A Snake and a Seal
There is a snake moving along the river this morning. He is a big one. White. Slow. Very cold. I can feel the chill of him. As he makes his way, it is the banks of the river that guide him—mostly. Maybe he is impatient to get to where he is going, or perhaps it is because he is just afraid of nothing. But he will sometimes move straight ahead, past factories and bridges. At a bend in the river he will climb straight up and over any hill that gets in the way. If the river widens into a bay, this snake swims straight across. He is very determined—like an old man who has seen everything there is to see—he has no inclination to stop and wonder about what he doesn’t know. And there is so much to understand on the banks of Nipaluna these days.
I have watched him. Ever since I came to this cold country in the south of the island. I see him every winter, moving down the valley toward the sea. Do you wonder what he does when he gets to the coast? Once, maybe ten years ago, I found out. I was watching the news on television. After the stories had finished about war and money, they moved on to the weather. Snow had been falling in the mountains and was finished for now. The wind had swung to the north and everything was peaceful. The satellite photo showed no cloud, so the river’s mouth was clear to see. Can you believe it? The snake was there on the screen!
The people who have lived along the river in recent times know him too. They call him ‘the Bridgewater jerry’ and wake to see him in the morning—already among them—because he comes in the early hours. ‘Oh, there’s the jerry. It’s big today. You’ll need a coat for sure!’ I also used to think of him like they did. The jerry. A fog. Something to keep out of if you could. Cold, damp and chilling to the bone. But when I saw it on my TV, I held my breath. As it was gliding out of the mouth of the river and across Storm Bay like a giant rope slung over the waters, I knew there was more to this ‘fog’ than just mist and science. (Image 7.2)
Image 7.2: The Jerry Snake Courtesy Greg Lehman
Here on Trowuna, the island that is now called Tasmania, we have some problems. Not that long ago, the British arrived to bring grief to my Ancestors. This wasn’t simply due to their being European: the French had been here before them and their visit had gone well. We met and ate with them, showed them our dances and taught them many things. They were quick to learn and showed us a thing or to as well. Some of it fascinated the young ones (flutes, and axes) and some was not worth the bother (mirrors, beads and coins). Before them, the Dutch had come. They had been nervous and sailed by without meeting us. Maori had come long before this and left their flax behind. There had been others, too, but those are different stories.
These problems began when the British decided to stay. Killing began. Not just of cartela, the seal, but us Palawa mob too. That’s the simple truth. Lots of killing. All this happened because of one thing: the sons of England did not know tunapri manta. This is our knowing that comes from the old stories, handed down for a thousand generations. It gives us our Law and a way to know the world that works for everyone. But the sealers and soldiers would not learn! If it is true what the Old Man Woreddy said, that they were num—the ghosts of our own ancestors—then this is hard to understand. Because num are part of tunapri manta. Something was not right. Something had changed. The story of their arrival, of numlaggar, could be a long one with much crying and sadness. But there is something more important to tell. To understand my story about the White Snake, you need to know how my people are today. And that is more than a simple matter of recounting history.
Existence for us today is confusing. We live in two worlds—or many more if you consider tunapri manta. But the world of the num is very different from our Palawa worlds. We survive in this because all of us can count num among our ancestors. Think of it! We come from the people of the land, made from tarner the kangaroo by the creation spirits, dromedeener and moinee. And there, two lifetimes ago, comes a num grandfather for each of us. So, we are descended from ghosts of our own dead! Even after two hundred years, none of our Elders has created a story from this that gives us peace.
Or perhaps this is not quite right. We do sing songs of our survival in the face of a long hard struggle. Songs to bring the children home to have our land returned. But all of these are tinged with pain and have a demon as the boss. Numlagger, ‘the white man comes’. Not only were we chased from our country and family, but perhaps worse than this, we left the world of tunapri manta. I often wonder what all the spirits of the land have been doing since the time we last sang their songs and performed their ceremonies—since we forgot their names. They were kept in our minds by the stories and dances of the Old People like Woreddy and my own tribal grandmother, W oretemoeteyenner. Do they just disappear when the Old Ones die? Do they fade away like a fiction? It certainly seems that way; they are hardly mentioned anymore. And for most of the people who live here today, they have never existed at all. Or so they think. (Image 7.3)
Image 7.3: Seal Shooting in Bass’s Straits, 1881 Courtesy State Library of Victoria
Maybe those spirits are just hidden today—obscured by the language we speak. Words like ‘mountain’, ‘tree’ and ‘wind’ are no invitation for them to show us their presence. My own people have been too clever at learning the language of science. We now live in a num world where a rock is just a rock and the wind is just the wind. We no longer speak about how Kunanyi breathes out rain to fill the streams that run down her slopes. We do not hear the words that are carried in the screeching cry of moingana as he flies down from Kunanyi to warn us of coming storms. Worst of all, we hardly pause to heed the voices of our own Ancestors as they sing to us in the wind that blows through the trees—the trees we once knew as countrymen.
It is not that long since we were surrounded by all of this. We didn’t have to think about what we had lost, or yearn for understanding of things past. T unapri was everywhere; in everything we did. The law was our life. Not just Palawa, but all things in the world followed this. The birds gave us notice of what was to come. The bush would call us when it was time to burn. The rain would punish our lazy ways. And always, the great ancestor spirits would watch us as they lay sleeping—their bodies forming the ridges, peaks and valleys of the country all around.
There is an island near the mouth of Nipaluna, called Lupaylana. This name tells of the place before rowra, the powerful devil spirit who lives in the deep, raised up the waters to cut off the land and make an island of it. It is a place close to a big lagoon that in good years is full of eggs and fat ducks. The story of this place is also of a young girl who was being chased by a group of men. They were from a tribe that had no rightful business with her. She ran away fast, because she knew she must. For them to catch her would be for her to carry the blame of their crime. This is tunapri. She knew it was right because without the law, she might weaken and slow her flight. To be caught by them would maybe lead to war, because the men of her tribe would not rest until they had caused the deaths of these men. And that would be only the beginning. In this way, each Palawa carried responsibilities; for themselves and for tunapri manta. The men of her tribe too would have consequences to face—but that was their business and her tribe would see to this or perish.
So the girl ran until she reached the beach. The waves here pound and churn with all the power of an ocean that stretches without end. She had dived here for shellfish and lobster many times, and the familiar water called her to safety. Blind to the chaos of pounding surf, she dove into the cold, exploding waters and began to swim. Slipping under the breakers, she soon cleared the waves and looked back to where she expected to see her tormentors standing on the beach waving their spears and shaking their heads in fury. What she saw shocked her. Like so many children, too young to have heard of rowra—who dragged men who invaded his domain to certain death—they too had entered the water.
Today, if you look at Lupaylana, you will notice that beyond the large main island—out toward the open waters—is a smaller one. You see, Rowra took pity on the girl. As the men waded out into the surf, each clung to the other in fear—and this is where they stayed. To save the girl and punish the men, Rowra turned them all into stone.
When I saw that snake on TV, he was sliding close by Lupaylana. The story I already knew of those islands mingled with the one unfolding. I saw then how the world keeps itself. The white snake watches over Lupaylana to hold tunapri strong. And for all who see the snake, as he makes his long journey down the valley, there is a reminder of what is learned from this and every other place along his path.
Our life since numlaggar has distracted us from the teachings that the country still keeps. It’s not that the wisdom has been lost. Some stories may have ceased to be told, some dances may have been forgotten, or some songs left quiet. All of these are like fruit that has grown on a tree and, without harvest, falls to rot back into the earth. We are now too busy to stop and fill our bellies. Our appetites are spoiled by the rubbish we eat. And we grow lazy with the fine things that money brings to our num lives. If we spend our time living in a num world, it is not because of that ghost ancestor. It is because we, too, have closed our eyes to tunapri manta. So I say—when the news comes on TV—don’t be distracted by the stories of politics and greed. Take careful notice of the weather. It is the best show around!
The conversations we have with our world have become like those of children. We need to stop thinking about ourselves and the things we can’t have. So, I will make more time for listening to the wind. The birds aren’t worried that I don’t hear them much these days. They still call to me because they have never stopped believing. And the White Snake will slide just as well through the office blocks of the city as he does through the trees of the forest. That big snake has taught me something. Even if I don’t know all the old stories, there is no excuse for not knowing the country. And a few generations of num life don’t mean I can’t go back to believing. If I cannot find the old stories for a place, then I should listen and learn—and take my time to create some new ones.