Free Riding the Black Cockatoo by John Danalis

neighbour. ‘That headdress is just astonishing.’
    I was mesmerised by the feathers, spellbound. Were they from the same species of bird I’d seen that morning, the black cockatoo? Fanned out in majestic order, they seemed to possess an otherworldly energy. I shivered in my hard plastic seat.
    Fiona spoke about her childhood in Wik country and then introduced Auntie Alyson. The woman might have been 50 or 80, it was impossible to tell. Her hair was a pure grey Afro that seemed to vibrate as if it had an electric current running through it. She took her time speaking, taking long breaks between sentences; she slowed down our big-city heart-rates and pulled us into her story. I’m not sure I really heard anything properly; rather, it was a feeling that she imparted, a sense of place. Her words were measured, like footsteps that took us on a long walk, and when she laughed at her own jokes it was like little lightning cracks flashing on the horizon. Piece by piece she held up and explained her collection; the dillybags, baskets and bowls, and the headdress. She brought each of them to life; these were not dusty museum relics but pieces of living culture, works of art and tools of survival all rolled into one. They were contemporary pieces that Wik men, women and children had made and used, just as their ancestors used to do – not the product of some far-off factory. I looked out through the tent flaps and watched people of my white world wandering by, and wondered how many of us could, with our own hands, craft the tools that would enable us to live off the land. I looked at these durable implements that came quietly from Nature and would return quietly to Nature. Then I thought of our modern tools for living, so complex yet often so lacking craftsmanship; and so disposable, sometimes consigned to festering landfill after a single season, sometimes after a single use.
    One other thing about Auntie Alyson’s talk that stuck in my mind, probably because it surprised me so, was that she kept singing the praises of the big mining company that operated in Wik country. She spoke of the training programs that gave the young men hope and got them out of the dependency cycle. She spoke of the money invested in cultural programs. She thanked the company for flying her down from Wik country to speak to us. I’d always thought that in terms of respecting the land and the traditional owners, big mining companies were the bad guys. In this case at least, I was very ill-informed. Another preconception popped.
    After the talk, I made my way up to the front of the marquee to have a closer look at the feather headdress; could these feathers be from the same kind of bird I’d flown with that morning – the black cockatoo? The orange splotches on the jet-black plumage weren’t nearly as red as those I’d seen on Mount Coot-tha. Perhaps they’d faded? Aunty Alyson and Fiona were off to one side, talking to a gaggle of enthusiastic women who’d hurried up at the end of the session. I edged closer, keen to talk, eager to ask questions about the headdress. I began to overhear the discussion taking place; knowledgeable questions were being asked by people who seemed to know infinitely more than I. The way the conversation flowed only magnified my unease. As laughter radiated from the group I was again pulled down by the weight of my own baggage. I reached out, gently touched the headdress, and left.

CHAPTER
SEVEN
    I spent a lot of time in the bush when I was growing up – hunting, fishing, visiting properties and camping – but never once did I see any Aborigines. Sometimes I imagined that they were there, in the bush, watching us, only to slip back behind the grasstrees as I turned to look. I know I felt a presence, as if they had sensed our arrival and moved on only moments before. Sometimes I would see their spirit faces in the gnarled bunions that grew on the sides of trees, or on rocky escarpments that in a certain slant of light