The Silent Country (23 page)

‘I believe I can make myself useful in other ways.’ Helen turned on her heel. ‘Topov! What have you filmed?’

That evening Mrs Johns sent freshly baked bread, a tub of butter and a boiled fruitcake to the visitors. Samson, who’d assumed the role of guardian angel, showed them how to cook the fish wrapped in paperbark and sprinkled it with several leaves that gave the fish a tangy citrus-like aroma. The bulbs and roots that Marta had collected were baked in the hot ashes and spread with butter. It was all followed by billy tea and fruitcake and voted one of their best ever meals.

After dinner as they sat in a ring around the campfire, a group from the Aboriginal camp silently appeared to sit in the shadows. Doris quietly came and curled up next to Marta and Drago took photographs of her, the copper highlights in her hair lit by the glow of the fire. Len also appeared and, together with Samson, slowly negotiated plans for the corroboree the following night.

‘Y’see, they can only do certain dances, show you certain things. Lots of their ceremonies are taboo for whites and for women to see,’ explained Len.

Colin was deeply interested. ‘But they tell a story? These people have no written language so they act out their history in dance, is that right?’

‘Yep. And a lot of singing. The songs, chants even more so.’ Len scratched his head. ‘It’s how they read the country, their land, their law, their customs, ownership, ever since they can remember, way, way back. Right, Samson?’

The tall Aborigine nodded. ‘Yeah, boss. We sing ’em stories, we sing our country, we keep ’im strong. Alive. And paint up them pictures good.’

‘You mean the cave paintings?’ asked Marta.

‘They’re not just in caves, there’re carvings on rocks and they do a lot of drawings in the sand too. Keeping the stories going,’ said Len.

‘It’s so interesting,’ said Marta to Colin.

‘What is the story they’ll do for us tomorrow night?’ asked Colin. ‘Can I write it down?’

‘Just watch and listen, mate,’ advised Len. ‘Some of the ceremonies, like initiation for the boys, can go on for weeks.’

Topov was in his element. He leaned back sipping rum out of his tea mug. ‘Topov film native ceremony. This good, very good.’

‘Yes, thank you, Len, for your help,’ said Helen.

‘S’orright,’ he said modestly. ‘Y’know a lot of these old ceremonies could die out. You talk to the young Abos in Alice and Darwin and they don’t always know the old stories, or want to. Not a lot of the stations are like this one, let the stockmen take off for ceremonies and stuff. And the missions . . . they try to wipe the old ways out. Make the kids modern.’

Samson frowned. ‘Mission people want piccaninnies. Welfare man take ’em piccaninnies.’

‘What do you mean by
take
?’ asked Helen.

Len looked at her. ‘Half-caste kids with light skin are taken away by the protection people to be assimilated into white society. They’re being “saved” by the missions. To my mind it’s just a way of training them up to be bloody domestics for the white stations and breeding the black out of them.’

‘But what we saw at the blacks’ camp, back before Tennant Creek you couldn’t let children live in those conditions,’ said Drago.

‘Maybe not,’ replied Len. ‘But not all Abos are bad parents, they just do things different to us. Some families hide their kids, rub charcoal on them to make their skin dark. But they get found and taken anyway.’ He glanced at the silent, listening faces at the perimeter of the fire. ‘I’ll be off then. Can I walk you ladies to the Big House? See the rest of you in the morning. It’ll be a big day. The paint ’em up for the corroboree will start early. See ya.’

After Len, Helen and Marta disappeared into the night, they left behind a quiet group at the fire.

Topov was the first to speak. ‘What does one do for little black children? Is not easy, eh?’

Practical Drago broke the spell. ‘Topov, this ceremony. There’s going to be singing and music with this dancing . . . We need to run sound.’

So far they had shot film that had no sound because synchronising sound with vision in these conditions was difficult. Topov had evidently planned that this would not be a problem because they could overlay a soundtrack with Marta later on, as she was an experienced actress. However, there was no way they could recreate the Aboriginal music, singing and sound effects of the corroboree. They had to use a sound system.

Topov, for once, was thoughtful. ‘Who will do sound?’

‘Do we have the gear?’ asked Drago. ‘I said we’d need to bring it.’

‘Topov knows this,’ he snapped. ‘Recorder in caravan. Peter. He know machinery, he do sound.’

‘What? I’m a mechanic not a movie person,’ Peter expostulated.

‘Calm down, friend. It is simple once you understand. It runs on torch batteries,’ said Drago. ‘If it is portable.’

‘You mean we could’ve done sound recording all this time!’ exclaimed Johnny.

‘Marta actress. We dub later,’ said Topov.

The tape recorder was brand new, had never been out of its box.

‘What else do you have in that caravan?’ demanded Johnny.

Topov ignored him, tossing the box to Peter. ‘You make sound for tribal people.’

‘I’ll help you,’ said Drago.

‘Let me check it out first,’ said Peter curtly.

Colin produced his notebook. ‘I’ll need to know what you’re recording to match it up with the filmed sequences.’

The following morning Len arrived back with Marta and Helen, who both said how they had enjoyed their night of relative comfort.

‘The blacks are starting to put paint on to get ready for the big show. Figured you might like to film them doing it. It’s quite a performance in itself,’ said Len.

‘Is that them singing down by the river?’ asked Marta.

‘Yep. The initiated men are chanting.’ As Helen rose, he said apologetically, ‘Sorry, love, women taboo. You’re not supposed to see this. Same as the men can’t look at what the women are doing before they dance.’

Topov pointed at Colin, Drago and Peter. ‘You go film. Topov come later.’

‘Should we be filming it, if it’s taboo?’ asked Colin.

‘Topov does not care. Just get pictures.’

‘I’m going fishing then,’ announced Johnny.

‘Maybe we should see what the women are doing,’ Marta said to Helen.

‘I’m really not all that interested.’ Helen retreated to the caravan.

Colin and Marta exchanged a look and Marta clamped a hat on her head and went off to the camp to find Doris and the women. She was quite intrigued by the women’s activities. Later, as Marta sat with Colin eating their dinner, he quietly told her of the amazing scenes of the men preparing for the corroboree.

‘You know, some of the men cut themselves so that they bleed and they use the blood as glue to stick on feathers as well as paint. They use ochres and clays as well and the designs are magnificent. There’s such a ritual to everything. Drago was beside himself filming it all. I think he was glad Topov wasn’t there.’

‘How did Peter go with the sound?’

‘Great. Though it was a bit touch-and-go when he played back something to see if it was properly recorded and the men got upset and quite scared to hear their voices coming back at them. But after a few moments they thought it was a big joke.’

Annabel and Len joined them as the sun was setting and they could hear that the singing had begun.

‘I brought along some camp stools, these things can go on all night,’ Annabel said as they walked to the Aboriginal camp.

The ceremonial ground had been brushed clean with branches and some of the other stationhands joined the small party as they settled in for the show. Johnny and Peter had driven the three vehicles through the trees and parked them so that the headlights would help illuminate the dancers. Topov had ordered the cumbersome tripod and big camera to be set up and directed Drago to move among the dancers and film them using the smaller, more portable Bolex. Peter sat on the ground holding the microphone of the tape recorder.

Slowly some of the young women with babies and children and frail old people settled in behind them, though the children soon wiggled their way to the front.

The old men who had daubed their bodies with clay designs, filed in singing and chanting to a beat pounded on clapsticks and boomerangs. Behind them appeared the dancers. The men – wearing only small loincloths, paint, feathers and headbands – were already stirring a dust cloud that swirled around their stamping feet. The energy, the powerful imagery, the sinuous movements accompanied by stamping and high-pitched chanting, combined with the thudding sticks and the pulsating sound of two didgeridoos was hypnotic.

To Colin, the body paintings – ochres and dramatic
white pipe clay in dots, waving lines and intricate scrolls studded with feathers – looked like living, writhing masterpieces. He tried to draw some of the patterns in his notebook but hated to take his eyes away from the dancing for a moment.

Marta studied the dancers’ faces, the expressions and the body movements and began to follow the story. ‘Look, he’s the hunter and that man is a crocodile and there . . . Look at the birds.’

Annabel leaned over and told them. ‘This is the brolga dance. Have you seen our brolgas, the beautiful grey birds with long legs and necks? This is how they dance when they’re courting.’

The story had now moved to a lagoon and one of the dancers, paddling in a make-believe canoe, was being trailed by a sliding crocodile. Several of the children cried out, warning the hunter. But it was the flock of beautiful and majestic brolgas that came to the hunter’s rescue by chasing away the crocodile.

And then on the edge of the make-believe lagoon, the women dancers suddenly appeared. The phalanx of women, their pendulous breasts swaying, their arms swinging as they looked down at the ground, didn’t have the lithe lightness of the men but their strong voices, heavily painted faces and hair matted with white powder created a chorus to match theirs.

Topov was beside himself. He swayed and clapped and, as the dance reached its crescendo, he leapt to his feet and, to the onlookers’ amazement, he joined the line of men, stamping and chanting. What shocked the film makers was not his audacity at involving himself in something so culturally foreign, but the fact that despite his weight he moved with such agility and rhythm that he imitated the hopping and stepping line of men.

It didn’t last long. There was a shriek of approval
from all the audience, the kids jumped up and down and clapped, but soon Topov was out of breath and triumphantly returned to his seat.

For everyone present, time seemed to have disappeared as they were swept away in the power and magic of the dance. The firelight sparking into the night sky, the gleam from the car headlights on the shining black bodies, gave them all, for a moment, a sense that they were peeking into another dimension where millennia had passed and that this was how it had always been.

When there was a lull in the proceedings Annabel leaned over and said, ‘No matter how often I’m privileged to witness these events I feel I’m watching something so unique, so special.’

‘It’s wonderful. I hope this dance never dies out,’ said Marta.

‘Ah, that is a question for the future, isn’t it? I’m very proud our blacks can live here and keep up the old ways,’ said Annabel Johns getting up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to be up early. I hope you have enjoyed the evening. They’ll go on for quite some time yet, but they won’t be offended if you leave.’

They thanked her and watched her drive back to the Big House.

‘You have to be a special type of woman to live out here,’ said Marta.

‘It’s certainly isolated,’ agreed Helen. ‘One would crave decent company.’

‘We’re very lucky to have seen this, just the same,’ said Marta.

‘It’s something I’ll never forget,’ added Colin.

‘Len, can you escort us back to the homestead? I’m looking forward to a comfortable bed again.’ With that Helen rose and she and Marta, accompanied by Len, walked into the darkness.

The following morning they packed up and said goodbye and thank you to Annabel. As they drove through the homestead gate, they saw Len and Doris saddling their horses. Everyone stopped to shake Len’s hand and thank him for his help and kindness. Marta called Doris over and gave her a hug.

‘You’re a gorgeous little girl, Doris. I hope your life will be a happy one.’

‘You pretty lady,’ said Doris staring at Marta.

Impulsively Marta took off a thin etched, silver bracelet with a small silver charm of a star from her wrist and handed it to Doris who quickly put it on her arm. ‘It’s too big. Here, wear it like this.’ Marta twisted the bracelet and snapped it twice around Doris’s wrist. Doris held out her little arm and admired the adornment, looking immensely pleased.

Len pulled off his hat and shook hands with them all. ‘Good luck with the rest of your trip. Sorry I can’t be of more help along the way. Man’s gotta job to do.’

‘You’ve been extremely helpful. Given us a chance to get some wonderful footage,’ said Helen graciously.

Topov waved regally from the Land Rover. ‘We send you invitation to premiere!’

‘Right, yeah, thanks,’ laughed Len.