The stranger came a few weeks ago. None of us had ever seen him before.
He came onto our land, but never spoke to us. We waited all day—he never came up and introduced himself, or told us where he’s from, or who his mob were. Never asked permission to camp here. Never tried to connect with us or see if we was related in any way. He just walked in like he owned the place, and set up camp not far from ours—not so close as to make it too obvious, though not far enough away to be able to ignore. He wouldn’t even look at us! Couldn’t even give us a nod, or a wave, or a flick of the wrist. We might as well have been ghosts, the way he was acting.
We all took turns, peeking through the scrub at him. Some thought he could have been an old ancestor come back. But I didn’t think so; surely, he would have said something. And he pissed and shat and ate like a normal person. He did eat his own food, at least—at first. We watched him untie a bundle from the belt on his waist soon after he arrived, and he scoffed down what looked like a johnny cake with his hands.
Others reckoned he might have been a senior man from some far away country, owing to his weird scars all set out in different patterns and cut across his shoulders, not on his chest like ours are.
Maybe he’s from that mob up north? someone said.
Nah, they scar their arms up there, someone else said. Everyone else nodded.
None of us had ever seen anyone like him before, and between us we’d been to a lot of places. He must have come from a very long way away.
See he was like us, but not like us. He looked more or less the same—same colour skin and hair and all that—but he was a little more exotic in some ways. He wore his hair different, for starters: long, frizzed out and curly, not twisted into little ropes like ours. He tied his hair up and around itself when he got too hot. His muscles were as hard as the wood of his shield, which was much bigger than ours. His spears were longer and thicker too; the barbs had sharper points.
He had a big bone through his nose. Maybe a sorcerer, we thought. But if that were the case, he would have known lore, surely! And that means he never would have come here and ignored us like that.
We ignored him too at first. Figured he’d make his way over sooner or later, and say g’day. But no! Come night-time, he just sat there and made his fire and went to sleep with his back to us.
He woke up early the next morning and headed down to the water to swim. Never asked permission, and as confident as you please. God bless. He really liked that water. Went swimming there every day at least, sometimes twice depending on the tides.
Well, after a few days, we called over to him: ‘Hey, you fella! Where you from?’
Nothing.
‘Hey, fella, who’s your mob?’
He didn’t even turn around. I know he heard us ’cos even the lorikeets in the trees took off squawking once we’d called out.
I know what you’re thinking—maybe he didn’t speak our lingo? Or maybe he couldn’t hear? We was thinking the same.
So, me being the most fluent in different tongues, I went over to him. See, I can speak as many languages as fingers that I got: the one we speak here, plus my mother’s, and my grandmother’s and grandfather’s, and also my wife’s, as well as the neighbours to the north, and the south, and the west of us, and one more lingo a bit further west too, which I learn when they come and do ceremony. And I know the hand language that everyone has in common, on account of my granny and my nephew being deaf.
So, I went over to him and yarned in each of these lingos, and even in the hand language.
Nothing! Can you believe it? He looked up at me once as I approached, but went back to staring at the water as calm as you please. Didn’t try to speak back to me in any language.
Well, there was nothing we could do. He didn’t want to talk to us? Come on to our land, even without permission? Not our business! Let him go, the Elders reckoned. We’re hospitable people. Reckoned, He’s not hurting no one and Surely he has his reasons.
I was glad of it, truth be told. I had much better things to do than try to talk to that ingrate. He gave me the willies too, just quietly, the way he went about his day acting like we weren’t here. Like we were ghosts or whatever.
So, we just left him alone, figuring he’d piss off sooner or later, and maybe just as sudden as he got here. We kept a close eye on him though. Kept the jarjums closer.
We started to make up stories about him, which helped to shake off the funny feeling he gave us. But not entirely. Some of the stories made us weak with laughter. But some of the stories got us a bit too shook for comfort. Because who knows if any of the stories were true? Some of them might well have been. But how would we ever know if he never spoke to us?
—
I was quite surprised I got the job, to be honest. I’ve been living here for years but this is my first big job, and my first identified position. It’s at the big gallery in the city, you know the one. The gallery that gets all the big funding, much more than all the smaller Aboriginal arts organisations. I’m proud to be working for a place like this.
Who’s that new one started work at the big gallery a few months ago?
None of us have ever seen her before!
My official title is Aboriginal Community Arts Liaison. As far as I can tell, I’m meant to source Aboriginal artists for the gallery, so I have to go out and get the community involved. Between you and me, I don’t know much else about what’s involved. The job description was pretty vague, and some of it went over my head a bit. But I’m sure I’ll find all that out on the job.
Dunno who her mob even are. She never says when she introduces herself.
Nothing on her email signature or flash new business cards or nothing. Someone reckoned Melbourne mob, but we asked around and no one down there had ever heard of her.
I’m hoping this will help me as an artist, too. I moved here when I was a lot younger and haven’t managed to get anywhere with my own art. This job will look great on my résumé too, and it should help me make some good connections.
Moved here years ago apparently.
We’ve never seen her at any community things.
I’m not sure if any local mob applied. Some of our people are like that, unfortunately. Regardless, they loved me in the interview and they wanted me to start straightaway because—what was it again? Something about a funding acquittal.
You’ve gotta ask yourself how she got an identified job in this organisation, don’t ya? Our mob have been applying for years and none of us have ever managed to darken those hallowed halls.
Well, it’s about time these places started employing Aboriginal people. I’m really excited to work here. I know I’ve got the talent and I’m willing to learn what they want me to.
She might post about this, that and the other, but she’s never walked the walk as far as I can see.
Well, I’m still finding my way in the community. I haven’t met many of them yet. Never had much of a community back home either. I can be a bit shy sometimes and I’m not really one to reach out or announce myself.
She coulda told us where she’s from herself if she ever got her big dot down off her high horse and actually spoke to us. But, nah, she’s too busy posting on social media about her flash new job. Hasn’t even reached out to any of us online. Hasn’t made any effort whatsoever.
Just an honest mistake. The boss asked me to do the Welcome to Country at the opening of our new exhibition. I don’t know why he assumed I’m from here. I did pull him up on it though. Of course I did. What do you take me for? ‘I can only do an Acknowledgement,’ I said to him, ‘I’m not a traditional owner.’ Well, he was still keen on me doing the Acknowledgment; he was clearly just keen on showing me off. And so we shook hands, and I went along to the opening and out of kindness I went through the motions. The whole time a few of the local mob were glaring at me. I never got paid for it, I swear.
Uncle Des who usually does the Welcome was wild. And who could blame him? He’d already given them what-for last time when they tried to short-change him. Can you imagine such a coloniser’s mindset, thinking they deserved mate’s rates from an elderly man who can’t even walk without his frame? Can’t drive either, always has to organise his own lift there, or pay for a cab. And they never feed him. He has to bring his own lunch, even with his diabetes. That’s enough money out of his own pocket as it is without this poxy organisation tryna fleece him for it, and they expect to be welcomed onto his land? Ha! Pretty cheeky of them. Even cheekier to get this blow-in to do it instead, and cut old Uncle’s grass.
They haven’t showed their faces much really. Trust me, I’ve been trying to meet them, even those rude ones from the opening who were giving me suss looks. So fuck ’em. I’m not bending over backwards for people like that.
Well. Isn’t she a rude one? I’ve introduced myself to her twice now and both times she’s brushed me off—just fake smiled with her mouth and said hello, then turned away. I get that a lot from blow-ins, being fair-skinned. People like her, they expect all this ceremony and they’re too busy looking out for some old dark girl in ochre to meet a real traditional owner of the country she lives on. Probably thought I was some white girl, bless.
Apparently one of them came up to meet me. I didn’t know who she was. Maybe I just thought she was some uni student. She didn’t look…Well—you know. (You’re not supposed to say that.) I’ve had it happen to me plenty of times, and so what? It’s just how it is.
I gave her the Koori wave, you know, flicked my wrist down. She seen it and never waved back! You sure she’s black?
They made some weird hand sign at me. I just looked away. I couldn’t be bothered with that kind of immaturity.
She’s given us the cold shoulder at every event so far. Makes you wonder why we even bother trying to have a relationship with that gallery.
I won the art prize! For my new painting. I can’t believe it.
Can you believe she went for our prize?
I feel so lucky. Well, it’s not just luck. I’ve worked hard on my craft for years. I can’t tell you how much the prize money will help. I’m very glad I took that opportunity. I almost wasn’t going to enter; I was having a case of the old imposter syndrome. But I told myself: you’ve got every right to throw your hat in the ring! So I did. I entered the category for a local artist. I’ve lived here for years and I work in the community.
Our elders fought tooth and nail for that gallery to recognise us and support our artists after decades of exploiting our old people and displaying our artefacts without our permission. Then this one comes in and hoovers it up. Makes you wonder about the judging process. She’s already got that cushy gallery job on our land, in our community, without having anything to do with us! What else does she want from us?
I went to my first rally the other day. And I met a group of Indigenous people there. One of the men follows me on social media. He said to me quietly, ‘Don’t worry about them mob, sis, they’re all toxic. Everybody knows what they’re like, and if you’re smart you’ll steer clear of them.’ He said he was an artist, said he’d love to have a yarn about exhibiting sometime. I forget his name, but I finally felt welcomed when he called me sis. He offered to paint my forehead with ochre. I felt very deadly. And that felt good. I posted the photo up and none of them even acknowledged it. And they whinge that I don’t get involved. Like that old fella said, you just can’t win with them.
Did ya see she posted that photo of herself, all painted up! Never even seen her at a rally before. Apparently she got painted up by that old blow-in who does smoking ceremonies here.
This isn’t even his country, this! Who does he think he is,
painting people up on our land?
I’m getting sick of some of these people. They were all subtweeting about me last night. They have no concept of protocol at all, treating another Aboriginal woman this badly. A guest on their land, and award-winning artist who works in their community. I don’t deserve this.
See what she did last night? Caused a big stink-up online. Starts bad-mouthing Mirri, reckons she’s not even from here, reckons she’s exploiting Aboriginal people. She is Aboriginal! Imagine the cheek to say such a thing when Mirri’s lived here for years and is married to Charlie, which means her kids have a bloodline to here. Mirri does more for this community in one week than this cunt’s done all her life.
These young mob have no respect for their elders. For the record, I don’t mean ‘Elders’, I mean ‘elders’ with a lower case ‘e’. The older people around here should be pulling them up. They never would have gotten away with this kind of behaviour back in the old days.
—
Long story short, we ended up dealing with him, tribal way.
He’d been here for a few weeks by that stage but still hadn’t made any effort to talk to us, mind you—to meet our people, or to make himself known. And, sure enough, he ran out of his own food after few days.
I don’t think we would have minded so much if he’d just stuck to fishing a little bit, or picking our fruit, or taking an emu egg here or there. Hey! There’s plenty to go around, and what’s one more mouth to feed?
Even if he did never ask us, and even if he never offered us anything in return.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Who on earth knows what was going through that head of his, but one day he must have woken up and decided fish and eggs and fruit were no longer good enough for him, and so he went out and speared his first roo! Can you believe this fella, coming over to our patch and making himself so comfortable? Absolutely no shame.
It was the completely wrong season for hunting. This was the time we left the roo alone to grow big and to breed—time for fishing from the ocean.
That wasn’t all; then—the absolute cheek of him—he went and speared another roo the next day. And the next. And the next. He was so greedy! Each new roo was bigger than the last, too much meat for one man. And whatever was left over he just let go to waste. Soon he had these great big stinking piles of rotting flesh around his camp on top of the big flat rock beside my favourite fishing spot, where the natural tidal traps are. The black granite held the heat from the day and the flies were an absolute plague. And he just dropped the bones over the rocks and into the water, fouling it up.
And still he hunted each day. Every day a new roo, and him as confident as you please. Didn’t ask, or even acknowledge us. Just walked around like he owned the place, acting like he belonged. Didn’t give any of our own meat over to our oldies like he should have, or leave any of the leftovers out for us.
Well, you know how we deal with people like that around here.
The last roo he killed was a great big red girl. I’d watched her grow up for years. He hid while she grazed. After he had speared her through the back, he went and shouldered her massive body and walked her back to his camp, her warm blood dripping all over him.
He threw her down as he made a fire. Even from that distance, I could see the two joeys crawl out of her pouch. He plucked them out and threw them on the fire and laughed and carried on skinning the mum. I’ve never felt so shame as I did then, for letting this fella walk onto our land to kill this young mum and her bubs at this time of year.
After the shame died down, I felt strong again, and sure.
I trekked up to him. I was quiet. He was still camped up near my favourite fishing spot. As he squatted by the fire, piles of chopped-up limbs around him, he scraped off the blackened fur of her tail with a shell and flicked it on the ground.
I tapped the butt of my spear on the big black rock that served as the ground up here. He jumped and stood up, turning to face me, the first time he ever acknowledged me—or anyone, for that matter. But there was no remorse in his eyes. No shame at all. He just stood there defiant and he pulled some meat away from the tail with his teeth. So, I’m not gonna lie and say he wasn’t asking for it.
I raised my spear with the barb pointing at him. I spun the shaft through my hand a few times to shift its weight and balance both ends properly. I rolled it across my palm once more to show him how sure I was.
Still, not a word. No greeting, no introduction, no thanks for the food. Not even a plea for his life.
I looked at the soft meat at the base of his throat, but at the last minute, I locked my eyes onto his thieving shoulder and flung the spear. The thin strong wood shot through his shoulder. Zoomp! Right through the junction between his arm and his chest. Not quite enough to kill him.
But he fell backwards and splashed into the water inside the stone trap. I looked down at him wriggling on the end of my spear like a great fish, gasping for air and bleeding out into the water.
I haven’t been fishing back up there yet. I’m just waiting for the tides to carry what’s left of him away.
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