Swag of Yarns:
Australia's National Storytelling Magazine
Articles:
Born of this Land: giving voice to the landscape
Brambuk: Aboriginal Cultural Centre
Spiritual Gathering of the Elders Storytellers
Articles:
When my Nan was sixteen she lived in Ngambie in Central Victoria with her father and sister and brothers. Her mother died when she was quite young, I don't think she truly ever got over it. Her father was the publican at the Lakes Hotel, and she was a barmaid and one of his best workers. My Nan always maintained that her sister Ada was too busy preening herself to be of much value. As well as working in the pub she still attended the local high school and also had to help mind her younger brothers. But my Nan had dreams of leaving the Pub and becoming a nurse in Melbourne. As a step in this direction she used to volunteer her services at the local bush hospital, and on this particular Christmas Eve she had been asked to work the evening shift.
But my Grandfather didn't really approve of this because he would be losing his best worker and on the busiest night of the year.
Of course my Nan realised this and knowing her father to be sometimes a very difficult man she waited for the right moment to let him know she was off to the hospital. Vera was quite cagey about it and she knew just the right moment to tell him. It was closing time and Henry Stevens was getting ready to draw the winning ticket to see who had won the giant Christmas stocking that the pub was raffling.
Times were tough and everyone in the pub would be glad to be able to bolster their own Christmas offerings. Just as he was pulling the winning ticket from the old barrel she called out to him,
'I'm off to the hospital now.'
He still managed to curse under his breath as she headed off, 'I don't know what's wrong with being a barmaid.' 'Oh stop your grizzling old man Steven's, them nurses do a great job.'
It was Snowy Jackson, a well-known Ngambie identity sitting in his regular spot at the end of the bar. Everyone knew that Snowy had a soft spot for Trilly because his only living relative was a sister who'd been a nurse in the NT for over twenty years.
So my Nan managed to slip out just as several regulars headed out to a back room for further drinking, as was the custom of the time. Nan told me even Jack Powell the local copper was there that night.
My Nan arrived at the hospital amid a flurry of nurses changing shifts. There was a festive feeling in the air. The local church choir had arrived to sing Christmas carols out under the huge Moreton Bay Fig. The children settled down quickly lulled to sleep by the choir. Considering where some of them had come from it must have seemed like the heavenly hosts themselves. My grandmother, a determined, enthusiastic 16-year-old checked the patient list, it surprised her to find there was seven children in hospital that night. "And on Christmas Eve." She thought out loud. She recognised most of the names When all the activities were over and the children had finally fallen asleep Vera made her rounds to check that they were all tucked in It was then that she noticed the pillowcases at the end of each bed. Some families had left a few gifts for their children but they were sadly deflated. My Nan knew most of these kids and she could hardly bear to think of their despondent little faces as they dived to the ends of their beds in the morning. My grandmother headed off to find the matron and when she found her she splurted out. 'Oh Matron, it's terrible there's no presents for the children.'
Being an eminently sensible countrywoman the matron immediately dispatched Vera to the kitchen, the storerooms, and the staff to find anything that might be of slight interest to a child on Christmas morning. Vera and two others sat in the nurses station wrapped some biscuits and fruit and were now fashioning peg dolls. They found an unopened packet in a storeroom. Finally they distributed their efforts across the pillowcases. But still they hung sad and limp. Tril thought longingly of the Christmas stocking at the pub. Which lucky family would spill its contents over their lounge room floor the next morning? If only she could have just a few things.......
As my Nan sat there contemplating, the pad of small feet interrupted her thoughts. Vera looked up to see little Esther Johns rubbing her eyes. Vera scooped her up and sat her on her knee. 'Darling what's the matter.' She asked the little girl. 'Has he been yet?' 'Who darling has who been?' 'Father Christmas, he'll find me at the hospital won't he sister?' She looked up at my Nan with bluey , green eyes that sparkled like opals. My Nan reckons her heart nearly broke, Esther being from a poor farming family had the saddest pillowcase of all.
Tril thought to herself that she'd ride home and find a few things under her tree.
'No darling,' she said truthfully. 'He doesn't come unless everyone's asleep. Come on, off to the toilet and back to bed.'
Just at that moment there was a loud pounding at the front door. The other nurses sprang into action. Who would it be at 2.00 am in the morning? A friendly drunk needing a cuppa, or maybe more exciting a Christmas baby
Sister Newton opened the door to find Snowy Jackson rolling and reveling from too much Christmas cheer. Snowy aptly named for his white mane and beard.
'Is Vera Stevens here? He enquired
Vera heard her name and passed the child along. She went over to Snowy. She heard singing behind him and looked out the door to see two of Snowy's mates holding the giant Christmas stocking from the pub.
'Vera you wouldn't believe it,' he hiccuped. 'Me Snowy Jackson, confirmed bachelor that I am won the bloomin' Christmas Stocking. 'I thought maybe some of the kids.'
Vera threw her arms around the old man. 'Snowy, you darling, you wonderful man - you don't know how badly we needed this. Oh this is wonderful, now it's really starting to feel like Christmas.
When my Nan had settled down a little and passed the stocking over to some others she walked down to Snowy and his mates. 'I'd like you all to come to the pub for Christmas lunch as my way of saying thanks. About two o'clock.'
Snowy looked at the other pair and nodded, 'we'd like that miss.'
Nan watched as the trio headed off down the track, 'Thanks Snowy, thanks heaps', she called after them.
And for the next half an hour on that crystal clear night Snowy and his mates could be heard singing carols as they made their way home.
Vera and the other nurses hugged each other with joy and then set to gleefully distributing the contents of the stocking. They also decided to send home presents for the brothers and sisters, the stocking had been so big. Between them they knew the name of every child and their siblings.
Tril said it was pretty hard to sit down and write her report that night she could hardly stop smiling. At first light she went on her final round of the children's ward. She found Esther sitting up with paper and presents all around her.
'Esther darling, it's so early,' said Nan
I know Sister; I couldn't sleep a wink, when I saw Father Christmas last night I could hardly wait till morning. But it was so dark I couldn't see I had to wait 'til now.
'You saw Father Christmas?'
'Yes, last night when you were talking to him in the hall,' said Esther
Instantly my Nan flashed on an image of Snowy Jackson standing at the front door. Snowy in his red flannel shirt and braces, with his flowing white hair and beard. Well yes it wouldn't be hard to take the old man for Santa Claus himself.
My Nan chuckled and said in all honesty,
'Yes darling it was Father Christmas.'
I am born of this land and it has always been in my blood.
From early school holidays to the coast, where the wild seas thrilled me and the wind swept dunes nestled my solitary figure. To the territory for three years where I was privy to some of Australia's most spectacular landscapes; where I came to understand the feeling of sacredness of land. A gorge, a waterfall, a sheltered creek bank, sheer cliff faces that reached to the sky demanding as much respect as the mightiest of cathedrals. I am born of this land, it is in my blood.
But the stories of this land are not my stories, yet and I grow more determined.
I know the path will be winding and long but it is time to make our way through the minefields of hurt and injustice, misappropriation and litigation. It is time to reach out our hand and ask our indigenous brothers and sisters to show us the way.
I want my children to hear the stories of the land and as a storyteller I want to help keep the stories alive.
It has often been said amongst the storytellers that there are only five basic stories and every other story told or written is a variation of these five. These inner wisdom's have been clothed by many different cultures in ways that pertained to their particular landscape and values. We share this landscape with indigenous Australians and yet we are looking at it from different angles. But the tide is turning, there is a slow groundswell and yearning for shared stories.
Witness the unifying effects of "the Australian Story," courtesy of the The Olympics and the pride all Australians took in our indigenous culture. We need to move forward together but with a shared dreaming. A dreaming that will sustain our hearts and souls as well as our landscape and environment.
But there is still a lot of pain, not only did we take their land and their children , now we try to take their culture.
Joseph Wambugu Githhaiga, a Law Graduate from Western Australia's Murdoch Universtiy writes in a thoughtful, lengthy discourse on, Intellectual Property Law and the Protection of Indigenous Folklore and Knowledge . He explains the intricate web of associations present in aboriginal folklore and mythology and he argues that to try and protect these intricacies with copyright laws is 'beyond the scope of western private property rights' 'Indigenous people regard intellectual and real property to be so intimately linked that no meaningful distinction can be made between the two. Indigenous designs... represent the title deeds of land ownership.'
In the title of Githhaiga's paper the notion of protectionism reflects the fear of letting go, the fear of losing their culture for someone else's benefit, the reluctance to share their stories. I feel hurt and ashamed that Indigenous Australian's brief history with white fella's has left them so suspicious.
In his suggested protocols for reform he states that 'artists, writers and performers should desist from unauthorised incorporation of indigenous heritage in their works. Instead they should support the artistic and cultural development of indigenous peoples and participate in public awareness campaigns to promote indigenous art and culture.'
This indigenous heritage is the heritage of the landscape and before we can walk forward together we must share the stories. As oral historians and storytellers we ask to help with the task.
You were once experts in the oral tradition your storytellers and song men told the tales but now before they are lost we seek permission, like your apprentices, to help keep the stories alive.
As Margaret Read MacDonald says, 'When the legends die, the dream ends. When the dreams end there is no more greatness.'
Aboriginal culture is a dynamic culture and it has changed dramatically since the arrival of the First Fleet in 1788. Where many proud nations once lived on the land now communities are spread from remote to rural areas; in provincial towns and major cities, they are all culturally distinct and regional names recognise this. For instance in East Arnhem Land, live the Yolgnu people, in Victoria are the Koori's and in Queensland, Murry's live along the east coast, to name a few.
The colour of their skin may range from pale cream to dark blue black, like an old fella I had a beer with in the Nhulunbuy Pub. But it's not the colour of your skin that defines you as aboriginal but your sense of identity, your kinship's and relation to the land. I am too born of this land and I long to tell it 's stories.
As a storyteller I have always been aware and respectful of the protocols in telling and receiving aboriginal stories and I bring your attention to a great paper produced by ALIA (Australian Libraries ? ? ) called Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Protocols for libraries, archives and Information Services. While it doesn't specifically relate to telling of stories it 'deals with Indigenous intellectual property issues' and acts as a guideline, for collecting indigenous material and relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders.
The guidelines remind us that 'there is information that is restricted, that our children can not learn about, there is information that is restricted even to adults, there is information that is of a secret or sacred nature, that many people have no knowledge of or access to. That knowledge is only there for certain people to have access to.' (Gularrwuy Yunupingu, 1986)
I accept this restriction but ask only to tell the nursery rhymes, the folktales.
Aboriginal culture, also, has much to teach us about caring for our environment.
For too long in the stories (and libraries)... 'we have been referred to and catalogued as 'savages' or 'primitive' while Western industrial peoples are referred to as advanced and complex. ( Mick Dodson, 1993)
This was brought home to me recently when I was researching a story to tell at Ballarat Fine Art Gallery. There was a new painting I wanted to tell a story about. A young girl emerges bedraggled from rough emerald green waves capped with frothy white horses.
I recollected a story from the old Victorian Readers, Year Four Book, 'A Brave Australian Girl.' Her name was Grace Bussell and she was billed as the Grace Darling of Australia, a similar story told of a young girl in England who had saved the passengers of a floundering vessel off the coast. In the Australian version she was accompanied by a 'black servant', no name, no identity just a black servant.
However, surfing the net, I found the hidden story. The black servant was a thirty year old employee of the homestead where Grace lived and he spotted the ship heading for the reef. His name was Sam Isaacs Yebble and he was the son of an indigenous women from the Margaret River region and his dad was a native American Indian sailor who had jumped ship. Busselton was named for Grace's family and their still there running a winery. There's a shared story, aboriginal people, also, must be able to look to the stories with pride, it is us that must look at them in shame at our ignorant forbears.
When I look at the question theoretically the task seems ominous the subject feels heavy but in reality it's different.
Yesterday on my birthday as I waited for my parents to arrive in Ballarat and shout me a 'gourmet' lunch, I decided to head for the Aboriginal Co-operative. I was curious to know if they had any info on the stories of native flowers. I've heard Frances Firebrace tell 'Why the Waratah is red" and I wanted to know if they knew anymore.
They invited me for a morning cuppa and in joyous spirits we swapped stories, I found out that tall, jovial, smiling Merv had a birthday the following day. I shared my knowledge of the stories of the Wathourong people, (the local Tribe), my travels to the territory, my love of great myths and legends. We even talked of training up some of their teenage kids and having them interview some of the elders before it's too late, before the stories disappear. And it is with a great sense of pride that I report on the issue of telling indigenous stories: "We'll if a black fella's not telling them, I reckon you'd be the next best thing."
Throughout my travels, my interviews with indigenous tellers for 'Swag' and my insistence on raising the issue, I have found aboriginal people, on the whole, to be incredibly generous of spirit. They approach life with tremendous humour and are always first to make joke at their own expense. 'Reconciliation' walks in all major capitals have shown the growing support from the wider community, inroads are being made into breaking down the barriers. Shared stories will certainly strengthen these inroads and I look forward to the shared path.
After 23 years of this storytelling apprenticeship I have a clear direction of the path I wish to follow. Along with the great myths and legends that inform my Celtic inheritance and world mythology, thanks to great folklore collections in libraries I have worked, will stand the stories of our country.
In my family we have recently welcomed niece, Aretha Eileen Anne Stewart, born of Paul Stewart of the StKilda/Elwood clan and Donna Brown of the Gumbaingirr Mob from the Nambucca Heads region of NSW. More than ever I know, as Aretha's indigenous Grandma says; 'Annie you need to make sure you tell all the stories, for all the kids'
Anne Eileen Stewart
Brambuk is a living cultural centre named for the Bram Bram brothers who created the features of the Grampian mountain ranges. Known to its traditional owners as the Gariwerds, Brambuk is situated at Halls Gap in the heart of the ranges.
Visiting Brambuk has become inextricably linked in my memory with the Olympic Games. With four children in-tow constant viewing in motel rooms was ensured, subsequently the events are intertwined into a shared recollection.
The Olympic Games but a pleasant fading memory has left images that will live on forever. Everyone who watched will remember the night of the spectacular opening ceremony, where they were and who they where with. The colour, the majesty and our pride in a unique culture and history. The Olympic Flame rising from its watery bed and jubilantly lit by a beaming and nervous Cathy Freeman. Who will forget 'the race' where the hope of a nation was pinned on a slip of a girl who had dreamed of running like the wind.
'Only 400 metres but a huge leap forward for reconciliation', it was reported but this always felt like such a tremendous responsibility for this young aboriginal women from Queensland.
But the overwhelming impression left from the games is a thirst for stories that give voice to the shared heritage of the land. We are ready and we need to listen to the good stories and the bad to share the knowledge of the past and discuss the issues confronting indigenous and non-indigenous people in Australia today.
Brambuk offers all this and more.
We took the longer scenic route to Brambuk heading north to Maryborough and then west to Aarart. To the southwest Mt Buniyoung and Mt Warrenheip look like small round boulders, an indication of the ranges to come. As we head towards the Wimmera it warms up and the paddocks are bright yellow as far as the eye can see. Everyone out of the car for the photo in the fields of Canola, just heads peaking out from amongst the colourful crop.
This was my first visit to the Grampians and they were awesome, they surround you with their imposing grandeur. When Major Thomas Mitchell and a small party arrived towards the end of winter in 1836 they found lush grasslands with abundant water and he named the area south of the Murray 'Australia Felix'. Returning from the coast he climbed Mt Abrupt to look for a way out of the maze of mountains. The rugged mountain ranges reminded him of The Grampians in his native Scotland and they were duly named.
Little did he realise that the Djab wurrung (pronounced Chap wurrung ) and Jardwadjali (pronounced Yardwa jarli) people already had 'their own powerfully symbolic names for both peak and range.' Fearful of his coming they had stayed hidden and he only caught glimpses of the indigenous people and so it was duly reported that south of the Murray was excellent, uninhabited farming lands, 'the best' he had seen in Australia.
A clash of cultures was to follow 'European and Aboriginal people were as alien to each other as different species.' Europeans were under the mistaken impression that because aboriginal people didn't cultivate the land they had no need for it and they were dispersed from their homelands. They were dramatically and horrendously decimated and 'of an estimated 28,000 Kooris in this region, approximately 25,000 died during the first twenty years of white settlement.'
Brambuk tells this story and that of the thousands of years of habitation before the white man arrived.
The award winning design of the cultural centre is the first thing that strikes as you drive in but to explain the design we must go back to Brambuk's inception in 1982.
'Five aboriginal communities, (with links to the Gariwerds ) came together to share their 'cultural experience' and workshopped with architect Greg Burgess to plan the building. The five circular room components of the centre represent the five communities and the mud brick entrance reminds us of the Ebenezer Mission, central to the lives of the people of the Goolum Goolum cooperative. The exposed tree trunk supports throughout represent the Framlingham forest and the stone walls inside and out refer to the stone huts and stone fish traps of the Kerrup Jamara people at Lake Condah. The Gunditjmara coastal people knew the Gariwerds and they are represented by the backbone of a Southern Right Whale and its rib cage, this is actualised by a curved central beam and rafters that support the roof of the theatre room.
Driving in the 'building is shaped in the form of a cockatoo; at the front, the beak, the back, the tail and the sides, the wing span.' The roof is ochre coloured corrugated tin and the building squats in the landscape like a big round mushroom. The gardens planted around Brambuk have pathways that lead through over 6000 plants that were found in the eco-systems of the five communities. The path leads to the front of the building where the slow rhythmic drone of a didgeredoo welcomes you in.
The four-in-tow raced along these paths until they came to the front of the building where they started to emu and kangaroo dance in the large ceremonial grounds. This is the place where displays of Koori music, dancing and cooking take place and my mob instinctively knew what the area was for.
Once inside I lost sight of them as they took off up the ramp towards the Bush Tucker café, at the top of the three levels of the building. The ramp represents the Aboriginal Elders Cooperative of the Lake Condah region as it reminds us of the eel, 'still a favourite food resource for all of Gariwerd's Koori Communities.'
Like a flock of screeching cockatoos they descended on the arts and craft shop looking for their financial advisor, they needed more food. In the meantime I had purchased several short histories of the Gariwerds and Brambuk and wanted to set up an interview and tour of the centre the following day.
'Sit and be quiet for five minutes' They were directed to sit on a wooden seat made of saplings and various timbers, it was Bunjil's seat, 'his arms out caring for you, as you sit looking into the fire.' I wish those arms would grab the gang of four and hold them still for just five minutes.
The following day Ray Marks was our guide and after fielding dozens of questions about the centre and 'did he know the story of the Southern Cross?' we were shown into the Gariwerd Dreaming Theatre where an 'exciting multimedia experience tells the Gariwerd creation story.'
Lights were dimmed and the story unfolded.
I had read the story in anthropologist Aldo Massola's book Bunjils Cave and a transcript of the film and presentation but for the first time the story came alive. Briefly,
'In the time of the Dreaming, Tchingal the emu split the Gariwerd ranges with a ferocious kick, creating Victoria Gap.' A tired Tchingal decided to rest at the foot of the ranges and wait for Bunya a cowardly hunter hiding up a tree. The Bram Bram brothers crept up and threw their spears killing the great bird, Bunya was turned into a possum as punishment for his cowardice.
'Now if you look at the Southern Cross, you can see the story told in the stars. At the head of the cross is Bunya, the timid possum. Three of the stars are the spears hurled by the Bram-bram-bult. The large western star is the spear that stuck Tchingal in the chest, the smaller star next to it is the spear that passed through his neck, and the star at the bottom of the cross is the spear that struck him in the rump.
Tchingal himself is the dark shape that lies next to the Southern Cross...and the two brothers are the Pointers of the Southern Cross.'
The four-in-tow were impressed, there wasn't a peep for the whole presentation except for the oohs and aahs as lightning struck and a huge model Tchingal glared fiery red eyes at them.
Back up the ramp where they were invited to decorate their own boomerang. They where given a sheet with simple diagrams representing different aspects of the landscape and its wildlife. 'Tell a story on your boomerang." And they did, later I heard recounts of their different stories.
Young Sandy, an aboriginal lad from Horsham demonstrated aspects of life before the white fella in the theatre room. Eel traps, boomerang, clubs and spears. Decorated possum skins, the new Melbourne Museum has one of only five left, were important clothing items to keep people warm as they camped in the nooks and crannies of the Gariwerds.
Where Massolo wrote of Bunjil's Cave it is more accurately described as Bunjil's Shelter and it 'is the only known art site in Victoria containing ..... a representation of someone whose identity is known.'
'Bunjil, the ancestral hero who is credited with creating the very first people.'
Brambuk is a living cultural centre, 'where a new mood and sense of purpose' inform the Koori Community. There is a great pride and respect for traditional culture and a slow flame has been rekindled to nuture age old wisdom. Like the flame that burnt so brightly at the Olympics I salute Brambuk and hope it shines and illuminates us all for a long time to come.
From Daylesford to Nhulunbuy and Back
The Northern Territory is a foreign country: they do things differently there, with apologies to L P Hartley and The Go Between. But it is like another world, another time.
From the moment you step off the plane things are different. The humidity hits you like a warm face washer, you remember the constant bead of sweat above the lip and the sweet fragrance of frangipani fills the air. Then the ground, you notice the red brown dirt of the airport and surrounds. In the twilight it's hot, still, the clouds build; the unusually late wet season hangs in there.
I'm back in the Territory and headed to Yirrkala, 'where the freshwater meets the saltwater', home of the Yolgnu people and Yothu Yindi, Australia's internationally renowned band, hailed "as the most beautiful blend of indigenous and modern music to emerge from the world's music scene"
It is also home to Nablco, known to the locals as 'Nabalcotraz' a huge squat monster of a mine that dominates the landscape . The mine boasts the longest continuous conveyor belt in the world and its line cuts a swathe across the lightly treed scrub. It greedily feeds itself on mountains of red dirt spitting out aluminium and another by-product, electricity. Hot water pours into the bay after cooling these processes down. The abundant electricity feeds off to the different settlements around the district that are home to aboriginal communities and the township of Gove that services the mine.
Yirrkala is one of these aboriginal communities and where I'm staying with my mate, the Sport and Recreation Officer for the community.
That first night my friend is in Gove and we wander to the club for obligatory beers, it is hot and steamy. Tall slender black youth hover like moths around a flame next to Steve's car, they flutter in and out of the light, sometimes only their smiles visible. It's fifteen kilometres out to the community and the next bus is another hour. They all need a lift home after a football meeting.
'No, no I'm busy, my friends here.'
Here another culture shift; the Arnhem Club, membership only, no thongs and no T-shirts and air-conditioning that feels like walking into a fridge. Miners and other town workers mingle in one bar, aboriginal people sit around the edges, together but separate. We find secluded bar space in the gaming room, bright flashing lights, bells and whirring noises hum along beside us as we catch up on news.
Later I'm introduced to several local Yolgnu people; this one an artist, this one a female elder and that one owes my friend twenty dollars, their all mesmorised by their pokie machines and I only get a cursory once over. Later I naively ask what name they call the rainbow snake? I'm hoping to adapt one of my string tricks to the region.
The well-dressed aboriginal women looks me in the eye as if I might be mad and considers me a moment. She whizzes her machine around again with the push of a button and blurts out a name almost a phrase that I have trouble catching. Later my friend laughs as he explains it's not so simple as that. It's involves many different parts and relationships. It's hard to explain in one word.
Where the stories I have heard and told have a beginning a middle and a end, aboriginal stories segue in and out of events , locations, relationships, rituals, teaching and survival information. Their degrees of kinship and relationships to the land are extremely complex built up over thousands and thousands of years living harmoniously with their environment.
Over the next few days my friend alludes to these complex relationships as way of explanation but it's like nothing I've ever known before. We drive around so I can get a feel for the lay of the land. On our way out of Yirrkala you can't help but notice the mines presence, a long tendril weaves across the countryside. Mounds of red dirt are pushed up to the road's edge and the airport is moving, Steve tells me; its red dirt is needed for the bauxite mine.
We visit Skee Beach , further south along the Gulf and run into Mandawuy Yunupingu (of Yothu Yindi)and his wife and their grandson. We join them for lunch at the yacht club; he knows my brother Paul from the music world and he welcomes me in. Mundawuy's wife occupies her small grandson, it is evident from her games and rhymes that she too is a storyteller, a teacher.
The yacht club opens at midday and we wait outside in the gardens. From the far north corner of the garden the mine looms in the distance like a prehistoric predator, its size is awesome , its effect on the landscape immeasurable. But sitting in the southern corner we look out to safe harbour where yachts bob, dinghies runabout and the afternoon's storm collects over Gunyangara (Mundawuy's homeland) and Melville Bay
The different images are hard to reconcile in this remote corner of Arnhem Land.
The aboriginal people have lived here for over forty thousand years, treating the land with great respect and reverence, their stories of the dreaming incorporate a sophisticated understanding of ecology and shared commonality of all species of living creatures.
David Suzuki in his book Wisdom of the Elders details this complex understanding by referring to Arande's (Central Australia) Red Kangaroo Dreaming stories. He refers to respected biologist, and renowned authority on the natural history and ecology of the red kangaroo A. E. Newsome when he writes in a research paper about 'eco-mythology.' Newsome claims that stories about Red Kangaroo Dreaming and the sacred spring at Krantji, 'may have an underlying ecological rationale.'
'A map of the ancestors overland trek near Krantji ---- breathing life and form into the landscape as they went corresponded with uncanny precision to maps of preferred habitats of red kangaroo.'
'The ancient Aborigines who created these legends must have been well acquainted with the ecology of the red kangaroo, and appear to have passed that knowledge into the mythology to be hidden by allegory.'
But these stories were created when a proud people roamed the land, when survival depended on your knowledge of the stories and your adherence to their lessons.
Nowadays aboriginal people live on communities and other lessons are needed for survival. Western bureaucracy is not something that comes easily to the communities in the territory. Mundawuy and his brother Gularrwuy are rightfully worried about the future of the Yolgnu and that is why the Yothu Yindi Foundation has been established.
Pronounced "yo-thoo-yin-dee", the name translates from Yolngu matha , (Yolgnu lanuage) to English as "child and mother" and is essentially a kinship term referring to the connection that the Yolngu clans of north-east Arnhem Land have between themselves.'
At Gunyangara I visit Yirrnga Music Development Centre, incorporationg the Ian Potter Foundation Studio. A recording studio set amongst a small patch of rainforest overlooking Melville Bay, it must be one of the most ideallic locations in the world.
Once again the duality of the associations strikes me; technology comes to Arnhem Land.
Later that afternoon Steve takes me to one of his favourite spots. Gulkula, a stringybark forest facing the Gulf of Carpentaria, it is also the site of the Garma Festival of Traditional Culture. We sit on a fallen log and look out across bush and sandunes to the sea. Now I can feel the hum of nature, smell the forest after light rain and I feel incredibly contented, I find myself chuckling out loud. It is so peaceful and there is something very comforting about being out of telecommunications range.
We stroll back to the site of the Garma Festival site not far from where we've been sitting.
Imagine if you will then , several lean to's in clearing in the bush. Wood poles with corrugated tin roofs, floors laid with coarse river sand and 'five hundred traditional dancers, artists and musicians of the Yolgnu clan groups along with two hundred invited guests' sitting, watching, learning in a circle around a central grassed area, this was the scene last July at the Garma Festival of traditional culture. A huge totem pole stands centrally, tall and definitely masculine, it acknowledges this spiritually significant site, 'Garma is the abstract idea of a place from which cultural meanings flow....and the place for our Garma is Gulkula.' They hope to bring this festival to an international stage so that '(we) can learn from each other and live together"
Back to Yirrkala to pick up my gear before heading to the air-conditioned town library for my first storytelling engagement. The scattered beer cans at the town's edge indicate the drinking spot for the youth of the settlement. It is a dry community (no alcohol) and they wander out here to sit by the side of the road to drink; it is known as 'The Limit". There is no water, no lights, no amenties and as they swagger home they are a definite traffic hazard, their dark, lithsome bodies, hidden and swaying in the night.
Their dreaming stories never incorporated beer, or cans that do not decompose, or takeaway fried food and soft drinks that have become their staple diet.
A day's work and back on the plane and off to Darwin, this time for a storytelling inservice for librarians and teachers. My passionate pleas urging them to tell stories, to inspire children with heroic deeds of great heroes, to impart understanding through the stories they choose to tell.
Late Sunday I head down to Adelaide River, 110 kilometres south of Darwin on the Stuart Highway, or down the track as they say up here. I will be based at the pub, travelling out to schools and communities in the vicinity. The Adelaide River Pub is renowned for its great food, meals are enormous, and the rooms might crack it for one point of a star. The saying 'don't let the bed bugs bite' probably originated here. It is also home to Charlie the Buffalo, star of Crocodile Dundee 1 & 2, the poor animal is on it's last legs, so to speak , with a crook hip, they don't expect him to live much longer.
Monday morning I walk around the corner to the school, the swollen Adelaide River courses swiftly by my side, I'm later to hear stories from the kids that crocodiles have been spotted just on the lawn at the front of their school. It is a beautiful building with lush tropical garden surrounding it. . Classrooms sit on stilts to take advantage of the breeze and louvered windows allow the breeze to flow through, The space underneath is utilised for play when it rains and huge dot paintings adorn the shelter shed .
The audience's upturned faces are like salt and pepper, black, brown, white and like children everywhere they love the stories. The aboriginal children that attend this school belong to the camp mob that live down near the river, they are always tired and often truant from school. Where once this would have seemed like a prized camping spot now it is for the fringe dwellers, stuck between two worlds they don't seem to fit anywhere.
Tuesday, a visiting school rings in, they don't think they can make it, the rivers are up and rain is threatening. They have an open-air caged truck that isn't suitable for all weather conditions. Jenny the Librarian organises a four-wheel drive, 'If they can't come in, we'll go out to them.'
After lunch we set off, unsure of what to expect only knowing that I'm headed to the Daly River mission. We drive for an hour and a half before we ford our first stream, there are four more to cross and the last is highest at .4 metres. Jenny, forges on she is worried that afternoon rain might make it difficult to return.
Finally we are on the outskirts of the settlement, jabiru, like large white cranes, wade in the reed-rimmed patches of water that surround the settlement. We drive in to the Saint Francis Xavier mission, community school. It seems so strange to find this flashback to my Catholic upbringing in this isolated area of the Northern Territory. But it's straight to it, we want to get in and out again before the rain starts again.
I'm a little apprehensive, here I am, as if taking coals to Newcastle, telling stories to man's oldest known living culture. Born in the year of the rooster all of a sudden I'm not so cocky. English is a limited second language for many who live on Aboriginal communities and I don't know what they will make of a balanda (white) women telling them stories.
I sit them down, draw them in and get ready to tell. But suddenly the back door of the library building is flung open and a young boy announces, 'A fight! In the river, two crocs ,'
And voom their gone, the entire audience, children, adults and me, outside to watch two big male crocodiles fighting in the river. But to tell the truth I couldn't see them they were camafloughed by the branches of the mangrove trees.
I can laugh now, but then it made me even more trepidacious. Finally, I begin telling stories to a mixed age group of 40 children and their teachers. My string tricks have always been invaluable, five tricks , taught to me by Ann Pellowski and Kel Watkins and I feel like I owe them royalties. These tricks always lull them into the stories, even the most fearsome audience, so now they're all listening. I know one origami fold, a crane that flaps its wings. So Junko Morimoto's The White Crane becomes the Jabiru, I cut stories to bare detail, I throw in a little creole (pidgeon-english) and they listen.
Back across the five creeks before the rain starts but the dense grey clouds muscle and jostle around us all the way back to Adelaide River. When I'm having my afternoon siesta I hear the heavens open up as the rain pelts down on the tin roof like a gattling gun.
Next morning I'm up early with first bird-call, today we're flying out to different communities on a small six sitter plane. As somebody commented it was like sitting in an old sixties style combi van with torn upholstery. I am a nervous flyer and it had been a long time since I had been in such a small plane.
But it was so exciting I tried to focus on the scenery.
We headed due west from Adelaide River to a mission settlement called Ngnamarriyanga (phonetically none-murray-ung-ga but the children sing it when they say it) , from the air we could see the north-west coastline of the Terrritory and below us the paths of the mighty rainbow snake crisscrossed the land.
When I worked in the territory years ago I learnt that aboriginal people have an incredible apptitude for areial vision. That is, white children would draw a house with windows , chiminies, flowers and the sun, aboriginal children would draw arial views of mountains and landscapes, it was amazing. Looking at the rivers from the sky I too had a chance to connect to creation time when the rainbow snake became part of the dreaming stories of this old, old landscape.
The settlement was surrounded by water and luninous green lichen, or grass floated and swayed on the surface. Why there were more shades of green than even the biggest box of Derwent pencils. The airstrip, if you could call it that, in contrast was red ochre.
At Ngnamarriyanga I was shown around the different classrooms and introduced as 'the storyteller.' You could see they too were curious and a little apprehensive. I'd decided to start with my rainbow snake trick. Now in this story I employ a fair bit of poetic license , it was actually taught to me by Ann Pellowski. I explain it's a trick and a story taught to me buy an old aboriginal man from Darwin named Wyendji. Then I call the snake Gorialla which is actually it's name from Gulf Country. No-one seemed to notice and when I looked for approval to the elder man at the back he impatiently nodded for me to get on with the story.
I told them my Anase tale A Story A Story by Gail E Haley. For this I have Kel's spider in a web string trick that becomes Osebo the Leopard of the terrible teeth as you manipulate the strings and the creature moves up and down. I'd seen an Anase 'big story book' sitting in one classroom so I knew they'd heard of him. I called Nyame, the sky God, the big spirit fella, in the sky and everything else seemed self explanatory.
It rained ever day I was in the Territory and the sky was continually dominated by masses and towers of grey cotton clouds. On the little plane we seemed to fly through corridors of them, steering a clear path to avoid the turbulence. Isolated patches of light and rain showered down around us. The Dragon's Pearl a story from the far-away days of cloud breathing dragons was the show stopper. Chao Sheng the boy swallows a pearl and turns into a dragon, each time I told the story I ceremoniously unwrapped a ten inch painted dragon that belongs to my son, I told them it was very precious.
The young teacher's fresh from college in Darwin told me they had never known them to be so quiet. I knew they had understood and enjoyed the stories. I was impressed by the respect the elders had instilled for stories.
The infant teacher didn't bring her children into the session their english was so limited but Jenny dragged me in there anyway. I cut my teeth on pre-school storytime and I've honed my props down to a couple of simple things. It was exciting and made me realise how universal stories are.
Back on the plane for the longest leg of the trip to Jabiru, in the heart of Arnhem Land and site of a huge open cut mine. From the sky disused holes of previous sites are like opals. The colours are brilliant blues and aquamarines, it must be the leeching effect of the minerals. Surrounding Jabiru are spectacular ancient escarpments that follow the rivers across the countryside but the mine seems to dominate the landscape even more because of the intrusive nature of the beast.
It is a large school and I only have time to visit two groups, back on the plane, still feeling a little queasy so I decide to ditch my packed lunch from the pub, egg and lettuce sandwiches.
At Batchelor area school the next day I tell stories to the primary children, the groups are small and the children are attentive. It's been a long week and I'm happy to attend happy hour with the staff before I catch the bus back to Darwin.
A few weekend dinner parties round of my stay and I find myself in question mode. One friend is manager at Dombosco , the detention centre where the latest Territory suicide was reported. I hear the young lad had only one day left of his sentence. I hear cynical old friends talk of aboriginal people, the mob that live around the parks and reserves of Darwin, "And these are the custodians of the Land"
Mandatory sentencing is raised, some argue it's like legitimised discrimination, others say it's necessary to stop white territorians feeling like they live in a 'combat zone."
I learn that the law was actually introduced as a way of curbing urban crime but that it's devastating effects have been felt more in the remote communities.
I see it as the kind of anti-social behaviour that is often associated with poverty, as a confused response to massive cultural domination.
For all the exciting developments, like recording studios, and cultural festivals our society has knocked these quiet sensitive people for six. Our ways must seem so harsh and brash to the original inhabitants of Australia.
I feeling an overwhelming sadness that our society has ignored their great wealth of knowledge, I feel sad that stories were given no value. Travelling to the territory I feel like I dipped my toes into a huge sea of interwoven knowledge and wisdom that resonates with the landscape. I feel greedy for more.
I have travelled to remote corners of the territory and been the 'teller of tales' and I acknowledge June Barnes when she say's 'the storyteller gives and with that giving the storyteller receives.' I'm sure that I have received much with this storytelling experience.
Dromkeen: Children's Literature Collection
Over hundred years ago Judge Arthur Chomley planted pine trees along the road front of his Riddell's Creek Property. Today they hide one of Melbourne's best kept secrets. Up the dusty old track to a magic maze of garden, bronze sculptures and winding paved paths, Dromkeen, the homestead nestles in these magnificent grounds and these days, the stately old home houses the Dromkeen Collection of Australian Children's Literature.
However 'the true magic and wonder commence inside the homestead for here we have one of the most significant collections of artwork from children's literature in the world', the result of the vision and dreaming of two people, Joyce and Courtney Oldmeadow.
Joyce came from a family that encouraged her love of books and she went on to train as a kindergarten teacher. College lecturers 'kindled an interest in children's literature and developed an appreciation of the creative effort underlying the production of a picture story book.' She remembers the vibrancy of a tale well told and cites The Tale of Peter Rabbit and The Story about Ping as the first stories in her storytelling repertoire. A seed was planted, a dream was hatched, a place was needed 'where children and books could come together in a more intimate way.'
'Courtney Oldmeadow's passion for books and love of literature developed during his school days and when he matriculated he was offered an art scholarship to university. But it was the time of the great depression and he was unable to accept, he needed a job. Shortly after the outbreak of WW2 Courtney enlisted as a Flight Lieutenant in the Royal Australian Airforce.
After he returned his first venture was a mixed business but it wasn't long before his love of literature resurfaced and he added children's books to the shelves of his shop. Further developments saw time as travelling children's booksellers, then a bookstore from the garage behind their home in East Ivanhoe, until it threatened to take over their lives. A major expansion of the business was to follow and they moved to their renowned shop in West Heidleberg
The philosophies that were to become Dromkeen's creed were fine-tuned. There was an urgent need to conserve 'all manner of materials associated with children's literature', particularly Australian and this material needed to be 'a living collection, displayed and always available for children to enjoy.'
Then one spring day in 1973 Dromkeen 'was found' by Joyce whilst visiting a friend at Riddell's Creek. The friend suggested the old homestead as a place to store books. Joyce immediately fell in love with it, 'and then as always, I became wildly enthusiastic. I already had the homestead as a home for children's literature and all sorts of things. Court made me take things slowly and be practical I was the one who had wild ideas; he was the one who made ideas and dreams a reality.'
Years of hard slog saw Dromkeen officially opened on the 12th October 1974, a dream slowly realised, a chance for children to understand 'that books were created by real people who had an equally real audience in mind.'
But Dromkeen has come along way since those early days and now it is an impressive collection that chronicles the traditions and heritage of Australia through its children's literature. Visiting Dromkeen is like visiting old friends, books we have known and loved and worked with over the years gain an added 'vitality and freshness' when viewed in the original form. Writer's illustrator's publishers, librarians and storytellers mingle as colleagues.
Take the winning form of Mem Fox and Julie Vivas in the classic, Possum Magic. How wondrous children must find it to see the pre publication material where the main character was 'a small invisible mouse, the ghostly ancestor of Hush, the invisible possum.' Vivas's illustrations are even more sparkling when viewed as original paintings.
Most of the 'greats' of Australians children literature are represented in the collection 'from early colonial works; the romantic Fairy Era of Ida Rentoul Outhwaite; Ethel Jackson Morris; Peg Maltby; to our well-loved icons The Magic Pudding, Blinky Bill and the Gumnut Babies; to the contemporary heroes of Julie Vivas; Patricia Mullins with her world acclaimed tissue paper collage; Graeme Base; Jeanie Baker's three dimensional collage sculptures; and works by Indigenous artists Bronwyn Bancroft, Pat Torres, Arone Raymond Meeks and Ian Abdulla.
The exhibitions are constantly changing; authors, illustrators and storytellers continually visit to bring the magic of story alive to eager young listeners. The homestead built by Judge Chomley in 1889 for his wife and eight children still exudes homely warmth that displays the artwork to full advantage. In one room beside a grand old fireplace bookshelves display editions of Australia's renowned author Ivan Southall. For Ash Road alone, there are 19 different versions. Behind each door, through each archway pleasures await.
Of interest to storytellers is the luscious throne for a kingly storyteller and the storytelling cape covered in amazing array of illustrated patches. A small antique display case houses a glorious gold and red crown and a jewel studded orb these are 'clues to the special children's program known as Dromkeen Dragons, a 'friends of Dromkeen" for the juniors. A grand dragon, a prominent author or illustrator reigns over activities for a year.
Friends of Dromkeen was formed in 1981 and they provide ongoing support for the development of the collection with donations of artwork, promotion of the collection and assistance at particular events. The 'friends' reconsidered their charter and role within literary circles in Australia to become the Dromkeen Society in 1994,
A highlight of the Society's year is the Dromkeen Dinner held in the last week in February; it is here that the prestigious Dromkeen Medal is awarded. A medal designed by Robert Ingpen, it recognises a person who has made 'a significant contribution to the appreciation and development of children's literature in Australia.' The recipient in 1999 was .........
Norman Lindsay wrote his classic The Magic Pudding to back up his theory 'that infantile concepts of happiness (were) based on the belly. ...And if a kid was offered his choice between food and fairies as delectable reading matter, (he) was willing to bet he would plumb for food. Likewise Dromkeen delights the senses with wonderful entertaining and refreshments and maybe that's another reason people keep coming back. At their literary lunch held first Friday in December Kaye Keck and the team spoil and indulge our every sense. It is here also that the Dromkeen Librarians award is given to an outstanding Children's Librarian.
In 1997 Dromkeen commenced a program focusing on reconciliation it 'aims to produce a sense of national identity based on shared historical experience and recognition and respect for indigenous cultures
This year sees huge celebrations planned for the launch of a new heritage trail though the gardens at Dromkeen. Huge boards (1m by 2m) will wind through the pine trees; on them will be colourful illustrations depicting significant events in Australia's History. The boards will pay homage to our indigenous people, look at depictions of issues such as multiculturalism and the environment and portray significant events such as the raising of the Eureka Flag. The trail will be launched on October the 20th this year in time for celebration of Federation in 2001 and our hundred years of nationhood.
'It will be a very interactive day, children are invited to come as a character in history and map themselves on the timeline that will thread across the boards. Storyteller Anne E Stewart will tell stories around the theme of Australian History through her picture books
As I read through information about Dromkeen a phrase keeps repeating over and over in my head, 'If you build it they will come'. The line made famous by Kevin Costner in the movie Field of Dreams. Unsure of why, he builds a baseball ground in his cornfield.
Joyce and Court's concept has frequently been referred to as 'a dream becoming a reality.' But unlike Costner's character they knew exactly what they were doing. It was always their intention to 'present (children) with positive images to delight the senses, stir the emotions, nourish the mind and inspire the soul.'
Only two years after Dromkeen was open they were presented with the prestigious Eleanor Farjeon Award in recognition of their services to children's literature. It was the first time it had been awarded outside the UK, or to booksellers. International recognition of the importance of Dromkeen and fitting tribute to the creators of an inspiring venture, 'a meeting place of minds, children and books'.
Eureka: The Birthplace of the Australian Spirit.
A glossy brochure with the gold stars of the Southern Cross, proclaims Ballarat ' Birthplace of the Australian Spirit", a mighty big claim!
Ballarat is 110 kilometres N NW of Melbourne and in 1854, on the fledgling goldfields, it became the site of the famous Eureka Uprising.
To set the scene; Ballarat, aboriginal for 'pleasant resting place' and originally home to the Watharong people. When you drive in from the west, just over Clarke's hill, two Mountains loom on the horizon; like warriors guarding the town. Mt Warrenheip and Mt Buninyong. Warrenheip , meaning covered like emu feathers, very aptly named for its skirt of gum trees and Buninyong from a phrase Bowang Yowang meaning man with bended knee. When you drive in from the south you can understand why the roaming nation labeled the scrunched up leg mountains, Buninyong.
A sense of irony comes through in the naming of Ballarat's jewel lake and surrounding suburbs, Wendouree . According to Legend when -----Yuille arrived in the district in 1837 he claimed the area as his own. Pre-lake it was known as Yuille's swamp. One day he met with Watharong people travelling through their lands. 'And what do you call this place' he enquired. The 'elder' woman of the tribe stood forward and indicated "go away, go away 'with her hands ,saying 'Wendouree, wendouree'. 'Go away' is putting it very politely.
When the cry of gold rang out in August 1851 people flocked to the district. Why in only a few weeks over two thousand people had arrived on the diggings and a tent city sprang up overnight, like mushrooms after a heavy rain. There were Germans, Americans, Chinese and strong contingent of Irish. By 1854 'conditions on the goldfields were crowded and the miners led a hard life. Firewood and drinking water were in short supply, disease was commonplace and the miners paid a high price for food, clothing and mining equipment.'
The pastoral landscape of the early diggings changed dramatically noted historian W.B. Withers 'the green banks of the Yarrowee were lined with tubs and cradles, its clear waters were changed to liquid yellow... and its banks grew to be long shoals of tailings...in a few weeks the green slopes where the prospectors found the gold... changed...to the appearance of a fresh and rudely made burial ground'
Throw into this harsh melting pot, crippling mining taxes on the government's 'crown land' and sparks started to fly.
On the 17th October 1854 ... an angry mob rioted and set fire to James Bentley's Hotel as a sign of outrage at the corrupt government. The arrival on the goldfields of more Government troops and further provocative licence hunts incensed the miners.
'On the 29th November 1854 a 'monster meeting' of some 12 000 Ballarat residents took place at Bakery Hill. Hastily devised as a symbol of resistance, the Eureka flag was flown for the first time at the meeting.'
The colourful Raffello Carboni in his published account of the Eureka uprising (R.Carboni, The Eureka Stockade, Melbourne , 1855) wrote of the flag; 'There is no flag in Europe or in the civilised world half so beautiful... the flag is silk, blue ground, with a large silver cross; no device or arms, but all exceedingly chaste and natural.'
The next day legendary Irishman Peter Lalor emerged as a natural leader and beneath the flag he rallied the crowd to swear allegiance. 'We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly by each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties'
On the 1st of December the miner's started to erect the stockade on the Eureka lead up on the Melbourne road. The miners said, '...they enclosed a flat bit of ground for drilling.'
The government said: '...they built a defensive camp.'
Either way in the wee hours of the 3rd December 1854 a reinforcement of red coats descended on 150 tired and weary miners. They were under the misapprehension that no one would attack on the Lord's day. Shots rang out over the unsuspecting miners and in the ensuing battle over thirty were to die. Martial Law was imposed immediately and the riotous nature of the crowd was subdued.
In it's aftermath a 'shocked silence settled over Ballarat as bodies were identified and buried and reward notices were posted for familiar rebel leader's names'. British historian Paul Johnson referred to it as a picturesque but trivial episode, however Australian historian Weston Bate sees it differently. 'Eureka ...a small rebellion about a large principle; the right of people to protest against Government action that infringes basic rights and liberties' 'A number of important social changes and political improvements arose out of the events at Eureka. The abolition of the oppressive licence fee resulted in greater freedom and democracy for the diggers. The right to vote for political representatives was introduced and Australia's political system was strongly influenced by the demands of the Ballarat Reform League.'
But more than that Eureka became a symbol that represents man's fight for freedom, it has been likened to England and her Magna Carter and America and her Declaration of Independence. Eureka and her flag continue to be commemorated in books, songs, films, theatre poetry and art.
Ballarat is proud of it's history and many links to this period surround you as you wander the streets of Ballarat. You can walk the Eureka Trail starting at the Post office, former site of the Government Camp, past Bakery Hill where that first meeting took place and where the flag still flies proudly (but also boasts one of the largest McDonalds you've ever seen). Towards the gully formed by the Yarrowee Creek and onto to the contentious sites of the Eureka Stockade, actually the two choices are only a long stone's throw apart. One site boasts 'The Eureka Soldiers' Memorial' erected in March 1856.
The other the Eureka Stockade Centre opened in 1998, the 'realisation of Ballarat's long held dream of a Eureka Monument of national significance that will suitably enshrine Eureka as part of the national heritage.' And it is fantastic. Its modern design embodies many aspects of the famous rebellion. It is built into the ground, then allows 'the visitor to travel up towards the light of the commemorative lawn.' like so many miners would have emerged from the dark. The buildings 'crowning glory' a mast with sails the size of two tennis courts. These sails are a replica of the Eureka Flag and symbolise the arrival of many migrants by ship to Port Phillip during the goldrush era of the 1850's. 'Deeply symbolic on a 'sacred' site it is a moving monument to a defining moment in Australian history.
Inside the magic continues, in the interpretative centre, 'which evokes the action that occurred on the site,....not a historic reconstuction.' A creek like channel with river stones runs through the entrance, you cross it to enter the Exhibition where state of the-art multi-media technology tell the story leading up to and the events of December 1854 and huge characters of Lawlor and others in another room loom larger than life The contemplation space is almost Buddhist with its minimalist approach, running water and artistic interpretive flag and many a lively debate has been re-created in the Debating Hall .
Onto another important Eureka Site, the Ballarat Fine Art Gallery where the remains of the original flag are carefully and proudly housed along with many other paintings and artwork. Our ex-Premier Jeff Kennett wondered out loud about moving the flag to the new centre but he was howled down. 'The Ballarat Fine Art Gallery has housed the Eureka Flag since November 1895, when the Gallery's Founder and President, James Oddie, received it from the widow of John King, a trooper who took part in the attack on the Eureka Stockade'.
When they restored the flag in 1973 they found it to be made of fine woolen mohair fabric, the 'silky' sheen commented on by Carboni. The stars were constructed of a transparent 'white petticoat' lawn but little is known of the makers of the flag.
'Today the flag is viewed by many as a national icon' and it is often taken up as a symbol of rebellion.'
'With its combination of courage, determination and mateship, the Eureka story is a short but unforgettable chapter in the nation's history.'
The birthplace of the Australian Spirit?
There is no doubt that Ballarat and the Eureka uprising were the birthplace of the Australian Democratic spirit ,our civilian forebears raged against Government corruptness and inequality, a small battle but a big principle But as the old legend states;
"When the white-fella arrived in the district and started tearing down the trees for the mines and ripping out the gold they must have disturbed the resting dreamtime spirits. For all its tales of wealth and beauty there is still many a sad tale to tell about Ballarat.
Once Upon A Time......Storytelling for the very young.
I'll never forget Mem Fox telling 'The Little Match Girl' to a group of librarian's and teachers in Darwin early on in my storytelling career. I remember the tears in my eyes, the sadness, and the lump in my throat; she had us all there, eating out of the palm of her hand. Not a loud theatrical Mem but rather a quiet reflective Mem in keeping with the emotions of the story. What power, what a storyteller!
But more than that, there was one thing in particular that has always stayed with me. Mem has a tremendous appreciation and passion for stories, language and literacy. Telling stories, she explained is like the pouring forth of precious jewels, each delicious word to be savoured, to be handed to children with love, respect, passion and reverence.
Fifteen years on, with countless pre school storytimes under my belt I too have a passionate belief in the importance of developing in children a love of language and literature. I still thrill to the eager up -turned faces that look at me adoringly. I always know when I've told stories to a child, even if I don't remember their face. They look at me like we are old friends, like we've shared adventures together.
But of all the age groups, preschoolers are probably the trickiest, the most intense, the most constant. There is no chance to relax into a long story. Preschool sessions necessarily move along at a fast pace, moving from rhyme to story to song. Preschoolers have no qualms about showing you their cut finger in the middle of the story, or telling you their cat's name or what they had for breakfast. It's hard work
However, telling preschoolers stories and creating a love for the magic and music of words is probably one of our most important jobs.
Fifteen years on, I have learnt many tricks and developed a quiet confidence in my abilities and the stories I have chosen to work with. This article purports to share some of these with you.
Nothing can beat experience when it comes to the art of storytelling but some guidelines to start you on the path.
I have always found it easier to work with themes with pre-school storytimes, be it as simple as food, the wind, animals or bathtime, it helps me to focus the session and find material from the excellent plethora of stories, songs and rhymes available. The trick is to work up a package that incorporates a range of material.
Let me give you some examples.
Ann Pellowski in her excellent book The Story Vine has a simple version of How the Years were named for the Animals. A beautiful old Chinese story that starts with the Buddha sitting under his sacred Bodhi Tree
Let's take this as a starting point for exploring Pre-School Storytelling I saw Pellowski tell this story using twelve tiny animal figurines. At the time I couldn't find any myself so I cut out and pasted the animals in the story on to black cardboard. They were big and bold and young children quickly got the idea to name the animals with me as the story progressed. First year, the rat, second year the ox, third the tiger, fourth the rabbit, fifth the dragon and so on.
Let's start with the year of the rat. First some nursery rhymes, 'Hickory Dickory Dock, the mouse ran up the clock.' Okay everyone arms up nice and straight so we can watch your little mice run up them. With these developing listeners it is a good idea to involve them with action rhymes, get them to join in in a focused way. In my time in libraries Elisabeth Matterson's This Little Puffin was always in my reference collection, it was a well-organised great source for nursery rhymes and appropriate actions.
With this early age group I invariably use lots of props. 'I've brought some visitors to meet you today, they're very small and very shy and frightened of cats. Can you guess what they are? ' Out of my pocket I produce two little mice, (available from pet shops as toys for cats). 'These are my friends Tom Thumb and Hunka Munka, they want to do a little poem with you. Now because you haven't got any mice, maybe you'd like to pretend with me. Put your hand out flat and pretend it's a nest and use your pointer and middle finger of the other hand as mice.' Now: Two little mice sat down to spin Pussy passed by, and popped his head in What are you doing my little men? We're weaving coats for gentlemen. Can I come in and bight off the thread? No, no Pussy, You'd bight off our heads.
I'll then repeat this through the session. This poem then naturally leads to a longer story, Two Bad Little Mice by Beatrix Potter.
All of this takes about twenty minutes, quite long enough for beginning listeners. If your pre-schoolers are well trained and it's later in the year you could extend it by searching for related stories. Working in a library I was always on the lookout for new material but if you don't try looking for a reference book titled 'Subject Access to Picture Books,' this could save you hours of perusing the shelves.
Let's pick some more animals from our Chinese Years, say the Rooster and the Dragon, my Chinese animal and my daughters respectively. I love telling this story and children seem to really concentrate on it. The Rooster and the Heavenly Dragon, can be found in a Multicultural collection by Margaret Read MacDonald.
'Once, the rooster had beautiful golden horns on the top of his head. And so it goes....
In my hometown of Daylesford, in country Victoria I earn my bread and butter money at a shop called 'Dragons and Dreaming.' Three metres of scaly red dragon wrap itself around the wall protecting a small cave where I tell stories. Naturally I've got a lot of Dragon Lore. You must hunt out Jack Prelutsky's book of dragon poems The Dragons are Singing Tonight, the title poem is sensational, I love sharing beautiful rhythmic poetry like this. Would you believe I've even adapted P.D. Eastman's classic Are you my Mother, to 'Are yee me kinfolk.' I gathered all the props from my children's toys together with a handsome green Sri Lankian Dragon puppet I had. It's like this: Mother dragon goes off to look for food. While she's gone her baby in its egg is washed down into a deep dark lake. Claws start scratching and the baby dragon emerges to look for his mother. He finds out he's not a fish that has scales like him and he's not a reptile with claws like his, not a bird that can fly or a fire that burns. He wanders back to his nest and his mother finds him. How deliciously satisfying for a child, to be back home with his mother who loves him. I've even got a version featuring Dinosaurs!
Year of the snake leads me to several other favourite books, poems and stories. Once again I recommend Ann Pelowsk's The Story Vine, this time for its string tricks. I had the great fortune to meet Ann and collected a few of her stories and tricks. I have employed poetic license and changed her snake into Gorialla the Rainbow serpent; I also do the mosquito trick.
While on an aboriginal theme, I have also adapted an action rhyme Pellowski illustrates in her book. My niece Esther was called Muk Muk by the aboriginal people of central Australia, where she was born because of her big round eyes like an owl. The actions are in the book but this is how I tell it, once children have guessed that Muk Muk is an aboriginal word for Owl.
Muk Muk sat in the branch of a tree, As quiet as quiet can be. It was night And her eyes were open like this She looked all around Not a thing did she see Two mice started creeping up the trunk of the tree And they stopped below the branch To see what they could see The solemn old owl said 'Twooit Twoooh Up jumped the mice and down they flew.
I always have great fun with another aboriginal story that of Tiddalik the giant frog that drinks up all of the water. I have a big green balloon that I blow up as Tiddalick drinks up all the water and gets fatter and fatter and bigger and bigger. I love children's nervous trepidation, will it or won't it burst?
I tell the version from the ABC book Favourite Playschool Stories or maybe it's in the collection More Favourite Playschool Stories, whatever, I recommend you get them both. Likewise the Playschool Useful Book is a must for those interested in developing pre-school themes.
A list could go on and on about the stories, poems and rhymes that have become like old friends but I should conclude with some practical aspects of Pre-school storytelling.
Interruptions; I'm afraid these will always happen no matter how experienced you are or how well you know your stories. Don't let it phase you! Don't ignore the child or they'll keep badgering but a firm 'you can tell me after the story' will help. We are training these young people in their listening skills so we need to be pro-active. A couple of favourite lines that always work for me are:
'You know how I can tell children are ready for a story?, there sitting up nice and straight and looking at me." "Oh dear, I can't go on, somebody's talking and that will spoil the story for everyone else," then you eyeball the yapper.
The stories you choose will stay in your repertoire for a long time so make sure they are stories you love. To hark back to Mem, you need to be passionate about your choices.
Keep your storytime moving along, include a range of material and vary the length of pieces you present. Children learning language love repetition so make sure you include old favourites Like the Gingerbread Boy, or the Hobyahs, invite the children to join in this structured way. Beware of opened-ended questions with the very young, their minds could be wandering anywhere and you may not get the response you had hoped for.
Finally to finish a quote from another favourite storyteller of mine, Patricia Scott from Tasmania (who has won the Dromkeen medal for her contribution to children's literature) 'Like your story, know your story. Relax and enjoy the telling.'
'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The soul that rises with us, our star, Hath elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar?' Wordsworth
Where to from here? An academic treatise? I think not.
But where to start? The brief for this article was to tie together all the thoughts, ideals and creeds of a group of passionate and practicing storytellers at a weekend conference in country Victoria. We were to wind our way through to a conclusion about Where to from here.
Where are storytellers headed and why?
The notes came over the wires via e-mail: here is what was discussed, here is what we thought. Alas and alack the vibrancy, the soul searching, the bared hearts do not travel well. Stumbling, I looked around for more illumination
I entertained an historic approach so I start dipping into my bibles, first The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell.
I jotted down fragments.
Myths and legends, 'like shards of pottery in an archeological dig,' frameworks for our life's.
Our earliest ancestors from the Paleolthic Millennia, 'a newcomer in a world of unexplored plains and forests,' told stories to ritualise and atone for the necessary killing of their animal brothers. ...With the transference to a planting and harvesting society woman came to play a more important role, early traditions associate her roles of birth and nourishment with the cyclic nature of life.
The basic theme of all mythology.... 'there is an invisible plane supporting the visible one."
"Myths link you to your social group." "Myths must be kept alive." " The people who can keep it alive are artists of one kind or another." " "The function of the artist is the mythologization of the environment of the world"
'The first shaping of this art comes not from the 'folk' but from 'an elite experience, the experience of people particularly gifted, whose ears are open to the song of the universe'
I sidetracked to the internet to find details about a name quoted in Campbell's book; the writer Thomas Berry said 'we are in trouble because we are in between stories. Now the old story is not functioning. And we have not yet learnt a new."
Still fumbling, after ages on the net I picked up Eileen Colwell's slim volume Storytelling and all my romantic ideals were stirred. Here we are in a long line of gypsy's and vagabonds with a skill for telling a tale and a great tradition to uphold.
Round and round I went and I came no closer to an idea about, where to from here?.
Then it came to me like a bolt of lightening .
It was inside me all the time. We have all experienced the highs and lows of storyelling.
I've been brooding, brooding, brooding about three miserable storytelling jobs in a row. Admittedly one was the same school two days in a row and the other was the following week but they left me feeling drained and upset.
I can tell stories to a hundred a fifty kids even if teaches are clowning around up the back. It's hard to eye ball people so far away into shutting up and I hate interrupting the story, but it's not very satisfying. And it wasn't until the eighth session over two days that I spat the dummy. The inconsiderate teacher who wanted do photocopying, (fancy putting me in a room with a photocopier anyway) got the message when the room went silent, he turned to me and I very politely said "We''ll wait" Underpaid, overworked office staff where just plain rude and made me feel like I was a nuisance.
Then to top it off, for personal reasons, I couldn't make a shared story and music night at the Boite (ed. Fill in description please) in Melbourne. Next morning, Nell Bell, esteemed life member of the Australian Storytelling Guild, colleague and great mate said the night was magic. June Barnes had woven the wonderful, disparate tales and songs together in the manner of Sheherazde and I had missed it.
As I simmered down, something clicked I'd read in Colwell's book. She was quoting one of my hero's John Masefield. As a lovelorn sixteen year old I would stand on the sandunes at the end of Torquay beach and call out to the wind his wonderful poem Sea Fever,his stirring intent, rhymes and rythms, calming and inspirational. As poet Laurete of the UK he supported Colwell's efforts at storytelling , he too was a great teller. He had a vision of what storytelling might be, he was convinced men and women as well as children loved stories and could be deeply moved by them. 'He visualised groups of musicians, singers dancers and practised storytellers wearing costumes of strangeness and beauty. The storytellers would tell the story in turn and there would be interludes of music and dance to add splendour and excitement.'
I thought of my friends and colleagues and could imagine the almost palpable energy in the room, I know so well. It is as Campbell say's Storytellers, people particularly gifted, whose ears are open to the song of the universe'
Where to from here? Where it's always been. And now more than ever we need the support of each other, the understanding and reverence for story we all share.
The well-trained respectful listeners of the Boite made me think about my travels up north and my telling in indigenous communities. It was so gratifying to have elders sitting around the children like shepherds around their flock, they were interested in my stories and they led by example. I felt their scrutiny and I was approved but I felt like a novice in a new world of stories. Imagine if you can, stories that must have evolved and changed and been handed down over fifty thousand years or more. Storytelling was essential to aboriginal survival, they know the importance of our art and talents. Thomas Berry, known as a eco-spitualist (from my net surfing) says, ''In developing a spirituality of the earth as part of the New Story clearly we will be returning to examine the rich symbols and rituals ' ...of indigenous cultures.
Where to from here?
Aboriginal storytellers interviewed in the pages of 'Swag' have always said 'look to the stories of the peoples where you live, the land you belong to. Maybe each of us should endeavour to uncover some stories from our own surrounds. I recall Susan R from the conference asking what stories to tell our city kids and I wonder about Melbourne Dreaming stories? I do know there is the story of our How The Yarra River was Made in Bunjils Cave by Aldo Massola. As Pauline Mcleod from NSW says I want our tales as popular as nursery stories. Maybe this is a role for storytellers, lead the way to reconciliation through the respectful sharing of aboriginal culture. Eco-spiritualists /storytellers, I like that!
The tellers at the weekend conference quoted many favourite stories and revealed much about themselves, and this is not the place for single exposition. But several constants emerged in their choices; the myths of the human quest, the trials of transition from childhood to maturity. The storytellers own growth, self-understanding, love stories, simple stories. Stories to laugh over stories to cry with. Stories that develop a love of language and stories that give the listener courage. Stories to fire the imagination and stories to help make sense of the world around us.
But where to from here?
In our fast, complicated, hectic lives where economic dictates rule the day, what are the lessons to be learnt through our tales. In the modern legend, Star Wars the movie by George Lucas, ,the voice of Ben Kenobi says to Luke Skywalker in the climatic moment of the last fight, 'Turn off your computer, turn off your machine and do it yourself, follow your feelings, trust your feelings.' We need to hear the stories that let us be people of heart and humanity.
Where to from here? Storytellers, we are the big picture people!
Campbell say's a 'valid mythology is the mythology of the planet.... And the closet thing to planetary mythology is Buddhism, which sees all things as Buddha beings. We need myths that will identify the individual not with his local group but with the planet. When you see the earth from the moon, you don't see any divisions there of nations or states. This might be the symbol of the new mythology to come. That is the country that we are going to be celebrating. And those are the people we are one with.'
It is evident from talking to my colleagues that they too have looked to these pearls of wisdom.
It seems I have asked more questions than I have answered and I will make no definitive summations. I leave you with some final favourite quotes, 'Storytellers are simply those who have made a profession and a lifestyle of being in touch with their bliss'
'May the force be with you' and
'Are you up to your destiny' HAMLET
The Spiritual Unity of the Tribes.
In the heart of spa country central Victoria, just out of Daylesford under the shadow of Lambargook (Mt Franklin), Dan O'Connor and Sue Ewart have offered their majestic property for Australia's first ever 'spiritual gathering' known as The Spiritual Unity of the Tribes. The property is known as 'Dja William', a name given to them by descendants of the original inhabitants of the land, the Djarra people; it means 'Earth Nest'.
It's early morning, dew is still on the ground and the birds chortle high in the forest trees. In the clearing by the creek the smoke snakes up and around the tipis as people stir to their early morning tasks. Up on higher ground a buffalo skull painted to represent the American flag, guards the sacred arbour, The ceremonial fire is set and waits to be lit. It seems homage is to native American culture rather than indigenous Australian culture.
People have gathered on the Easter long weekend from near and far to celebrate the Wisdom of the Elders, along with them Nell Bell, life member of the Australian Storytelling Guild, proclaimed shanacie, respected elder and loved grandmother
Nell represents the Guild and she has come in search of stories that reflect the aims of the gathering, ' to honour the spirit, the sanctity of the land and the wisdom of the elders.'
They say powerful songlines traverse the district that was once home to the Djarra people but now the district is renouned for it's invigorating mineral waters and spas, its plethora of New Age industries, great food and wine. But as Nell and friends pass through the cappuccino capital of Victoria and its streets teeming with indulgent tourists it seems more a hedonist's paradise than the site for serious spiritual reflection.
Onto a rough bush track off the back Glenlyon road and bush poles strung with a huge canvas sign indicate they've found the gathering. Cars are parked in a paddock, so a walk down to the house and camping sites is necessary.
Through the gates and down the rough driveway to the house and campsite, but before they can enter they need to be smudged, a process whereby smoldering branches of gum trees and leaves are passed over and around their bodies to cleanse them. People involved have a serious reverence towards these rituals.
During the morning people trickle down this road into the valley like grains of sand in an hourglass until a microcosm of the world's people are colourfully represented. Indigenous cultures represented by their elders include Native American Indians, Canadians, ( June please add others you can think of) and the Djarra clan They are, however, outnumbered by numerous lean young 'ferals' with matted hair, bright beads and colourful clothing.
People sit and lie in small groups around the arbour waiting for the fire to be lit. As a mark of respect descendants of the Djarra people have been asked to light the fire but they haven't arrived from Bendigo for the official 11o'clock start.
Nell decides to seek out some of the elders, she is curious how storytelling defines other cultures?
Along with sound recordist June Barnes and permission from Dan and Sue they approach Kalieran, (Anak Agung Gede Oka Kalieran) from Bali.
Kalieran is still rugged up as protection against the early morning cool weather, nut brown face, snow white hair, twinkling eyes and a smiling face, he happily agrees to be interviewed. 'Bali' is a sanskrit word that means 'to return', a reference to their migration from Java in the 10th century and their belief that they will one day go back. Many of their stories revolve around the history and background to their life in Bali. Children learn of their culture through storytelling with a special emphasis and love for dancing and shadow puppets. Kalieran informs Nell that their religion is based around the importance of remembering ancestors. It is bad luck not to acknowledge them. Balinese strongly believe in Karma, the cosmic operation of retributive justice determined by your thoughts and actions. He laughs as he tells her that Balinese people are always doing good because they are afraid of Karma. Nell pushes him for specific stories and he mentions The Mahabharata. This is the sacred book of the Hindus and is the world's longest epic. Its central plot is about the conflict between spirits of evil (Kurus) and the spirits of good (Pandus). It is the source of thousands of stories. The Balinese use The Mahabharata on special occassions such as supporting families through a death.
During their conversation a young lad walks around banging his bodhran drum to announce lunch is on. Nell and Kalieran are feed first in acknowledgement of their status as elders. Nell comments, 'Beef stew on Good Friday!'
After lunch Nell and June wander over to where Brenda Kerr, of the Djarra people, is preparing a bush humpy to part of the opening ritual. She still waits for her mum and aunties to arrive. Brenda is nervous she has never been spokesperson for her family before she prefers to dance her stories. Nell quiz's her about stories of the surrounding district and beliefs of her people but is saddened that her knowledge is quite scant.
Late in the afternoon when the Djarra elders have all finally arrived the ceremony begins. Dan and Sue led the crowd of 500 down into the valley to address them. People are welcomed and then move off in single file, everyone passes through the fire lit next to Brenda's humpy, it seems aboriginal people use smoke for cleansing as well. Slowly steadily everyone circles the arbour and finds a place to sit under the shade of the gum tree branches that make its roof.
Nell and the other elders are given seats at the front and the fire is lit. The native American influence is strong, chanting, drumming and pipe smoking are the focus of the ceremony.
As the cool night air descends Nell decides to head back to town but will return the next day.
After chatting with Brenda and her family the previous day Nell is greeted by them like an old friend. When they are asked to take their time speaking at the fire Nell is invited to sit with them. But first the native Canadian elders. Nell is disappointed, she is hoping to be uplifted but their stories are downbeat and talk of troubled times. Where she had hoped for shared wisdom, only tales of woe.
Next, a very nervous Brenda takes centre stage. Nell offers words of encouragement, 'Tell them about your home land.'
'My people were always taught the three R's; Respect, Responsibility and Religion. We always learnt that we must look after the land and its creatures. We listen to the birds, they bring us messages'
Brenda struggled to find words, compared to the verbosity of the American elders, it was like a small flame slowly flickering. Next another indigenous Australian speaking for the first time, a woman from central NSW. There was much sadness in her heart but she acknowledged a circle of elders that was helping her through, she dreams of great things for her people.
That night when Nell and her party left there was an overwhelming sense of sadness amongst them. Sadness evoked by the passing of an ancient culture and a floundering sense of identity.
It was Nell's love and passion for stories that brought her to the gathering, her constant search for illuminating stories, her belief in their power and importance in defining cultures. She wondered why others had come.
People seemed to be desperately searching for spiritual enlightenment. Moments of ritual where fervently attended; arms by their side palms facing up, people hoping to share and receive healing energies. Solemn, fervent, respectful of the elders as they waited to receive the wisdom.
'I thought this would be more of a celebration,' commented Nell. 'Everything seems so gloomy and serious.'
On the final day Nell finally experienced a joyful shared moment, something to bring a glimmer of hope and understanding.
Brenda's Uncle and others of his dancing troupe had arrived after performing elsewhere to take part in the closing ceremony. In his loin cloth and decorative paint he made an impressive figure. People waited for his words of wisdom.
'Today I am going to perform an old sacred dance of my people. It is very special and all those who would like to learn please stand up. This dance has come down through the ages and it is very important to the Djarra people. We call it the Putcher Dance.'
People stood and prepared themselves, they waited for the understanding that would come through knowledge of the dance. Innocently hopeful the old man led them on.
'Okay everyone ready.'
Anticipation was high and the old man began,
'You put your right foot in.'
Nell did all she could to contain herself from laughing uproariously. Laughter, as always, the best medicine.
She watched, as it dawned on the participants the old man had strung them along with a joke. At last, light hearted sharing of cultures.
Before Nell left the gathering she swapped numbers with Brenda and her Mum Nola, she promised to keep in touch. Before it is too late Nell wants the descendants of the Djarra people to start preserving their stories. From this first flickering and representation at a spiritual gathering Nell hopes to urge them on and remind them of the importance of stories. Nell is adamant that Australians need the stories of our landscape and the wisdom of our indigenous elders.