I was travelling in Australia, visiting the quiet town of Darwin in the far north, and living in a small community of backpackers on the local beach. Most lived out of their cars; some, like myself, slept in a clearing in the woods nest to the parking lot. The public facilities at the beach made it a convenient home base to gather around.
There was another community that called this beach and the surrounding woods home – a large extended family of Aboriginals. There were about twenty of them that lived as a tribe in another clearing. For us, there was a constant threat that the police might come and evict us in the middle of the night, but the authorities mostly left the Aboriginal community alone, through some legal or cultural understanding.
Aboriginals were the traditional masters of the bush, and generally had a strong connection to the land. Living in the open was natural for them, although living in a settled urban area was a relatively new thing. The clash with Western culture had brought alcoholism, drug problems and economic poverty to them, and most that lived in urban areas were homeless and unemployed by our standards – and usually suffered from serious alcohol abuse problems. Australia even had separate alcohol regulations for states with a large Aboriginal community, in a misguided effort to combat these issues.
We interacted with the Aboriginal community pretty regularly, although we kept a respectful distance from their settlement. When we spent our evenings drinking around the BBQ pits, some of the kids would wander over for someone new to play with. They were outgoing and loved to play ball games or peekaboo. Most of them hardly spoke English but could easily communicate through gestures. They probably didn’t go to school; but hopefully were taught traditional knowledge by their elders.
A few adults also liked to sit and talk with us, but these encounters usually ended with them asking for alcohol, which was a line we were hesitant to cross. One older man in particular would come over to us, borrow a guitar, and regale us with the same song every night, a song about fishing and the beauty of the land. Alex was always a hit in the group. We enjoyed his entertainment, but usually refused to feed his hunger for whisky – nonetheless he kept coming back. One night after his performance he told me an interesting story.
“Out there is my land,” he said, gesturing vaguely out to sea. My people, they come from the island out there. I am the chief, I am the eldest. The whole island belongs to me. I make the decisions and everyone listens to me.
Right now the government wants my island. They wanna buy my land cuz they say there’s diamonds under the land. They gonna pay me fifteen million dollars so they can take the diamonds. Right now I gotta make the decision. They just waitin for my signature. You look in the newspaper tomorrow, you’ll see the story. You’ll see if I sell it.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, after making sure I understood the gist of his story.
I’m gonna sign it. I don’t care about the land, I’m gonna get the money. Fifteen million dollars!
“What will you do with the money?” I asked.
Send my granddaughter to school. She gotta get an education.
He told me the same story the next night.
