Graham Wilson - Arnhems Kaleidoscope Children

Arnhems

Kaleidoscope

Children

Memoir by

Graham Wilson

Copyright

ArnhemsKaleidoscope Children

GrahamWilson

CopyrightGraham Wilson 2018

Published byBeyondBeyond Books

ISBN 9780648311218

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced ortransmitted in any form without prior approval of the author. Forpermission to use contact Graham Wilson by email atgrahambbbooks@gmail.com

Book Coverdesigned by Nada Backovic

I wish tothank many people who have contributed to this book.

First, thankyou to those people who prompted me to write out my story tellingof my distant and fading childhood memories.

It sitsalongside my parents story of coming to the remote Top End of theNorthern Territory of Australia and living in a series ofaboriginal communities soon after the Second World War. This was atime when there was massive development of northern Australia whichchanged it forever. It changed the lives of these places as a newworld order of technology and modern communications came to exist,giving people undreamed of mobility and connection to the outsideworld.

But alongsideall this change these long standing communities still continuedwith their own ways of living handed down over millennia.

In the mix ofthe old and new many painful conflicts and transitions have playedout over decades and successive generations. These are theconflicts inherent when two different worlds and their systemscollide and struggle to coincide

I also wish tothank the many people who have contributed to this story throughlives lived in these places, particularly my extended family andthe friends from these places; missionaries who worked at Oenpelli,people who worked for the Northern Territory Department of PrimaryIndustry, many station people and people from the small towns andcommunities from across the NT and, most especially, the aboriginalpeoples of western Arnhem Land.

Collectivelyyou have given me the rich experiences which make this story livein my mind, and give the myriad colours to the telling.

A vitalcontributor to this revised edition has been Nada Backovic, thebook cover designer. She took old and damaged photos taken by myfather many decades ago of this place and its people, transformingthese into a cover which, to me, wonderfully captures the light,colour and essence of this time and place.

THANK YOUNADA!!

Yesterday Idrove to Oenpelli, my home, an aboriginal town in Arnhem Land.

It was twodays after my father was buried next to my mother in Darwin.

A memorialservice was held, recounting his pioneering exploits. The mostbeautiful part was a gathering of aboriginal women standing in asemicircle around his grave. They sang a hymn in their Kunwinjkulanguage. It was a hauntingly lyrical melody, an expression oftheir private affection. Then people threw handfuls of dirt intothe grave.

Other peopleat Oenpelli could not make the 150 mile journey to be there at thegrave, but wanted to say their sorrys too. So I went and walkedaround the town, amongst these people, enveloped in a steamy wetseason build up day. Many, who knew him, came up and murmuredregrets at my Dads passing.

Later I walkedout across the towns fringing floodplains, where the first waterof the wet season was spilling from the end of the billabong; justmyself and a hundred squawking waterbirds feasting on natures firstwet season flush.

The afternoonsky turned purple, then olive-black, above the sunlit sandstonehills, as a storm built. Flashes and rumbles increased. I walkedback to Oenpelli as the sweep of rain blotted out my view of thehills. A blast of cold air at the storms leading edge swept mewith its fresh rain smell. At the church, on the edge of theplains, I took shelter. The storm lashed out its brief fury, thenwas gone. Rising steam and a few puddles were all that remained. Iwas filled with an aching familiarity for a life long gone.

I saidfarewell to Oenpelli: time to begin my return to Sydney. Impulseled me to drive back to Darwin another way, following the old JimJim Road, an early road to Oenpelli. I would camp out on the plainsof the mighty South Alligator River. Here, in my childhood, buffaloby thousands and more, were seen.

Another biggerstorm was brewing. I crossed the South Alligator River, drivingthrough only a few inches of water and thought, The big river isbehind me, the road is clear ahead to Darwin.

Soon tropicalsheets of rain began to fall. I pulled onto a gravel ridge on theside of the road to sit the storm out. After half an hour, it easedto a drizzle, which continued into the night. I slept in the car,thinking morning would be a better time to travel.

Grey dawnlight showed wisps of high cloud, but the rain was gone. I droveon, cautiously at first, but the gullies were dry except one or twowith a trickle of water. My mind was on the events of the last fewdays, but all seemed well.

I swept arounda bend. There was a gully with water flowing through it, about afoot deep, I thought. In the split second before I was into it,I had the chance to brake to a stop. But my instant decision was;it's fine, keep going.

Suddenly onefoot of water was three. Before I knew it the current picked up thelight four-wheel-drive up. I was floating in the creek, with noengine and water bubbling inside. As the car drifted downstream,away from the road, the water outside was deeper, coming up overthe dash.

I thought;Time to get out of here! But with no engine and noelectricity, the windows and doors were securely locked. I crawledinto the back and tried to unlock the tail gate. No luck thereeither. Here I was, in a glass encased bubble, slowly flowing downan ever-increasing river towards the sea, while the car slowlysettled ever deeper into the water.

After a shortlong time the car seemed to catch something on the bottom andmovement stopped. My bubble still held me trapped. It really wastime to get out, while my head was above the water. Two or threekicks at the window made no impression on the hardened glass.Not good, I thought.

I looked up.There was a skylight above. I couldn't open it either so it wastime to kick in earnest, two hard kicks and suddenly the glassshattered.

I retrievedwhat I could find of my possessions, floating in the cabin, andscrambled to shore, no worse for wear, except for a few glass cutsto my feet. Two hours of trudging up the dirt road found a roadtrain. I got a lift to Darwin. Then came the unpleasantness ofdealing with destroying a rental car, expensive and embarrassing,when you have to explain your stupidity.

It was alesson in two parts, how quickly security can turn to tragedy andthat I should never have underestimated the fickle power of theNorthern Territory. The rain, a moderate tropical storm where Iwas, had barely run water. Far upstream 84 millimetres came fromthis storm, focused in one narrow river channel. I tasted its powerin my moment of inattention. I don't know why my hands and voicewere shaking that afternoon, I was in one piece. Cars can bereplaced, people can't.

Back to thefirst beginning: its over six years since the fateful phone callthat began the writing of this story.

My sister inNew Zealand rings occasionally, at night or the weekend. So a phonecall in mid-afternoon is unusual; Have you heard what happened toMum?

No! (I thinkdid she win a prize or something?).

Theres beena car accident and shes been killed. Silence!

All theurgent, routine arrangements take place; book a flight to Darwin,deal with a lot of other shocked family and friends, make funeralarrangements; its a bit of a blur now.

The morning ofthe funeral I have a memory of standing and looking at Mums face;still, peaceful, lined with seventy five years of living.