CULTURAL AWARENESS

BUSH POTATO

It is a lot of hard work digging up a bush potato, but worth the effort as they are delicious when cooked in hot coals out in the bush.
The plant is a trailing vine with heart shaped leaves and purple flowers. You look for a crack in the ground to know if the tuber is big enough to dig for. If you see the crack, start digging. A crow bar is a useful tool as the soil is so hard, but also because if you thump the ground and hear a hollow sound, that is where the tuber will be.
Brush the dirt off, and bury in the coals of the fire until you smell that it is cooked. (Wrap it in foil if you don't like the charcoal effect.) It is a delicious accompaniment to kangaroo, bush turkey or steak.
Thanks to Chantelle, Kitty and the Pink Palace mob for this information.

Visitors

ROBIN HARDIMAN

I was running late by the time I arrived. We're over here, Peter calls from the school verandah as I park in the shade of a basketball hoop. This mob's doing maths, that lot are playing sport, on the computer. They'll explain the plan.
I sit on a table in the classroom while Peter, the secondary teacher talks via modem to Darwin, fifteen hundred clicks away. On the blackboard are a few phrases: Where are we going? Who will be the tour guides? Explain KUMENJAI. Of the eight students in the room, I had met only one before.
I forget your name.
Julius. A flash of eyes, a smile. Abruptly the face turns away.
My name's Robin.
Nothing.
Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves.
Seen that video, a voice murmurs.
I seen Boyz 'n' the Hood.. Another voice from an identical face. Twins.
Batman?
Batmobile.
Batman and Robin. Yair!
In this disjointed way, silence slowly melts and words grow into sentences. These teenagers are Eastern Arrernte mob and English is their second language. The students, five boys and three girls, will conduct us on a tour in the afternoon to a special place of their choosing.
What's kumanjai? I ask.
When someone dies, one of the twins whispers cryptically.
Among Aboriginal Australians the dead are not named. Moreover, if your name is the same as that of a person recently deceased, you cannot be named. For as long as it takes, you will be known as Kumanjai. It can become
more complicated. If some common noun resembles the name of the deceased, that word may not be used and some replacement must be found. The twins were alert to disrespect in the matter of kumanjai for not long before this encounter, their father had passed away.
First stop is a jumble of sedimentary rock a hundred metres high. In a past age, unimaginable time ago, where we stand had been the bottom of a sea.
Over there, my guide indicates with his chin, Mount Eaglebeak, wh#ere I live.
You don't live at the community? I question obtusely and he frowns, his lips moving as he rehearses his reply.
What we gotta do, teach whitefellas language.
I feel chastened and he smiles.
Look over there. Aherre! Red Kangaroos bound out of sight.
Up there! Irrarnte! Cockatoos, black as crows, a red flash of undertail feathers, wheel across the sky screeching their alarm.
Ay! See that one go! A lizard, skinny as a pencil, tail curved like a teapot handle, darts out of sight underneath some spinifex. Heat shimmers on the air.
Nearly at the Rockhole, Pete announces. The vehicle lurches through a washaway and we laugh as our bodies heap together. Now that verbal contact is established, there's little reserve about touch, these adolescents hold our hands, cheeks lean against our shoulders, a tentative black finger delicately tests the fiery sunburn on #my neck.
The Toyota stops and excitement is intense. Tour guiding is forgotten when they see the water.
The Entire Rockhole lies deep in a right angled gorge, its towering sides fissured in long straight lines, as if some ancient architect had caused the rocks to be dressed and set one upon the other. Boulders, smoothed by aeons of rushing water and blown sand, are soft deceptive spheres of palest pink and white and oyster coloured marble. And through this jumble of seductive curves grows a wild profusion of trees. Icewhite ghost gums cling to impossible walls and tangled figs spill gracefully into space.#
On the long ride back Peter tells the twins and their cousin Julius that he'll drop them at Mount Eaglebeak. How he finds his way among the maze of tracks remains a mystery. Soon we arrive at the 'sorry camp'. Since the death of the twins' father, the extended family has lived out here, away from the main community, in mourning isolation.
One of the boys leans out the window to yell, Whitefellas come visitors! Curious adults, hanging back until this intrusion is identified, melt away. We are quiet on the last leg home. There is much for me to think about, the pleasure of our similarities, the wonder of our difference. Arriving at the community, the tour guides jump down from the troopcarrier and are gone.

BUSH POTATO It is a lot of hard work digging up a bush potato, but worth the effort as they are delicious when cooked in hot coals out in the bush. The plant is a trailing vine with heart shaped leaves and purple flowers. You look for a crack in the ground to know if the tuber is big enough to dig for. If you see the crack, start digging. A crow bar is a useful tool as the soil is so hard, but also because if you thump the ground and hear a hollow sound, that is where the tuber will be. Brush the dirt off, and bury in the coals of the fire until you smell that it is cooked. (Wrap it in foil if you don't like the charcoal effect.) It is a delicious accompaniment to kangaroo, bush turkey or steak. Thanks to Chantelle, Kitty and the Pink Palace mob for this information. Visitors ROBIN HARDIMAN I was running late by the time I arrived. We're over here, Peter calls from the school verandah as I park in the shade of a basketball hoop. This mob's doing maths, that lot are playing sport, on the computer. They'll explain the plan. I sit on a table in the classroom while Peter, the secondary teacher talks via modem to Darwin, fifteen hundred clicks away. On the blackboard are a few phrases: Where are we going? Who will be the tour guides? Explain KUMENJAI. Of the eight students in the room, I had met only one before. I forget your name. Julius. A flash of eyes, a smile. Abruptly the face turns away. My name's Robin. Nothing. Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves. Seen that video, a voice murmurs. I seen Boyz 'n' the Hood.. Another voice from an identical face. Twins. Batman? Batmobile. Batman and Robin. Yair! In this disjointed way, silence slowly melts and words grow into sentences. These teenagers are Eastern Arrernte mob and English is their second language. The students, five boys and three girls, will conduct us on a tour in the afternoon to a special place of their choosing. What's kumanjai? I ask. When someone dies, one of the twins whispers cryptically. Among Aboriginal Australians the dead are not named. Moreover, if your name is the same as that of a person recently deceased, you cannot be named. For as long as it takes, you will be known as Kumanjai. It can become more complicated. If some common noun resembles the name of the deceased, that word may not be used and some replacement must be found. The twins were alert to disrespect in the matter of kumanjai for not long before this encounter, their father had passed away. First stop is a jumble of sedimentary rock a hundred metres high. In a past age, unimaginable time ago, where we stand had been the bottom of a sea. Over there, my guide indicates with his chin, Mount Eaglebeak, wh#ere I live. You don't live at the community? I question obtusely and he frowns, his lips moving as he rehearses his reply. What we gotta do, teach whitefellas language. I feel chastened and he smiles. Look over there. Aherre! Red Kangaroos bound out of sight. Up there! Irrarnte! Cockatoos, black as crows, a red flash of undertail feathers, wheel across the sky screeching their alarm. Ay! See that one go! A lizard, skinny as a pencil, tail curved like a teapot handle, darts out of sight underneath some spinifex. Heat shimmers on the air. Nearly at the Rockhole, Pete announces. The vehicle lurches through a washaway and we laugh as our bodies heap together. Now that verbal contact is established, there's little reserve about touch, these adolescents hold our hands, cheeks lean against our shoulders, a tentative black finger delicately tests the fiery sunburn on #my neck. The Toyota stops and excitement is intense. Tour guiding is forgotten when they see the water. The Entire Rockhole lies deep in a right angled gorge, its towering sides fissured in long straight lines, as if some ancient architect had caused the rocks to be dressed and set one upon the other. Boulders, smoothed by aeons of rushing water and blown sand, are soft deceptive spheres of palest pink and white and oyster coloured marble. And through this jumble of seductive curves grows a wild profusion of trees. Icewhite ghost gums cling to impossible walls and tangled figs spill gracefully into space.# On the long ride back Peter tells the twins and their cousin Julius that he'll drop them at Mount Eaglebeak. How he finds his way among the maze of tracks remains a mystery. Soon we arrive at the 'sorry camp'. Since the death of the twins' father, the extended family has lived out here, away from the main community, in mourning isolation. One of the boys leans out the window to yell, Whitefellas come visitors! Curious adults, hanging back until this intrusion is identified, melt away. We are quiet on the last leg home. There is much for me to think about, the pleasure of our similarities, the wonder of our difference. Arriving at the community, the tour guides jump down from the troopcarrier and are gone.