NGOORWEEL’S KARBARLI (GRANDMA)
Along the coast, it is garbala (late afternoon) and a cool maam marr (south-westerly sea breeze) stirs the leaves of the giant Marri boorn (trees). My grandson Ngoorweel is now a healthy, energetically playful nop (child) who hungrily explores his boodjar with his cousins in search of new sensory experiences. Throughout the Birak season, I've noticed the development of his young hunting skills, showing our moort (family) his collection of kaarda (lizards), booyi (long neck turtles), kooya (frogs) and ngook (honey). When he returns with noorook (birds’ eggs), I show him how to place them on the hot ashes, piercing a small hole into the eggshell to prevent it from bursting.
My grandson Ngoorweel loves this season with its pungent smell of booyi (smoke) from the controlled burning of boodjar. I teach him how these fires help promote new grass shoots for the barna (animals) and seed germination. I explain how these fires clear the undergrowth, reduce the risk of uncontrollable fires and make it easy for us to travel through boodjar. I demonstrate to the children how to make a small karl (fire) in the grasses where the tammar (wallaby), kaarda (lizards), noorn (snakes) and yonga (kangaroo) hide in their habitats. As the booyi (smoke) flushes them out, it's easier to spear or club them.
In the cooler season of Makuru, our moort (family) also carry the smouldering biara (banksia) cones like a fire stick. This makes it easier to start a karl in rainy weather. Inside the cavities of the cone, I place small pieces of hot charcoal which smoulder and stay alight, making it easy to kindle a new karl (fire) on wet days. As an old yorga (woman), it now takes too much energy to rub the sticks together for fire-making. The banksia cones are then carried under our yonga booka (kangaroo skin cloak) to warm us throughout the season of Makuru when everything is wet from the kep booroonginy (rain).
Walking along the coast on hot days, I teach the koolangka (children) how to place a leaf from the saltbush under their tongues or suck the seed of the kadgeegurr (snottygobble) to prevent dehydration. I always make sure I carry my wanna (digging stick) for killing small barna (animals) or merinj koorl baranginy (to hunt for vegetables). The dwert (dogs) come along too, making it easier to hunt.
In the season of Birak, the ngaangk doodja ngariny (the heat of the sun is hot), so Ngoorweel and all the moort maambakoort-ak koorl djiba-djobaliny (families go swimming at the beach). One particular day, as the maam marr (sea breeze) cools the families who’ve gathered at the beach, a giant mamong (whale) beaches itself. This means a big feast of mamong meat for all the Beeloo clan families. I share the story of mamong with Ngoorweel and his cousins to help them understand why it has come.
Koora koora (long ago), after the sea level rose, spirits were trapped under the ocean. When a mamong beaches itself, it enables these spirits to come back home to boodjar through the sacrifice of the whale’s life.
Ngoorweel listens attentively to my whale story, then watches carefully as a senior bridiya (leader) uses a daap (ceremonial knife) to cut open the mamong. This ensures its spirit is released properly through the flow of its blood. Ngoorweel watches curiously as the older family members rub the whale’s blubber on their skin while singing honouring yedi (songs) to enable the mamong spirit to return to its boodjar.
After the meat is cut up and roasted on the fires for biratj koodjal (two days), the families eat the flesh, and, in this way, absorb the wisdom of the ocean and honour the spirit of the mamong.
As the maam marr (sea breeze) cools the recently burned boodjar, the adult maam (men) head off laughing together to fish for wardan noorn (eel), kalkada (mullet), yala (prawns) and other marine life, while the older relatives rest and sleep under the shade of the giant djara boorn (Jarrah tree).
The cool breeze evaporates the banya (sweat) dripping off my grandson’s moolymari (face) as he begins a game of Mitja Boma with his ngoony (brothers) and djook (sisters) Budan, Quagalye, Joolbukkan and Wamminyan. In our kinship system, Ngoorweel's cousins are his brothers and sisters, while his aunties and father’s wives are also his mothers. In this way, many family members help to raise Ngoorweel from a koolang (child) to a maam (man).
Mitja Boma is Ngoorweel’s favourite game. He loves everything about this game from the mitja (red gum nut) laid carefully on the set-out gaming ground, to the bandeegurt (crooked root stick) burned into shape by his kongk (uncle).
Under the shade of a large boorn (tree), this game begins with great energy and enthusiasm but soon sweaty bodies begin to move slowly in the hot afternoon. Except for one player. Ngoorweel is the strongest and most coordinated player for his age. He dominates the goal scoring with ease and grace, as he repeatedly guides the mitja (red gum nut), perfectly aligning it to land in the middle of the goal circle marked under the balga boorn (grass tree).
As the ngaangk (sun) lowers in the sky, Ngoorweel is confident that with one more goal his team can win. Ngoorweel drives the last goal along the playing field, screaming,
Ngai djinany, djinany (look, look I’ve got it).
With great speed and agility, he leaves his cousins running fast behind him in a cloud of orange dust. His speed and agility easily direct the mitja towards the balga boorn (grass tree) goal, landing the nut right into the goal circle.
Kaia, kaia, yaang, yaang, yaang doojara! (beat them).
All the koolangka (children) fall to the ground laughing, breathless and exhausted from the competition.
The game ends just as the heat of the kedalap (day) surrenders to the maam marr (sea breeze). The ngaangk (sun) is preparing to leave the earth ready to return in the boyal (the east) at djidar (the dawn). In its wake, it paints a glowing orange sky that is reflected on the nearby cliffs and boorn (trees). Everything ngaangk touches transforms into a luminescent orange glow.
I call out to the koolangka (children) to return to their karleep (camp) for dinner. They walk quickly back to the safety of the karl (fire) towards the smell of cooking dartj (meat) which makes their koboorl (stomachs) rumble. Calling for the koolangka before dark reminds them to never stay away from their karleep (campsite) after garrambi (sunset) or the little mammari (hairy men) spirits will grab them and take them away. Warra wirrin (bad spirits) called jenarks are often lurking at kedalak (night) and can bring harm if the koolangka stay away from the karleep, whistle, draw in the sand or play with the fire at night.
As the sky canvas turns deep indigo and the first djinda (stars) appear, Ngoorweel and his cousins gather around the karl to feast on mereny (damper), nuts and fruits, as well as some baked tubers and seafood. Season after season, koril (shells) from the seafood feasts remain behind, accumulating in huge piles along the coastline.
Ngoorweel’s daambart (grandfather) Munday, a strong and disciplined bridiya (elder), sits with all the young koolangka (children) around the karl. Not a sound can be heard as they listen intently to his deep husky voice sharing a nyingarn (echidna) lesson.
Koora, koora (long ago) in the Nyittiny (cold time), the people were babbin (friends) with the nyingarn (echidnas). When a harsh drought came upon the land, the people went in search of food and water, leaving the nyingarn in charge of the remaining food. Despite the scarcity of food, the nyingarn grew hungrier and hungrier because the people were taking so long to hunt for food. They tried to resist but finally gave in to the temptation to eat the little food that was left. In greed and weakness, they ate every last bit of it.
After searching for so long for food and water, the people finally returned tired and hungry. They soon discovered the nyingarn had eaten all the food. They were so angry that the nyingarn began to run away in fear as the hunters threw their spears at them. Soon their backs were covered with the spears, turning into the nyingarn’s quills. These quills on their backs today remind us of the importance of trust, loyalty and sharing.
After the story, I watch Ngoorweel snuggle close to his mother. As the waves caress the shoreline, he falls asleep under a brilliant chasm of stars. He feels djiripin (happy) as Yoonjep strokes his hair with a koort (heart) full of love. I can tell she is tinged with a little sadness knowing her first-born son is growing up quickly and will soon leave to begin his male initiations into adulthood.
YOONJEP REFLECTS ON KARBARLI
My son Ngoorweel holds such a deep love for his grandmother, Karbarli. Their relationship is as sweet and nourishing as the delicious foods she gathers for him to eat. Her ageing moolymari (face) tells our moort (family) of the knowledge that accrues in our bodies from a hard-working life, her deeply ingrained wrinkles are the map to her laughter, love and deep affection held for her moort (family) and boodjar. Grey hairs, strewn through her thick hair, tell us of her long journey and many seasons lived loving, grieving and letting go.
Like the dried bark that falls off the boorn (trees), one day she too will return to her boodjar, allowing the next generation to take her place. Before she passes, she has a responsibility to share her katitjin (knowledge) with her moort (family) and to Ngoorweel, who she dreams will one day be an important leader for his clan.
As Ngoorweel is our firstborn son, I watch his big brown eyes brighten whenever Karbarli spoils him with manna (sweet toffee gum) of the Acacia and Hakea, ngook (honey) from the native bees’ hives or mungyt from the nectar of the biara (banksia) flowers.
To reach these yellow flowers rich in nectar, Karbarli sometimes uses a kalga, a long rod with a hook on the end to access the banksia flowers at the top of the tree. Happily, the koolangka (children) then suck the honey off the flowers. Sometimes she even digs a trench at the water’s edge, lines it with the paperbark which seals the incoming water. The banksia flowers are left to soak in the water for a long time to create a film on the top of the water. When dried, this film becomes a layer of sweet nectar which is a popular treat for the children and for those who travel long distances carrying the boorna-wangkiny (message sticks).
After the first rains, Ngoorweel and his ageing Karbarli walk slowly to collect their favourite delicacy, the juicy and delicious bardi (grubs) found in the balga, wattle and gum trees. They always sing as they walk, laughing together as they fill their bellies with bardi grubs. After the boorong (rain), they look up to see the sky is painted with walgen (rainbow). Karbarli reminds Ngoorweel how the walgen is formed from ngarininy borong-kep (crying rain) which comes from the tears of the Giant Spirit woman who lives in the Milky Way.
Karbarli has been an important source of katitjin (knowledge) about Koondarm (Dreaming), bush foods, bush medicine and the delicate relationship between nature and humans. She embodies and upholds the ancestral memory bank of katitjin (knowledge) and is always reminding Ngoorweel about the respect he needs to show to the bridiya (elders) and all living things. He learns the importance of never allowing his shadow to fall on anyone, especially a bridiya (elder).
She explains the gentle relationship that exists between humans and all living things, teaching how everything is connected. There is no separation. The birds are not separate from the wind, the trees, the plants, the water or the animals. They are in a relationship with them all. Everything belongs in one living and balanced relationship.
Karbarli regularly reminds Ngoorweel about this labyrinth of connectivity. Laughing, she says,
Ngoorweel, don’t hurt that ngoowak (native bee). Without it alive, you won’t get that delicious manna (sweet gum) or mungyt (sweet drink) that you love so much.
I overhear her say,
Ngoorweel, watch carefully how the warlitj (eagle) soars high in a dance with the wind. Watch how it uses the wind to move, to glide, to hunt. The wind is in a good relationship with warlitj (eagle).
She sings about the aliveness of everything, encouraging him to treat all of nature as if he is caring for himself in boodjar.
When he goes djildjit-baranginy (fishing) with Karbarli, she sings to the spirits of the water to increase the fish they catch and leads the ceremonies to increase the merenj (food) supplies for her moort (family).
She teaches many songs to the koolangka (children) and one of Ngoorweel’s favourite is the djiddi-djiddi (willy wagtail) song. Together they sing, Djiddi-djiddi maru keniny keniny, waarintja munga, djenna weridoo (Willy wagtail, wind blowing up dust, food storing in stomach, feet tired).
Ngoorweel watches Karbarli’s soft, brown wrinkled maar (hands) reach for the bush foods, gently pulling fruits from the plants, crushing sap and leaves for her healing medicines. Her touch embodies healing, love and gentleness, regardless of whether it is a boorn (tree), a small barna (animal) or Ngoorweel’s moolymari (face). Her gentle teachings bring to light the delicate and fragile system that operates within boodjar and she teaches four phrases to reinforce these lessons.
Remember, only take what you need from the boorn (trees) and plants, and never more. Our meeyal (eyes) tell us what season it is, as boodjar always speaks to us.
Ngoorweel, if you care for boodjar, it will always care for you and don’t forget, practice balance, like miralgar (balancing the spear before throwing it), then you will find balance in your life.
As he prepares for manhood, Ngoorweel absorbs all this new knowledge the way sand absorbs water. He watches his family make wanna (digging sticks), dowak (throwing sticks) and young boys’ kitj (spears) from the djanja (bush scrubs) that grow in Dtonderup (Quenda Creek). He learns by watching the senior men make djingan, the spear sharpening rasps from the same shrub and all the different types of kitj (spears) for war, hunting, fishing, as well as the miro (spear-throwing board). He doesn't only learn how to make spears but also how to throw a gidji-garbel (light spear) and the gidji-borryl (long spear) made from mungum (swamp wattle). He watches the maam (men) place quartz rock in the spear tip or a new wedjela material they call 'glass'.
He watches the senior men make a kodja (axe) from a stone head, sharp on one side for cutting and blunt on the other side for hammering. They attach it to a wooden handle, bound together by using a strong glue that is made from yonga goona (kangaroo excrement) mixed with the crushed and fire-heated balga resin from the stumps of a balga boorn (grass tree).
Ngoorweel admires the way the maam (men) carry their strong kodja (axes) in their djoorib (hair belts) they wear around their waists. These belts are made from long woven hair from generations of nyetingar (ancestors) who once were bridiya (elders) and whose yedi (songs) continue to be sung as they walk the songlines. There are so many lessons for Ngoorweel to learn, but observing and listening is his best skill for now.
Some evenings, after sharing a meal of karda (goanna) and seed cakes, Ngoorweel and his younger siblings cuddle Karbarli, looking up at the sky powdered with djinda (stars). Karbarli begins to share a story about obeying the law and the bridiya (elders). Ngoorweel gazes up into the night sky listening intently as she guides their eyes to the star patterns of Koodjal-Koodjal Djookan, four women who once lived by the wardan (sea).
Being so far away from the river, the water at the bush camp was running low, so some yok (girls) were sent out by the bridiya (leader) to collect kep (water) from the bilya (river) in bark cups. The bridiya (leader) warned the four yok (girls) not to walk near the sacred waterhole, as it was a maam (men’s) site and women were forbidden. Being curious sisters, they didn’t listen to the bridiya (elders) ignoring all the protocols. Instead, they went straight to the men’s sacred waterhole to play and collect water. They knew the teaching to look for signs that the sacred rainbow serpent, Waakal, may be nearby in the water if the water is murky, not clear.
Back at the karleep (camp), the maam (men) became curious as to why the yok (girls) were taking so long. When they arrived at the bilya (river), the yok (girls) were not there, so they went looking for them. They heard laughing and chatter coming from the men’s sacred waterhole. The men were so angry they chased the women who ran away in fear. As they ran, a very strong wind gust came and swept them up into the night sky, clustering them close together. The men began to throw their kitj (spears) at them, so to avoid being struck by the spears, the women separated themselves into a pattern now known as the Southern Cross. They are the four brightest djinda (stars) and they stay there in the sky, fearful to return to their boodjar (country) where they will be speared for their wrongdoing.
These stories, full of life’s lessons and rules for the children, become important katitjin (knowledge). Demanding attention, Karbarli always finishes her story by lowering her voice, ending in barely a whisper. She reminds them how they must never play near the water where the sacred Waakal (serpent) lives, explaining how they can get sick and die if they torment the Waakal, or desecrate his sacred areas that are winnitj (taboo).
As Ngoorweel grows into a young man, I watch my son adopt these lessons, developing a deep respect and love for his boodjar which strengthens him, feeds him, heals him, teaches him, nurtures him and offers him the resources he will need throughout his life. This formal and informal education, created by the ancestral beings during the Nyittiny (creation time) helps him to mature. No lesson can ever be separated from this lore woven into and throughout his boodjar because this lore is his source of wisdom. It's where he finds a deep sense of himself, his identity, belonging and safety in a world that is rapidly changing.
THE WEDJELA INVASION
As I get older, it’s becoming more and more difficult to find enough food to settle my constant hunger. The women and men return with less and less food each season as our staple meat supplies begin to dwindle after the wedjela claimed our boodjar for their towns, houses, fences, new roads and barna (animals).
Gone are the days of trapping yonga (kangaroos) in deep yonga (kangaroo) pits that were hidden and covered with branches. These practices are now interrupted because we can no longer access our traditional hunting grounds without arrest or punishment.
In the season of Djilba, my djook (sisters) explain to me why all the yams are disappearing. They tell me they have seen the kookendjeri (sheep) eat the above-ground vines of the werrany (yam) and the settlers' pigs and goats forage and root out the yam patches, reducing their regeneration.
Nevertheless, my Karbarli and the yorga (women) in our Beeloo camp become skilled at food gathering and preparation during these hard years. They do their best to provide delicious delicacies, even when good dartj (meat) is unavailable. During Birak, my sisters, mothers and Karbarli leave with their wanna (long digging sticks) to look for the salty fruit of the bain (coastal pigface), the biara (banksia) flowers for making sweet drinks and small marsupials forced out of the bushes by small fires.
They throw whatever they can collect into their tjoota (bag) which are sometimes already full of many personal adornments; tools, shells for cutting hair, biara (banksia) cones for fire transportation, kangaroo sinews, needles for sewing, flat rocks for pulverising roots, sharp rocks, paperbark for drinking water, string, ochre, tree gum to mend weapons and flint.
Together the yorga (women) sing yedi (songs) while grinding the wattle seed flour for mereny (damper) or bush cakes. A favourite cake is made from a root found near freshwater streams and along the banks of water pools. The women dig up the roots, roast them, before using a grinding stone and mullers (stone to grind) to make the flour for a cake. The yandjidi (bulrush) leaves can also be woven into baskets or mats.
In late Bunuru, Karbarli gathers roasted bayou (zamia nuts) from djeeridji (zamia palm), soaking them in water for many days to extract the deadly poison. These seeds are then ground into flour for bread. The word djeeridji means diarrhoea and untreated bayou seeds can create an ache in your koboorl (stomach). I’ve seen the wedjela four-legged animals eat these nuts straight off the djeeridji palm, only to be noyitj (dead) by nightfall. That’s why the wedjela became confused watching us eat them, without understanding first how to treat the poison.
Whenever I feel unwell, Karbarli always has an instant cure using her knowledge of bush medicines. Whether it’s an earache, a fever, a koboorl (stomach) ache, a sting or a bite, she always has a remedy. The Marri tree resin holds good medicine for my mouth and skin infections, helping toothaches and upset stomachs.
She teaches me about the ingredients needed to make any healing remedy, knowing the right plants for a quick cure, such as the use of biara (banksia) flower nectar for sore throats and coughs. For stings and bites, she uses gum leaves heated over the fire or uses the juice of the munda (bracken fern) stems and leaves. She knows how to use wilgi (ochre) and clay for dressing wounds or repairing broken bones by binding them between sheets of bark.
She teaches me how rubbing crushed eucalypt leaves on my head removes headaches and how to use the oil from these leaves for colds, coughs and an antiseptic for sores. She even gives me charcoal for indigestion and clean teeth. Karbarli shows me how to take the spores from a noomar (fungi), break it open and put them on open wounds to stop the infection. If any koolangka (children) burn themselves in the karl (fire) or get sunburnt, the juice from the leaves of the bain (coastal pig face) plant are used to treat the burn.
There is no illness or injury Karbarli cannot fix. Her great love and care for me are never-ending so that when my growing pains cause me discomfort, she separates the hot sand from a karl (fire) and lays me down on a bed of gum leaves and paperbark. She then covers my body with the hot sand to ease the ache. But as I get closer to manhood, my learning is no longer just with her. It’s time to learn from the older maam (men) in my Beeloo clan group.
WARRA WARRA
As Ngoorweel’s time for initiation arrives, he joins the senior men’s karl (campfires) where the silence is broken only by the chirp of the crickets and the buzz of tjinkitj (mosquitoes).
To stop the mosquitoes from biting, the senior maam (men) place the rotten wood from the balga (grass tree) on smaller fires so the booyi (smoke) repels mosquitoes. When necessary, they also cover their skin in ochre mixed with goanna or fat from the koomal (possum) to ward them off.
Circling a warm karl on a still and breathless evening, Ngoorweel and his father Mooritj join the maam to listen to Munday share stories about the first time djinany (seeing) the wedjela. Waiting for the story to begin, Ngoorweel looks up into the night sky to see the pale, white glow of the giant Spirit woman’s hair. She is a giant ancestral being whose long white djoondal (hair) can be seen in the misty band powdered with djinda (stars). These stars are the spirit koolangka (children) who were caught in her white hair when she walked the earth, gathering them up as she moved across boodjar. These stars occasionally escape back to the boodjar as shooting stars.
Munday begins his story about the first time the Whadjuk saw the wedjela.
They called out from the banks of the bilya (river), Warra, Warra (leave, leave). But the newcomers ignored them, continuing to come with their ships and strange-looking barna (animals).
Ngoorweel listens carefully. He learns how the Mooro Whadjuk clan led by Yellagonga at Kartagarrup (Kings Park), from the vantage point of the hill Geenunginy Bo (the place for looking a long way), saw the big and strange ships arrive. They looked like giant birds flapping their wings returning their nyetingar (ancestors) to boodjar.
They understood the white-skinned wedjela were djanga (returning dead spirits). This is because the place of the dead, Kurannup, exists over the wardan (sea) and the white skin comes from the sea bleaching their brown skins. Some Whadjuk men even request Governor Stirling’s party to rub and wash their skin to check if the colour is a deception. Word soon spreads that their white skin is real. The old men and women say,
This is djanga...the spirit of a man from our tribe koora koora (long ago). These spirits come from Kurannup and have travelled back over the great maam wardan (father sea).
Seeing a gnoort (horse) for the first time, the onlookers fear for their lives believing it was a spirit monster who will eat them. Initially, they remain hidden and out of sight of the new arrivals, speculating and debating about these newcomers, treating them with respect and curiosity.
Many ask questions like Naadjil noonook nidja? (Why are you here?). They wonder what the wedjela are looking for and when they are going home. It isn't long before the clan groups witness the wedjela violence and disrespect for their lore, families and boodjar. The families gather to discuss these wam wedjela (white strangers) who koorl barminyiny ngalang dombariny ngala boodjar (come kill our family and take our country).