I have pondered long and hard how best to tell the story of my time with the Bama. How to truncate so many years into an effective parable? How to capture the slow and gradual changes that occurred within us in a way that might be easy to understand? For that’s the intent of any story—not just to tell what happened, but to tell it in a way that lets you share the understanding you gain.
I could tell you that we slowly came to understand the Bama people and their ways and slowly became more and more like them—though perhaps never really one of them. But would that really explain to you what it felt like to gradually find myself thinking like one of the Bama? Using words that have no clear translation in English but capture their view of the world?
I could tell you the story of the first time I speared one of the hopping creatures gangurru—and how the men carried the beast back to the campfire and told the children and women that I had been such a great hunter that day that I was called walaan! But how could I describe the way it felt to have that said of me—when normally my life was defined by the things that I could not do adequately?
I could reveal how I finally accepted that a marriage ceremony could be marked by the mother and father of the bride beating the husband-to-be over the head until he was covered in blood before agreeing to give their daughter to him.
Or I could tell you how it felt when I decided to have the first scars made on my abdomen. I could go into great detail about how the incisions were made, using sharp pieces of quartz cutting slowly across the skin, and how much it hurt. And I could tell you how the skin was pulled back to the very edge each day and pressure applied to push the inner skin up to ensure it protruded as it healed. I could tell you that, and try to evoke the detail of the procedure, but how could I really explain the way it felt to be looked at differently by the Bama afterwards?
I could even tell you something of their spiritual beliefs, which took me so long to understand, and the tabus that surrounded so many things. But as I came to know the beliefs I came to also know the deep restrictions on what could be talked about openly and what could not. So, other than to say that any understanding of how they view the land is greatly enhanced by understanding their beliefs about how the land was formed, it is something I will not overly dwell on. Suffice to say, they believe creation spirits—for want of a better word—had not only shaped the land but had finally come to rest in many formations, rocks or holes, and their powers remained there, making these places sacred to them.
Some of the other survivors might have chosen to tell you things that I have chosen not to, but that is the way of things. For to quote the book of Job once more, I only am escaped alone to tell thee.
So, it was only the Captain and me left now of the Endeavour crew. He was older and more infirm, his once tall frame bent over so he no longer towered over anyone but the children. He had a long white beard and straggly white hair that was respected by the Bama. Grey hair was a sign of wisdom to them, and such striking white hair as the Captain now had was quite singular.
And now that it was just the two of us, and with Charlton dead, I resolved to recover his precious journal. Something I had longed to have for myself for so long, but now felt might be more useful in helping the Captain. What if I read him passages that he had written on our voyage—might it help him recall those moments, and perhaps return him to some sense of lucidity? I could only try.
So, with Garrgiil’s help I negotiated for the journal to be retrieved from the clan that Charlton had lived with. I traded several of my best spears for it and gathered up the canvas-wrapped parcel tightly.
I had explained to Garrgiil about the journal and about writing and I also thought that it would be most instructive for him to see it, and perhaps I could even teach him to read a little. That would be a useful skill to have. And of course I could extend the journal’s entries. I could find a way to make ink and write the rest of the story since the wreck. I had so much to say. I could retell history in whatever form I chose, and my words would become the final word on things when the journal was one day found and returned to England.
I even had the idea that I should go back through the pages and find the last entry so that I would know the date that we were washed up on the shore here. Something that had long been lost to my memory. I don’t know quite why, but it seemed to me that it was important to have a particular date to pin all my memories and ideas of the past to. Something that shouldn’t be lost.
So many ideas.
Idiot!
I sat on a patch of grass, in the shade of a tree, with the Captain on one side and Garrgiil on the other side of me, and carefully unwrapped the journal. The canvas had many mould growths and had to be peeled away in parts. I cast the rotted cloth aside and showed the book to the Captain.
‘This is the ship’s journal,’ I told him. ‘Your journal.’
I took one of his hands and placed it on top of the large book. He looked down at it, eyes fixed on the object. I examined his face and would like to have imagined that I saw a spark of recognition there.
‘The ship’s journal,’ I said. ‘The Endeavour.’
‘A grand endeavour,’ he said.
‘Yes, the Endeavour,’ I repeated.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Does he recognise it?’ Garrgiil asked, in the Guugu Yimidhirr language.
‘Nguba,’ I said. Perhaps.
Then I took his hand and helped him open the book. It was resistant to us and I had to pull it firmly. The book opened reluctantly with a stench of rotten paper and the sound of soft tearing. The pages of the book had become damp and were ridden with mould and stuck together.
I looked at the mess of ripped, swollen paper before us and could barely make out any words. The ink had bled into the paper and distorted into new shapes, mixed with the words on the pages either side of it. I felt something heavy within me that I could not find a word to describe.
Garrgiil looked at the pages and then reached out and touched the remains of the paper with a finger. ‘This is writing?’ he asked.
‘Not anymore,’ I told him.
And I resolved to bury the journal and let the words leach into the land here. The date of our arrival and the date of burying the journal never recorded. Maybe something would grow on that spot. A great tree whose bark and wood carried the stories the Captain had written.
‘A grand endeavour,’ said Cook again.