jen Gibson, Aboriginal Heritage 1989 Branch, Department of Environment and Planning, Adelaide.

Levi-Strauss, C. Tristes Tropiques, trans. J. and D. Weightman, Jonathan Cape, London. 1973 Lewis, 0. T h e Children of Sanchey Autobiography of a Mexican Family, Penguin, 1961 Harmondsworth.

McConvell, P. The Role of Aboriginal Languages in Story: A Comment on Shaw, Australian 1985 Aboriginal Studies 2, 74-76. McDonald, S. a n d B. Shaw They Did it Themselves: Reminiscences of Seventy Years, Aboriginal History 1978 2(2), 122-39. McGrath, A. "ern in the Cattie': Aborigines in Cattle Country, Alien & Unwin, Sydney. 1987 Macknight, C.C. (ed) T h e Furthest Coast: A Seiection of Writings Relating to the History of the Northern 1969 Coast of Australia, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne. McLennan, N. Ord River Station, Western Australia 1892-1896, West Australian Library Board 1965 (Battye Library Archives), Perth.

Mathews, J. The Two Worlds of Jimmy Barker, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, 1977 Canberra.

Meggitt, M.J. Desert People: A Study of the Walbiri Aborigines of Central Australia, Angus & 1962 Robertson, Sydney.

Melville, G. and I. Steinberg Investigation in East Kimberley Region of Western Australia and in the 1939 Northern Territory in Respect of Possibilities of Close Settlement, interim report, University of Western Australia Collection, typescript, 630.9941.

Mirritji, J. My People's Life: A n Aboriginal's Own Story, Milingimbi Literature Centre, 1976 Dominion Press, Melbourne.

Morris, E. A Dictionary of Austral English, Sydney University Press, Sydney. 1972 Muecke, S., A. Rumsey and Banjo Wirrunmarra Pigeon the Outlaw: History as Texts, Aboriginal History 9(1), 81-100. 1985 Mulvaney, D.]. T h e Prehistory of Australia, Penguin, Harmondsworth. 1975 Ngabidj, G. and B. Shaw M y Country of the Pelican Dreaming: T h e Life of an Australian Aborigine of the 1981 Gadjerong, Grant Ngabidj 1904-1 977 as told to Bruce Shaw, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

344 When the Dust Come in Between Palmer, K. and C. McKenna Somewhere Between Black and White: T h e Story of an Aboriginal Australian, 1978 Macmillan, Sydney.

Pepper, P. You Are What You Make Yourself to Be: T h e Story of a Victorian Aboriginal Family 1980 1842-1980, Hyland House, Melbourne. Perkins, C. A Bastard like Me, Ure Smith, Sydney. 1975 Porteus, S.D. T h e Psychology of a Primitive Tribe, Arnold, London. 1931 1933 Mentality of Australian Aborigines, Oceania 4(1), 30-36. Prentice, M. A Study in Black and White, Hicks Smith, Sydney. 1975 Read, P. (ed) Down There with Me on the Cowra Mission: A n Oral History of Erambie Aboriginal 1984 Reserve, Cowra, New South Wales, Pergamon Press, Sydney. Reece, B. 1984 Review article, Prisoners in their own Country: Aborigines in Western Australian Historical Writing. In B. Reece and T. Stannage (eds), European-Aboriginal Relations in Western Australian History, Department of History, University of Western Australia, Nedlands, 131-40. Reece, B. and T. Stannage (eds) European-Aboriginal Relations in Western Australian History, University of Western 1984 Australia, Nedlands, December.

Reynolds, H. T h e Other Side of the Frontier: Aboriginal Resistance to the European Invasion of 1982 Australia, Penguin, Australia. Roe, P. and S. Muecke Gularabulu: Stories from the West Kimberley, Fremantle Arts Centre Press, 1983 Fremantle.

Ronan, T. 1956 Moleskin Midas, Cassell, London. Rose, D.B. Hidden Histories: Black Stories from Victoria River Downs, Humbert River and Wave 1991 Hill Stations, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra. Ross, H. (ed) and E. Bray (trans) Impact Stories of the East Kimberley, East Kimberley Working Paper, October. 1987

Rosser, B. Dreamtime Nightmares: Biographies of Aborigines under the Queensland Aborigines 1985 Act, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. Roughsey, E. Laburnore A n Aboriginal Mother Tells of the Old and the New, McPhee GribbleIPenguin, 1984 Victoria.

Rowley, C. T h e Destruction of Aboriginal Society, Penguin, Harmondsworth. 1970

Select Bibliography 345 Rowse, T. 1987 Were You Ever Savages?Aboriginal Insiders and Pastoralists' Patronage, Oceania 58(2), 81-99. Sandefur, J. and J. 1979a Language Survey: Pidgin and Creole in the Kimberleys, Western Australia, Summer Institute of Linguistics, Australian Aborigines Branch, November. 1979b An Australian Creole in the Northern Territory: A Description of NgukurrBamyili Dialects (Part 1); Beginnings of a Ngukurr-Bamyili Creole Dictionary, Work Papers of the Summer Institute of Linguistics, Australian Aborigines Branch, Series B (3-4). Schapper, H.P. 1970 Aboriginal Advancement to Integration: Conditions and Plans for Western Australia, Australian National University Press, Canberra. Shaw, B. Subculture of the Homeless: A Study of Conflict and Integration among a Group of Homeless Men in Western Australia, BA (Hons) thesis, University of Western Australia, Nedlands. Social Relations and Commitments in a Planned New Town in Western Australia, PhD thesis, University of Western Australia, Nedlands. O n the Historical Emergence of Race Relations in the East Kimberleys: Change? In R. Berndt and C. Berndt (eds), Aborigines of the West: Their Past and Their Present, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, 261-73. Life History Writing in Anthropology: A Methodological Review, Mankind June 12(3), 226-33. 'I Just Sit Down': Perspectives of an Aboriginal Woman, Paper, AAS, Annual Conference, Canberra, 25-28 August, 20. Writing Aboriginal History for the East Kimberley: Methodology and Themes, Oral History Association of Australia [OHAAJ journal, Oral Sources: Use and Abuse 5, 75-83. Heroism Against White Rule: The 'Rebel' Major. In E. Fry (ed), Rebels and Radicals, George Alien & Unwin, Sydney, 8-26. How Charlie Drugamuller Was Cured by a Chinaman, Word of Mouth, OHAA, South Australian Branch Newsletter: Aboriginal Oral History Part Two, 12-15. How Aboriginal Life Histories can be Written: A Response to the Review 'Language and Dignity', Australian Aboriginal Studies 1, 47-52. Come On, I'll Tell You a Story, Northern Perspective, Darwin Community College, 6(1-2), 5-10. Aboriginal Australian Life Histories as Personal Documents and Historical Artefacts, OHAA Journal: Oral History 7, 78-83. A Reply to McConvell, Australian Aboriginal Studies 2, 76-78. Countrymen: The Life Histories of Four Aboriginal Men as told to Bruce Shaw, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra. The Tale of Wallambain and Philchowski, Aboriginal History 11(1), 58-76. 'For Remember': Some Aboriginal and Non-Aboriginal Reactions to Life Histories Recently Published, Oral History Association of Australia, Papers from the 1989 OHAA Conference 11, 87-108.

346 When the Dust Come in Between Response to Colin Johnson's article 'Captured Discourse; Captured Lives', Aboriginal History 13(2), 149-51. Major. Northern Territory Dictionary of Biography, Vol 1: To 1945, D. Carment, R. Maynard and A. Powell (eds), Northern Territory University Press, Casuarina, 198-99. Nemarluk. Northern Territory Dictionary of Biography, Vol 1: To 1945, Carment et al (eds), Northern Territory University Press, Casuarina, 222-24. Down the Track of Time: A Short Aboriginal History of the Western Lake Eyre Basin, typescript. Bush Time Station Time: Waddi Boyoi and Johnny Walker: Reminiscences of Eighty Years as told to Bruce Shaw, Aboriginal Studies Key Centre, University of South Australia, Underdale. A Cambodian Woman's Experiences under the Khmer Rouge and Work in Progress and Completed with Aboriginal Australians from East Kimberley and the Western Lake Eyre Region, Oral History Association of Australia Journal 13, 93-104.

Shaw, B. and J. Toby 1990

'We Still Got the Idea': Opportunity, not Identity Change, in the East Kimberley. In R.A. Dixon and M.C. Dillon (eds), Aborigines and Diamond Mining: T h e Politics of Resource Development in the East Kimberley Western Australia, University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, 55-65.

Shnukal, A. 1990

Review of Bancgaiyerri and Countrymen. Australian Aboriginal Studies 1, 57-59.

Simon, E. 1978

Through my Eyes, Rigby, Adelaide.

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The Daly River Tribes: A Report of Fieldwork in North Australia, Oceania, 3(4), 377-405; 4(1), 10-29. After the Dreaming, Boyer Lectures, ABC, Sydney. The History of Indifference Thus Begins, Aboriginal History 1(1), 3-26.

Sullivan, J. and B. Shaw 1979 1981 1983

'They Same as You and Me': Encounters with the Gadia in the East Kimberley, Aboriginal History 3(2), 96-108. A Death Remembered, Northern Perspective 4(1), 27-30. Banggaiyemi: T h e Story of Jack Sullivan as told to Bruce Shaw, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

Tatz, C. 1979

Race Politics in Australia: Aborigines, Politics and Law, University of New England Press, Armidale.

Tatz, C. and K. McConnochie (eds) 1975

Black Viewpoints: T h e Aboriginal Experience, Australia and New Zealand Book Company, Sydney.

Tindale, N. 1974

Aboriginal Tribes of Australia, Australian National University Press, Canberra.

Select Bibliography 347

Toby,

J.

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John Toby: A Man Hasn't Even Got a Home, Kimberley Land Council Newsletter 1(3), 11 (April).

1980b

John Toby. Leader of Mandangala Group: Mandangala Outstation (from Turkey Creek Kimberley Region) - Traditional Mirriwung-Kitja Owner of Land Threatened by CRA/Ashton Joint Venture Diamond Mining Activities. With additional summary and remarks by David Mowaljarlai, Member of AIAS Council recording sites and mythology in the area at the request of the Kimberley Land Council, typescript, 16 May, Kununurra.

Tucker, M. I f Everyone Cared: Autobiography of Margaret Tucker MBE, Ure Smith, Sydney. 1977 Tunbridge, D. 1988 Flinders Ranges Dreaming, in association with the Nepabunna Aboriginal School and the Adnyamathanha people of the Flinders Ranges, South Australia, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra.

Walker, D. 1989 M e and You: T h e Life Story of Della Walker as told to Tina Courts, Aboriginal Studies Press, Canberra.

Wells, H.G. 1898 The War of the Worlds, Pan Books, London. West, I. 1987

Pride Against Prejudice: Reminiscences of a Tasmanian Aborigine, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

The West Australian 1980

Aborigines at Argyle Sign Deal, 28 July, 3.

White, I., D. Barwick and B. Meehan (eds) Fighters and Singers: The Lives of Some Australian Aboriginal Women, Alien & 1983 Unwin, Sydney.

Wilkes, G.A. A Dictionary of Australian Colloquialisms, Sydney University Press, Sydney. 1978 Willis, P. 1980

Patrons and Riders: Conflicting Roles and Hidden Objectives in an Aboriginal Development Programme at Kununurra. MA thesis, Australian National University, January.

1988

Riders in the Chariot: Aboriginal Conversion to Christianity at Kununurra. In T. Swain and D.B. Rose (eds), Aboriginal Australians and Christian Missions, Australian Association for the Study of Religions, South Australian College of Advanced Education, Bedford Park, 309-20.

Wilson, J. (ed) 1961

Kimberley, Current Affairs Bulletin 28(11), 2 October.

Wise, F.J.S. 1924

Report of the Agricultural Possibilities of the Land Adjacent to Elephant Hill and Knob Peak, Wyndham District. In Wyndham Committee Report, Department of Agriculture of Western Australia, Broome.

348 When the Dust Come in Between Wood, G.T. 1927/28

Royal Commission of Inquiry into Alleged Killing and Burning of Bodies of Aborigines in East Kimberley, and into Police Methods when Effecting Arrests, West Australian Proceedings of Parliament and Papers, 1. Government Printer, Perth.

Wright, R.V.S. (ed) Stone Took as Cultural Markers: Change, Evolution and Complexity, Australian 1977 Institute of Aboriginal Studies, Canberra.

Wyndham Courthouse Records 1906-27

Wyndham Court, of Quarter Sessions, Minutes, February 1906 to February 1927, Library Board of Western Australia (Battye Library Archives).

INDEX Aboriginal Affairs Planning Authority 257 Aboriginal Consultative Council

299 Adelaide 159,163,195,216,292 Adelaide River 94,215 aeroplanes 107,110,114,130,160,

161, 166-69,172,206,207,290 Afghans 137,143,159, 169 Africa 66 ages 45,63,79,91,93,94,107,

123,128,137,155,159,181,195, 213,215,231,232,240,249,263, 277,289,303,322,323 Ahern, Patrick 14 Albany Highway 208,209 Albert (Johnny Walker's friend)

215,322 Alberts, Sam 204,205 Alec (Rosewood Station) 125 Alexander Station 217,290 Alice Downs Station 181,186 Alice Springs 80,147,173,264,

285,303,305,312 Alligator Tommy 125,215 alligators see crocodiles Ambrose (July Oakes's son) 292 Ambrose (July's KRS friend) 292 America and Americans 45,55,

165,166,178,264 Anna (Michael Dinkum's daughter)

255 Annette (Ben Ward's sister) 278 Anthony Lagoon Station 213,218 Arab (nickname) 71 Aranda 285 Argyle Downs Station founding of 14,39, 126 land rights 59,75,261,267 territory, birthplace 21,23,40,

49,83,171,227,254,277,292 work place, as 19,98,99,160,

183,219-21,223,232,263,264, 290,307,312,317,322 Army 50, 130,162,197,198,214 Arnold, Gordon 220,221,223 Ashton Joint Venture 63 attitudes cooperation, theme of 26,39,40,

49,50,53,54,56,75,138,156, 257,259,320 land 60,72,89,143,228,295 drinking 37,56,57,59,86, 177, 227,260,261,266,281,283, 293,294,297 friendship 215,292 general 38, 119,225,293 Law 73,81,254,261,270 nostalgia 105,159 present v past 35,294,316 racial tension, distrust 22,39,40, 48,50,69,70,85,107,149, 153,164,176,234,240,257, 259,277,281,284,285,295, 304,313 township 34,37,38,71,188,249, 250,264 violence, low morale 55,56,59, 8 90,103,154,163,174,241, 266,270,315 white opinion 52,85,251,258, 268,282 whites, working with 54,69, 70, 103,109,111, 162,172, 173,191,192,209,210,223, young people, children 48,87, 106,192,220,236,267,270, 284,292 Austin Downs Station 218 Austral Downs Station 216,217

350 When the Dust Come in Between Australia 126,138,168,295,300,

316 Australian Inland Mission (AIM) 292 Auvergne Station 46,47,49,98,

112,113,127,160,187 Avon Downs Station 217 Baker, R. 8 Balga 117,203 Balmirr, Banggaldun 2,3, 10,24,

25,34,49,50,53,54,56,82,87, 88,90,94,108,109,127,253-56, Balyirra hill 43 Bamberer 159 Bandicoot Bar 20,51 Bandler, Faith 4 Banggaldun see Balmirr Bareback Yard 125 Barney, Ben 132 Barney, Ladi 132,133,246 Barrgul, Paddy 32 Barwick, D. 10 Beagle Bay Mission 267,277 beards, etc 83,96,97,129,

251,253 Beasley, Jack 14,124,125,217,219 Bedford Downs Station 181,214-16 beer 37,56,58,85,170,174,187,

260,261,265,266,283 beer ticket see Citizenship Certificate Behn River 98 Bend of the Ord 221 Benning, Eric 269 Berndt, R. 10 Berndt, R. and C. 334 Bertie 125 Bertram, Captain Hans 160,168 Best, Father 199,205,206 Bilinggiin, Bulla 2,3,10,23-25,

49,53,54,59,60,67,90,131, 246,249,253-56,267,269,278, 281,284,317,322,323 Billy Goat Spring . - 67 ~ i l l yJoe (Stephen Edwards's uncle)

182

Binbinga language 213 Binggal 59, 108,113,238 Biranulla Station 160 Birch, Edgar 159-79,235,322,323 Birch, Grace 161-63, 146,179 Birch, Johnny 173 Birch, Lorrie 163 Birch, Reg 163 Birch, Teddy 163 birds 43,51,83,117,202 Birrindudu 215 birth marks 64 birthplaces 29,33,45,64,71,93,

137,181,182,213,249,263,277, 289,292,303 Biskup, P. 15 Black Power 24,25,34,55,56, 59,87-89,154,190,240,241, 266,298,314,315 blindness 217,223 Blitner, Jerry 132 blood 83,118,143 bombing (Wyndham, Darwin) 49, 9 129,130,166-69,197,307 bookkeeping 132,264,269,298 Borges, J.L. 4 Borroloola 213,227 Bostock, Mrs 187 Bowden, R. and Bunbury, B. 6 Bow River 247 Boxer 67,125,325 Boyoi, Waddi 2,3, 16,19,25, 108, 127,128,320,321,323 Bradshaw Station 46-49,127 Brenda (Martha Laurie's father's wife) 238 Brenda (Michael Dinkum's daughter) 255 Brenner Springs Station 172 Bridge, Ernie 309 Brisbane 163 Broome 14, 19,85,115,129,130,

207,277,290,319 brother-in-law 188,250,251 Brown, Alec 125 Brown, Captain Colin 166 Brown, Jack 125 Brown, Les 224 Bruce Rock road 208

Index 351

Brumby, Stan 78-91,239,269,

273,323 Brunette Downs Station 218,290 Bruton, Arthur 166,167 Bubble Bubble 51,132,133,246 Buchanan family 215 Buchanan, Gordon 14-16,18,126,

215,216 Bucklands 183 Buglug (Djibaldji) 67,68,325 Bugunin 64 Bulla see Bilinggiin Bullita Station 116,263 Bullo River Station 29,70, 174,290 Bumandu 112 Bumbi, Keith 323 Bumbi (Mirima Councillor) 108,269 burials 128,129,133 Burnum, B. and Stewart, D. 8 Burketown 216,218 Burrwi, Daisy 49,170,323 Bush, Father 196,199,200,204,205 Buston, Frank 169 Butler, Dick 214 Butler, Jack 126 Button Jones 246 Button's Gap 123,128,129,223 cafe 236,265 Cambridge Gulf 13 Camooweal 213,218,290 Campbell, Mrs 110 Can, Willy 68 Canberra 128,266-68,273,316 Canning Stock Route 143 Cape Bernier 160 Cape York Peninsula 216 Capell, A. 18 Car1 Bore 60 Carlton Gorge 133 Carlton Hill Station 21,29-34,

36-39,113,117,220,221,245, 263,264,267,274,278 Carlton reach 53,98 Carr Boyd Ranges 17 Catholic 23,35,52-54,56, 114, 161,271,277,289,293 cattle, cattle work 20,69,90,93, 95,96,98-100,102-06,130,138,

139,164,174,184,190,201,202, 209,214,217,225-27,231,245, 256,263,264,271,277,290,296 good country for 140,142,162 learning about 48,55, 129,317 settling 13,14, 17, 126,131,150, 155,216,304 Cattle Creek Yard (Goindji) 67 cattle killing/stealing 16,110,142, 183,312 caves 41,53 Cecil (Michael Dinkum's son) 255 chains 308,311,312,316 change(s) droving bullocks to Wyndham

99-101,139,141 education of young people 106,

115,193,236,237,243,267,284 farming, garden work 60,96, 143,

316,317 initiations, the Law 52,54,82,

145,146,148,179,250,251, 253,261,267,268,280,281, 314,317 job opportunities 70-72,75,90, 103,107,174,177,188,259, 284,296 marriage rules 49,84,148,258 outstations 76,286 quietening down 55, 126,151,188 race relations 85, 109,138,141, 155,235,241,258,266,279, 300,308,315 station routines 95,98,99, 103, Ill, 226,279 stations to town, from 21,22,50, 74,101,102,105,108,162, 163,169,174,189,235,250, 264,278,279,286,290,296, 312,313 Chapman, Ernie 102,170,213-28, 322,323 Chapman, Harold 220,266 Chapman, Winnie 213,215,238,323 Charleville 217 Charlotte (July Oakes's wife) 292 childbirth 33 childhood 29-31,46,47,49,50, 65,68,69,79,80,93,110,111,

352 When the Dust Come in Between corroborees see dances 125, 129, 130, 131, 137, 159, 182, 213, 214, 231, 232, 253, 264, 278, Crocodile Hole 168 crocodiles 64, 65, 113, 197, 201, 203 289, 317 children 7, 38-40, 97, 102, 113, 115, Crossing Falls 246 133, 153, 154, 164, 178, 179, 186, Cyclone Tracy 214 187, 193, 201, 202, 224, 226, 233, 234, 236, 242, 244, 249, 254, 255, Dajarra 216, 217 271, 278, 284, 291, 292, 297, 299 Dambaramba 42 Chinese 24, 45, 140, 197 dances 40, 48, 53, 83, 97, 116, 117, Christianity 7, 15, 116, 137, 145, 119, 203, 235, 238, 250, 252, 268, 155, 195, 199, 204, 314 Christine (Michael Dinkum's 277 Dandji, Peggy 49, 247, 263, 323 daughter) 255 Daly River 18, 46 Christmas 164, 195, 204, 217, 218, Darlington Ranges 207 223, 253, 306 Darwin 19, 25, 37, 42, 47, 73, 94, Chulung family 163 129, 130, 132, 160, 161, 166, 168, Church of England 164, 165, 188, 172, 173. 178, 191, 197, 214-16, 199, 205, 208 225, 234, 244-47, 249, 258, 268, churches 35, 52, 84, 112, 114, 115, 290, 292, 297, 307, 313-15, 322 145, 146, 148, 155, 188, 199, 200, Davidson, D.J. 161 204, 205, 257, 293, 318 Davidson, W.S. 19, 20 circumcision 52, 74, 97, 118, 124, Davis, Jack 4 251, 253 Davis, Neil 197 Citizenship 20, 22-24, 26, 87, 103, Daylight 290 141, 151, 152, 177, 179, 187, 189, Deakin, Alec 126, 127 190, 226, 235, 259, 316-18 Deakin, Alfie 6, 8, 14, 123-34, 246 Citizenship Certificate 141, 151, Deakin, Amy 127 152, 164, 294, 304, 315-18, 325 Deakin, Biddy 127 Civic Centre 178, 225 Deakin, Captain 124 Clement, C. 13 Deakin, Fred 127 Cline, Jimmy 94, 96, 98 Deakin, Freda 127 Cloncurry 216 clothing 35, 38, 56, 64, 80, 85, 111, Deakin, George 127 Deakin, Gilbert 27 129, 138, 141, 151, 171, 183, 186, Deakin, Harry 127 204, 207, 208, 219, 226 coast 30, 42, 46, 115, 117, 126, 130, Deakin, Jessie 124, 127 Deakin, Jimmy 14, 123-28, 131 160, 161, 175, 203, 219, 264 Deakin, Joyce 127 Cobbly, Bob 309 Deakin, Tom 14, 123-26, 128, Cole, Tom 100 129, 131 Coledrake, Mr 187 Deakin, Yuwi 127 Colleen (Colin James's daughter) deaths 2, 19, 20, 25, 30-33, 36, 48, 249 68, 74, 91, 93, 94, 19, 124, 125, 127, Colorado (place) 125 128, 132-34, 137, 138, 161, 163, 168, Colorado, Jack/Jeff 14, 124, 125 169, 184, 186, 192, 201, 213-15, 217, Connie (Michael Dinkum's 227, 233, 246, 249, 253, 289, 292, daughter) 255 304, 308, 310, 319, 323 Cook, Captain 126, 149 Department for Commux+ Cooley, Nat 100 Coolibah Station 49 welfare 23

Index 353 Department of Aboriginal Affairs (DAA) 25,245,267,299 Department of Agriculture 245 Department of Lands and Survey

22,23 Derby 14,19,79,85,88, 115,130,

159,163,168,185,207,249,258, 277,278,290,291,293,308,312 desert 66,74, 140,162,239,251, 254,305,306 Devil Devil Spring 67 devils 30,48,50, 117,254,255 diamonds 26,63,117 Dick Norman 126 Dickey, Carold 264 Dicky 31,32 didgeridu 97,203 Dinggul, Daisy (Dina) 133,249 Dingo Gap 41,60 Dingo Spring (Yadanggalm) 10,25, 41,51,60,131,246,267,274, 285,286 dingoes see dogs Dinkum, Michael 22,26, 108,246,

248-61,267,269,270,319,323 discrimination 148,150,152-54,

172,174,185,189,282,285,313, 314,316 diversion dam 20,21,49,50,82, 177,221,232,235,236,312 Dixon, George 76 Dixon, R.A. and Dillon, M.C. 63 Djamindjung language 45,46,48, 54. 238 ~ j a i a m a Jeff , ('Miat') 2, 133,170, 249,269,277,278,319 Djanba 51,82,117 Djanduin, Daisy (Carlton Daisy) 7, 24,29-38,42,127,323 Djanggarranain, McCarthy 67 Djanmarra (Djanmurrai) hill 43 Djaru language 15,66,79,81,88, 124, 137,140,159,181,245,263, 278,303 Djebabi, Annie 31-33,245,246 doctors 110,142,188,207,254,260 dog tag see Citizenship Certificate dogs 36,51,65-67,80,137,142,258 Dolly (Daisy Djanduin's sister) 29

Donkey Gap 60 Doraman Flat 201 Doreen (Colin James's wife) 263 Doris (Daisy Djanduin's daughter)

32 Doris (Newry Station) 133 Dot (Colin James's mother) 263 drawings see pictures Dream(ing) 30,31,38,40-43,46,

51,64,65,80,82-84,89,94,97, 113,115-18,127,182,210,245, 249,263,268,278 drinking 24,35-37,56-59,85-87, 8 103,106-08,150-52,164,170, 171,175-78,181,188,190,191, 226,227,235,236,241,253,259, 260,261,264-66,270,271,280, 281,283,289-91,293,204,297, 299,304,314,315 drought 138,155,304,308 droving 98-100,101,113,138,160, 161,169,171,185,216-19,231, 290,307,308 Drysdale Mission 166 Dulcie Carlton 33,38 Dumas, R.J. 20, 169 Duncan 108 Dunham River 14 Dunham River bridge 177 Dunham River Station (Doon Doon) 75,79-81,89,246 Durack, Ambrose 322 Durack, Con and Docherty 160,

215,216 Durack, Eric 220,223 Durack family 14,66, 124,125,169,

219,317,325 Durack, Kimberley 183 Durack, M.P, 14, 126,215 Durack, P.M. 14 Durack, Reg 99,101,111, 113-15 Durack-Miller, Dame Mary 8,13,

14,18,19,215,219 Duragila hill 83 East Kimberley Impact Assessment Project 26 Easter 164,260 education 145,150,160,163,165,

354 When the Dust Come in Between 173, 176, 179, 187, 193, 206, 208, 209, 251, 264, 272, 282, 284, 289, 292, 310, 317 Edwards, Jerry 183, 247 Edwards, Stephen 181-93, 323 Egan, Ted 267 Egyptians 132 El Questo Station 190 Elder, B. 8 Elkin, A.P. 15, 18 Ellen Spring 185 Elliot 127, 172, 290, 307 Elsie (Alfie Deakin's wife) 132 Elsie Station 218 Emu Creek 244, 246 England, the English 126, 128, 199, 227, 316, 320 Eva Downs Station 213, 218 Evans, R. et a1 18 families see kinship Fargoo, Will 14 farmers, farming 20, 21, 50, 71, 85, 90, 95, 96, 101, 106, 108, 130, 139, 140, 150, 155, 156, 165, 181, 183, 187, 209, 210, 226, 232, 256, 264, 271, 284, 290, 293, 296, 299 Farqueson brothers 215, 216, 303 Farqueson, Evelyn 187 Farqueson, Teddy 187, 188 fathers 46, 47, 54, 56, 64, 68, 69, 76, 79, 93, 123-29, 131, 137, 143, 159, 181-83, 195-98, 206, 209, 213, 214, 227, 231, 236, 238, 249, 263, 278, 289, 303, 315, 316 fighting 36, 39, 40-42, 46, 49, 54, 56, 58, 67, 68, 83, 84, 86, 88, 89, 97, 102, 132, 142, 144, 148, 150, 152, 184, 189, 192, 235, 236, 241, 259, 260, 265, 266, 271, 281, 282, 289, 303, 315, 316 Filipinos 214 fire 64, 143, 202 firearms 45, 48, 55, 68, 88, 110, 142, 144, 151, 154, 184, 185, 306, 309, 315 First World War 93, 137, 216, 217 fish 36, 46, 47, 51, 67, 200, 245, 285 Fitzgerald, B. 8

Fitzroy Crossing 79, 81, 159, 207, 271, 304 Flat Rock 223 flies 97, 118 Flinders 197 Flinders Transport 161 flogging 31, 48, 59, 109, 181, 182, 184, 308, 309 floods 42, 140, 221, 231, 289 Flora Valley Station 207, 215, 216, 238, 239 Flying Fox (name) 132, 133 Flying Fox Spring 67, 223, 246 food 22, 30, 31, 38, 40, 54, 65, 69, 71, 80, 86, 87, 107, 111, 144, 164, 168, 170, 183, 185-87, 192, 193, 197, 198, 201-04, 208, 223, 224, 226, 243, 291, 293, 310, 315, 316 Fork Creek 247, 255, 315 Forrest, J. 13, 14 Forrest River Mission 8, 17, 19, 32, 100, 159, 160, 161, 165, 181, 182, 188, 195-205, 107, 109, 220, 238 Four Mile 231 Four Square Store 263, 291 Fourteen Mile 65 Frazer, Freddie 138 Frog Hollow Station 213, 216, 246 Fuller, Hector 221, 317 Gadjerung (Gadjerau) language 3, 15, 20, 29, 30, 42, 46, 47, 97, 116, 181, 263, 320 Galamanda 221, 223 Gale, F. 6 Garama(u) language 45, 48, 54, 108, 113, 238 garden(s) 50, 55, 60, 90, 155, 164, 165, 242, 243, 252, 267, 271, 274, 281, 294, 298, 299, 316, 317 Garimalang 46, 51, 97, 116 Genovese, E. 5 George 215 George, Alf 308-10 George, Norman 126, 127 Geraldton 207 Germans 16, 107, 137, 160, 168 Gerrard, Alfie 8, 73, 89, 188, 189, 192, 194-210, 220, 238, 241, 242,

Index 355

246,254,219,272,298,299,323 Gerrard, Dick 198,199 Gerrard family 163,199 ghosts see devils Gibson, J. 38 Gidja language 15, 18,26,30,52,

64,66,67,79-81,83,88-90,113, 115, 137,181,239,254,263,273 Gilbert, K. 4 Glen Hill Station 63,67,75,76,246 God 51,52,55,67,84, 144 gold 14,19,131,149,305,307 Goodall, H. 7 Goose Hill 31,221,223,311 Gordon Downs Station 82,140, 207,215 Gorge 232 government 60,79,84,89,100,101, 104,107,130,137,139,141,149, 150,160,170, 173,174,189,193, 241,245,263,286,311,313,316 government grants 75,150,154, 268-70,294,295,297,299,300 Grant, Bill 223 Grasshopper 290 graves see burials Green, Don ('Darkie') 7,136-56,

Hector Djalnga 161 Henderson, Bob 100 Hercus, L. 8 Hidden Valley 22,53,268,278 holidays 38,43,64,69,79,91,93,

95,97,98,103,105,111, 162, 171,186,201,220,225,226,232, 242,281,289,294 Holmes, J. 14 Holmes, J.J. 181 Holmes, R.H. 181 Hookers Company 183,185,224 horse races 90,102,181,261,264, 278,284 horses 48,50,68,71,72,95,98,99, 106,124,126,128-30,137,138,140, 146,164,169,172,175,181,184, 208,216,218,219,221,228,231, 239,256,264,296,304,305,306 hospitals 68, 130,168,172,189, 207,213,225,231,233,249,254, 269,313 housing 40,50,53,72,125,140,162, 170,172,189,192,224,225,228, 233,239,243,244,245,264,277, 281,284-86,290,294,313,316 Hovenden 197

303,306,313,322,323 Green, E. 162 Green, N. 196,326,333 Gulf of Carpentaria 213 Guluwaring language 15,54,108,

109, 116,181 Gunamaa 96 Gunari, Auvergne Brenda 113 Gurindji language 238,273,278 Gypsy 127,132 Hall, Abeline 76 Hall, Pat 76 Hall's Creek 14,15, 19,64,70-72,

79-82,84,85,93,102,113,131, 137,139,140,143,153,161, 181, 186,207,218,244,277,280,296, 303-12 Hargreaves, Mr and Mrs 34 Harry (Martha Laurie's foster child)

233 Hayes, Dick 184, 186

Indians 54, 132 Ingrid (Michael Dinkum's daughter)

255 initiation 22,48,49,51-54,74,80,

82,94,95,97,117-19,124,126, 147,188,237,250-52,279 injuries 90,91,130,181,223,264, 290,316 Inverway Station 215,290,303 Irish, Ireland 66,289,295 Italians 107,132 Ivanhoe Station 21,22,39,49,50, 9 101,102,107,123,128,160, 161,170,171, 187,214-16,219-21, 223,224,227,228,249,263,268 Jacinta (Michael Dinkum's daughter) 255 Jack (Carlton Station) 32 Jack Brown's Pocket 125 Jacobson 209

356 When the Dust Come in Between jail 39, 47, 132, 144, 166, 177,

182, 314 ,

.

James, Peter 263 Japanese 45, 46, 129, 130, 166-68,

183, 184, 319, 323 Jerry (Daisy Burrwi's brother) 269,

270. - ,323 Joe see Nurungin Joe (on Bow River outstation) 247 Joe (Sandy McDonald's grandson)

313 John Friday 65 Johnson, Edith 208 Johnson, Father Victor 199, 205,

207-09 Johnson, Fred 161 Jubilee Station 159 Julie (John Toby's daughter) 74 Jumbo (Newry Station) 133

Kaberry, P. 18, 19, 329 Kaiser Bill 93 Kalgoorlie 80 Kalumburu 19, 47, 88, 90, 162,

169, 320 Kanggarriyu 42 Karadjeri language 79 Katherine 47, 50, 130, 161, 178,

191, 218, 290 Katherine Meat Works 184, 290 Katherine (Newry Station) 133 Kathleen (Ben Ward's mother) 246,

277, 278 Kathleen (John Toby's stepdaughter)

74 Kathy (relation of Ben Ward) 278 Kaukadunga language 123, 126,

127, 131 Keep ~ i v e r46, 113, 245 Kelly, Jack 214-16 Kelly, Mrs 214 Kelly's Knob 21, 35, 52, 71, 101,

124, 129, 195, 224, 251 Kennedy, M. 7 Khan, Doug see Green, Don Khan, Paddy 137

Kildirk Station 99, 101, 103, 105,

111-14, 116, 127, 246 Kilfoyle, Johnny (Jack) 98, 104, 111,

125, 183-85, 191, 219, 290, 317 Kilfoyle, Thomas 181 killing(s) 15-17, 34, 36, 39, 45, 48,

55, 57, 66, 83, 94, 100, 144, 146-48, 174, 175, 225, 313, 315 see also shootings Kimberley Land Council (KLC)

26, 64 Kimberley Research Station (KRS)

20, 50, 169, 232, 263, 277, 292 Kimberleys 311 King, P.P. 13 King River 187 kinship 29-33, 38, 47, 52, 64, 65, 67,

74, 76, 79, 96, 113, 123, 124, 127, 133, 140, 146, 159, 163, 181, 182, 186, 188, 190, 198, 214, 231-34, 238, 249, 255, 263, 278, 304, 307, 315 Kirkimby Station 172, 303 Koeoane 168 Koolama 130, 166-68, 197 Koondji Station 308 Kumboi, Jessie 133 Kununurra 1, 2, 6, 10, 17, 20-23, 34, 36, 37, 43, 50, 53, 55, 59, 71-74, 81, 84, 85, 88, 90, 101, 102, 105, 107, 114, 130, 133, 140, 143, 162, 163, 169, 174, 178, 183, 185, 187, 189, 191, 195, 203, 223, 227, 228, 231-36, 239-41, 244, 249, 253, 264, 266, 272, 277, 278, 290, 292, 293, 296, 312, 314, 319, 320 Kununurra Aboriginal Progress Association (KAPA) 25, 59, 60,

73, 75, 89, 189, 241, 242, 254, 256, 273, 298, 299 Kununurra Waringari Aboriginal Corporation 320 Lacross Island 160 Lake White 305 land 22, 25, 39, 42, 46, 50, 59, 60, 66,

67, 75, 76, 79, 80, 83, 84, 88-90, 108, 111, 112, 126, 127, 154, 228,

Index 357

239, 245, 246, 252, 255, 261, 279, 294, 295, 300 land rights 76, 88, 111, 133, 148, 154, 246, 259, 286, 295, 297 Lands Department 294 languages 45, 79, 88, 97, 108, 109, 115, 181, 227, 237, 263, 303, 317, 319 Laurie, Amy 112, 113, 231, 323 Laurie, A. and McGrath, A. 231 Laurie, Bill 92-119, 221, 223, 322 Laurie, Martha 26, 230-47, 319, 320, 323 Laurie, Pearl 231 Laurie, Phyllis 231 Laurie, Reggie 119, 231 Laurie, Tex 231 Law 33, 45-49, 51-54, 56, 64, 73-75, 79-84, 89, 90, 94, 95, 97, 112, 113, 115-17, 119, 126-28, 144, 145, 155, 165, 179, 182, 188, 191, 192, 220, 225, 226, 249-53, 261, 267, 270, 272, 279, 280-82, 284, 293, 303, 306, 316, 317 Lawrence, Tom 101 leadership 54, 73, 81, 88, 108, 109, 140, 154, 174, 175, 177, 189, 192, 228, 242, 253, 254, 256, 267, 270, 272, 319 Lee Tong, Bessie 197 Lee Tong family 163, 183, 197 Legal Aid 58, 273 Legune Station 29, 30, 32, 45-47, 49, 51, 81, 91, 245, 263 Lennon, M. and Gibson, J. 9 leprosy 19, 20, 142, 249 letters see mail Levi-Strauss, C. 5 Lewis Creek Pastoral Company

140, 155 Lewis, Oscar 1 Lily (Colin James's grandmother)

263 Lily Creek ('Lakeside') 60, 169, 187,

224, 235, 244, 285, 290, 312 Limbunya Station 115, 116, 124,

125, 130, 132, 290 Limestone, Freda 133 Lissadell Station 14, 64-68, 70, 98,

104, 113, 126, 161, 184, 186, 207, 216, 231, 308 Lombadina Mission 277 Long Michael Plain 60, 267 Louisa (Ernie Chapman's niece) 214 Lumoi, Minnie 133 Lungga language 181 McArthur River Station 213, 227 McCail, Dick 201 McCarthy Spring 67 McDonald, Alien 310, 312, 314 McDonald, Duncan 304 McDonald, Molly 310 McDonald, Sandy 8, 231, 237,

302-18, 322, 323 McGrath, A. 8, 231 McMahon, Frank 184 Mabel Downs Station 70, 138, 186,

216 Mackellar 196, 197 MacRobertson-Miller 166, 207 madness 59, 86, 283 Magabala Books 319 Magadal 249 Maggie 33 magic, magic persons 67, 68, 143,

192, 250, 254 mail 97, 114, 115, 159, 166, 197,

198, 206, 232, 289, 292, 309 Main Roads Department 70, 71,

140, 141, 143, 162, 163, 173, 178, 220, 234, 269, 290, 292, 294, 296, 311, 312 Major 16 Makeri, Don 31, 32, 50, 323 Makumbarrang 65 Malak Malak language 46 Malgnin language 93, 96, 97, 116, 237-39 Maliaga Station 160 Mandangala 67, 76 Mandi see Munniim Mandoora 125 Mantini 220 Maori 310 Maralam 245, 246 Maranboy 218 Marie (Daisy Burrwi's sister) 323

358 When the Dust Come in Between marriages 32, 33, 35, 49, 52, 73, 74,

79, 84, 112, 113, 124, 146-48, 161, 183, 201, 220, 232, 237, 238, 263, 277, 290, 292, 303 Mary, Sister 200 Marshall, Constable Gordon 161 Marshall, Keith and Edith 207 matches 64, 65 Maxwell Plain 60 meat works 100, 101, 104, 139, 160, 166, 201, 219, 226 Meekatharra 79, 80, 142 meetings 73, 89, 108, 114, 128, 133, 192, 242, 251, 258, 268-73, 285 Melbourne 117, 128, 130, 161, 163, 289 Melbourne Cup 161, 163 Merredin 205, 208 methodology 1-11, 22, 29, 45, 54, 55, 60, 63, 67, 93, 116-19, 129, 132-34, 155, 159, 195, 210, 213, 228, 236, 243, 247, 255, 261, 263, 264, 274, 284, 289, 319-21 Michael Downs Station 80 Middle Creek 246 Mike (Martha Laurie's husband)

246, 247 Mills, Mrs 169 Millie (Alfie Deakin's wife) 132 Milton, Arthur 220 Mina (Daisy Djanduin's daughter)

32, 33 mining, minerals 149, 285 Mirima Council 23-25, 50, 54, 59,

73, 75, 150, 238, 241, 242, 255, 256, 258, 260, 281, 263, 264, 267-74, 279, 280, 298, 320 Mirima Village 10, 23 Miriwung Centre 236, 237, 284 Miriwung language 3, 8, 15, 20-22, 24, 30, 38, 45-47, 51, 52, 54, 64, 66, 67, 79, 80, 83, 84, 89, 94, 96, 97, 108, 109, 113, 116, 124, 127, 132, 171, 181, 227, 237, 242, 249, 255, 256, 263, 268, 271, 278, 279, 320 Mirritji, J. 9 missions, missionaries 7, 64, 76, 145, 160, 165, 182, 183, 199, 201, 204,

ist take creek Station

116, 124, 125, 132, 192, 277, 311, 312 mixed descent 3, 6, 37, 40, 87, 138, 140, 164, 172, 173, 176, 178, 234, 235, 253, 256, 257, 259, 267, 278, 282, 293, 294, 297, 304-06, 311, 313, 318 mixed marriages 37, 53, 85, 148, 178, 258, 282, 304, 305, 310 Molly Spring 246 money 38, 131, 132, 139, 140, 148, 149, 152, 164, 174, 176, 177, 183, 184, 188, 189, 191, 192, 217, 236, 239, 255, 269, 271, 282, 283, 289, 291-93, 298, 307, 311, 317 Moola Bulla Station 16, 69, 79, 80, 81, 83, 138, 139, 161, 195-97, 199-201, 203, 290, 308, 309-12 Moonawaddi 139 Moraginni Station 290 Morris, E. 324, 325 mothers 46-48, 65, 80, 93, 94, 96, 127, 129, 132, 137, 159, 182, 195, 196, 198, 206, 209, 213, 227, 231, 232, 234, 236-38, 243, 249, 255, 263, 278, 289, 303, 304, 310 motor vehicles 25, 35, 54-56, 65, 75, 90, 93, 99, 101, 104, 107, 108, 110, 126, 131, 141, 162, 171, 173-75, 178, 186, 189, 190, 195-97, 199,207, 208, 217, 219, 221, 223, 231, 237, 240-42, 266, 268-72,278, 281, 284, 290-92, 299, 303, 311, 313, 316 Mount Amherst Station 306 Mount Cecil 255, 267, 279 Mount Isa 290 Mount Samford Station 290 movies see pictures Mud Spring 246 Mudbara language 127 Mudrooroo Narogin (Colin Johnson) 4 Muecke, S. 8, 9 Muggleton, Sam 214 Mulali 51 Mulga Jim 125 Mulga Sammy 125 Mulligan, Charlie 51, 108, 127, 254,

Index 359

269,270 Mulligan, Sandy 132 Mungala language 79

Mungung Dawang 10,25, 130,131 Muniim, Mandi 2,3,7,24,46,50,

53,56,81,82,87,94,108,109, 134, 170,242,243,245,249,253, 254,263,267,269,270,272,280, 320,322-24 Murinbada language 45,238 Murphy 269,270 Musso, Doctor 19 Myali 263 mythology 83,94,115-17 Namatjira, Albert 177 names and naming 30,46,80,118,

126,137,311 Nanggigurrungu language 46 Napoleon 60 National Aborigines Consultative Council (NACC) 295 Native Protectors 308,310 Native Welfare Department 166,

178,179,155,291,294,322 Naughton family 98,99,186 Naughton, Tony 99,186 Negri 284 New South Wales 190,297 Newcastle Waters 123,127,185,

218,307 Newry Peter 133 Newry Station 51,81,90,98,101,

103,113,126,130,132,133,160, 221,249,312,317,318 Ngabidj, Grant 2,3,5, 7, 8,16,24, 29,31,32,33,34,36-38,40-42, 170,320,322,323 Ngabidj, G. and Shaw, B. 16,40,42 Ngali(wuru) language 46,49,263 Ngarinman language 96,97,108, 109,115,116,124,192,238,254 Ngarrmoiyu 42 Ngunung, Peter 7,45-61,87,94, 253,270,299,322,323 Nicholson, Dave (Mangandji)

55,279 Nicholson, John 70 Nicholson station 82,238,281,296

Nida (Banggaldun's wife) 323 Nine Mile 220,247 Ningbing(i) Station 29-32,39,40,

42,43,216,217,246 Nipper (once Daisy Djanduin's husband) 31-33 Noonkanbah 26,75,207 Northam 207,208 North States 161 Northern Territory 14,19,49,70,

93,97,125,190,213,217,228, 263,290,303,304,306-08, 311-13,316 Nungga language 239 Nurungin, Joe (Bandioak) 108, 127, 255,320,321,323 Nutwood Downs Station 218 Nyigina language 159 Nyining language 238,303 N yul-Nyul language 79 Oakes, July 8,73,89,90,192,

242,253,288-300,323 O'Donnel (Donnel) Crossing

200,201 O'Donnell, William 14 old people 22,34,42,51,56,57,70,

74,80-82,84-86,89,93,96,102, 106,107,109,115,119,127,141, 150,170,172,188,192,213,225, 228,235,237,239,240,245,247, 250-56,260,268,271,273,277, 278-80,284,291,293,299,320 Oombulgurri 198-203,266,326 see also Forrest River Mission Ord River 13,20,65,67,83,221,

227,289 Ord River Gorge 21 Ord River Station 14,125,138,

185,207,214,215,218-20,238, 281,304 outstations 63,75,76,217,245,286 Packsaddle Plain 246,271 Paddy 108,133 Pannikin 94,117 paper bark 53,64 Pat (John Toby's brother) 76 Peggy see Dandji

360 When the Dust Come in Between pension(ers) 38, 87, 102, 106, 168, 170, 175, 225, 264, 290, 294, 313, 315 Pepper, P. 9 Peppermenarti 91 Perth 2, 13, 33, 51, 130, 132, 133, 149, 161, 163, 173, 176, 181, 182, 206, 207, 209, 225, 232, 233, 243, 267, 269, 290, 311, 320 Peterson, Jack 125 Philchowski, Rudolph 17, 34 Philip (Alfie Deakin's son) 133 photographs see pictures Phyllis (Michael Dinkum's wife) 255 pictures 116, 179, 240, 261, 293, 320, 321 Pilbara 20, 23 Pine Creek 19, 47, 214, 263 Point Camp 223 poisoning 48, 51, 55, 152 police, policemen 19, 32, 36, 47, 50, 56-59,87,88, 110, 111, 142, 145, 147, 151, 153, 160, 161, 165, 168, 172, 174, 209, 213, 250, 266, 271, 293, 294, 297, 299, 309, 311, 314-16, 318 police boys and patrolling 56-59, 87, 153, 160, 165, 174, 271, 273, 280, 299, 311 Police Hole 246 Pompey 215 population 14, 15 Port Augusta 80 Port Hedland 85, 175, 207 Port Keats 45, 47, 54, 238, 320 Porteus, S.D. 18 Prentice, M. 18 Presbyterian 164 priests 23, 25, 35, 51-55, 312 promised marriage 33, 52, 74, 84, 112, 113, 147, 251 Public Works Department (PWD) 21, 70, 140, 162, 173, 178, 187, 291, 292, 294, 295, 312 pubs 56-58, 86, 88, 101, 103, 107, 164, 170, 174, 189-91,213,220,228, 235, 260, 265, 266, 280, 314, 315 Queen Elizabeth 50 Queen Victoria 178

Queensland 51, 58, 67, 68, 115, 123, 125, 131, 138, 142, 143, 145, 216, 217, 223, 224, 228, 235, 290, 325 Quinlan, Albert 138 Quonban Station 159 race relations Aboriginal fear and distrust 85, 107, 109, 112, 149, 173, 241, 293, 315 common humanity and cooperation, theme of 7, 39, 53, 54, 88, 89, 141, 148, 152, 257, 259, 313 early days' violence 8, 15-17, 24, 34,39, 48, 55, 148, 152,225, 306 entrenched white attitudes 22, 69, 75, 109, 141, 164, 233-35, 240, 257,277, 281, 284, 293,295,314 going to the white side 138, 172 improved white attitudes 18,20,35, 39, 54, 100, 107, 111, 139, 141, 150, 176, 178, 189, 258, 277, 295, 310 taking children away 6, 7, 160, 196, 290 white station management 112, 171, 172, 281, 304, 307, 308, 317 radio see wireless rain 143, 162 Ramsey, Dora 74 Ramsey, Kathleen 74 Ramsey, Lola 74 Ramsey, Mona 74 Ramsey, Patrick 74 Ramsey, Ronny 74 Ramsey, Tracy 74 rape 153, 165, 316 Read, P. 9, 10 reading, writing 82, 90, 106, 114, 115, 117, 119, 133, 150, 182, 209, 214, 267, 274, 284, 290, 304, 305, 318 rebirth 263 Red Butte 115 Reece, B. 9 religion 17, 22, 23, 114, 115, 143-45, 147, 164, 188, 199, 289, 314 reserve 21, 23, 24, 37,50, 52,60, 71,

Index 361

74, 75, 82, 86, 88, 101, 102, 170, 173, 189,202,224-26,232,235-38, 242, 254, 255, 259, 261, 264, 270, 273, 278, 279, 281, 282, 284, 291, 312, 313, 317 Riddett, L. 9 Rigby's Caravan Park 169 Rita (Alfie Gerrard's wife) 220, 238 Rockhole Station 308 Roe, Paddy 9 Roebourne 233, 234, 239, 242 Roger (at Wyndham bombing) 167 Ronan, T. 161 Ronnie Carlton 25, 269, 270 Rosedale 217 Rosewood Station 14, 64, 68, 69, 81, 90, 97, 98, 103, 107, 111, 116, 125, 130, 181-88, 190, 219, 290, 306, 307, 317 Ross, H. and Bray, E. 319 Ross River 217 Rosser, B. 9 Roughse~,E. 9 Rowley, C.D. 15, 18 Rowse, T. 8 Rudd, Bill 217, 218 rum 37, 56, 108, 260, 283, 297 running away 35, 49, 109, 110, 113, 118, 209, 214 sacred/secret (travelling) cults 23,

51, 53, 81-83, 115-19, 192, 251-55, 271, 278, 280 salt water see coast Sam (Stan Brumby's son) 239 Sandefur, J. and J. 324 Sandstone 96, 98, 110 Sandy Mulligan 132 Saunders, P. 14 Saville, Jackie 176, 235 Schapper, H. P. 20, 23 Schnukal, A. 3 schools and schooling 40, 50, 73,

80, 89, 95, 97, 102, 110, 114, 115, 118, 119, 128, 141, 150, 161, 165, 178, 181, 187, 192, 196, 199, 206, 208, 209, 214, 220, 231-33, 235, 236, 240, 242, 249, 259, 263, 264, 267, 277, 284, 289, 290, 292,

296, 304, 305, 311, 313, 314 Scotsmen 93, 168 Second World War 18, 20, 24, 49,

80, 99-101, 129, 130, 138, 139, 141, 145, 183, 184, 197, 219, 303, 304, 307, 311-13, 315, 318 Sedan 217 Sennet, Murray and Schole 218 sex 87, 107, 114, 147, 151, 153, 184-86, 236, 252, 253, 258, 281, 282, 293 Sexton, Bob 215, 216 Sharp, D.M. 162 Shaw, B. 1-3, 7, 13, 16, 17, 19, 23, 25. 42 ~ h e b a(Alfie Deakin's wife's sister)

132, 292 Shedleys hostel 102, 225, 232 Shire Council 139, 244, 285, 295 Shirley (Sandy McDonald's granddaughter) 313 shootings 17, 34, 45, 48, 50, 55,

110, 112, 123-25, 142, 149, 151, 153, 188, 245, 249, 250, 311, 312 see also killings sickness 19, 34, 37, 48, 73, 104,

110, 118, 128, 133, 142, 163, 188, 219, 225, 251, 254, 260, 261, 264 Sid Djuluwal 38, 47 Silk, Charlie 221 Simon, Biddy 245, 246 Simon, Murphy 245 Six Mile (Wyndham) 152, 166, 167, 220 Skeen, Jack 308 skins 30-33, 49, 74, 79, 84, 94, 112, 113, 116, 118, 127, 146, 147, 182, 249, 263, 280 Skuthorpe, Billy (Bob) 98, 100, 221, 290 Slim Dusty 117 Smiley (relation of July Oakes) 292 Snake (sacred, Rainbow) 43, 46, 51, 65, 97, 112, 113, 116, 119 Soakies (Sophie?) Creek 215 songs 51, 89, 117 South Australia 216 Spain, Ernie 214 Spain, Phillip 214

362 When the Dust Come in Between Spain, Yuna 214 Spanish influenza 217 spears 45, 47-49, 54, 65, 66, 68,

74, 83, 84, 119, 147, 153, 192 spirits see devils sport 171, 175, 178, 179, 236, 237,

241, 289, 292 Spring Creek Station 16, 64-66,

98, 290 Springvale Station 113, 185 Stanner, W.E.H. 7, 10, 18 State Housing Commission 233, 244 stations 30, 34, 35, 39, 47, 48, 59,

64, 65, 69, 71, 75, 76, 79, 80, 85, 93, 95, 103, 105, 106, 112, 125, 138, 139, 150, 170-72, 175, 192, 214, 215, 224, 228, 231, 239, 242, 256, 261, 264, 266, 267, 270, 272, 291-93, 295, 296, 298, 304, 310, 312, 316, 317 Stokes 13 Stuart, Bill 186 Sturt Creek Station 82, 215, 296, 311 subincision 52, 74, 97, 251 subsections see skins sugar bag 35, 46, 65 Sullivan, Friday 267 Sullivan (O'Sullivan), Jack 2, 3, 8, 25, 109, 267, 322, 323 Sullivan, J. and Shaw, B. 17, 25 swimming 42, 51 Sydney 13, 128, 163, 214, 314, 281 Sydney (Jeffs son) 278, 281 Tangatjira Council 285 ~ a s m a i i a297 Tate, Don 75 Tatz, C. 26 taxis 36, 37, 88 Teddy Carlton 263 telegram see wireless telegraph see wireless telegraph line 311 television 161 Ten Mile (Wyndham) 168 Texas Downs Station 66, 70, 98,

116, 186, 214, 216, 289, 290, 292 Thompson, Dolly 133 Thompson Spring 41

Thompson, Tenny 199 Thoorrbiling, Ruby 29, 38-41, 324 Three Mile (Wyndham) 167, 171 Tiger 133, 317 Timber Creek 46, 47, 49, 51, 102,

Ill, 113 Timor 160 Tindale, N. 325-28, 330, 331,

333, 335 tobacco 40, 64, 69, 70, 86, 108, 110,

Ill, 129, 138, 141, 171, 183, 186, 283 Toby, Daulin 74 Toby, Deven 74 Toby, George 74 Toby, John 26, 62-76, 108, 323 Toby, Warren (deceased) 74 Tong Feng 197 Top Dam (Lake Argyle) 20, 40, 235,

289, 307 Topsy (Alfie Deakin's wife's sister)

132 tourists 22, 268, 278 Townsville 214. 217 tracking 43, 50, 87, 116, 160,

165, 174 Truscott Airport 162 Tunbridge, D. 9 Turkey Creek 10, 15, 26, 76, 80, 89,

108, 112, 246, 252, 263, 311, 319, 320 Turner, Lennie 133 Turner, Paddy 170 Turner Station 219 Twelve Mile (Wyndham) 93, 197 Ungarinyan language 19, 79, 88 unions 111, 186 United Aborigines' Mission (UAM)

35, 54, 84, 114 Urandangi 123, 131, 217 venereal diseases 19 Vesteys 138, 161, 172, 215, 216, 264,

277, 3-04 Victoria River 13, 14, 46, 51 Victoria River Downs Station

51, 254, 290, 319 Vietnam War 145

Index 363 violence 22,31,35,56,57,59,66,

153,171,172,178,189,224,233, 237,243,250,255,259,299,305, see also fighting, killing 308,312-16,318 Violet (Waddi's wife) 323 Wells, H.G. 15,16 Violet Valley Station 16 Wesley Spring 67 voting 20,26,259,314 West, I. 9 Western Australia 49,98,123,218, Wadaman language 46 249,286,303,304,307,311,318 Wadidja, Albert 33, 108,132 wet season (Wet) 17,38,64,71,72, wages 20,21,25,30,50,69,70,71, 81,91,95,98,102,105,140,172, 85,98,99,103,104,111, 130,138, 188,200,226,231,270,277, 139,160,163,164,171,174,183, 281, 313 185,186,188,191,216,217,219, whips 48,102,109,110,155,182 220,221,223,224-27,243,268, white backlash 295,296,300 269,271,290,291,296,306, white people 3,29,30,31,33,34, 312,315 35,37,39,46,47-50,52,53, wagons 93,137,201,218,219 55-58,68,69,75,81,84,89, Walbiri language 238,278 98,109 Walker, Biddy 213,215,223,323 see also race relations Walker, Johnny 2,3,24,38,94, 102,108,109,169,170,213-16, Wickham, Jim 14,125 219-21,223-27,273,320-23 Widdell, Steve 187 Wallace (father of two of Daisy's Wilkes, G.A. 324,329 children) 31-33 Willanggu language 88 Wallambain 16,17,34 Willaroo 48,50 Wangga 32,51,53,83,203 Williams, Harry 185 Wanneroo Club 176 Willis, P. 25, 130,232,256,267-69 Ward, Ben 26,246,269,276-86, Wilson, Tom 75 319,321,323 Wiluna 80,142 Ward, Jimmy 221,278 winan 51,251,255 Waringari Language Centre 319 wine 37,56,260 Waringarri Aboriginal Arts 320 Winters, Dick 138 Waroona Station 290 Winton 217 Warragil (Alfie Deakin's son) 132 wireless 93,130,167,214,311 Warrman community 10,26,64,76 wives 36,74,91,107,113,124,132, Watchtower 144 140,146,147,161,174,183, water 14,39,60,82,138,165,175, 185-87,220,221,225,234,240, 185,202,244,264,305 245,250,254,291-93,310, Waterloo Station 14,93,94,96,97, 313,316 103, 105,110,113,116,118,124, women 7,8,29,31,33,35,36,42, 125,128-30,219 45,46,55,58,65,69,74,81-84, Wattie Creek 116 87,97,115,124,151,165,175, Wave Hill Station 14,185,215,216, 178,184, 186, 192,223-26,233, 218,219,303,307 234,236,237,250-52,255,258, Weaber Billy 16,31, 125,216,217 271,282,293,295,303,319 Weaber, Jimmy 16,125,216 Woodland, Jack 196 Weaber Plain 16 Woods (pilot) 166 Webber, Jack 264 welfare 22,23,36,50,90,111, 129, Woodward (Commissioner) 297 88,97,170,174,182,205,225

364 When the Dust Come in Between work attitudes towards 105, 107, 258, 259. conditions 35, 38, 64, 69, 70, 82, 85, 95, 99, 103, 107, 109, Ill, 130, 170, 190, 196, 197, 208-10, 225-28, 239, 284, 291, 296, 304 move to stations 29, 30, 40 non-station work 35, 73, 90, 197, 205, 232-34, 242, 244, 269-72, 274, 281 places of 29, 31, 32, 39, 42, 48-50, 68, 70, 79, 81, 82, 91, 93, 101, 113, 129, 137-41, 143, 160-63, 169, 173-75, 182-85, 187, 217-21, 249, 263, 264, 277, 289, 290, 306-08, 312, 318 retirement 50, 179, 193 Worora language 19, 88, 181 Wotjulum 19 writing see reading, writing Wuladjau language 76 Wunambal language 14, 19, 51, 79, 8 181, 182 Wundarri 42, 43 Wungabal (Attack Spring) 43 Wurramu 43 Wyndham 14, 17, 19, 22, 24,33, 39, 42, 47, 49-51, 53, 59, 64, 69-72,

76, 87, 88, 93, 98-100, 102, 110, 112, 126, 128-30, 138, 139, 142, 143, 154, 159, 161-63, 166, 167, 169, 170-72, 174, 178, 181-83, 185-90, 196, 197, 201, 207, 216, 219-21, 223, 224, 231, 232, 234, 235, 238, 240, 241, 244, 246, 247, 257, 258, 264, 266, 280, 291, 293, 206, 304, 311-15, 318 Wyndham Courthouse Records 16 x-rays 142, 254 Yadangalm see Dingo Spring Yilngali(wuru) language 46, 49, 108, 263 Yiralalam 60 York 209 Young, Howard 140 young people 26, 35-38, 49, 51, 52, 54-56, 59, 73, 74, 82, 83, 85-88, 94, 96, 100, 101, 103, 105-07, 109, 110, 115, 117, 119, 125, 140, 141, 145, 150, 153, 154, 171, 175, 182, 188, 191, 192, 225, 226, 228, 235-37, 243, 250-54, 256, 261, 267, 270, 271, 273, 279, 280, 284, 290, 203, 294, 299, 315-17, 321 Yugoslavs 178 Yuna Spring 245 Yundabain 34