The KJ Report

Rising and Falling Action

Yes, I took a bit of a hiatus from blogging these past few weeks. My apologies if you’ve been addictively hanging on every word. I’m sure by now you’re aware that I’m far from Australia at this point and playing catch-up with the verbage. So, dammit, let’s catch up.

When I left you to your withdrawal, my work in the bush had officially come to an end with a late night celebratory meal. Of course that’s not the end of the adventure. I mean, think about who’s story it is you’re reading. That said, Sunday was pretty uneventful.  When we, or least I, finally got up (after my mood from the night before, I think Seb was afraid to wake me), and did the math on what we’d need to accomplish in order to be in Darwin at a reasonable time, we came to the simple conclusion that the material we’d collected would have to suffice. There was no way that we’d be able to explore last minute sessions with IBr or M. The math: 4 hr drive + [2 copies x 5 DVDs x 30 min.] + [3 copies x10 CDs x 10 min.] + 3 glasses of wine with dinner = incomprehensible fatigue + unconditional surrender.

Monday was the day for returning all the rental equipment and the 4WD, packing my ridiculously heavy bags, shopping for a didgeridoo and getting to the airport on time for my flight back to Melbourne. Should be pretty relaxing, no? Except, remember that incomprehensible fatigue factor?  Multiply that by one frighteningly, cheerfully racist rental proprietress, one Herculean self-car wash session, one indescribably ridiculous $300 charge for a 3 inch scratch in the paint and the attending fight with the rental agent [your favorite expletive-laced insult here], one distressing phone call home in which I discovered that I’d missed my daughter’s departure for sleep away camp and one inexplicable six hour flight delay at the none-too-comfortable Darwin airport. Temper that with several double espressi and the purchase of a truly wonderful didgeridoo and you may have some idea how I felt when I crawled from the back of the cab at Ormond College, University of Melbourne, in the middle of the night on Tuesday morning.

No idea when I got up on Tuesday. All I know is that I started on laundry while I continued working on the CD and DVD factors from “the equation”  - what? You thought I finished that stuff up in Darwin? So you didn’t actually do the math, did you? That evening, amid the my growing exhaustion and the beginnings of an annoying case of walking pneumonia, I had the pleasure and honor of playing a really lovely, sensitive, quiet improv set with Adam Simmons (sax), Eugene Ughetti  (perc.), Mark Cauvin (d. bass) and Caerwin Martin (cello) at the Make It Up Club, a regular Tuesday night happening where Australia’s best improvisers are given free reign to try new things in front of an enthusiastic and supportive audience. (unabashed plug – if you’re in Melbourne – go check it out. If you see any of these musicians names on concert posters, go and listen. On a CD, buy it.)

Although the rest of this, my last week in Australia, was no less eventful, it was a bit of a hyper-exhausted blur. Lots more burning of CDs and DVDs, another gig with Adam Simmons and Eugene Ughetti in another charmingly gritty venue (Horse Bazaar), a now-imperative trip to a Chinese herbalist, many doses of truly grotesque tasting tea, a presentation on my work to the faculty of Ormond College in the nicely appointed and highly Harry Potter-esque Senior Common Room, a couple planning meetings for future visits to the land down under, and very likely a healthy dose of sleep walking.

At the end of it all, I managed to catch a 4 am cab at the same curb where I could swear I’d crawled out just a couple of hours earlier. The airport staff maintained it’s reliable and consistent, if not comforting, ritual dance – insistence by the staff that my trombone would have to be checked, searches through the electronics, cutting deals with supervisors to avoid fees for overweight baggage, eventual begrudging acknowledgment that the ground crew has final say over my trombone, pleasant banter with the security agents, starbucks on the way to the gate, another negotiation over my designed-specifically-to-fit-easily-in-the-overhead-trombone-case, the arrival of the annoyed-for-being-bothered-with-something-that-so-obviously-fits-safely-in-the-overhead ground crew chief, and finally finding my built-for-members-of-the-pygmy-tribes-of-Africa seat.

If you’ve been following the entire trek from the beginning, you know that from Australia I would be heading to Japan. However you also know that my flight pattern was… well, eccentric. So the plane I fought my way onto in the last paragraph was actually flying to LA. I know. Wrong direction. But from LA I would be able to change planes and head to… (dramatic sigh) San Francisco. Still not exactly the direct route. But in San Francisco I had the advantage of a 24 hour and 18 minute layover (does that still count as a “layover”, or is it actually a “stay” at that point?).  I say advantage, because it allowed me the serendipitous opportunity to visit with my uncle and two cousins and to meet each of their darling babies for the first time (my cousins’ babies – my uncle is thankfully baby free).

Eventually it was back to the airport for one more glorious check-in tango before actually getting on a plane headed to Tokyo (no shit!). I’d love to describe what a joy it was to be on a plane headed for my actual destination, except that a couple of hours in, we hit tremendous turbulence. I don’t mean the little rattle your tray table type of turbulence. I mean flight attendants on the floor, food flying, people screaming turbulence. About the time the attendants got the mess cleaned up and people calmed down, we hit another pocket complete with altitude loss (woo hoo! – think the Haunted Hotel elevator ride). When the plane stopped shaking this time, the captain came on and informed us that the seat belt sign would stay on for the rest of the flight – so if we hadn’t used the bathroom yet, we should try to hold it (only about 10 more hours to go). I suppose I was one of the lucky ones. I hadn’t received my food yet, so didn’t have to wear it for the rest of the flight.

By the way – my trombone did not fall out of the overhead bin and kill anyone.

Next blog – it’s on to Japan (yes, the plane landed safely and despite my persistent cough I wasn’t detained or quarantined)

Arnhem Land Day 14

Saturday (July 11^th) 

This part of the adventure is almost over. Come what may, this will have to be our last day in Barunga. It’s hard to believe both that it’s only been two weeks and that it’s already been two weeks. Although I was confident that work would be done today, I woke up with a great deal of trepidation as to whether there’s any way to finish with enough Jawoyn material without having to rely on our final post-church session with IBr.

I think for the first time, Seb and I were moving at the same pace in the morning. More miraculous – so were the ladies. When we got the 4WD fired up, MK was already hobbling down the dusty street on her skinny little barefoot legs. Quite an amazing sight first thing in the morning with her wild snow white hair, too-wide open eyes, and floral, nightgown-like house dress. QB was also raring and ready to go. We knew they were serious today because they had even shuttled all the kids off elsewhere before we arrived. I think Seb and I both found it touching that they were intent on making us happy.

It’s funny how our best days of work make for the shortest entries here (and vice versa).  We went back to “Up Top” and launched into recording. For those of you who are gearheads, I know I haven’t discussed my recording techniques much here – these are the basics (if you could care less about this sort of thing, just skip to the next paragraph). I’m doing stereo high definition single-bit recording using a Korg MR-1000 field recorder fed by a Shure FP33 field mixer. In the early sessions I was using mostly a pair of Shure lavalier mics panned hard left and right. I figured this would allow me to separate the voices onto different tracks if I needed to later in the process. However since all of our recording was being done outside and there were always going to be a variety of constant environmental sounds I found it was at least more interesting, and hopefully smarter, to embrace those sounds. I switched to the Shure VP88 stereo condenser and stuck to a straight, close mic-ed natural stereo sound, which I think worked beautifully. It eliminated issues such as cable noise (from movement or fidgeting on the part of the wearer) and simplified the back-up and archiving process (no need to copy tracks, or alter pan for the sake of later listening). Ok. Enough of that. If you want to know more equipment or set-up details, you can email me.

Here’s the real story of the day – the ladies worked tirelessly all day long. We took occasional breaks to move our tarp out of the sun or make tea or eat. By late afternoon, besides the cramping in my ass from sitting on the ground for hours at a time, I was beginning to feel guilty. But the ladies were very much grooving on being able to choose for themselves what was most important to get on the record. QB told a fabulous account of buffalo hunting with her first husband. He was an abusive son-of-a-bitch, but QB had surprisingly good sense of humor about it all, talked about how he was always giving her a hard time, telling her she was going to get killed by one of the buffalo because she was too fat to run or climb a tree. So now we know that her weight isn’t a function of her age.

Toward the end of the day the ladies moved away from just telling stories – they decided they wanted to interview one another about their childhoods. It was very touching to witness the closeness of their friendship as they led one another through the conversation. They sang one of their favorite church hymns in 3 different languages. It was a familiar hymn that I knew through playing church gigs in Spanish speaking churches in New York which was made fresh and new, not just by the unfamiliar sounds of the languages, but the beautifully endearing and intensely honest lack of any tonal center, constantly shifting pitch and, hmm… unique application of harmony.  Finally they said a prayer in Dalabon and then Jawoyn. To be honest, I’m not sure who was having more fun or feeling more satisfaction, them or us.

Eventually it was time to go – the ladies would need to chase down their many charges. Seb and I needed to be back in Katherine that evening, if for no other reason than I wanted to have a nice dinner out and do some drinking to our success. So after some warm goodbyes, a bit of last minute packing and a final cup of coffee over at Long Tall Doug’s, we found our way back onto  the road to Katherine one last time.

When we got back to Seb’s, between one of his roommates visiting family, a full and happy house, a nicely roaring fire in the back, the joys of a hot shower, the drink before going drinking, by the time we headed for the restaurant, unbeknownst to me, they had all already closed for the night. Yes. 9pm on a Saturday night in Katherine it is not possible to have a meal cooked for you by someone else.

If you know me a little bit by now though, you’ll be assured to know that I was not to be deprived of a celebratory meal on this, my last night. Woolies (that’s Woolworth’s, the main grocery store chain in many parts of Australia), thank god, was still open. At least you can be certain that the kangaroo meat will always be fresh in the Northern Territory. There were shallots, eggplant and mushrooms (ok, there was only one type of mushroom, but they were reasonably fresh), ash chevre and fresh dates and nicely ripe cherry tomatoes (to be served together), and a single decent bunch of  basil and another of mint, and finally – spears of baby asparagus. A bottle of white wine to finish the sauce, and we had the promising potential of a well-prepared dinner. When we got back, my mood and determination were such that a large, strong, pretty pink drink was poured for me (I can’t remember what it was) and I got to work in the kitchen. After an hour of chopping, sautéing, steaming (which was tricky without a steamer), marinating, dollop-ing, grilling and flaming it was proven beyond a doubt that there are few dishes that can’t be made more elegant by the inclusion of fresh dates AND kangaroo meat does not deserve it’s reputation for toughness. What it deserves is to be treated with respect and cooked with the aplomb that Julia C would have done if she’d had the opportunity (I know it’s not fair to rest of the TV chefs of the world to name JC – but she does seem to be on everyone’s minds these days). By the end of the meal my mood had come back to a place more fitting for the successes of the last two weeks 

Arnhem Land Day 13

Friday (July 10^th)

So let’s see how carefully you’ve been following my exploits over the past two weeks. Knowing the reputions of both MBn and IBr along with their activities and general reliability over the past two days, what is the probably that either or both will be available, findable and willing to work with us today? Seb and I placed it at an optimistic 20%.

Don’t feel all smug, just because you’re a cynic. MBr, it turns out, had taken a surprise trip to Barunga, so maybe we’ll see her again when we head back there on Friday. IBr we were able to locate at a house in Rock Hall (not one we’d visited before, remarkably enough) so we should at least get points for that. However she wasn’t able to work with us as she’d been told she needed to spend the night at the hospitable and was being picked up soon. No idea why. She wasn’t telling. She did tell us that she wanted to do more work though (so much for reticence), but the only time she’d be available was Sunday after church. So now we’re double booked for Sunday, one day past our scheduled stay.

I know it seems like this should have been a quick and simple thing, the discovery that we wouldn’t be recording, yet again. But by the time we got back to Seb’s place and got set up for more back-ups and documentation it was already 3 in the afternoon (big sigh and shrug of the shoulders).  At about 3:01 Seb’s phone rang with the news that QB was finished with all her government work and ready for her limousine to take her back to Barunga (it’s not at all like that – she was extremely gracious and lovely, as always). Getting out of town was about as efficient as the rest of the day, with a stop here, someone to meet there, money to be picked up somewhere else, munchies for the car yet to be bought, etc. etc. etc. Eventually we got on the road, and left behind the gathering storm that was Katherine on a Friday night. 

The trip back to Barunga was largely uneventful, except for one discussion in which QB expressed some confusion over her pay. It’s difficult to bring home the depth to which cultural differences concerning issues of money, work and time affect working relationships between our two cultures, the hunting and gathering communal world of the aborigine and the capital and calendars world of the whitefella. QB began the conversation by telling about some of the other work she'd done in the past concerning storytelling and recording and translation – in particular, she told us about working with a linguist who was looking for precise translations of song texts. It seems that it was difficult work and very slow going. So slow in fact, that they didn’t even finish one whole song their first day. QB made the point that she didn’t think her work that day was particularly good – after all they had little to show for it. But she was paid a significant sum. Then she made the point that she thought she was doing excellent work for us – having recorded several long, well-told, compelling stories just the night before, but wasn’t paid nearly so much for them. When we tried to explain to her that we had consulted that other linguist regarding what our pay rates should be, and that we were paying her exactly the same rate per hour as the other linguist, she got angry with us. She said “I blana hear no more ‘bout ‘per hour’!” This is a very bright woman we’re talking about. One of the most well-known and well-respected in that region for her ability with the various languages and for her ability to move between the cultures in a way that was advantageous to both. But counting time is just not something she or anyone around her had ever needed to do. Basing the amount of money one was paid on the amount of time that passed was a completely and utterly ridiculous concept to her. One that she was, so far, unable to accept as a reality. How much work was completed. That was meaningful. How many stories were told. The quality of the stories and the storytelling. Those things were meaningful.

Seb and I did our best to help her understand our whitefella way of thinking about time and money, why it when she only worked 2 hours, even if she accomplished great things, she would only be paid one quarter what she'd be paid for 8 hours, even if there was nothing to show for that work in the end.  It was clear she was going to need to think about it, sleep on it, roll it around in her brain for a bit. I couldn’t help thinking about how much work I knew of that she’d done for other people and being blown away by the realization that she had little or no ability to account for the fairness of the people she was working for beyond gut instinct. Which begs the unanswerable question of which is the superior system.

When we arrived at Barunga it was Friday night. Which means it was loud. No I mean really LOUD. There were speakers set up outside on the far side of the football pitch (or somewhere) pounding out the latest tunes. I’m not sure who was listening from any closer than I was, but I’m assuming there was a social function attached that involved people from other nearby communities as well as Barunga. Within a short time we were able to gather the ladies together to talk about getting some work done. MK was in a good mood and seemed not to be in a formal state of mourning, which I took to be a positive. However she and QB and MB were clearly in more of a party mood than a work mood, and said they didn’t want to go looking for a quiet spot this late in the day (sound familiar?). Lot’s of promises were made for how much work would be done on Saturday, but we were reaching a point of desperation,knowing that Saturday was indeed our last chance with these ladies. We were not happy when we left them to their dinners and I’m sure it was apparent.

No time to waste though. The evening was spent burning DVDs and CDs in preparation for making deposits of all of our recordings at various archives. It’s a very slow and tedious process and we barely scratched the surface. Lot’s of anxiety as we bed down for the night. 

Arnhem Land Day 12

Thursday (July 9^th) 

I know you don’t need to hear about our morning routine again, so I’ll just get on with it. Our trip back to Rock Hall for another session with IBr and MBn began with the kids on the jungle gym car, and wound it’s way in a distinctly goose-on-the-run sort of path through the entire community, from house number 8 to 36 to 28 to… well, I don’t really remember them all.  The point is that where people stayed in Rock Hall seemed to change from day to day and neither of the ladies was where we expected. MBn, we eventually found, but she wasn’t feeling well enough to work. IBr simply wasn’t anywhere to be found. We let MBn know that we’d come back tomorrow and she assured us that both she and IBr would be ready and able then. A couple of the folks we spoke to in Rock Hall thought IBr might have gone to the doctor. So, knowing how rides can sometimes work and not work, we decided to see if we could find her at one of the clinics. This led to another fleeing goose pattern of travel with predictably unsatisfying results. It was just going to be one of those days, it seemed.

We decided to try to make decent use of our time and dropped into the office of Katherine Regional Arts to visit with the director, Meg Geritz. Seb and I had filled lots of our time in the car entangled in lengthy esoteric conversations about the state of the arts, composing, social policy and a range of other marginally pertinent subjects - Seb had thought Meg and I might hit if off and have some useful ideas for one another. Quite a good call. I found Meg to be sharp, focused and extremely well-suited to her role there. Katherine, despite a remote location and relatively low population does have some serious assets that, with the right leadership (Meg?…) could be used to generate some real interest among artists and some economic development for the area. I shared some observations I had about the potential use of local good will combined with abundant natural beauty and available semi-industrial space for the creation of artist residencies as a foundation for community development. We talked through some of the challenges facing arts management in a rural area, especially one which is an epicenter for such a clash of cultures. We also discussed ideas for local tie-ins and performance possibilities for the languages project. Finally we talked with Seb a bit about professional approaches to launching some solid project ideas that he’s come up with (getting back to positive use of local assets…). All in all, it turned out to be a really productive talk and an excellent use of time.

As an aside – just near the building where Katherine Regional Arts has it’s offices there’s a tall, round, large tree. Possibly the largest I’d seen in Australia. On first glance it had large, very, very dark leaves that made a queer sort of soft shrieking sound at the slightest breeze. Weird eh? I thought so too. I mean, what kind of tree looks like that and makes a sound like that? 

The answer is none. 

Only a tree that is jam packed from the 100 foot up highest branch down to the lowest sagging limb, from trunk to tips with large, black, leathery, hanging-upside down, poised-for-flight bats could look and sound like that. Take a moment. Picture it. Is your skin crawling yet? Brrrgghhechhhhghhhaghgh.

There’s still lots of time left to the day and considering the morning's events we decided it’s time to hedge our bets a little bit. Seb knows another aboriginal man, a local artist, who speaks Mayali as well as passable (?) Dalabon. We agreed that we should pay him a visit to see if he’ll be available to do some work with us anytime before we have to head back up to Darwin. ML is a relatively young man, at least compared to everyone else we’ve worked with so far. He works at a local art gallery just a little bit outside of town.  This gallery is a good example of the challenges facing an outsider with a desire to be culturally sensitive – while it’s a very nice facility on well maintained and picturesque grounds with a broad range of art, didgeridoos and memorabilia, I wasn’t entirely comfortable with, hmmm…. the vibe. First of all, there is plainly and clearly no aboriginal ownership, shared or otherwise. And there’s no getting around that fact. As with all art – discerning quality and authenticity in aboriginal works can be difficult for the neophyte and it was not clear to me how this establishment was not taking advantage of that fact. Beyond the obvious though, the gallery seems to cater mostly to tour buses and the like and, at least on the surface, there’s no open transparency about how business is done or questions of fairness to the artists.  That said – ML works there, painting and leading tours and I’m not certain what else. He is a amiable fellow, with an easy smile and a hard to discern expression that at once puts you at ease and makes it clear that he is not one to trust or be taken advantage of easily. After introductions and brief explanations (you know the deal) ML let us know that he’d be ok with doing some work, but the only time he’d be available would be Sunday morning. This will change our departure plans again. ML let us know that he’d have to think about whether he’s willing to do any stories in Dalabon, but Mayali is no problem, and we left him to his work.

So now the plan is this – call our rental folks to see if we can bring our stuff back a day late. We’ll head back to Darwin on Sunday evening. I’ll get Seb to his bus early on Monday morning and be on my own to return the 4WD and get myself to the airport by mid-afternoon. Piece of cake.

With nothing much else to do we headed home and I caught a much needed nap, expecting to also be able to get in a bit of practicing in the late afternoon. But just about the time I had my horn out and was beginning to make friends with the wallabies in the yard again… none other than QB called, ready and anxious to do some recording. Back in the 4WD, a quick trip to QB’s hotel and then off to an outdoor spot we’d arranged for just this scenario – R’s place. R’s place is an amazing example of what draws people to live in an area like Katherine. First of all, it sits in a lovely, unusually lush grove of trees on the top of the tallest local hill, with commanding views of the countryside. The house isn’t really actually a house. As is common to the area, it’s more of a customized trailer with an extra garage-like roof built over it. This helps it last much longer and especially makes it quieter in the rainy season, when it rains hard pretty much all the time. I know. So far it’s doesn’t really sound that cool. So here’s the thing. When it’s not rainy season, R doesn’t actually live in the trailer – it’s where she keeps her stuff, but on the back side, the side with the views, are broad sliding doors leading to a stone patio. At one end of the patio is a fantastic outdoor bath and shower. At the other end is a queen sized four poster bed with lovely gauzy colorful material draped from a ring high overtop to keep the mosquitoes at bay. It’s positively the stuff of fairy tales.

So we had a very nice session with QB in which she told several dreaming stories in both Dalabon and Kriol. Although the Kriol will not be much use to me, Seb thought it would be of interest to linguists and it seemed to be important to QB. When it got dark, the mosquitoes began to bite so we called it quits and headed home to our never-ending back-ups and documentation.

A full and productive day considering all the goose trails.

local hospitality at work  - this is the welcome sign at the driveway next to R''s place

Arnhem Land Day 11

Wednesday (July 8^th) 

Today I woke up with a real sense of urgency. Only three days left for recording and I’m not at all certain that I either have or will have all that I’ll need to make these pieces work. The plan was to head to Rock Hall “first thing”. Seb and I never seem to have the same sense of time on the same days, but the yin and yang nature of that has worked in our favor so far. This contentious balance remained in evidence today as well. I’m not certain what time we showed up, but Rock Hall seemed to be getting a sleepy start this morning. Today we drove into the community and headed for the house where HBr had told us they would be.

Rock Hall is similar to the other communities we’ve visited, although a bit rougher around the edges. When I think about it, I mean that quite literally. House #8 is a vaguely white house that sits almost at the end of a dead end street toward one extreme of the community limits. The scruffy, weedy sort of grass growing in the fenced yard was unkempt and patchy. Next door, at the last house on the block, there was an old white car without any wheels sitting in the yard facing up the street, like the carcass of one of the dead steer we’d seen along the highway. All of it’s windows were smashed out (which, I couldn’t helping thinking, must have been great fun when it was done). I had the sense, later confirmed, that this wreck would make a splendid jungle gym for the local kids.

We could hear the sound of a television coming from inside the house, but there was no sign of anyone stirring. We called from out by the fence (the proper and polite way to approach an aboriginal person’s home). No response. So we walked into the yard a bit (Seb checking my opinion on the relative protectiveness of the dogs first – they were sweet and friendly and useless as guard dogs); Seb called again; no response. Hmmm. Then a 4WD drove up with one whitefella and one blackfella and a bunch of equipment in the back. Turns out it was grass trimming day and they’d be starting right there. Maybe my assessment of unkemptness was premature. It wasn't at all clear who arranged or paid for the trimming of the grass, but I had to assume it was part of a government sponsored, entrepreneurial based jobs program.  We asked the two fellas if they knew if anyone was home today. They questioned us halfheartedly and uncaringly about whether the folks inside knew we were coming. When we explained we’d spoken with them about it yesteday, the blackfella just shrugged and went on with hauling his industrial strength weed-whacker out of the back. The whitefella, a young guy, probably in his early twenties, with the telltale tan, backwards baseball cap and stylish sunglasses that are universal in the yard care industry casually said “why don’t you just go up and bang on the door? They’ll answer if they wanna talk to you”. Ahhh, the intricacies of cultural diplomacy at work.

But of course, in the end, that’s exactly what we did.

I suppose I should point out that aboriginal folks generally do not "greet" one another the way white folks do. They talk to you if they need to or want to. Otherwise folks are expected to leave one another be. So in this case, it wouldn't be considered rude to simply not answer the door if the people inside decided they didn't want to speak to us.

First knock. No answer, but faint sounds of movement. Second knock, more movement. Still no answer. Brief discussion between Seb and I. Another, more insistent knock. More rustling and the door finally opens to a naked little boy, maybe four years old. Then a moment later his slightly older sister. Brief questions as to whether HBr was at home and eventually a shirtless D came to the door – you remember, the smiling friendly fellow from the day before. After a fair amount of discussion and bustle and children coming in and out and dragging of things out of the house and sending children here an there and yelling to neighbors houses and other assorted similar activities, most of which I didn’t understand in the least, Seb and I and D and IBr and a 20-ish granddaughter who we hadn’t met before all sat down to talk, along with the naked boy and his sister on the tiny dusty little porch in front of the house. At least some of the bustle had been successfully aimed at finding a broom to take care of that dust. D was a lovely host.

After the usual explanations and questions about who I am and the project, etc., it was revealed that although neither HBr or D would be available to help us today. So, with no small amount of encouragement from D, it was decided that the granddaughter would accompany us instead.  It was also revealed that there was another Jawoyn speaker there in Rock Hall who would certainly be interested the work and of great help in getting IBr speaking. This was big news. Seb and I later agreed that we don’t know what we would have done without D there to actively and willingly make things happen, including sending for MBn, who after what must have been a search of the whole community on the part of one of the little girls, turned out to be staying right next door in the house with the automobile jungle gym.

Once the whole crew was there, it was a relatively simple process of getting everyone organized and it was decided the most prudent approach would be to talk to the people at the Katherine Language Center about using their facilities for the day. Although this is probably my first mention of the Katherine Language Center, it has, in fact, been a topic of our discussions often during my time in Arnhem Land and before. For example, well prior to my arrival in Australia, we were led to believe that the language center would be providing us with a 4WD for the span of our work at very low cost. However when the time came to solidify those plans, there was quite a bit of hemming and hawing and making of excuses and uncertainty about the availability of those vehicles, or even when there might be certainty about their availability, and whether they might need servicing and whether that would need to happen exactly when we would hope to use one and on and on. Now I know what that sort of conversation indicates when I’m speaking to say, a New York City garbage disposal company whose services I’ll need in order to avoid a fine, or a maitre d’ at a fine restaurant with obviously available tables. I don’t want to imply that anything untoward was going on. But I do know that there had been recent wholesale turnover in staff at the center, that people as far away as Melbourne mentioned that I might want to be cautious if I had occasion to have dealings with them, and that most of the aboriginal language speakers who we’d worked with to date had chosen not to have the recordings of their sessions archived there. In the end, they did not provide us with our 4WD and I ended up having to scramble to even find an available vehicle to rent ($2400 for two weeks - ouch!). 

But up to this point, our in-person dealings with the Katherine Language Center had been quite generous. They had been providing access to things such as copy machines and paper for printing of all of our paperwork. On this particular day, they were, once again, gracious and accommodating, offering use of the facility for the day and even discussing providing us with a key in case we needed it after hours to work with QB. This was something that would simplify our process immensely and we would just need to hope not to create any situations that might result in the appearance of Seb’s being somehow indebted to them. After all, he would be staying in Katherine long term and presumably doing more language work in the area in the future.

That said, the recording studio at the Katherine Language Center is a home grown affair consisting of a narrow carpeted room with a  drop ceiling, table and thankfully non-squeaking chairs, some basic recording equipment, foam insulation around the doors, and walls covered with cardboard egg cartons to dampen the sound. And it almost works. Other than a noisy air conditioner and a door connecting to the industrial-size garage attached to the language center building (which, short of an equally industrial-size sealed and insulated door, kills the effectiveness of many of the soundproofing attempts), it’s a respectable effort which will serve our purposes well for as long as Katherine is our base of operations.

Ok, so you know the drill by now. Paperwork and explanations followed by food and eventually getting down to the business of recording the language. On this day, Seb did the paperwork with the ladies while I ran errands. We needed some different food (a note on that in a moment), and I can admit with shame that I let MBn give me some money to pick up cigarettes for her. In my defense, I did soundly lecture her on the evils of smoking. To which she responded by telling us that some of the other linguists she’d worked with in the past had actually paid for cigarettes for her!! (shame shame shame. MBn mentioned names, but I won’t do that here - you know who you are…)

To give a clear idea why I needed to go pick up some different food requires a description of IBr and MBn. First, IBr is quite elderly, although, as always, it’s impossible to pinpoint her age. Like all of the aboriginal folks I’ve met, she generally walks barefoot on gnarled and calloused feet that twist in a bit. It’s hard to tell whether the twisting is the cause or the result of a heavy hitch in her measured steps. She has straight, lank, white hair that falls about to her shoulders, which is striking enough. But her most noticeable feature is unfortunately her teeth. Oral hygiene is a relatively new concept in the communities. So while many of the younger aboriginal folks have enviably beautiful, straight white teeth, most of the older folks I met have dramatically rotted, misaligned, painful looking teeth and gums. IBr  presented the most exaggerated example of this to date. Her gums had receded severely to the point where she had lost several teeth and those that remained were losing their alignment. She had one front tooth on the top that seemed to be exposed all the way to the root and looked absolutely precarious. Then there was the fact that she was distinctly hard of hearing and the battery on her hearing aid had died. Which made her, well, a little bit crabby.

MBn I would have to describe as a fairly standard issue feisty old lady of the loud and chain smoking variety. I later learned that she had a reputation among some language workers as a bit of a drinker who could be unreliable or difficult to work with as a result. That wasn’t my experience of her on this occasion.

The real question, though, is what kind of recording work could be accomplished between MBn’s  general lack of discipline and IBr’s general lack of, well, hearing. I can’t say there weren’t some problems – IBr and MBn occasionally fought like, you guessed it, a couple of old ladies, and MBn especially had problems sticking to one language over the course of any given narrative, and we had to stop now and then to wait for a truck to finish passing by.  Overall, I think the material we managed to record was quite unique and of generally good quality. However I’m still worried about the amount and diversity of material that we have. So in the end we hustled the ladies back to Rock Hall, scheduled another time for more recording in the morning and headed back to Katherine to see about getting in an evening session with QB.

Again, it wasn’t to be. Seb spoke with QB’s daughter who asked us to drop by and “cheer her up”. Which we did. I’m not really certain what had her upset, but she genuinely seemed to appreciate us dropping by her hotel and hanging out with her for a while. There was definitely no recording to be done, but, QB promised to make it happen. We’ll see. We did manage to arrange to be the ones to drive her back to Barunga on Friday in the late afternoon. Which means adjusting our plans a bit for when and how we’ll be returning the 4WD and whatnot, but we figure that Saturday in Barunga will be our best last chance to get some serious work accomplished. 

Arnhem Land Day 10

Despite the occasional cramping and lack of appetite, I felt pretty normal today. Good enough energy to get back to work. Although Seb is a little hesitant to go off to a community where we’ve had no prior contact and he doesn’t know anyone in particular, I insisted we make the trip out to Rock Hole to seek out the Jawoyn speakers. It's now Tuesday, and having missed what amounts to two full days, I'm becoming very anxious about our total amount of material collected, especially in light of the uncertainty about what we may or may not accomplish over the course of the rest of the week.

As an aside – how are you trying to pronounce that language? It’s always best to just take a guess. I’ve found there are differences of opinions even among the very few speakers of our chosen languages as to what they ought to be called, let alone linguists, or god forbid, the general public. Don’t even start me on alternate spellings (for example Dalabon and Ngalkbon). I told you. Don’t ask. In this case (Jawoyn), despite the spelling, is pronounced. JAH-wen. I don’t have the ability to put the appropriate mark over the “e”, but you get the idea. And no, I can’t explain the “y”.

To get the process started, Seb recommended we stop at the community office in Kalano. I could go off on another explanation of pronunciations regarding "Kalano", but for the sake of space and getting on with the story, I’ll refrain. The folks at the community office confirmed that both IBr and her daughter not only lived in Rock Hole, but would be there for a community meeting this morning. I had been previously advised that IBr could be quite reticent to share her language skills with anyone, let alone a couple of whitefellas she’d never met before. Which is why her daughter was important to us. It was felt that she was both highly interested in language work and potentially able to inspire her mother to talk in language.

Kalano is a small, somewhat barren looking community that sits just outside the town of Katherine. Rock Hole is only about a 15 minute drive further. Easily as barren. When we arrived at Rock Hole, most of the community was indeed gathered and preparing for a meeting. I have no idea what the subject matter was to be, but it seemed important and we would most certainly not be welcome to sit in. We parked outside the fence by the main entrance - this community has a fence that runs the complete exterior of the land, making occupancy there seem…  hmmm… enforced – and walked around a sort of outer road in an effort to discover if there was a community office where we could make our presence known without making too much of a scene. Ridiculous premise. Like a couple of whitefellas aren’t going to be noticed skulking past the community wide gathering at the bandshell-like structure in the field at the center of the compound. It turns out there isn’t a community office in Rock Hole.  And no, we weren’t welcome to wander around while they held their meeting. We didn’t make it far before a lovely gentleman came running up to ask if he could help us with anything. And as a matter of fact, he could (Have I mentioned enough times how important it is to have a skin name when introducing yourself to aboriginal folks?).   It turns out that the friendly gentleman was HBr’s husband and that HBr was just over yonder. In the end we were able to arrange to come the next morning to meet with IB and see whether she would be willing to work with us, as per our well established protocols. All in all, a very hopeful opening.

Of course, that left us with little to do for the afternoon. I opted to use the opportunity to get in some much needed outdoor face time with my trombone. I know that the roos and dingoes were appreciative, although they didn’t exactly tell me so themselves. A little later on we tried to reach QB again (we had arranged a nice outdoor place to do recording with her). But she was visiting with some local relatives and wasn’t available. [we later heard some vague rumblings that the Barunga mob and Rock Hill mob may have had some sort of falling out. There was no way to know if this was true or what the nature of the issue could possibly be if it was - and I can’t even remember where we might have heard it.  But it made us wonder whether that might have anything to do with QB being so unavailable. No way to tell. Quick note – among aboriginal folks, any group of people living as a community, or even gathered in one place, who share any sort of identity is called a “mob”]

The evening was peaceful and quiet and uneventful – nothing worthy of this erudite edition.

Arnhem Land Day 9

Monday (July 6^th) 

Today was our first relatively uneventful day. I slept until noon and am feeling much better, although nowhere near perfect. It’s amazing what 20 hours of sleep can do for a person. Toast and tea and oranges for breakfast (very little of each) was about all I could handle, but it tasted very good. The afternoon was spent burning back-up DVDs of our work so far. I could describe it in detail, but it’s about as tedious as it is vital.

In the evening we went to visit QB – remember she was planning to come to Katherine to do some translation work. That work in this case is on behalf of the government in preparation for an upcoming review of the policies implemented for “The Intervention”. What’s “The Intervention”, you ask (if you’re not Australian, that is)? I think the answer depends on who you ask, frankly. The short answer is that it was emergency legislation enacted in Australia almost exactly two years ago in response to a broadly negative report by a member of the Queen’s Council concerning conditions in aboriginal communities, especially in terms of the care of children. Presumably it was enacted with the intention of correcting those problems. Hard line left wingers will tell you that it was an ethnocentric act of quasi-fascist apartheid designed to recapture conservative votes for a party in free-fall. Hard line right wingers will tell you it was tough love compassion and the only way to save aboriginal people from themselves. If you know me already, you probably have an idea of my interpretation. If you don’t and you’re willing to buy me a beer, I’ll gladly give you my long and short. In any case, the details, as closely as I can determine through persistent questioning and the viewing of a variety of Australian political exposes and documentaries, is this: “the intervention” suspended pretty much all civil rights for all aboriginal people. This was done so that a wholly different set of rules and restrictions could be placed on aboriginal communities as opposed to the white population. Although, by all accounts, the effects of the repeal of rights had far reaching effects, the new rules included a complete ban on alcohol in aboriginal areas, a complete ban on pornography (I’m not clear on whether that included print material or just the internet) and the implementation of a separate system of public assistance which closely tracks and severely limits the way that aboriginal people are allowed to use money from public assistance payments (for example, a certain amount can only be spent on reasonably healthy foods, no more than a certain amount of alcohol can be purchased in a certain number of days, etc). By all accounts, there have been some positive effects - improved health care facilities and community stores, a more cooperative government presence. But since my contact was so short term and limited, it's impossible for me to judge what might have been a result of the intervention as opposed to a guilt motivated response from the newer, far more liberal government. This is a huge subject for anyone with an interest in aboriginal rights, but is probably not the right discussion for this blog, so I'll leave it there (see the bit above about buying me a beer and please note that the subject matter doesn’t have to be limited to the intervention).

The point was, because it was already after dark and we didn’t have an appropriate indoor place in Katherine to do our recording, there was no work to be done. Instead we had dinner with QB at the hotel restaurant where she was staying – Seb and QB had massive steaks. I had a bowl of soup. There was some confusion as to how QB would be paying (the government was providing a per diem, but she hadn’t received that money yet). The hotel manager, to her great credit, was reasonably patient about explaining that QB could put the bill on her hotel tab and pay it the next day. QB had a hard time with this concept (it wouldn’t be the last time she would have difficulty with concepts surrounding money). I think her general feeling was this – if you’re not making me pay for this food now, why would you make me pay for it tomorrow? OR if it’s free when I’m actually eating it, why do I have to pay for it when I don’t even have it anymore? This is an extremely mild example of the clash of cultures and world views that is the town of Katherine, and one that was presumably well handled by all parties – I wasn’t there when it cam time for QB to pay for that steak. I think it was an unusual event for it’s easy, amicable solution and I had to wonder how much of that had to do with the presence of Seb and I and our ability to provide cultural translation for both parties.

Although it was a low stress, low energy evening, I was completely drained and went to bed early, hoping that whatever was still causing my heavy cramps was of the 24-48 hour variety. Here’s hoping the morning brings a sense of bodily normalcy.

Arnhem Land – Day 8

Sunday (July 5^th)

8 days in – are you bored yet? So far the trip has been completely successful despite no lack of set backs. I didn’t feel particularly well when I got up this morning, but that hasn’t been unusual here. My sleep, hygiene and caffeine intake have been inconsistent. Ok, more like all over the map. Generally I’ve been able to depend on things evening out over the course of each day. Alright, maybe “depend” is too strong a word. Maybe hope for.

From 5 mile we headed back into Barunga in search of QB and MK – despite the time we’ve spent with them, we’ve managed very little recording. I’m concerned with how little Jawoyn material we’ve been able to collect. On the way back we made a quick stop outside the other camp to look for things we’d left behind on our first pass through (Seb was definitely the child whose parents learned to plan on buying many pairs of mittens each Winter…) But they had a veritable pack of dogs who thought we should stay far from the people. So we did.

Upon arrival in Barunga we learned that the recent highway deaths were relatives of, well, pretty much everyone. I don’t know if they were actually blood relatives of anyone. But then, remember, that’s not how family works in aboriginal communities. We went to see MK first and she told us plainly and simply, no more work. They were getting ready to do ceremony and mourning. Aboriginal style. And it’s likely to take weeks.

Not good news for us.

Next we went to see QB, who was not nearly so invested in the idea of a long, drawn out period of mourning  - not that she wasn’t upset, but she was planning to go to Katherine for most of the week to do government translation work. It’s an interesting intrusion of whitefella values into aboriginal customs. Now that the aboriginal folks are more or less forced to remain stationary (they certainly do not follow the trail of natural resources as necessary for survival the way their families might have when they were children), they are reliant on cash income, mostly in the form a welfare type system. QB has the opportunity to make some decent money this week, and since she’s now forced to respond to the economic demands of straddling the two cultures, economic opportunity wins the day. Despite the importance and legitimacy of the work, it’s difficult to judge it as a  positive development. Do the esteem and sense of self-determination outweigh the cultural compromise? Impossible to answer on an individual basis.

When all was said and done, Seb and I decided that heading back to Katherine and focusing on seeking out a couple of heretofore elusive Jawoyn speakers made the most sense. By that time though, it had become clear to me that my morning funk was turning into a potential midday gastronomic firestorm. I had no way of denying that the physical stress of the week had weakened my system and I’m going to be sick. The only question was whether I had the flu, or something along the lines of mild food poisoning.

Since I wasn’t certain I could handle the ride without puking or the need for regular stops, we headed to LT Doug’s where I could sleep and Seb could catch up on his record-keeping. I slept hard for a couple of hours and woke up feeling reasonably assured that no violent episodes were imminent. So we loaded up the car, I piled into the back seat to continue my sleep and Seb drove.

We arrived back in Katherine around dinner time – definitely no food for me. Seb’s housemates were terribly sweet and prepared a hot bath with lavender oil and candlelight for me. After a very relaxing and steamy soak it was early to bed for some wild, fever induced dreams.

Arnhem Land – Day 7

Saturday (July 4^th)  

Our presence in Weemol has drawn the attention of more than just the beautiful Brumbies. It seems that the Dingos have a more well-formed opinion. Each of the past two mornings I’ve found, yes, Dingo droppings in the middle of our campsite. Frankly I think I prefer this subtle message to any of the alternatives.

We went this morning to look for MT (she promised us a solo session). But the market in Bulman is only open until noon on Saturdays and not again until Monday, so that’s where MT is. Although I think Seb was going to wait it out, I recommended we go for some ice cream and see if she could use a ride home. When we got there MT was standing with the white lady cashier trying to pay for her food. White lady cashier was trying to explain that even though MT had deposited $60 into her account there was only $52 there now and she'd have to put something back. White lady cashier explanation - you don't get everything you put in your account because the bank takes fees. I couldn’t help questioning whether itwas possible that there were $8 in fees for a single transaction. MT was obviously and reasonably a bit flustered and embarrassed and disbelieving.

Even though MT’d requested to be paid all at once at the end of our work together, this seemed like a good time for us to square our accounts. I have to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed the look on white lady cashier’s face when I walked up to MT and said “you know, I owe you some money. Would this be a good for me to take care of that?”  MT conceded that she’d like that and accepted the offer of a ride back to Weemol all in one breath. Any potential embarrassment that would have stemmed from being paid in public was completely overshadowed by the satisfaction of the moment. So Seb and I had our ice creams and witnessed the strangeness that was the Bulman community store on a busy Saturday morning of packed 4WDs and impromptu meetings in the dusty street, while MT had some food with a gaggle of family members under a nearby tree. After a bit, she signaled that she was ready to go. We packed in the three people we could fit along with all the bags of groceries that they could reasonably carry and headed back down the road to Weemol. It was beyond me what they would have done if we hadn’t come along. Waited until someone showed up? Sent word with one of the full vehicles to send someone back? Simply trusted that they would be missed sooner or later? It was a mystery.

Despite having to play taxi again for a bit, it was absolutely worth getting started on our session with MT at a reasonable time and having the benefit of some really relaxed time with her. In fact – the reasonable start time allowed us to make plans for a second session later in the afternoon with MT, PA and JJ.

When we arrived to pick up MT in the afternoon she was sitting in the yard with militant RT and one of the children. Her back was to us and she was working on something on the ground in front of her. The child came up to us chewing on a sort of brownish reddish something that vaguely resembled a piece of fruit roll-up. When we approached MT I still wasn’t able to recognize what it was at her feet. At least not at first. There was one "thing" that looked sort of like a  2 or 3 foot strip of rope  attached to…I don’t know. Something gross. The other "thing" looked like a completely misshapen and lopsided football. Then I noticed the eyes. And the ears. Yes indeed, it was the final leftovers of a kangaroo. The head, severed just behind the ears, and the tail attached to a bit of the hind haunch. Yes, there were flies. There are always flies. MT was stripping off pieces of skin and passing them out to the kids.  I wasn’t disappointed that she didn’t offer me any.

Our final session with this trio was congenial and conversational and relaxed and friendly. Which means that some of the material was very unique. There was a story about PA’s young brother being accidentally speared as a child. There was some discussion of an accident on the highway just last night that claimed the lives of a local family. And  there was a particularly frank discussion of the aboriginal concept of “payback” complete with references to some very controversial local events and the desire of the elders in the community to be left to live by the old laws (essentially, this is the aboriginal version of “an eye for an eye”, except that the consequences are often more severe than the original offense, at least to a western-centric whitefella like me). 

Once again, we finished our session as it was beginning to get dark. PA invited us to take part of the day tomorrow to go fishing, which sounded mighty nice to me. But Seb was very anxious to get back to Bulman – I’m not sure why, but he was insistent in describing his sense of “itchy feet”, so I went with it. After dropping everyone off and getting a rare hug goodbye from wild haired PA, dinner-less, caffeine-less and with fresh stories of the deadly potential of travel in that part of the world swimming around in the back of my mind, we headed back off onto the now completely dark Central Arnhem Land Highway. I’m sure you remember my description of that drive from a few days ago. Long. Straight. Harrowing. That was in the daytime. Is you're imagination kicking in yet? Itchy-footed Seb insisted on driving. Have I mentioned that Seb is not a particularly confidence-inspiring driver? Or that I’ve noticed he has some “issues” with night vision? Then there’s the nocturnal proclivities of so many of the animals of Australia…

When, after an hour or so, Seb pulled over to the side, I didn’t need to be asked twice if I was ok to drive.

The first thing that happens when you start out on a desolate stretch of this road at night, is that he kangaroos and/or wallabees begin to thump along beside you. They are amazingly fast. You speed up thinking they’ll just drop back behind you, but they keep pace. Only now they’re pounding along more erratically, in leaps much higher than the roof of the 4WD, sometimes right across the road in front of you, sometimes off to the side and then back next to your door and god knows where after that. You look at the speedometer and think that can’t possibly be how fast they’re going and give it one final stomp on the accelerator before you finally leave them behind. All of this is intensified by Seb’s choice of music for this particular drive – the soundtrack to CreamMaster. Film #3 I think. The one with the Heavy metal fusion thing going on. I admit it. It was the perfect choice to complete a truly surreal experience. The entire drive was filled with highlights of animal sightings, including my best view of a dingo yet, wide flaming swaths of brush burns along the side of the road, don’t forget the dead cow left in the middle, and the occasional, brilliantly long-tailed shooting star.

In the end we arrived back in Barunga at 10:30 to find that Long Tall Doug was away for the weekend and there was no way into the building with beds and showers. Another drive out to 5 mile. There was no sign of the ladies or the kids at our former campsite, although the other campsite (the one full of folks we’d never met) was plenty active. Nothing to do but pull out the swags, get a fire going and figure out something for a very late dinner. It didn’t take long for the folks from the other camp to come down to see who we were and what we were doing there (strangers are not welcome to camp on aboriginal lands without an invitation). Only two questions were asked – who said you could be here? And what are your skin names? Did I mention how important skin names are? They’re really important. And we were very glad to have that badge of acceptance working in our favor on this night. 

Arnhem Land – Day 6

Friday (July 3^rd) 

Since I didn’t have to feed the curry to a buffalo last night, we had it with eggs this morning. There’s nothing like tofu to perfectly hold the smokiness of a campfire.

The morning was spent picking up DD, MT and militant RT. He’s (DD) expressed an interest in the possibility of doing language work and wants to watch our session. Although it was clear that DD’s expectations of both of the work and the education necessary to engage in it were naïve and unrealistic, Seb and I made every effort to encourage him to explore the possibilities without overwhelming him with the requirements. We had a good session with MT speaking in Dalabon on subjects pertaining our visit today, Dalabon culture, losing one’s language, and finally about her dreaming – the left hand kangaroo. No, seriously. It’s a real thing. Some Kangaroos are noticeably left-handed. Or else it’s a practical joke used on outsiders.

An interesting moment in the session occurred when MT asked the younger folk to do some speaking in Dalabon. It’s not clear to me whether they were too intimidated by the presence of the recording equipment to try, or whether they simply weren’t able to speak coherently “in language” (as we say in this work), but they didn’t speak, despite MT’s rather insistent and convincing urging. We quickly became aware that the general method for teaching language to the younger people was exactly this – making them sit and listen for very long periods with the expectation that over the course of… I don’t know. Years? They would simply pick it up. Seb and I spoke as diplomatically as we could, despite being whitefellas who rely far too much on things like dictionaries and books, about the need for practice and immersion. It seemed like a breakthrough moment, as MT did eventually come around to encouraging the younger folks to practice rather than only listening. 

We finished up the session with some lunch, during which the pack of horses came by for another visit. By the way, they call them “Brumbies” here. Don’t know why. In any case, it was a really beautiful moment: sitting on our tarp in the quiet Arnhem Land countryside, drinking tea and eating oranges with tomato and tuna sandwiches, listening to the beat of hoofs and watching these fantastically fit and sleek animals glide by without even turning their heads. Pure magic.

After lunch we moved camp to the next spring down, where we could camp a bit farther from the water in the hope of escaping the mosquitoes. Then we made a quick trip Bulman, the next town over, where the closest community store is. Bulman is a very odd place, in part because it seems to be where the crews who maintain the roads (or something) originate. This means there are more whitefellas than usual, and they’re not there because they have a religious agenda or a government appointment related to the smooth running of the community.

In America, we have a rough cast group of characters who enjoy being off the grid doing work that requires lots of physical labor and a dedication well out of proportion to the rewards.  Those who sort of fit that bill would describe themselves as ‘mericans. You know. The “A” is silent. Those who really fit would call themselves ‘mer’cans. That’s pronounced MER-kin. Two syllables. Emphasis on the first. In Australia though, and in fact, right there in Bulman, I have to admit, they do us yanks one better. In Australia, this group of sturdy folk with disdain for the kind of people who think education can make them better at their job and perhaps feelings much less innocent for people of different ethnic backgrounds, are able to identify themselves with one lonely syllable. That’s “Strine”. Pronounced STRI—n. It takes some practice to learn to hang on to the “i” long enough to sound Australian, and not so long as to create a distinct, second syllable. But it’s quite impressive when pronounced correctly. And I’m here to tell you that in Bulman, the whitefellas I came across pronounce it correctly.

By the way. Everyone was wrong. There was petrol in Bulman.

In our original meetings with MT she had told us that there were two other Dalabon speakers in Weemol, who we hadn’t been aware of before. One was the elderly and charming PA and the other was his wife JJ. We met with them briefly yesterday and after a short conversation with PA this afternoon, Seb was adequately convinced that he was adept, and perhaps a native speaker. JJ is an unknown quantity.

So after our return from Bulman we sought out PA and  JJ and headed out for our second session of the day. The session went well. PA had an especially rich history to tell, having worked for a long time as a tracker for a locally run whitefella big-game hunting camp. PA talked a great deal about the Frenchman who runs the camp having taken him and a friend with him to Paris once, presumably as a publicity ploy, although PA didn’t indicate such a purpose to us. It turned out that JJ, although seemingly capable in Dalabon was quite reticent and was of more value correcting PA on the details and acting as his foil.

I have to say that PA and JJ were such a charming and downright cute couple that a thorough description is absolutely warranted. So bear with me. PA is a somewhat short and very skinny man. As with most aboriginal folks of his generation, dental care was never a part of his life. So he’s missing his two front top teeth, and the rest that can be seen are not something straight out of a toothpaste ad. JJ, who seems to be much younger than PA has a matching gap on the top, and the rest of her teeth somehow have a black cast to them. Terrible association, but something like the character of Calypso in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies. When they tease each other and both are laughing or flashing their twin smiles, it’s a warm and amazing effect.

Like most of the women JJ wears a simple indistinct, floral patterned house dress and no shoes. PA wears a pair of shorts and an old, untucked, button up the front style shirt. No shoes. I’m not certain where most aboriginal folks buy their clothes, but, being of a culture who wore no clothes only a generation or two ago, having a diverse or individualistic wardrobe is not a priority, and the washing or changing of clothes is an occasional event. So their clothes were neither stylish nor particularly clean. Of course that’s a judgment completely based on western, whitefella values, but I’m hoping to give you all a clear picture, and I don’t want to imply that I found either of them to be anything less that completely engaging individuals despite our cultural differences.

Shall I go on? While they both have matching, bright, but damp and glassy deep, dark, shining eyes, JJ’s hair is a tangle of dusty black that matches the color of her skin and hangs strait around her shoulders. PA’s hair… ahhh, PA’s hair. PA has a wild, uncombed, semi-parted shock white stringy afro complete with matching long beard and mustache. The hair makes the man and PA’s is unmistakable.

When we asked PA about his age, he said he thought he was 64 (I’d have guessed late 70’s). But it turns out (JJ reminded him) that he had an ID listing his birth date (how likely is it that it’s accurate, I wonder?). The ID indicated that he’s 62.

After we finished our session, PA wanted to play a recording of some traditional ceremonial music for us. So upon our return to his house he dragged out a giant JVC monster boom box complete with cobalt blue faux-neon lighting effects and set it on a rickety table on the porch. Although the kids inside were  kind enough to turn down the Country Western blaring out the door, the cultural disconnect was mind boggling. That said, the music he played for us was simple but sophisticated and brilliant – raspy poly-meter singing with the steady clicking of sticks for accompaniment, whose only harmony was occasional upper register octaves. It had feel somewhere between middle eastern microtonal embellishment, Indian classical formalism and a more straight forward chant. OK, it’s really very impossible to describe and I’m grasping at straws, but hopefully you a little bit of the idea. The singer, who it turns out is quite famous, was a personal friend and the music was well-known by DD and PA who both quite capably sang along.

When the sun started to go down we took our leave to take care of one final task for the day – delivering a letter to a friend of Sally-Anne’s (remember her from Melbourne?). We found the house easily – it was one of the newer and more well-kept that I’d seen so far, but the friend wasn’t at home. Instead there was an aboriginal gentleman sitting on a large canvas on the porch, working on traditional style painting. After introductions, he came and sat with us a bit – it turns out that his name is Billy Black and that he was one of the actors in the Rolf De Heer film, Ten Canoes. I can’t remember now whether I blogged about it, but watching the movie Ten Canoes and, perhaps more importantly, the “making-of” included on the DVD were important pieces in the puzzle that was my preparation for this trip. So, if you’re interested at all, go to your Netflix lists now and add the Ten Canoes DVD to your queue.

I keep waiting for an uneventful day to spend some time writing about the actual sound of language, which is completely captivating. Soon though.