3

Kurrpanngu strikes

THE TRADITIONAL OWNERS regard themselves as bound to the land in a manner that seems to be little understood by white people. It has been said that the land does not belong to the Aborigine; the Aborigine belongs to the land. But that is a white person’s cliche, repeated because it has the ring of pithy profundity about it, rather than for any real insight into the nature of the relationship. Uluru was returned to its traditional owners in 1985, with a lease back to the National Parks and Wildlife agency. The entry of white visitors is still unimpeded once they have purchased their ticket from the uniformed white ranger on duty, but the camp sites and the motel near the rock have been bulldozed. These areas will eventually be reclaimed by desert and scrub, leaving only the Aboriginal encampment to provide shelter in the lee of the greatest rock on earth.

But in 1980 the new tourist village of Yulara had not been built, and facilities at the camping areas could not have been described as luxurious. One hundred metres or so to the east of the top camping area was a sand dune known as ‘Sunrise Hill’. This was not a classic yellow sand dune of the kind that evokes romantic images of sheiks dragging damsels onto camels and galloping boldly away. The sand consisted largely of ferric oxide, and was a deep, dull red. Sparse bushes fought for survival on its shallow slopes. But it offered spectacular views of Uluru at sunrise.

It was dark when the Chamberlains arrived late on 16 August. Azaria was hungry, and cried while they heated her bottle. They fed her, pitched camp, and put the children to bed. They were not informed that three people had been attacked by dingoes that day. In fact, it is unlikely that even the rangers knew of all the attacks that had occurred immediately prior to their arrival.

The next morning was a fine, sunny day, and the whole family was in good spirits. Their attitude was that life is meant to be lived with enthusiasm, and this was the first day of their holiday. Much of the afternoon was devoted to Michael’s ascent of the rock with Aidan and Reagan. As it happened, the boys became separated, and Michael had to climb the rock twice. That was no mean feat even for a man as fit as Michael Chamberlain, and the whole exercise took some time. During the course of the afternoon, a number of women saw Lindy with Azaria, and noted her ‘new-mum glow’. One of these women, Mrs Wilkin, was to describe her at the trial as a ‘perfect little mother’. Another, Mrs Eccles, agreed that she was a ‘true mother,’ and added that she had been ‘very caring,’ ‘affectionate,’ and ‘concerned’.

On the southern side of the rock there is an interesting geological phenomenon: a cave with strange undulations in the rock walls and ceiling, and smooth protuberances from the floor. There are faded shapes on the walls — legacies of Aboriginal artists of an earlier age. In places, the stone has been worn smooth by the hands of generations of women seeking the blessing of children. It is called the Fertility Cave. Lindy explored it, quietly cradling Azaria in her arms.

Outside, she had the uneasy sensation of feeling that she was being watched. She looked up and saw a dingo standing on a large boulder and staring down at her. ‘Is that your dog?’ she asked John McCombe; but though she tried to brush it aside with a joke, she felt that there was something vaguely disturbing about its implacable stare. She was later to tell Inspector Gilroy that it was almost as though it had been ‘casing the baby’.

Later in the afternoon, they observed the usual tradition of going to the Sunset Strip to see the incredible phenomenon of Uluru changing colour in the setting sun. It is a striking sight to see this huge edifice turn from orange to blood red.

The warmth of the day was fading quickly, now that dusk was giving way to nightfall. The nights at Uluru are crisp and clear, as though designed to show off the canopy of stars like myriads of tiny diamonds strewn negligently across black velvet by some titanic jeweller. The temperature was later to drop to below freezing point, but it was not yet 8.00 p.m., and there was a warm ambience at the barbecue area. Perhaps it was the sight of the flames and the promise of food to come. Perhaps it was the gentle glow from the amber floodlight which bathed the whole area. Or perhaps it was just a feeling of contentment. There is something very satisfying about standing around the barbecue preparing dinner after a day’s sightseeing. The boys were tired, and Reagan was already fast asleep in the tent some twenty metres distant.

The Chamberlains were gregarious people, and Michael had a pastor’s knack of getting to know people quickly. He and Lindy had spent half the morning talking to Bill and Judith West and their daughter Catherine. Now, as they prepared their dinner, they struck up a conversation with a young couple from Tasmania. Greg Lowe was a friendly, affable man who had been known to knock off a ‘tinnie’ or two, and was quick to offer one to Michael Chamberlain. Michael was a teetotaller, but he was happy enough to accept the friendly overture that went with the offer. Sally Lowe quickly found that Azaria’s middle name was ‘Chantal’. The spelling was different, but it was the same name as her own daughter Chantelle, then seventeen months old. Sally was a bright, personable woman, and Lindy enjoyed talking to her while she nursed Azaria off to sleep.

In real life, tragedy strikes its victims without warning. There is no build-up in the dramatic content of a musical score, no measured drumbeat to set the pulses racing with apprehension. When she was satisfied that Azaria was asleep, Lindy interrupted the conversation with Sally Lowe. ‘I’ll just put bubby down,’ she said. As she turned to leave the barbecue, she remembered that Aidan had had a long day and was obviously tired. ‘You can come too,’ she told him.

The tent was a little four-man affair about seven feet square. It had been erected beside the car, and was so close that when the nearest door was opened fully it would brush against the canvas. Aidan held the baby whilst his mother smoothed out the bunny rugs and mattress in the bassinet. When Azaria was snugly tucked in, Aidan kissed her goodnight. His recollection of this simple incident was later to be used as a means of denigrating the value of his evidence. It was said to be an obvious reconstruction, something he thought he remembered because he had heard his mother mention it. The submission was made with great conviction, as if it were advancing some self-evident truth, but no attempt was made to explain why a little boy approaching seven should not have retained the mental image of this kiss. It was to be the last time he would ever see his baby sister.

It is the experience of mothers the world over that small boys have appetites like piranhas; as if to demonstrate this, by the time Lindy had got Aidan to bed, he was hungry again. She offered him a tin of baked beans and went to get it from the car whilst he wriggled out of his sleeping bag. They had a half-hearted race back, but slowed as they neared the barbecue area. Lindy picked up the conversation with Sally Lowe at the point where she had interrupted it.

In their tent nearby, the Wests heard the low, menacing growl of a dog. It reminded Bill of the dogs on his sheep station near Esperance in Western Australia. When he slaughtered a sheep, he would throw pieces of offal to the dogs. One would seize a piece in his jaws and growl in just that fashion to warn off any other dog displaying an interest in his prize.

It was then that Sally heard the baby cry. It was a short, distressed cry, and stopped abruptly as if cut off. Lindy didn’t hear it, but Aidan said, ‘I think that is bubby crying,’ and Michael said, ‘Yes, I think it was bubby too.’ The area between the barbecue area and the tent was dotted with low, straggly shrubs providing pools of shadow. In front of the tent there was a low railing of treated-pine logs. As Lindy approached the tent, she saw a dingo emerge from its flap. It was shaking its head vigorously as a puppy might shake a shoe, but she could not see what was in its mouth because her view was blocked by the level of the railing. She shouted at it in the hope that it would drop whatever it was carrying.

It was then that she remembered the cry, and something turned cold inside her. A quick glance through the flap told her that the bassinet was empty, but her mind refused to accept it. She must be there; she must have just fallen out of the bassinet or got caught up in the blankets. She scrambled feverishly inside. The centre pole had been knocked askew, and the baby’s blankets were strewn across the floor of the tent. She rummaged through them desperately, her mind still refusing to accept what reason told her must be so, and emerged from the tent with her heart pounding in her chest. There was a dingo standing nearby, behind the car. She thought it looked vaguely different, but reason told her it had to be the same one. She moved to chase it, but it ran off into the dark, leaving her alone with her panic.

My God, she thought, they’ll never believe me. No one will come. But when her scream rang out, it was so full of anguish and despair that it carried conviction to all who heard it.

‘A dingo has got my baby!’ she cried.