Fiona Wirrer-George Oochunyung is currently working with Indigenous girls at Clayfield College. She is the author of Whispers of This Wik Woman and the recipient of the David Unaipon Award. She is also the author of two works for the stage, A Bastard’s Tale and Blak Velvet.

Double Native

By Fiona Wirrer-George Oochunyung

University of Queensland Press

Copyright © 2012 Fiona Wirrer-George Oochunyung
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7022-3917-5
CHAPTER 1

I’m running, running, running. I am aware of the shouting and the continuous cries of panic all around me, blanketing me, pushing and propelling me forward. I am aware of my mother’s presence – the smell of her dress, her hair, the sound of her heart beating fast and wild in her chest. Eracahm, eracahm, eracaahm! The people chant rhythmically. Orny oh, orny oh orny nan mun oooohhhhhhh!

What? Where? I look around. People wrapped in flesh, blood and bone running. Where exactly are the ghosts? I think I see them. There are three. Two belong to our relatives: my granny’s brother and old bada Sam Kerindun. I am told that they are angry that the people had summoned them back into the land of the living with song and dance, as is customary practice. My grandmother is in the front, leading the Wikway in song and dance – first Sara and then Ghost Dance. These spirits had been disturbed and had arrived among the people of the living with a strong energy. And now the people run!

I am aware of my heartbeat running a race of its own as I run too because, well, everyone else is doing it. They are all running, we are all running, but to where and why? What are the ghosts going to do if they do catch us? I just run. Lynette is on the other side of my mother and me.

‘Run faster, Fay. Quick!’

We are rushed up the stairs and in the front door of a small timber house.

‘Keep these little ones for me, Aunty,’ Mum instructs the relative.

Then Mum’s gone again along with the rest of the people. She has a baby firmly plonked on the side of her hip. I’m not sure which younger sister it is. The human stampede passes by, crying and wailing in unison. I peer outside cupping the sides of my face and pressing it up against the old dust-ridden plastic louvres, squinting in the hope that maybe I will get to see the spirits following them. Would I be able to recognise Grandfather Richard? I do remember what he looks like, I remind myself. Before he passed away in a car accident back in Weipa he would knock mangoes for me. His son, Granny Henry, also an uncle to me, was in the car with him along with my maternal grandfather. Daddy old man (that’s what I used to call my grandad) and Granny Henry both survived the accident on the stretch of road just down from Six Tunnels, but Grandfather Richard didn’t. Years later I’ll understand that this ceremony that I am caught up in is performed to allow us to see our loved ones for the last time and to say goodbye once and for all. The families have decided to have a dual house opening for both men since both were leaders of the one nation. But for now I see nothing. Where are those spirits? I really want to see them.

‘Sit down Fay otherwise them old fellas’ll see you and try to take us,’ instructs Lynette as she tugs at my dress.

I slide down the wall and bring both my knees up to my chest. I place my chin on my knees and turn my attention to the space I’ve been thrown into. The room is small and dark and warm and there’s a glow in the corner as dim candlelight dances in slow motion. I try to slow down my breathing.

‘Merch ey, granny girls? You two hungry?’ questions the old lady who, for however long this takes, is now responsible for us. ‘Damper there, look, and butter and jam.’ She gestures toward the candlelit kitchen. There is a can of raspberry jam standing beside a can of butter. Both have been crudely cut open with the boomerang-shaped butcher’s knife that now sits on top of the big-bellied damper. Several rust-ridden pannikins sit nearby waiting patiently to be filled with the strong black tea that sits steaming on the wooden stove. Tongues of fire rhythmically and lazily lick the inside of the dusty old stove as if they were a group of thirsty old lizards.

‘No thank you,’ I say.

I much preferred my own mother’s cooking. I did not like eating at other people’s houses, relative or not. Having said that, I did have one or two favourites whenever we were in Aurukun: Cogai Fred’s place, which was more about free movies being at our disposal while we sat on the thick brown-and-yellow carpeted floor and Pi Violet’s little old place where we sat around the fire waiting for geese and ashes damper or raided the huge outdoor pantry packed to the brim with biscuits, jam, cakes and flavoured cordial. Pi Violet was so giving, loving and gentle, always feeding us, always showing she cared. And, to our delight, meals around the campfire always ended with a story. My favourites were ghost stories. I always fought to be the lucky one who would snuggle on her lap. I’d stare up at the stars in the night sky and drift off to sleep with Pi‘s soothing voice rocking my thoughts into the place where dreams came out to play.

‘Well suit yourself, my granny girl, but this is going to be a long night by the looks a things,’ the old granny had said that night, so many years ago now. She’d lit up an old tobacco pipe and puffed on it several times to get it smoking. I watched the smoke drift around the room, slowly caressing the darkness. Mine was a childhood of dancing with spirits – good, evil and mysterious. A childhood in which there was a fine line between this world and the afterlife or the world of spirits. A childhood where not only Nan, but all who were qualified communicated with the spirits quite naturally and regularly. Us kids were constantly warned not to overstep the boundaries that only just separated the two realms.

Earlier that day the house of Grandfather Richard had been opened with ceremony for the first time in over a year. I can still smell the muskiness. I clearly remember being sardined in among the other mourners, as wailing and protestations of his passing and his absence left the lips of many a local. The closure of his house when he died forbade any sort of human presence or activity to take place until the appropriate ceremonial practice unlocked it. Only then could the house be lived in again. Only then would his spirit be released back to his country. Until his house was opened the adults were constantly warning us: ‘Youse’ll get sick if you touch something you not supposed to. Menfolk who have been through business will otapee you and your belly will get big and swollen and then you will have to look for someone to rub you and put smell on you. That will be a nuisance.’ It was common knowledge and understanding that beyond the safety of our own home and away from the watchful eyes of our closest, most trusting relatives danger was everywhere, particularly involving the spiritual realm.

‘Play very carefully,’ Nan’d say. ‘Spirits are everywhere. Secret business is everywhere. You need to know which parts of the land you must not overstep.’

I felt that I would be alright. I had a very wise and knowledgeable grandmother who feared almost nothing. She did, however, fear the living God, the God of the Bible. That was something I knew from a very early age. She was also extremely protective, to the point of smothering me, but, luckily, she was not as fast as me. I could run and indeed I did. If I needed to get away from the prying eyes of my seniors all I had to do was instruct my legs.

I was born Maryann Fiona George just after midnight on 2 January 1969 at the old General Hospital on Thursday Island. I was actually due on New Year’s Day but I chose to be late. If I had been born on New Year’s Day I reckon people would remember my birthday more often. As it is, they’re too busy recovering from New Year’s Eve celebrations, so it’s quite a lonely day for me. I’ve been told that the doctor who delivered me had wanted to cut the birthmark off my neck shortly after I was born. It’s known as a strawberry, but back then it probably looked more like the saggy piece of skin under a chicken’s neck. My mother refused to let him operate as she feared that I would not survive the procedure. It’s still on the left side of my neck, but has reduced in size.

It wasn’t until I was in my late twenties that I noticed nothing had been inserted in the father’s section on my birth certificate. I was curious about this. I didn’t like the fact that there was no name, it disturbed me. It made me feel like I had just fallen out of the sky or something.

I was one of those children you see running around an Aboriginal community and immediately a question would surface. Why is that girl fair skinned? Who is her father? Which mob does she belong to? I had a mother, a granny, a daddy old man (my grandfather), an uncle who was married to my mother and was the father of my younger sisters, an older sister who also wasn’t the biological daughter of this uncle, many cousins, other uncles and aunties, and lots of other grannies as well. A big family! But there was no dad. Well, no dad who was my real dad, the man who made me. I often wondered how I came to be. I would look at my skin – I was shades lighter in comparison to most of the other kids. More orange or golden, I thought. A bit like the colour of syrup. Yummy syrup. I liked syrup on hot damper with half-melted butter. I’d cut roads into my damper so the butter and syrup would mix together and sink deep into the cake.

And my hair – curly and golden bronze, not dark and spirally like my family members’ and relatives’. But this was my family. Of course I belonged here.

The old pre-school was in Peppan Street in my home community of Napranum. Thy Joyce Charger was not only the director but also the head teacher. I have only vague memories of her book reading and instructive voice, but do remember lining up on the veranda of a building that stood where the old basketball courts once were. At the back of this building was a big pond that was dry for most of the year. During the wet season we’d scoop tadpoles from this pond.

At home, Grandfather would sit beside the smoking fire with one leg up and the other bent underneath him as he stripped back the flesh of goanna or snake and fed it into my mouth. He’d give me a questioning look; I’d either nod in appreciation or ask permission to spit the food back out. Both goanna and snake are oily, tough, quite bland and stringy in taste and texture. Even as a small child I was taught how to locate the lolly part inside mud crab or fish eggs. The marrow of ibis or jabiru was another delicacy I came to appreciate very early on. We were taught how to peel back the outer skin of the flying fox to extract the meat. Each of us would be given up to five or six of these bats on a piece of paperbark and, as with the jabiru, we’d crack open the bone and suck out the marrow. Some meals, anywhere between five and ten turtle eggs would be boiled then poured over hot rice or damper – these were treats us kids would always look forward to. Piniwinkles ndrangle, long bum pri, accool chaay, witchety grubs argorich – and the list goes on – are the foods my sisters and I were brought up on. Well, maybe not argorich. I could not bring myself to even contemplate eating this. No amount of probing would convince me to consume this grub.

I have strong memories of my great-grandmother’s country Wathaniin – panja, the smell and taste of warm homemade bread, the waterlilies and swamps and especially the legend of kootheeth erdin, which refers to small ghosts or fairies. I remember playing lots of bush games. Firm, straight tree branches would be cut to the right length to serve as a bat, and we’d hit seed pods big enough to serve as balls in an improvised game of vigoro on the little grassy, uneven airstrip. Mum had taught us this game. She said she’d played it as a kid when she lived in the mission dormitory back in Weipa during the late forties and early fifties.

I recall running through the big old house on our arrival at Wathaniin in the late seventies. I immediately fell in love with the place. Who would’ve thought you’d find a huge Queenslander house in the middle of isolated Wik country? The kitchen was spacious, warm and inviting. A huge home-baked, round-bellied bread would sit invitingly on the big old table in the centre of the room – the smell is still fresh in my memory. I’d cut my share as thick as and dress it with butter and spread. Looking out the window at the bushland that wrapped itself around this lone, man-made structure I could smell the swamp nearby. One day Aunty promised us kids a walk there to collect lilies.

‘But!’ she warned. ‘We must be careful of the fairies!’

My eyes had widened with excitement. Fairies! Just like the ones in the storybooks back in my school library at Weipa. Wow!

‘Which fairies, Aunty? Where they? What they look like? Can we make friends with them? Can I talk to them? Are they families to us?’

‘Settle down, girl. We’ll see if they’ll pay us a visit. Just be careful though, they like to take things.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, like your thongs maybe, or your clothes if we decide to go swimming.’

‘Are they dangerous? Will or can they hurt us?’

‘I don’t think so, girl. But they are mischievous, we know that for sure. Stories have been passed down to us from the old people who have seen these fairies. We have to be careful. We might get old fella to put smell on us first to protect us. Can’t be too sure, you know.’

Receiving the smell off males offers us protection from illness that may be caused supernaturally.

I made a note to confirm everything Aunty had told us about the fairies that day with Nan and to seek out any additional information that would be valuable.

Nyrlotte! Rare-white waterlily, my sissy’s name, my great-grandmother’s name. Nyrlotte, Wathaniin, Ornyawa.

I can clearly recall lying on Granny Christina Chevathen’s lap one day in Aurukun. She was brushing my hair.

‘Snake is thook. Now you say it,’ she instructed.

‘Thook,‘ I repeated.

‘Good girl! And wallaby is punk. Now you try.’

‘Punk,‘ I said laughing. ‘Just like a punk rocker, hey? Wallaby with pink and purple fur.’

‘Yes,’ she said, as my sisters, cousins and I all broke out into fits of laughter.

She continued naming all the reptiles, bush animals, sea life and birds of the air. We were learning culture. ‘Pikuw is crocodile, mye is tucker, menth is nice, chaprah is blood.’ She went on and on. ‘Next I’ll teach you some sentences and then we can talk to each other in munkan, granny girl, okay?’

‘Tell me some rude words, Granny,’ I commanded.

‘No, you don’t want to know rude words, bubba.’

‘Yes I do, tell me pleeeease.’

‘Okay,’ she responded giving in easily to my pleading. ‘But you must not use them. I’m only telling you so you know if someone else uses these words around you and you will know what they are saying, okay?’

I nodded excitedly and the others all sat up in eager expectation.

‘Now don’t tell Mummy or Granny I’m teaching you these swear words, okay. It’s our secret?’

‘Yep,’ I nodded.

She lowered her voice and began to fill our young minds.

CHAPTER 2

Even after I started primary school, for some reason or another I made regular visits to the newly built pre-school. I recall click-clocking around in oversized high heels, playing dress-up in grown-up clothes and nursing my little brown doll, feeding it, giving it its bottle. I made numerous phone calls to make-believe people on the old black telephone that stood in the corner of the play section. Outside in the sandpit I formed shapes and built sandcastles with the coloured plastic moulds and little bucket and spade. I can still remember the cool wetness of the sand. I recall too the smell of butcher’s paper as I smacked on all the colours of the rainbow, aimlessly creating a pattern while the paint dripped back onto my arms and hands, down to the bottom of the easel and onto the ground.

In Years 1 and 2, we’d sit on the floor to go through our alphabet. Hand puppets helped with our phonics. My personal puppet was the green frog one, although I did have competition from another student whose name also started with the letter F.

(Continues…)Excerpted from Double Native by Fiona Wirrer-George Oochunyung. Copyright © 2012 Fiona Wirrer-George Oochunyung. Excerpted by permission of University of Queensland Press.
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