key indigenous australian issues
| home | news lComing in from the Outback19 August 2001 - Britons flock to Australia each year but rarely learn anything about its Aborigines or their culture. Caroline Hendrie says that could be about to change When Lorraine Mafi-Williams was 12, a welfare officer and two policemen came to take her and her five brothers and sisters away. Early one morning, after their father had left for work, the children - aged three to 16 - were bundled on to the back of a truck, their mother powerless to do anything. 'The last time I saw my mum, she was crying... her whole body heaved with sobs,' she wrote. The children were split up and sent to institutions, and at 13, Lorraine found herself being trained as a domestic servant.
Lonely Planet has produced Aboriginal Australia & the Torres Strait Islands. Designed as a companion to existing guides to Australia, it offers no suggestions for where to stay or how to get around but concentrates on history and politics from the indigenous perspective, including the contentious issues of land rights and the Howard government's steadfast refusal to say sorry for past atroci ties, such as the plight of the stolen ones - not the first things on most tourists' minds. And while positive examples of modern indigenous Australians are now getting publicity - Cathy Freeman lighting the Olympic flame in Sydney, the international success of rock band Yothu Yindi, the spectacular prices paid for Aboriginal art at New York auctions - the image of the naked Aborigine holding his spear in the Outback still exists. And it is one I found that well-meaning enthusiasts still hope to find in Australia, only to leave disappointed. The 'noble savage' cliché is perpetuated by the popularity abroad of a misleading book, Mutant Message Down Under , written 10 years ago by Marlo Morgan, who claimed to have gone walkabout in the Outback with a primitive tribe, taking part in their ceremonies and learning their secret knowledge. Despite being debunked as claptrap by Aboriginal action groups and anthropologists, and relabelled by the publishers as fiction, it has become a bestseller, widely believed to be true, especially by followers of New Age ideas, many of whom book their holiday to Australia on the back of it. An American woman who two weeks into her tour saw her first Aborigines told me sadly: 'I expected them to be more native and natural, but with their candy and sodas they looked just like us.' So the new Lonely Planet guide is a timely one. As well as focusing on the struggle of the past 200 years, it provides a foundation course in the culture of the diverse indigenous groups and modern Aboriginal life. It has practical information on Aboriginal-owned tours and shops, is careful not to direct visitors where they won't be welcome, and gives tips on responsible tourism. Armed with my guide book, I went to find out a little of what Aboriginal Australia has to offer the tourist. My first stop was the dazzling newNational Museum of Australia in Canberra. Somewhat controversially, about a third of the space is devoted to the First Australians Gallery. Why, some conservative white Australians have asked, is so much of the museum devoted to just 2 per cent of the population? 'Because 98 per cent of the history of this continent is indigenous, and now it's catch-up time,' is the sharp response of the section's curator, Margo Neale, who is of Aboriginal descent. The material is presented through indigenous eyes, using their voices and experiences to profile 40,000 years of history. Although there are numerous indigenous societies with different languages and customs, all Aboriginal peoples have a common belief in the creation, often called the Dreamtime, when ancestral beings travelled across the country creating the landscape and making laws for mortals to live by. The exhibition helps to explain the Aborigines' deep connection and responsibility for the land, and the importance of sacred sites. Also in the capital is the National Gallery of Australia, which has the widest range of indigenous art in Australia. That includes the newly acquired All That Big Rain Coming From Top Side by Rover Thomas, and the poignant Aboriginal Memorial. A forest of 200 hollow log coffins by artists from Arnhem Land is a reminder that the bicentenary in 1988 was not a celebration for all Australians. The richly decorated poles in natural pigments commemorate the Aborigines who have died defending their land since the European invasion. Having boned up at the museums, I went to Uluru - the indigenous name for Ayers Rock used again since it was handed back to its traditional owners, the Anangu, in the mid-Eighties. A must-see on the tourist trail, most of the 400,000 visitors annually stay one night, and the focus of their visit is taking snapshots of the rock changing colour at sunset. Many, though, traipse the 1,141 feet to the top, before being whisked on by their tour buses. It is a shame, because Uluru is so much more than a geological phenomenon. Every bulge, crack and scar has a special significance though much of it is secret. I joined an Anangu Tours walk led by Reggie Uluru, an elder, who told us the story of the blue-tongued lizard who stole another's emu dinner, and pointed out his journey over the rock. Although he knows English, Reggie preferred to talk in the Yankunytjat yara dialect with his niece Karina interpreting. He also showed us how to make glue from a plant, how to start a fire and throw a spear. He explained at the end of the tour that Anangu people never climb Uluru because it is sacred, and as guardians of the rock, they feel responsible for anyone who dies or is injured up there. It was a different atmosphere in the car park where crowds gather for the sunset ritual of watching the rock. Sitting in their deckchairs on the roofs of their mud-splattered vehicles a beer in one hand and mobile phone in the other, two Queensland men were discussing, between calls, whether they would need to smuggle their beer up the rock, and how many cans they could carry. Others I met showed a variety of attitudes. A middle-aged man from Sydney was climbing as a matter of principle. 'It is my country and my rock, you've got to show these people,' he said. A woman from the north of England told me that she had no reservations, 'because it doesn't have any spiritual significance for me'. An American couple said: 'We came here planning to climb, but when we realised it upsets people, we changed our minds.' A Swiss man told me: 'It is part of my tour. If they really didn't want us to climb, they could ban it.' But that is not the Anangu way - though there was a kerfuffle in the newspapers when the climb was closed for 10 days as a mark of respect when one of the elders died. The saddest thing was the number of people who said that if they'd only known, they would never have done it. Next, I flew north to the top end of the Northern Territory to join a three-night camp with Dreamtime Safaris, which offers 'a unique opportunity to discover Aboriginal culture and way of life nowadays through direct and authentic contact'. Frenchman Francois Ginier has over the past 13 years made friends with members of the Ngkalabon people at Weemol community, deep in central Arnhem Land, and they have given him permission to set up Bodeidei camp on their land. I and two French families gathered at the BP Roadhouse in Katherine, gateway town to the vast, restricted-entry territory of Arnhem Land, where Aborigines have lived for the past 50,000 years. On the often bumpy five-hour drive, Francois warned us that there was no fixed itinerary and that he did not expect his friends to perform for us. 'I don't say, now we will have a spear-throwing demonstration or dancing. That is rubbish. Sometimes they will show us things, or they might not, it is up to them.' The small fixed camp with simple but comfortable tents with real beds is set in a glade near a stream, about six miles from Weemol which has a fluctuating population of about 80 people. Over dinner of buffalo stew, hunted by Francois and cooked by his wife Maia, Francois told us how he had been able to set up his camp thanks to the far-sightedness of some of the local elders who want to benefit from visitors in a controlled way. The community receives an income from the camp, and individuals are paid to help as guides. Desperately worried that their traditions could be lost, the elders asked Francois to help set up workshops so that they could pass on their knowledge to the young children. Alcoholism is a serious problem among the middle generation, who have lost interest in their heritage, and the fear is that there will be no one left to keep their culture alive. The following morning Francois drove over to Weemol to collect whoever felt like joining us that day, and came back with June, her 17-year-old daughter Angela, and two nieces, Jackie, 12, and Alana, 10. We all piled on to a four-wheel drive truck and bounced off along the rutted track to June's land. While the children wandered off, June, who walked barefoot, waited silently while Francois told us about some of the plants. Remembering the advice in my Lonely Planet guide that many Aborigines find eye contact disconcerting, and are uncomfortable with being asked questions, I felt socially inept - desperate not to cause offence but finding it hard to come up with any other way of starting a conversation with June. The children, though, were chattier, excitedly calling Francois over to dig out a sugar bag - the honeycomb of native bees - that they were sure was in a hole in a tree above their heads. At Golpulyu billabong we had our picnic, watching water birds, including tall brolgas foraging amongst the water lilies. I asked June to tell me something about the billabong. She told me that she had camped there after a long walk when her children were small and caught long-necked turtles and cooked them on a fire. We drove on to Dalangarr Outstation, a cluster of spartan houses, used by clan members for time out from the community. Lying on one of the porches, wrapped in blankets despite the sweltering heat, were some men who Francois told us were sleeping off a drinking binge. We set off on agentle two-hour walk to the beautiful Kotpela escarpment where we saw ancient rock paintings, silhouettes of hands and creatures painted in ochres on the walls of an overhang. The next day, we visited elder George Jangawanga outside his house in Weemol. We'd all been dying to meet him, but it was rather a stilted visit - 10 tourists sitting round on stools, straining to catch what he said above the barking dogs and wind in the bushes. June and the children, who speak Kriol among themselves, can also speak English. But George, who is in his sixties, never saw a white man until he was grown up, and spoke in broken English. George told us of his fears for the future of their culture, health problems such as diabetes, and the ravages of alcohol which affect every family in the community. We sat shocked as he told us he believed getting citizenship in 1967 was the worst thing that had happened to Aborigines, mainly because of the access to alcohol - prohibited before - which came with it. It was 'authentic contact' as promised, with friendly people on their own land, rather than being shown round by formal guides imparting information. The Aborigines are described as Fourth World in a First World nation. Standards of health and education and life expectancy are much lower than in white Australia. By choosing your tour carefully - and the Lonely Planet book gives a lot of good guidance - the benefit will be mutual. Tourism is an industry where the indigenous people have a special product. Not only can it provide a source of income, by educating visitors it raises the profile of their unique cultures. Twelve things you should know about Aboriginal Australia
This article appeared in The Observer
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its one year on from the Australian Governments controversial intervention into NT Indigenous communities
action Roll back, listen to Indigenous community voices speaking about the intervention |
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