#narrung

[featherfurl]

Green Room.

[weywardwisdom]

Coming to Narrung?

FAIRLY EASY TO READ

Did I say? The quickest route from Tarndanya is via the South Eastern Freeway.

Ok, that’s not the freeway. It’s where the freeway might take you.

Hmmm, what does a freeway make you think of? Jolly long journeys? Sneaky speed cameras? Koala corridors? A road shared? Idiot drivers?

(Illustration by Jeannette Rowe, with Wyrid fair use)

The Freeway always reminds me of my mum. Yes, my chummy never humdrum mum. She was thrilled when the freeway was built—so glad to get off the old slow elbow-bend road.

‘Two lanes are great!’ she raved. ‘I can get to the Bridge in under an hour.’

Our puzzled Pop asked:

‘How fast do you go?’

Mum replied:

‘140kph’.

Pop coughed and spluttered. And then pointed out:

‘The speed limit is 100kph’.

‘No’, Mum insisted. ‘It’s a free-way. It’s free of speed limits’.

Pop—who’d worked all his life in the railways—was all for us using public transport. On the old rattlers, I grew up sharing seats with lots of old battlers. Their quick nod or slight smile made me feel safe when travelling on my own.

Once upon a time, this state had public transport routes everywhere. Once upon a time, you could hop on a morning steam-train to Milang, catch a steam-boat across the lake and be letting off steam at the Narrung jetty by 2.15pm. And then you could make ‘the return trip’ the very next morning (The Story of Narrung, Leta Padman,19).

Those days are long gone.

In the 1970s, said Pop, the gubment was all ready to rock-n-roll with its roll out of rolling stock for a clean green electric rail service. But it came voting time. And guess who pushed the ease and prestige of private cars! Voters went for a gubment onside with the big fossil fuel and car industries.

Sad day for clean air. Sad day for the climate. Sad day for folks sitting side by side. Good day for Carmageddon.

50 odd years on—the local car industry has gone. But W.e.i.r.d. gubments are still building W.e.i.r.d. roads with ‘room for more cars’. And guess what makes about ‘a third of total greenhouse gas emissions’—and growing (2024, planning and design, Roadsaustralia).

How many people in Tarndanya drive their cars to work? Over 80%. How many of those are driver-only cars? Around 78% (2016, Charting Transport). Only 10% of workers use public transport (2024, July, Stuck in traffic).

Have we learnt nothing from First Peoples?

Too many of us land-grabbers still think First Peoples weren’t smart enough to invent the wheel. There’s a scientific term for this. It’s ‘scientific racism’!

Thing is. Why waste time making something that’s not needed?

In the pre-war years of the 20th century, owning a buggy that didn’t need horses to pull it, was ‘unusual’. Only the wealthy could afford to. It wasn’t till after the Second Wourld War, that ownership of a car became more ‘common’ (Australian Bureau of Statistics).

So in terms of motor inventions, First Peoples were way ahead. In 1909 Ngarrindjeri inventor David Unaipon took out patents for several motors and moving mechanical devices. In 1914, at a time when cars could only just splutter along at around 12mph, he made plans for a helicopter. And helicopters weren’t a going concern Germans made them so in war-time 1941. Unaipon predicted:

‘An aeroplane can be manufactured that will rise straight into the air from the ground by the application of the boomerang principle. The boomerang is shaped to rise in the air according to the velocity with which it is propelled, and so can an aeroplane. This class of flying machine can be carried on board ship, the immense advantages of which are obvious.' (1914, July 17,  A Wonderful Darkie. The Richmond River Herald, 7)

And who invented a wheel that’s ‘multiradial’ in 1927? David Unaipon’s son, Talmadge [Tolly] Unaipon (2023, David Unaipon, Inventor, 6).

‘What amazing people they were. These old people were absolutely brilliant in every way’, observed Ngarrindjeri writer Kym Kropinyeri (2023, David Unaipon, Inventor, 3).

How brilliant would Ngarrindjeri be today—without two hundred odd years of land-grabbers’ genocide?!

Thing is, Ngarrindjeri elders have always liked to share—even their modes of transport.

~ How did First Peoples get to the big gatherings held at the sea-mouth of this land’s longest river? In convoys of boats!

~How did First Peoples get to cultural or community events, like dances and sporting matches in the 19th century? In convoys of horse-and-carts.

~ How did First Peoples get to Ngannawal lands to protest the gubment’s big cuts to their funding in 1996? Convoys of buses!

~ How did Ngarrindjeri elders get to the High Court to protect their lands and waters in 1997? Convoy of buses.

~ How did Ngarrindjeri elders show their Stolen Generations around their lands and waters in 1998? Convoy of buses.

First People’s boat-building know-how is so good, land-grabbers haven’t known how to copy it. Their boats—I suspect—were the first in the world to have on board heating and cooking.

How do I know? Labiomancy? Which—I quickly add—means reading the lips on someone’s face.

But no. Thanks to social media.

So. You too can see Major Sumner (Moogy) using this boat-building technology (Uncle Moogy's Yuki - Murray River, SA).

Boat-building means great deal to many Ngarrindjeri. The living trees from which the boats were built mean a great deal to many Ngarrindjeri.

Someone took an axe to this yuki tree at Currency Creek, ring-barked it and painted it with red racist remarks. It was Jan 26, 1999. Would the tree survive? Ngarrindjeri elders sent out the call for healing. Even at short notice, hundreds came to the gathering, laid gentle hands on the tree and left tokens of love.

Tree lived for many more years.

And. Then a W.e.i.r.d. YT nation had a party for its federation in 2001. So, what did a Yorta Yorta warrior use to come down the river from its source to the sea? He gave his clever sturdy craft to the Ngarrindjeri nation.

Ok, we land-grabbers call them canoes, not boats. But since the large ones can carry several people I think the upgrade to ‘boat’ is very much needed. Besides, the way they are made is awesome. ‘It’s a community effort’, points out Aunty Charlotte’s son (Canoe Making).

Did we land-grabbers learn those caring and sharing ways?

No, we fenced off the land, and wouldn’t let First Peoples in. We put the big river gums out of bounds to Ngarrindjeri. No more boat-making for them. We mass felled the trees to build or fuel our own boats—used for stealing more and more lands.

The outcome was brutal. The 'lifestyle choices' of the YT invaders soon led to Ngarrindjeri starving. Land-grabber George Mason, with the W.e.i.r.d. rank of ‘Sub-protector of Aborigines’, went to a gubment inquiry in 1860.

Question: ‘Do you think that the natives about the lakes have now the means they once possessed of forming canoes?’

Mason: ‘The land is all purchased round the lake, and the owners won’t allow them to go in to cut bark off the gum trees’.

Question: ‘Canoes are sometimes necessary, are they not, for them to procure food on the lake?’

Mason: ‘They cannot procure food without them’ (1860, Report, quoted in 1979, Conquest of the Ngarrindjeri, 90).

And police trooper, T Rickaby, made things even clearer:

‘I found about 40 there in a most wretched and pitiful condition, not only from the want of proper covering... but food itself’ (Parliamentary Paper 151/1860 quoted in McLeay, Point, Nomenclature, State Library).

Whose voice was missing in 1860?

Whose voice was still not heeded in 2023?

And who still has a long way to go?

[hensonp]

Wayne is missing.

The 70-year-old was last heard from by family in April 2023.

Wayne’s vehicle and personal belongings were located by Parks Victoria 14km south of Boundary Bend in Narrung, Victoria.

Police have concerns as Wayne has left his personal belongings behind.

Anyone with information on his whereabouts is urged to contact Swan Hill Police Station on (03) 5036 1600.

[themajortominorblog]

Once again, if you are swinging by Narrung Street today, you know what to do. #lemonlyfe #LemonAid #lemonyhegemony #lemonopoly https://instagr.am/p/CXFKx5VP22m/

[adelaidecity]

Man tied backpacker up in filthy pig shed and raped her during two-day ordeal, court told

Updated February 05, 2019 23:34:33

Photo: Gene Charles Bristow went on trial on Tuesday in Adelaide's District Court. (ABC News) Map: Adelaide 5000 A man has gone on trial in Adelaide's District Court accused of abducting and raping a young European backpacker who he held captive in an old pig shed for two days. Key points:The court heard Mr Bristow responded to the backpacker's ad on Gumtree Prosecutors say he picked her up from Murray Bridge and drove her to his propertyThe trial is expected to run for 10 days Gene Charles Bristow, 54, pleaded not guilty to aggravated kidnapping, rape and indecent assault. In opening the trial, prosecutor Michael Foundas said Mr Bristow lured the 24-year-old backpacker to his Meningie property, south-east of Adelaide, by responding to an advertisement she posted on the website Gumtree looking for farm work. He said the woman received a response offering her work feeding and caring for calves on a farm near Murray Bridge, purportedly operated by a company called "Genesis". The job offered to pay $20 an hour with "flexible working arrangements" and "free accommodation". Mr Foundas told the court arrangements were made for her to be collected from Murray Bridge by a company employee called Max or Mark. "It's the prosecution's case that there was no farming job, no company called Genesis and no employees named Max or Mark," he said. "Rather, this was a premeditated and thought out plan being executed by the accused Mr Gene Bristow. "A plan to lure a young female backpacker to his farm where the unlucky victim would be held against her will and sexually abused by him." The court heard the woman was met at the Murray Bridge Visitor Information Centre by a man who introduced himself as Mark and was driven to a property in Meningie in an old red ute which had a personalised licence plate "Gene01". "On the prosecution's case the man who introduced himself as Mark and picked her up, the only man she dealt with, the man she later identifies in a police identification procedure, was in fact the accused Mr Bristow," Mr Foundas said. It is alleged that instead of taking the most direct route from Murray Bridge to his 40-hectare property at Meningie along the Princes Highway, the accused went a "back way" through the towns of Wellington and Narrung. Mr Foundas told the jury that the accused made the drive take twice as long to give a false impression to the young backpacker about the remoteness of the farm. "It also meant the accused was able to enter the town of Meningie and his farming property by a back entrance without having to come through the Meningie town centre and risk the possibility of being seen by locals being seen driving with an unfamiliar, young woman in the passenger seat of his ute," he said. "It's also the prosecution's case that by taking this route the accused didn't have to pass the residential building on his own property where his wife, son or son's girlfriend might be." Victim told 'she wasn't the first to be taken' On the prosecution's case, Mr Bristow took the woman to an "old, dirty pig shed" which was at the back of his property where he pressed a replica gun against her shoulder and told her not to move. He then allegedly tied her hands behind her back with cable ties, shackled her feet with chains and stripped her naked before sexually assaulting her multiple times. Mr Foundas said the accused told the woman he was working in collaboration with others and that she was "lucky" to be held captive by him because others would treat her worse.

Photo: Gene Charles Bristow pleaded not guilty to the charges. (ABC News) "He told her he was the 'nice one', he brought her food and drinks and later on even a book and some bug spray," Mr Foundas said. "He told her that she had to be good, she had to love him or the others would come and they would hit her and cut her. "He told her she wasn't the first to be taken and that he had quotas to meet and that some girls are pumped full of drugs." The jury was told the woman managed to break free and used a laptop concealed in her luggage to send distress messages on Facebook to SA Police who started searching the area. The court heard she then re-shackled herself because the accused had threatened to kill her if she tried to escape. The prosecution alleged it was the police presence in Meningie that led the accused to unchain the woman and drive her back to Murray Bridge where he checked her into a motel and left. The court heard there was evidence the accused had been trying to lure backpackers to his property under the guise of farm work for a number of weeks and that he targeted women travelling on their own without a car. Defence lawyer Nick Healy told the jury there was no dispute that the woman was at his client's property or that she stayed overnight in the pig shed. But he said at no time was she held against her will and that there was no sexual contact between her and Mr Bristow. "The events as alleged by the complainant obviously she will be the most important person in this trial are an invention that simply did not take place," he said. The trial is expected to run for 10 days. Topics:law-crime-and-justice,courts-and-trials,crime,assault,adelaide-5000,sa,meningie-5264 First posted February 05, 2019 19:13:56 http://www.abc.net.au/news/2019-02-05/trial-begins-for-man-accused-of-kidnap-and-rape-of-backpacker/10782548

[jennyandmarksozadventure]

Narrung Jetty Reserve, South Australia

[featherfurl]

[featherfurl]

[featherfurl]

[featherfurl]

Empty chair.

[weywardwisdom]

Narrung? In some ‘wild’, ‘unknown’ place?

FAIRLY EASY TO READ

No. The Ngarrindjeri nation has calmly cared for its lands and waters—oh—for eons.

Is Narrung an ‘unspoiled wilderness’? No. We land-grabbers have damned the waterways and turned a living landscape into a patch-work of private properties.

Enter Ngarrindjeri elder Sarah Milera. She said something very telling. Or was it an elder at the Aboriginal Tent Embassy? Hmm, I reckon they both said much the same thing:

‘If you come to my camp-fire and don’t make the flames flicker, you’re welcome’.

So why do tourist companies keep up a harmful coloniser mindset? ‘Explore Narrung’, they say. It’s a ‘perfect destination’ for ‘exploring’.

Does ‘exploration’ have any place on Ngarrindjeri lands? Not without Ngarrindjeri consent. How do I know? Zygomancy? Do I look like someone who lifts weights?

No. Ngarrindjeri say so. They wish we land-grabbers would:

‘Get permission to live and use Ngarrindjeri land; ...consult with the Traditional Owners of the land about matters concerning their ruwi... (2008, Kungun Ngarrindjeri Miminar Yunnan: Listen to Ngarrindjeri Women Speaking, 82).

Do we land-grabbers do that? No often enough. Some of us keep pushing hoary explorer glory. Why?

‘To feel the high’, says UK writer Afua Hirsch. ‘Britain is addicted to glory’(Britain doesn’t just glorify its violent past: it gets high on it).

Oi. Astray-ya has its fare share of glory addicts too.

‘And those hooked on it cannot stomach critique,’ adds Afua Hirsch.

Critique? Like—pointing out that ‘explorers’ who go ‘exploring’ without the consent of land-owners are not explorers at all. They are law-breakers.

Did Jimmy Cook get ‘the consent of the natives’ to stake a claim on their lands for Britain in 1770? No. He and his crew shot at them. Enter Irene Watson who points out that:

~ Cook and many of the land-grabbers who came after were ‘dressed in military attire’.

~ They worked by ‘their military rules’.

~ They ‘began the genocidal process of dismantling our indigenous being’ (1998, ‘Naked peoples: rules’, 13).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did livestock traders get consent from First Nations to cut droving routes across their lands? No, they shot their way across the continent—their great crunching munching mobs of cattle worth more to them than human life:

‘Whenever the parties of whites happened to be in sufficient force, a great slaughter was sure to be committed upon the blacks’ (1967, The Hero as Murderer: The Life of Edward John Eyre, Geoffrey Dutton, 151).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did squatters get consent from First Peoples to take their lands? No, around the lower lakes they shot at Ngarrindjeri, and chased them off. That led to the deaths of far too many people. A police trooper reported:

‘I found about 40 there in a most wretched and pitiful condition, not only from the want of proper covering... but food itself’ (1860, McLeay, Point).

There was food nearby—plenty of it. But the squatters reckoned it was their land now. Who lets people starve, while their bellies get fat?

(image 1863, 'Squatter of NSW: monarch of more than he surveys' by Australien artist ST Gill; text 2014, ‘We are the rightful owners of this land...’, from ‘Aboriginal’, by Bardi poet Daniella Djibidjee Rochford).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did police bosses get consent from ‘black trackers’ or ‘black Police’ before hunting people they suspected of crimes? No. Alexander Tolmer just belly-ached. Poor dear felt let down:

‘They [black Police] refused to go after the natives’(1882, Reminiscences Vol 2, 16).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did land-grabbers get consent from First Peoples, before making laws that harmed them? No. Land-grabbers passed The Aborigines Act in 1911 which gave power to a white ‘Protector’. The so-called ‘Protectors’ would move ‘any aboriginal or half-caste’ anywhere they liked. This law turned every mission, reserve, school and home into a very scary prison—a ‘concentration camp’. Yes, that’s the term Ngarrindjeri elder Margaret Jacobs used. And she would know. She grew up in one. She voiced her hurt at Camp Coorong (1996, my recording of the International Indigenous People’s Basket Conference).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did land-grabbers ask First Peoples before digging up their burial grounds? No, they robbed graves of their sacred remains and then sold them on as W.e.i.r.d. museum specimens and W.e.i.r.d. science experiments (The room of the dead).

Enter Tom Trevorrow, who spoke about the hurt this crime caused:

‘It has been very hard for us. We have felt great pain and sadness’.

He spoke about of the size of the crime too and its unfinished business:

‘All our big burial grounds are empty and when you combine that with our oral history and what we’ve been told by museum officials, it isn’t hard to work out that many of our old people are still missing’ (2003, ‘Old people back home’).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Did land-grabbers ask First Peoples before doing live science on them? No. In 1915, the white boss of Point McLeay mission let a school teacher do tests on children (1966, Aboriginal Man, Flora And Fauna of South Astray-ya). Yes, in 1915, land-grabbers saw First Peoples as ‘Flora and Fauna’.

Land-grabbers have done too many tests here without asking. This has led to ‘mistrust... from many Aboriginal people’, notes Booran Mirraboopa (2003, ‘Ways of Knowing, Ways of Being and Ways of Doing’).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do land-grabbers ask before flattening First People’s sacred sites? Here on the peninsula, land-grabbers have bull-dozed big sand-dunes. Why? Because Ngarrindjeri would gather there. ‘We’re not against development,’ said Chair of the Ngarrindjeri Native Title, Matt Rigney. ‘But we want a say in what happens on our lands and waters’ (my memory of what this elder used to say).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do land-grabbers ask First Peoples before making places to worship their gods here? No. Why not? Some W.e.i.r.d. person reckoned:

‘The spirits of the land are not racist’ ( 2014, social media post).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So many law-breakers. Feeling some kind of glory in the outcome of land-grabber ‘exploration’ is very bad manners. Yes, I’m talking about that date too—‘Not a date to celebrate’. It’s ‘ludicrous’ that First Peoples ‘should celebrate the intrepid explorers who massacred their ancestors’, says Afua Hirsch.

‘Exploration’ has a right spoiled pedigree. It was something that English overlord lawyers were good at in the early 17th century. That’s when the word meant the same thing as ‘spying’. Spying overlords could ‘by exploration’ part ‘the drosse from the...gold’ (1601, OED). You can guess who got the ‘gold’.

(From Our Empire's Story, Told in Pictures, by CW Airne, fair use)

Chasing gold, the evil Empire spread across the globe like some disease—little warning, lots of deaths. That's when the word ‘exploration’ changed to mean going off to unknown lands—for ‘commerce’. For ‘forren [foreign] trading’. For the so-called ‘publicke good’ (1616, OED). Someone might think they wanted to hide all the genocide.

‘Exploration’ and its ‘explorer’ variations are white-wash words. Land-grabbers use them to wash away their wrong-doings—much used during the Australien Wars. Who came armed with guns, ready to shoot? Who are still praised with words like ‘trail-blazer’, ‘brave’, ‘famous’, and ‘great’?

‘Explore Narrung?’ It’s a wonder people don’t expect the Narrung peninsula to still exist for the leisured pleasure of that self-centred figure, the ‘great white hunter’. Oh, hang on, some do. White hunters still shoot here too. No, it’s not great. This place comes under a wetland treaty. We’re meant to look after the homes of global migrating shorebirds. But numbers are falling.

There’s more. Driving along Poltalloch Road one day, I had to stop. A mob of red-necks red-coats was in the way. Riding with a slow sure sense of privilege, they took up the whole road. Road rules give them that right, even tho they’re in the habit of picking on those much smaller than them.

Land-grabbers have been wearing redcoats since they set up the Adelaide Hunt Club in 1840. In July 1841, the king’s new mouth-piece, Gubnor George Grey, and 25 more raw hunters spent the day chasing—fanfare—a wild dog. Poor hounded dingo! They would hunt kangaroos and emus too. Well, that’s what they made the Duke of Edinbrugh do on the Narrung peninsula in November,1867.

Why is hunting thought to be the sport of kings?

Back in 1066, King Willy didn't eat his veggies. ‘Yuck’ he said—or more likely ‘Beurk!’ They were grown in dirt. That spoiled royal liked to eat what he could chase down and kill himself. He didn't just like hunting. He looooved it.

King Willy loved it so much he chucked the locals out their homes and turned their lands into his very own, very grand, very private hunting grounds. How do I know? Some local yokel wrote an edgy eulogy:

'He made great protection for the game And imposed laws for the same, That who so slew hart or hind Should be made blind (1087, The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle 165).

Yes, hunting was not so great if you were a peasant.

Thing is, hunting has something in common with the English word ‘explore’. ‘Explore’ goes back to an earlier evil Empire. Theory is, the Latin ‘explōrāre’ is what Roman hunters did. They would ‘scout the hunting area for game by means of shouting’. Their word for shouting is the ‘plore’ part of the English ‘explore’ (OED).

Did ‘exploring’ here—did bringing the ‘sport of kings’ here—make land-grabbers forget they didn’t own the place? Did they forget? When you’re dead, you can’t take it with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enter the NAA Chair. The NAA? The Narrung Artless Association—members mostly offspring of the offspring of the offspring of land-grabbing squatters. I dared make a suggestion. The Chair scoffed:

‘Narrung become a transition town? But nobody lives in there!’

What he really meant was:

~ You people living in the town are nobodies. And.

~ Your leftie ideas will drive my property prices down!

Enter Mother Earth with a humdinger of a drought. The Narrung church shut down. The CWA shut down. The police station shut down. The school shut down. The general store shut down. The darts club shut down. The wetland was still open but it was no longer wet!

Fish were dying. Turtles were dying. Hopes were dying. So I suggested something else to the NAA chair:

‘If the NAA shuts down, the council will sell off its assets, yeah? So instead of it all going into private hands, why not give it to the Aboriginal community?’

You can guess who snarled, ‘Over my dead body!’

There’s more. The Narrung school came up for sale. The Community Council at Raukkan wanted to buy it. Elders drempt of a cultural learning centre for their young people.

‘What’s holding things up?’ I asked an elder. They said:

‘The school doesn’t own the right of way onto its land’.

Who held that? Guess who!

At a NAA meeting, I asked for an update. The Chair squirmed in his chair.

Enter the local police officer who had a lot to say. He went on and on about the Raukkan young people and where they should go—nothing nice—nothing new. He said, ‘I’m not racist! I get on well with them’. He called me ‘Do-gooder’ and ‘Tree-hugger’. The NAA chair did not call him to order.

Here’s my portrait of the chair:

Ngarrindjeri elders gave that NAA Chair a Ngarrindjeri name. It was not a kinship name. It was a clever quasi-calque of his English name. It means he's a prick.

In the interests of fair dues, I confess. An elder gave me a Ngarrindjeri name too. It means that I retreat into my shell when startled, and will pee on anyone who tries to pick me up. Yup!

Also. Have you guessed? This leftie does not care for right-wingers. Or their so-called Australien values. They don’t share their precious ‘fair go’ with everyone. They breed ‘a kind of state-sponsored amnesia’, as Afua Hirsch calls it.

They won’t put up with the rubbish idea—‘that the lives of their ancestors are worth less than those of the glorious British perpetrators we celebrate’ (Britain doesn’t just glorify its violent past: it gets high on it).

So, glory dealers and glory junkies, your days are numbered. The lives you’ve chucked away or put at risk do matter.

Here’s cheers to the worth of lives too often overlooked here on the Narrung peninsula.

[weywardwisdom]

Fellow sight-seers

FAIRLY EASY TO READ

As we cruise life’s highways and byways, is it time to change down a gear? Not every road is straight. I know I’m not!

Curious thing—from the city of Tarndanya, it’s right-hand turns, all the way to Narrung. So if you do chuck lefties, you could end up anywhere.

Enter my eldest sibling. He haughtily said anywhere else was better than ‘this hell-hole’. To be fair to Narrung, I'm guessing his visit did not make him an expert on the place.

So, born on Kaurna Lands, how did I end up here?

Enter Ngarrindjeri elder, Matt Rigney. He kindly let me stay in his family shack. He took me walking on his people’s lands. He lit a fire and we bathed in the warm spicy smoke. We drank from fresh rock pools. We breathed in clean cold air. The sun turned the waves on the lake into a trillion shining stars. He said, ‘I had a dream last night. You are walking these lands and your hair is white, and you pick up rubbish.’ My health got better. I found my own place.

But then—whose eyebrows were raised? Who chucked this little leftie? Socially speaking, that is.

Enter the local police officer who questioned me:

‘Why are you here?’

‘Why do you not have your friendly hat on?’ I wanted to say. The law-abiding me said:

‘Because my kids and I like camping’.

We were making the most of the last weekend of the summer holidays. I had no idea that the Narrung Reserve would be so crowded. There were over fifty campers. The place was packed with tents and vans, with beer-cans and stubbies strewn about. No doubt, a lot of alcohol had already been drunk.

So I was puzzled. Why was the long arm of the law singling out cold stone sober me? Then the penny dropped—we were the only ones camping in a tipi.

Why was the tipi a problem? Yes, I confess to cultural theft. But back in the 1990s I was clueless and just loved how it felt.

I looked about. For the first time, I saw people wearing bilious blotchy warrior green. I saw rifles leaning against utes. I saw lots of hunting dogs. My spirits fell. Did all these people come here for the duck-shooting season? Did we fit the profile of protesters?!

Ok, the right-wingers didn't physically chuck us out. But they tossed dead stinking carp into the tipi. Yes, in stinking hot weather. They cut the tipi's ropes too. Did they hope it would fall down and we'd go away?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Narrung is still a craven haven for humdinger right-wingers. How do I know? I confess. I do belomancy—which I take to mean finding out stuff by bellowing!

Also. I read. Here’s few fun facts. Did I say ‘fun’? Delete 'fun'. Replace with 'bum'.

~ No one but stinger right-wingers have been voted into the Australien Parliament from the Narrung polling booth (Division of Barker). No one else.

~ In 1998 voters at the Narrung polling booth moved even more to the right. Most people voted for ‘One Nation’. The party’s leader doesn’t like lefties:

‘For too long conservative Australian values have been undermined by woke, lefty-Liberals’ (2023, Pauline Hanson Targets Woke Lefty Liberals).

~ In 1998, Ngarrindjeri elders went to the Highest court in the land. Why? They were looking after their lands and waters. They lost. Out of 7 judges, only Justice Michael Kirby ruled the ‘race power’ should not make things worse for First Peoples. He said:

‘It seems unthinkable that Nazi race laws could be enacted under the race power and that this Court could do nothing about it’ (2012, ‘Hindmarsh Island Bridge case’, Kartinyeri v Commonwealth, quoted in Removing Racism from Australia’s Constitutional DNA).

~ Give First Peoples a Voice to Parliament ? ‘No!’ said 78% of voters here in 2023. Yet 72% of First Peoples across this land said, ‘Yes’! (2023, Booth by booth, Indigenous Australians backed the Voice).

~ If voters at the Narrung polling booth move any more to the right, they can jump in the lake. Really, they can!

Can a bird fly with only one wing? No, but it can still do shit.

Enter a couple doing just that at the Narrung Hall:

Narrung is over-run with fierce little white aunties. Like Aunty Gay, Aunty Green, Aunty PC, Aunty Book, Aunty Sook, Aunty Art, Aunty Smart, Aunty Migrant and Aunty Making-Time-To-Sit-And-Study-The-Ants. The noisiest of all those white anties is Aunty Leftie. Ok, ok, that pun doesn’t work if you’re speaking King’s English.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Do you ever wonder when the right became damn-well right, and the left became a threat?

No? That’s ok. I’m going to tell you anyway. The right-wing / left-wing thing has been in English since the 15th century.

How do I know? Ambulomancy—which I take to mean finding out things by ambulation. Not by chasing ambulances. That’s just silly.

The first ambulances, by the way, were used for carting blood-spurting, hurting soldiers off the battle ground. It’s from the French ‘hôpital ambulant’—walking hospital (OED).

(Image of ambulance, by Jeanette Rowe; feet by Freepik; & text added by my Wyrid elf; fair use)

And snap—the right-wing / left wing thing began in battle too. The killer command of the day was:

‘Þan assayle þou his lyfte wynge wiþ þyriȝt’—Then you attack his left wing with your right (1450, my translation of the English translation of the 4th century Latin, De Re Militari, by the Roman war expert, Vegetius, OED).

And yes, the English were copycats. So. Enter the Roman commanders who started it. How? They put their top Roman troops into the thick of things—centre stage, so to speak. They didn’t trust the armies of their allies. The weakest links were sent to the ‘alae’—the wings. In Latin, that’s ‘dextera ala’—right wing, and ‘sinistra ala’—left wing. Also.

~ The English ‘dexterity’ first meant ‘on the right’, And ‘sinister’ meant—bad evil scary horror movies! Oops, no. It meant on the left (OED).

~ Back then turning ‘sinister’ was not such a bad thing. It meant going against the sun. Or anti-clockwise—as in:

‘A hundred Knights Circling the sad pile with sinister rites’ (1615, Relation of Journey, George Sandys, 84, OED)

So who made the right good and the left downright dodgy?

Are you sitting comfortably? It’s a story—of killer kings and starving bird-lovers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Enter the right royal spoiled king of France, the one called Louis. The name means ‘warrior’. There had been 15 other Louis before him. So Louis 16th had a lot to live up to. But going to war needed money—a lot of money that Louis 16th didn’t have. Nor did his people. But he made them pay more tax anyway. One problem. It was 1789.

The French people swore they’d have no more war. They wanted to make the world a better place—for everyone. They wanted peace. And they wanted to keep pigeons. Who doesn’t love pigeons? They are cute coo-ers.

In France, those mini dodos were prized as powerful poo-ers. Prized for poo? Yep! Pigeon droppings were high in saltpetre, needed for gun-powder. Who needed the most un-powder? Their wicked warrior King Louis.

Thing is, in France, only the king’s cronies had the right to keep pigeons. And they built very fancy pigeonniers to keep them. Thing is, flocks of pampered pigeons get very hungry when there’s drought and the crops fail. That took place in 1788. Those feathered free-loaders would fly down and feast on meagre grain crops. Bread prices rose sky high:

‘Common people spent 88 percent of their income on bread compared to 50 percent in normal times’ (Drought and the French Revolution: The effects of adverse weather conditions on peasant revolts in 1789).

It was illegal to shoot them—the pigeons, that is. So guess who went hungry! Not the king and his cronies. They had plenty of pigeons to feast on. In 1789, the people wanted to eat. They wanted the high-taxing king and his cronies off their backs.

(‘Le Tiers-État portant le Clergé et la Noblesse sur son dos’)

The people wanted the right to keep pigeons too. But did Louis 16th agree? No. He belonged to a long throng of rulers who saw pigeons as their crowning glory. He locked the people out of ‘the traditional meeting hall’ (2013, Turn left for the revolution).

So the people said phooey to King Louis! But the only place they could find for their own meetings—their awesome dawning democracy—was a Paris tennis court.

To be fair, they did invite the nobs too. But the score was not love-all, when all important votes were taken at their ‘Assemblée nationale’. If you backed free pigeons for all, you went to the LEFT WING. If you wanted private pigeon-keeping to remain, you went to the RIGHT WING—whereupon a fat-cat aristocrat spat his comforter and confessed his anti-left bias:

‘Those of us attached to their King and their Religion positioned ourselves to the right of the presiding member, in order to avoid the shouting and the indecent language coming from the other side…I absolutely could not sit on the left’ (Turn left for the revolution).

And then all the right-wingers moved to Narrung. So they could keep doing their right-wing thing without anyone stopping them. Sigh! Ok, I might have stretched the truth. Right-wingers live elsewhere too.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~ NOTE to the groovy ‘oo’ in you—this travel guide is sponsored by nothing more than an old leftie's love of calling a spade a spade. After all, how many tools of cruel capitalist tyranny does a person really need in their shed? Or their head?

~ NOTE to the cheeky ‘ee’ in me—judging Narrung by its right-wingers is like judging the sea by pufferfish. Not everything is toxic.

~ NOTE to the esteemed ‘elves’ in ourselves—thanks for making time to come out and play.

And now, are you ready to chuck, ah, er, um, head to Narrung?

[weywardwisdom]

Caring and sharing

EASY READ

First Peoples have been here — caring and sharing — since time began. But whose language is on most road-signs? And. Whose names name most places?

The road I live on is named after a land-grabber. His claim to fame? He was as a British surveyor. He travelled round much the same as Willie the Conqueror's workers did in 1085 — for the Domeday Book.

And yes. I'm a W.e.i.r.d. privileged English-speaking land-grabber. W.e.i.r.d YT school taught me a downright dodgy view of the past. Like :—

'Squatting was a great activity to bring independence to a man ... Troubles came from Aborigines' (1968, Teacher's hand-out, Social Studies, Marion High School, South Astray-ya).

And yes. That view of the past is as useful as old knicker elastic. It doesn't hold up. Is it too soon to confess I don't wear undies?

Also. W.e.i.r.d YT school taught that big fancy English words make you sound like somebody. No. They don't. They're thoughtless. They're heartless. Why? Because. Only 'about 15%' of adults read at a 'Higher Learning' level. Nearly half of us read at a Year 10 level or lower (Australien Govt Style Manual).

So my posts are mostly Easy Read — nothing harder than Plain English. I check on the Flesch-Kincaid Calculator.

Also. This blog is not about chucking anyone. Says who? Says the leftie who's writing it.

And. This blog spans Kaurna Yerta, Peramangk Lands, and Ngarrindjeri Ruwi — on the way to the Narrung Peninsula. Why here? It's right-wing's ville with a horrid history that's not talked about. And. It’s where I live as a guest of the Ngarrindjeri Nation. And. I don't want to wear out their welcome.

So. Here's a heads up for First Peoples.

Names & images of people who've died are in this blog.

[weywardwisdom]

‘Narrung? Where’s that?’

A FAIRLY EASY READ

‘What state’s that in’? Most people ask.

I stop myself from saying, ‘Neglect’.

But they’ve already gone onto ask,

‘What’s the nearest town’?

‘Meningie’, I say.

‘Medindie’? They sound puzzled. My working class accent doesn’t go with Adelaide’s finest of upper class addresses.

‘No’, I say. ‘Meningie. It’s near Narrung. And Narrung is near the Coorong’.

‘Ah! The Coorong — Storm Boy Country! I saw the movie’, they say brightly. I see Colin Thiele turn in his grave.

‘Can you picture Snoopy’? I say. ‘When he’s playing at being a flying ace — red scarf waving—chasing the Red Baron, that is. If Snoopy is Lake Alexandrina, and his waving scarf is Lake Albert, then the knot tied at Snoopy’s neck is Narrung’.

Well, it makes sense to me! It makes more sense than tourism trumpeting about Narrung being in ‘Coorong Country’. The Coorong is 25 kms away! Besides.The name ‘Coorong’ is a knockoff of the Ngarrindjeri word ‘Kurrangk’. It means at the neck (2009, Ngarrindjeri Dictionary, complied by Mary-Anne Gale with the elders, 31).

Ngarrindjeri elders told me they see a swan. Its long neck makes the long thin Kurrangk estuary, next to the dunes. Much more dignified than my cartoon dog.

The peninsula that Narrung sits on could have been an island. There’s lots scattered near the sea mouth. Land-grabbers named them after the animals they brought here and let go — so they’d have four-legged food at hand. No thought to the harm the misplaced critters would cause. So. There’s Cow, Ewe, Goat, Rabbit and Rat Island.

The first time I set foot on the Narrung Peninsula, I was very young. My memory is as hazy as the mist that moves in from the sea. Wind is what I remember most. It was so strong I could lean into it and not fall over. And seagulls seemed to stand still in the air, just above my head. I reached up my arm and one daring bird did a touch-and-go landing on my hand. My family were standing on a road that was on concrete stilts that stopped a lot of water going out to sea.

‘Pelican Point’, my grandfather called it. ‘A gorgeous bird is the pelican’, he grinned and said, ‘It's beak can hold more than its bellican’.

Granddad would always leave out the last lines: ‘He can put in his beak Food enough for a week. But I’m d[amned] if I see how in hellecan’ (1912-13, CM Marshton’s limerick in Florida’s Tampa Morning Tribune quoted in 2020, A Gorgeous Bird).

Local land-grabbers thought of this area as the arse end of ‘one of the largest river systems in the world’. They called it ‘Tail-End Charlie’ (1986, Narrung History — a viewpoint, Graham Camac, Narrung Alpha, 25).

Local land-grabbers didn’t like the summers. The lakes would dry out into stinking mucky pools. Or stretches of dry cracked earth. The lack of fresh water was ruining their livelihoods. Something had to be done.

Fred Ayres, owner of the Narrung Station, reckoned he had the answer in 1928. He wanted barrages built. But. Fred Ayres had grand money-making plans. He’d been a gold-digger, after all. He wanted the gubment to drain Lake Albert. And then he wanted it to sell the land for farming. There would be ‘room for 800 settlers’. And. The land sales would ‘make £800,000’ — more than enough to build his barrages (Draining The Lakes).

There’s more. Fred wanted the barrages built ‘wide for motor traffic’. So the public could drive across. He had a ‘16 mile’ route planned — from ‘Tubberug’ to ‘Hindmarsh Island’ and onto Goolwa. He said the water there was ‘nowhere deeper than 2 ft' — knee high. And the route had a solid 'limestone bottom' (1928, March 3, Draining The Lakes, Observer, Adelaide, 6, Trove).

But. How did Fred Ayres know this route was safe? How did he know it avoided the quicksand, shifting silts and deep people-swallowing cracks in the mud? Fred Ayres wasn’t a surveyor. He wasn’t a geologist either. How did he know?

Thing is, ‘Tubberug’— or ‘Tulerang’—is a Ngarrindjeri place-name. We land-grabbers now call it Pelican Point (Ngarrindjeri Dictionary, 153).

So. Fred Ayres — I strongly suspect — had local knowledge — Ngarrindjeri knowledge. What was his link with the Ngarrindjeri Nation?

On the afternoon of the 11th of March, 1913, he'd been one of four local land-grabbers who'd gone to the Point McLeay Mission. Why? They wanted to give evidence to five visiting MPs. They were looking into the 'progress' of the 'Aborigines'. But. It’s likely Fred Ayres was no friend of Ngarrindjeri. The MPs reported:

‘It was admitted by most of the witnesses ... that the work at Point McLeay has not been a success’ (1913, Progress Report Of The Royal Commission On The Aborigines).

What did ‘success’ look like? Success would have been the ‘natives’ working in ‘industrial pursuits’ and being ‘useful on the land’. But. The land that went with the Mission was, they admitted, of ‘inferior character’. And. The few ‘natives’ who did work for local ‘landowners’ would go back to the Mission ‘after a few weeks’. So. They lived ‘in idleness’.

And. The YTs were not idle!

By 1940, 5 barrages with flood-gates had been built from Pelican Point to Goolwa.

Now to get to Goolwa, it’s a three hour drive around the lake. Or a twenty minute boat ride.

No one asked Ngarrindjeri folks what they wanted. The barrages made a big change to their lands and waters.

Thing is, 16 miles — roughly 26 kms — was a short walk for Ngarrindjeri people in those days. And. Before the barrages were built, Ngarrindjeri would walk to Kumarangk. It’s an important cultural centre. How do I know? Aunty Grace Sumner told me so. Her father had worked as a shepherd there. Driving to Kumarangk in the late1990s, she always like to go the long way via Clayton Bay. So. She could look across the water and see the old stone shearing shed. It stood above the old Hindmarsh Island ferry.

Besides. Ngarrindjeri elder, Dr Doreen Kartinyeri, often thought about her younger days too — before land-grabbers built the barrages. She wrote:

‘My mind went back to my childhood when we spent holidays at Kumarangk. We used to walk across to the island from Mark’s Point’ (2008, My Ngarrindjeri Calling, 114).

Walk to Kumarangk? From Mark's Point? You’d drown doing that today!

Where’s Mark’s Point? It’s a few kms along from Pelican Point.

Ok, land-grabbers call it ‘Mark Point’— as if it marks something. To elder Aunty Maggie Jacobs, it marked the place where a big Rigney mob would stay during the hottest months of the year. How do I know? She told me so! One day, she asked me to take her to Camp Coorong. On the way she gave me a lesson in culture. She named each Ngarrindjeri family who own each point, all along the Coorong. These points are not Crown Land or National Park, she insisted. They are owned by Ngarrindjeri. Like the Sumner family at Dupang — Long Point.

All the points are summer places for Ngarrindjeri people, as far as Aunty Maggie was concerned. So. I’m not surprised when Ngarrindjeri elders talk about Mark's Point as if it’s named after someone called Mark.

In 1998, Mark Point and Pelican Point were among many places visited by a big Ngarrindjeri mob again. The Stolen Generations had missed out on a lot of culture. And so. The Ngarrindjeri Heritage Committee at Camp Coorong wanted to make up for all that hurt and pain. And. Just like the other aunties had done — Aunty Veronica Brodie talked about walking across to the island too.

Ngarrindjeri cultural routes have a long, long history.

[weywardwisdom]

How to get to Narrung

EASY TO READ

I recommend taking the free-way. I recommend taking it early—with water. Repeat doses may be needed. The trip to Narrung has its risks.

How do I know? Linguamancy—which means, er, um, oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue!

Also. I read. And the trip to Narrung is packed with peril. Some poor sod died:

‘The track is a waterless one, and the heat apparently overpowered the unfortunate man before he could reach Narrung, which was only six miles distant’ (1905, Jan 12, SAD TALE OF THE BUSH, The West Australian, 5, Trove).

His body was found ‘watched over by a dog’. Oh the heart-break! But I left out three vital facts:

~ This tragedy happened over a hundred years ago.

~ It happened near Narrung, Victoria; where I suspect all my fan-mail goes.

~ His transport was shanks pony.

Thankfully you’ve got wheels and me as your friendly trippy travel-guide! What can go wrong?!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wherever there are old Ngarrindjeri routes, there’s always fresh water to be found nearby. Well, there used to be, before we land-grabbers blotted the landscape.

Enter Ngarrindjeri elder Neville Gollan. He knew where all the fresh-water soaks and wells used to be. And showed us a marker in the Coorong. The stone had the words ‘Good Water’ cut into it. It had to be old. Those words came with big bold sheriffs—oops, serifs. Who bothers writing with them these days? Ugh! The stone’s gone now—stolen by some bastard. No sheriffs—or serifs—around.

‘If you’re thirsty and can’t find water,’ said Uncle Neville, ‘just look for Wa:tji bush. Break a bit off’. Uncle was also fondly known as ‘the Professor’—with good reason.

‘What do I do with it?’ I asked. Yes, I’m an ignorant white-fella. He grinned, and said:

‘You suck’. (Please stress the second word, not the first).

Thing is, there’s no need to die of thirst here. Wa:tji bush is a really common plant. It grows in long hedge-rows along the side of the road. Well, it used to.

W.e.i.r.d. English's name is tangled lignum. W.e.i.r.d. science's name is ‘Duma florulenta’ (2009, Ngarrindjeri Dictionary, 164).

W.e.i.r.d? That’s—Western/white eye-wateringly insensitive, rudely dogmatic—apologies to Joseph Henrich.

Wa:tji bush grows taller than tall people. Yet W.e.i.r.d. people often don’t see it. Why? They rate it as worthless. And—I suspect—they didn’t get enough love at birth.

Wa:tji bush doesn’t get into local plant guides either. It’s not even in the one that tells land-grabbers about the ‘most common native and introduced plant species’ here (2009, LowerlakesPlantGuide).

Why not? After all, Wa:tji bush is a really cool living being. It has super powers of survival. And really deep roots—they can go down 3 metres odd (Tangled Lignum).

So when big waters bull-doze their way downstream, this plant has got a good grip on things. And this makes it a life-saver for many small critters.

Also. When it gets too dry, it’ll drop its leaves. And can look dead.

When it rains, a miracle happens! Wa:tji bush is quick coming back to life! It’s ability to renew itself makes this plant ‘the unsung zombie hero of the floodplains’ (2022, Sept 12, Tangled Lignum).

Also. If you look closely, there’s a tiny blue wren, living in there! The Ngarrindjeri name is ‘Wa:tji Pulyeri’. Wa:tji bush is a safe place for tiny Wa:tji Pulyeri (2009, Ngarrindjeri Dictionary, 164).

Wa:tji bush, sadly, is on the way out. Despite its awesome life skills, land-grabbers still don’t value it enough.

‘I didn’t know it had flowers’, a Narrung old-timer told me once. Sigh!

Flowers have been bursting from this bush’s grey-green tangle for eons. How do I know? Sycomancy? No, I don’t read fig leaves. I do read old stories.

Fig tree, by the way, sheltered baby twins, tossed out by an evil despot. And that’s how the evil Roman Empire began—abusing women and tiny children. Did they not get enough love at birth?

When the evil Empire came to this land, tangled lignum sheltered First Peoples. It hid Walmajarri people from the police, explained elder Bessie Doonday (Duma florulenta). That’s when they took the children away. What a terrible thing—white Australiens thinking they know best. When will the trauma end for Stolen Generations?!

Ngarrindjeri parents tell stories to teach their children about safe places. In the Waatji Pulyeri creation story, Wa:tji bush is a place to hide from danger. The story-teller of this version, sadly, is no longer with us—another Ngarrindjeri gone too soon. Gone but never forgotten.

Enter Jimmy Rankine, Ngarrindjeri singer and story-teller. The first time we met was at the Narrung general store—just across the road from Wa:tji bush, as it happens. And cross-my-heart, this is the only photo of the store I've ever taken.

‘Hullo, Jimmy’, I said. He stopped—studied me—and then said:

‘You know me? How? We’ve never met!’

‘I met your waist-coat this morning’, I replied. ‘It was hanging on the back of the chair, when I visited your mum, down Raukkan’.

It was an awesome waistcoat. It was patterned like the night sky filled with glowing golden stars. In those staid stuffed-shirt days, I really rated people who were so radiantly creative.

‘I’m a fan’, I added. ‘I bought your band’s cd’.

Thankfully, my remark about Rough Image put a spark in Jimmy’s eyes.

‘Would you like my autograph?’ he kindly said. I did.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You can still see Wa:tji bush on your way to Narrung. And when you look carefully, I wonder who you'll see in there.

[featherfurl]