A Closed Town, a Killer and Creativity

The second last day of the camping tour for me was the last day for the young European couples. We bounced along an unsealed, washed out in places, and corrugated red road for three hours.

We were due to visit Hermannsburg, the mission town where Albert Namatjira was born and had lived. The sign tells the story.

Chris said the police might have been expecting trouble, as Gus Williams had died a couple of weeks earlier; today he was to have a state funeral. Other families from the town could well be jostling to fill the power vacuum.

The following is the report from the ABC website:

'Legendary' Aboriginal singer gets state funeral
By Anna Henderson

Updated Mon Sep 13, 2010 1:37pm AEST


Gus Williams, traditional owner from Hermannsburg and father of Warren H Williams, has died. (ABC Local: Nicole Lee)

MAP: Hermannsburg 0872
A state funeral will be held for a well-known Aboriginal leader and country music singer from the Northern Territory.

Gus Williams died early this morning in Hermannsburg, aged in his mid-70s.

His musician son, Warren H Williams, who recently ran as a Greens candidate in the Senate, has told the ABC his father was a proud and wonderful man who will be greatly missed.

Fellow musician Ted Egan says Mr Williams was a legend in the industry.

"He'll be missed and respected all around Australia, this man because he was just such a legendary figure in country music," he said.

"Everyone knew him as the big genial, big smiling man from the Northern Territory." . . .

Chris (our tour leader) was in a bit of a pickle then, as Hermannsburg was the transfer point for the Europeans. Another Intrepid/Connections bus was due to pick them up from there and take them to Alice Springs airport. He drove past Hermannsburg to a parking area outside town which had a monument to Albert Namatjira as its only reason for existence. And Albert Namatjira might well have turned in his grave to see the way his life and work is being commemorated. The monument is a big reddish structure, looking like nothing so much as a chimney.

Chris used the satellite phone to contact the driver of the transfer bus and we waited in the heat, dust, and long shadows to say goodbye to the young Europeans.

The bus arrived, the lively couples left, and the rest of us continued on another dirt road to Wallace Rockhole permanent campsite.

When we arrived we were greeted by the yellow camp dog belonging to the owner of the campsite and attached art centre, a white Australian man (whose name I can't remember, unfortunately) married to an Aboriginal woman. He's been initiated into the local Aboriginal culture and sports the symbol of his initiation, a missing front tooth. His wife is the teacher of the local school.

But it's the dog I want to tell you about. His reputation preceded him: he's a killer. He'd killed and eaten his owner's other pets: a kangaroo and an emu to which their owner was very attached. Not as attached to this dog, though. The dog would have been shot after his big meal, if not for the intercession of the manager's wife, who loves the mutt.

Well, the dog hung around and sat under Julie's (my New Zealand buddy and the other uncoupled woman in our group) camp chair, hoping to catch some dropped meaty morsels, no doubt.

After dinner, we retired early. But early next morning I had to trek to the bathroom block. Little bit gingerly in the dark, shone my torch along the red earth, trying to see the building in the distance. Made it there, but on the way back I saw a yellow streak coming towards me in the 5.30 gloom, and then heard the growl: the killer was stalking me, out alone in the dark. I put on a gruff voice, like I'd heard Andrew use at dinner when he tried to chase the dog off.

"Get out!"

A light flashed from the tents in front of me.
"I heard some yelling," said Julie. "Was that you yelling, Maria?" I didn't think I was yelling. I thought I was keeping my voice down, trying to be considerate to the sleeping campers. Went back to my tent and the dog lay down outside.

After breakfast we got into the bus and trundled off down the dirt track to the rock hole.

We could have walked it faster. There Neville, an Aboriginal employee of the art centre, took us on a tour of the rock hole, pointing out rock engravings of animal tracks: ducks, emus, snakes and dingoes. He showed us some medicinal and other useful plants: the mulga tree is used for making boomerangs and digging sticks, spinifex grass provides the glue for attaching spear tips and the hook on the woomera.

This is Gladys Porter, an in-law of the owner, doing a painting of honey ants.

We got back to the art centre and were provided with paints, brushes and a crib sheet of various symbols used in Aboriginal art: seated men and women, water holes, paths, animal tracks, rain, etc. Below is my artistic outpouring, the story of my day at Wallace Rockhole. That grey/black square surrounded by white dots is my tent. There's my path to the water place (the toilet) that morning; there are the killer's tracks where he stalked me back; there's the path to Wallace Rockhole.  The long grey patch on the left is the table where we sat to create our art. There were six women and two men at my table. (The men are surrounded by their boomerangs, the women by their digging sticks.)

I've just realised, I failed to report on one of the wonders of my sojourn in the bush, the walk in King's Canyon. Tomorrow, then. And some musings on my experience with the Aboriginal residents of Alice Springs.