I have taken advantage of the public holiday to add quite alot of postings to this page. Alot of the postings are stories or anecdotes that I have written over the course of the last few years while living and working at Utopia. Some people may have read these before as I wrote them first as emails to friends and family as a way of helping them understand my life out here.
I have also added photos from our recent trip to Melbourne - which I wrote about in the posting entitled First Times.
I will, of course, add some more current anecdotes as they happen, but for now this seems like a nice way of recording my experiences.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Samuel and his new aunties
My nephew Samuel came along to the Weribee Zoo with us and all of his Mulga Bore aunties were excited to meet him for the first time. He was more taken with the giraffes!
Too cool for school
The first night of the excursion when we were still in Alice Springs, the kids all decided to try on all of their new clothes (and sunglasses!) and then have me take their photos.
Leanne sees the ocean for the first time
It was Leanne's first time in an aeroplane, first time in the city, and her first time seeing the ocean. She loved it. She kept running towards it then stopping herself, then running some more. She asked if she was aloud to touch it. I rolled up my jeans and went paddling with her!
Mulga Bore HLC Excursion to Melbourne
Their first time on a plane was a big deal for many of the students and they were pretty excited. I imagine it was less exciting for the otehr passengers who had to put up with the kids forgetting they had their headphones and speaking at full volume across several rows.
What's in a name?
May 2005
On the way to school this morning we came across a mob whose car had broken down. Angela seemed to know them. We stopped to help. 'Any water?' the old bloke asked. Not unusually for out here the radiator had run out of water and overheated. We handed over all the water we had and wished them well on their journey in the opposite direction. 'Who was that?' I asked Angela. 'They're from Antarraningna, his name is Nextweek'. I did a double take, "What's his name?". "Nextweek" Angela replied casually and then a sly smile spread over her face as she realised my amusement. "Yeah, it's a nickname" she explained. "What's his real name?" I enquired. "Don't know, everyone calls him Nextweek, Nextweek Jones". Further enquiries about his family led me to realise who he was. His brother 'Two-bob' had dressed up as Father Christmas for our School Christmas Party a couple of years ago.
Earlier in the week I had given a lift to an old lady called Kathleen Motorbike. She has one sister called Polly and another called Topsy.
There are a fair swag of Biblical names out here too. I have a Lazarus at my school, very much alive. I also know of an Elijah, a couple of Isaiahs and an Ezekiel.
Then there's the theme names:
Names starting with K - Kennedy, Kaureen, Karina, Keenan, Keaton, Kassidy, Kiara, Kiana, Kerry, Karen, Kevin and Katrina.
Or names that sound the same - Trenedy, Grenedy, Benedy, Kennedy, Gwenedy, Renedy.
I think my favourite is still a little kid from one of the other schools - Amazon Glen. If you can imagine what an Amazon child would look like it would be this kid, pint sized with wild man hair!
The school day over and Troopy turned for home we passed old "Nextweek's" car about 20kms up the road further than we left it, abandoned. About another 2kms further still we found a tired little troop wandering along. We stopped and they piled into the back of an already crowded car and drove them to a nearby family member's house. Not sure how they'll get home from there or what they'll do with the car. Maybe they'll think about that next week.
On the way to school this morning we came across a mob whose car had broken down. Angela seemed to know them. We stopped to help. 'Any water?' the old bloke asked. Not unusually for out here the radiator had run out of water and overheated. We handed over all the water we had and wished them well on their journey in the opposite direction. 'Who was that?' I asked Angela. 'They're from Antarraningna, his name is Nextweek'. I did a double take, "What's his name?". "Nextweek" Angela replied casually and then a sly smile spread over her face as she realised my amusement. "Yeah, it's a nickname" she explained. "What's his real name?" I enquired. "Don't know, everyone calls him Nextweek, Nextweek Jones". Further enquiries about his family led me to realise who he was. His brother 'Two-bob' had dressed up as Father Christmas for our School Christmas Party a couple of years ago.
Earlier in the week I had given a lift to an old lady called Kathleen Motorbike. She has one sister called Polly and another called Topsy.
There are a fair swag of Biblical names out here too. I have a Lazarus at my school, very much alive. I also know of an Elijah, a couple of Isaiahs and an Ezekiel.
Then there's the theme names:
Names starting with K - Kennedy, Kaureen, Karina, Keenan, Keaton, Kassidy, Kiara, Kiana, Kerry, Karen, Kevin and Katrina.
Or names that sound the same - Trenedy, Grenedy, Benedy, Kennedy, Gwenedy, Renedy.
I think my favourite is still a little kid from one of the other schools - Amazon Glen. If you can imagine what an Amazon child would look like it would be this kid, pint sized with wild man hair!
The school day over and Troopy turned for home we passed old "Nextweek's" car about 20kms up the road further than we left it, abandoned. About another 2kms further still we found a tired little troop wandering along. We stopped and they piled into the back of an already crowded car and drove them to a nearby family member's house. Not sure how they'll get home from there or what they'll do with the car. Maybe they'll think about that next week.
Short cut
November 2005
As we were driving back from town today Maggie suggested to me “Lisa you should go short cut way”. Ominous words! A short cut out here is not always the shortest distance between two places. More often than not out here it means something quite opposite. Out here a shortcut could mean:
• Someone at another homeland needs a lift so let’s drive thirty kilometres out of our way to pick them up
• Someone from another homeland owes me money so lets go via there to collect it
• I owe someone money at that homeland so lets go the other way so that I wont bump into them
• I will be driving on that road soon but there’s been rain recently so lets go that way today in your 4WD to see if the roads are alright
• I feel like going hunting and I know there’s more chance of seeing perentie/goanna/kangaroos if we go that other road
• I feel like eating honey ant and I know where there’s a big mob of them if we go that other road
I suspect that these last two were the reason for today’s short cut because not long after we turned off the main road and began wending our way across some immense cattle station the call of “Perentie” came from the back of the Troopie. We gave chase, first by car, then on foot but to no avail.
“ Ah he was only small one anyway” Rosie chimed in as if to make the lack of success matter less.
Undeterred we continued on our ‘short cut’ which took us a good 20-30 minutes longer to reach our destination that the normal road would have. But what matter is time out here? The late afternoon sun made the red sand and the mulga trees glow, the mood in the car was light and a drive along a lesser travelled path seemed a good thing to be doing. Perhaps Maggie summed it up best. “I like to go that short cut way sometimes” she said “just for have a look round.”
As we were driving back from town today Maggie suggested to me “Lisa you should go short cut way”. Ominous words! A short cut out here is not always the shortest distance between two places. More often than not out here it means something quite opposite. Out here a shortcut could mean:
• Someone at another homeland needs a lift so let’s drive thirty kilometres out of our way to pick them up
• Someone from another homeland owes me money so lets go via there to collect it
• I owe someone money at that homeland so lets go the other way so that I wont bump into them
• I will be driving on that road soon but there’s been rain recently so lets go that way today in your 4WD to see if the roads are alright
• I feel like going hunting and I know there’s more chance of seeing perentie/goanna/kangaroos if we go that other road
• I feel like eating honey ant and I know where there’s a big mob of them if we go that other road
I suspect that these last two were the reason for today’s short cut because not long after we turned off the main road and began wending our way across some immense cattle station the call of “Perentie” came from the back of the Troopie. We gave chase, first by car, then on foot but to no avail.
“ Ah he was only small one anyway” Rosie chimed in as if to make the lack of success matter less.
Undeterred we continued on our ‘short cut’ which took us a good 20-30 minutes longer to reach our destination that the normal road would have. But what matter is time out here? The late afternoon sun made the red sand and the mulga trees glow, the mood in the car was light and a drive along a lesser travelled path seemed a good thing to be doing. Perhaps Maggie summed it up best. “I like to go that short cut way sometimes” she said “just for have a look round.”
The wail of the women
Australia Day, 2005
You know, as soon as you enter a community out here, when something is wrong. It was not the first time I had heard the wail of the women but for some reason when I arrived at Mulga Bore this morning it hit home harder than it ever has before.
At first all I noticed was people sitting under the trees, sheltering from the hot summer sun. It was unusual for them not to be under the veranda of their homes but not completely out of place. Then once I left the cocoon of my Troopy, I heard it; the unmistakable sound of grief.
When a person dies out here, the women wail. It is no crying, it is a noise unlike any other I have ever heard. Their wail comes from a place deep inside them, so deep that it connects with a place deep inside me and for a moment I relive every moment of grief I have ever experienced. It is not the wail of one women but the wail of many women sitting together in their grief.
I pull up in front of Lindsay's house and he sings out to me from under a nearby tree. I am invited to sit with them and for a while we sit in silence. Long ago I realised that in a situation like this you don't ask questions but wait to be told when the time is right.
A man has died this morning. He had been sick for a long time, in hospital in Adelaide. The doctors had said he was alright. "Why they don't tell us properway what's wrong. They can't say he's right, then next he bin dead." Old Lindsay makes a fair point. I didn't know him, although I may have met him before. But I have sat with his wife on several occasions, and I have watched his children grow and learn and laugh and play in my school. They are part of my story now and I am part of theirs.
It felt different this time being in this grieving community. I felt less out of place than I have in the past. They know me well and I know them, but I also know their customs now and can respond in appropriate ways. So I went and shook hands with everyone. Not the powerful ‘whitefella’ handshake of hello, but the soft handshake of compassion only used during times of grief out here. I gave them a bottle of iced water, welcome relief on a hot day in the desert. And I was able to provide access to services like the school phone and ring up the hospital on Lindsay's behalf to get the full story.
And while it was not the happy start to the school year I had anticipated, it said just as much (maybe more) about my place within and relationship with the people of Mulga Bore.
You know, as soon as you enter a community out here, when something is wrong. It was not the first time I had heard the wail of the women but for some reason when I arrived at Mulga Bore this morning it hit home harder than it ever has before.
At first all I noticed was people sitting under the trees, sheltering from the hot summer sun. It was unusual for them not to be under the veranda of their homes but not completely out of place. Then once I left the cocoon of my Troopy, I heard it; the unmistakable sound of grief.
When a person dies out here, the women wail. It is no crying, it is a noise unlike any other I have ever heard. Their wail comes from a place deep inside them, so deep that it connects with a place deep inside me and for a moment I relive every moment of grief I have ever experienced. It is not the wail of one women but the wail of many women sitting together in their grief.
I pull up in front of Lindsay's house and he sings out to me from under a nearby tree. I am invited to sit with them and for a while we sit in silence. Long ago I realised that in a situation like this you don't ask questions but wait to be told when the time is right.
A man has died this morning. He had been sick for a long time, in hospital in Adelaide. The doctors had said he was alright. "Why they don't tell us properway what's wrong. They can't say he's right, then next he bin dead." Old Lindsay makes a fair point. I didn't know him, although I may have met him before. But I have sat with his wife on several occasions, and I have watched his children grow and learn and laugh and play in my school. They are part of my story now and I am part of theirs.
It felt different this time being in this grieving community. I felt less out of place than I have in the past. They know me well and I know them, but I also know their customs now and can respond in appropriate ways. So I went and shook hands with everyone. Not the powerful ‘whitefella’ handshake of hello, but the soft handshake of compassion only used during times of grief out here. I gave them a bottle of iced water, welcome relief on a hot day in the desert. And I was able to provide access to services like the school phone and ring up the hospital on Lindsay's behalf to get the full story.
And while it was not the happy start to the school year I had anticipated, it said just as much (maybe more) about my place within and relationship with the people of Mulga Bore.
Ceremony
March 2005
I have had a pretty intense week. The men down at Mulga Bore started some initiation business. This means a number of things. It has meant that a couple of mornings this week we have interrrupted school so that all men women and children of the community could perform the ceremony for the 'start' of business for a couple of the young fellas. Cermonial business of this kind also requires the women to dance at night time. I didn't really have a concept of what this meant but was invited to come along and feeling honoured by the invitation I of course accepted. So on Wednesday morning I packed my swag in the back of the Troopy and headed down to Mulga Bore uncertain of what lay ahead. When the kids saw that I had my swag they became excited. "You sleeping here tonight?" they asked and giggled when I said I would be. "You inape?" was the next question - roughly translated inape means to dance ceremonial dances. I do love the brevity of the Anmatyerr language! "Yes I am going to dance with the women" I told them and they seemed pleased if a little surprised.
School over for the day I headed over to Lindsay's house to wait for whatever was going to happen next. At about sun down a cardrove by and gave some signal that spurred everyone into action. On mass the community began hping in cars or walking towards the bush camp the men had made. We found them by the fires they had already lit. With our back to the men, all the women and children sat on the ground facing the setting sun. As the first stars appeared the women began getting up. Some took branches of trees to clear the ground as they walked and slowly we formed two lines circling the men's camp fire in opposite directions. I started heading one way but Mavis was watching out for me -"You gotta come this way Lisa". It was the first of many directives I would receive that night, none of them given in frustration but all of them given with the tolerance and understanding of a parent teaching a child something for the first time.
The boys who were old enough sat with the men around thefire and the women sat in groups according to their skin relationship to the boy going through business. I sat with all of his "mothers and sisters".
The men began to sing. To try to explain what it sounded like would be like trying to explain how it feels to watch a sunset. It is something I will never be able to expalin to anyone I think. They sang to the spirits of the land to protect the boy as he becomes a man and they call upon the women one group at a time to get up and dance and 'sing out' for him. When instructed I joined in and used the other women's actions as my guide. The kids pointed and softly giggled to each other as they realised I was up there dancing too, but once again, it was not done in ridicule but in pride that I was there and being part of their ceremony. The men called each group in turn, always in 'language', always in song, sisters, mothers, aunties, daughters - everyone was included from the youngest child to the oldest women. This is how they teach their children, this is how they pass on their traditions.
They just as surely as it had begun Lindsay calls out "culla" and the women and children are up and walking home again.
We have a few hours slepp after this but are awoken by the singing of the men again. It is time to begin the all night vigil. W move our swags close by and it begins again. The old men sing and the women dance a short distance away from the initiation camp. The purpose seems to be to keep the men awake and the women take it in turns to sleep and dance. I am told to sleep for a while and I will be awoken when it it my turn. At 4am Colleen leans over and gently says "Lisa, wake up" Once gain I am instructed when to go forward and dance and am encouraged to momic the chants the women utter. I do my best, and strangely do not feel self conscious or weird. No one is judging me, everyone is teaching me. As it starts to get light in the East the singing and dancing stops and the women begin to form two lines facing each other. Some branches and coolamon are placed in the middle and the boy is brought in - painted up and weak from no sleep and whatever else he has had to endure - secret business. He kneels down and once again that is our cue to leave. Our part of the ceremony is over and we head for home.
For much of the night I remember thinking to myself how privileged I am to be invited to witness and participate in such a ceremony. I am overwhelmed by the ancientness of it but also by the sacredness it still holds for these people.
It has made me pensive about the lack of ceremony in my life now and the lack of connection I have to sacred practices in my life and my culture. I am lucky to be witness to theirs but I am still an outsider, it does not belong to me and I will never be fully part of this world. It seems funny that the deeper I go into indigenous community and the more accepted I feel the less I feel I belong. Why is that I wonder?
I have had a pretty intense week. The men down at Mulga Bore started some initiation business. This means a number of things. It has meant that a couple of mornings this week we have interrrupted school so that all men women and children of the community could perform the ceremony for the 'start' of business for a couple of the young fellas. Cermonial business of this kind also requires the women to dance at night time. I didn't really have a concept of what this meant but was invited to come along and feeling honoured by the invitation I of course accepted. So on Wednesday morning I packed my swag in the back of the Troopy and headed down to Mulga Bore uncertain of what lay ahead. When the kids saw that I had my swag they became excited. "You sleeping here tonight?" they asked and giggled when I said I would be. "You inape?" was the next question - roughly translated inape means to dance ceremonial dances. I do love the brevity of the Anmatyerr language! "Yes I am going to dance with the women" I told them and they seemed pleased if a little surprised.
School over for the day I headed over to Lindsay's house to wait for whatever was going to happen next. At about sun down a cardrove by and gave some signal that spurred everyone into action. On mass the community began hping in cars or walking towards the bush camp the men had made. We found them by the fires they had already lit. With our back to the men, all the women and children sat on the ground facing the setting sun. As the first stars appeared the women began getting up. Some took branches of trees to clear the ground as they walked and slowly we formed two lines circling the men's camp fire in opposite directions. I started heading one way but Mavis was watching out for me -"You gotta come this way Lisa". It was the first of many directives I would receive that night, none of them given in frustration but all of them given with the tolerance and understanding of a parent teaching a child something for the first time.
The boys who were old enough sat with the men around thefire and the women sat in groups according to their skin relationship to the boy going through business. I sat with all of his "mothers and sisters".
The men began to sing. To try to explain what it sounded like would be like trying to explain how it feels to watch a sunset. It is something I will never be able to expalin to anyone I think. They sang to the spirits of the land to protect the boy as he becomes a man and they call upon the women one group at a time to get up and dance and 'sing out' for him. When instructed I joined in and used the other women's actions as my guide. The kids pointed and softly giggled to each other as they realised I was up there dancing too, but once again, it was not done in ridicule but in pride that I was there and being part of their ceremony. The men called each group in turn, always in 'language', always in song, sisters, mothers, aunties, daughters - everyone was included from the youngest child to the oldest women. This is how they teach their children, this is how they pass on their traditions.
They just as surely as it had begun Lindsay calls out "culla" and the women and children are up and walking home again.
We have a few hours slepp after this but are awoken by the singing of the men again. It is time to begin the all night vigil. W move our swags close by and it begins again. The old men sing and the women dance a short distance away from the initiation camp. The purpose seems to be to keep the men awake and the women take it in turns to sleep and dance. I am told to sleep for a while and I will be awoken when it it my turn. At 4am Colleen leans over and gently says "Lisa, wake up" Once gain I am instructed when to go forward and dance and am encouraged to momic the chants the women utter. I do my best, and strangely do not feel self conscious or weird. No one is judging me, everyone is teaching me. As it starts to get light in the East the singing and dancing stops and the women begin to form two lines facing each other. Some branches and coolamon are placed in the middle and the boy is brought in - painted up and weak from no sleep and whatever else he has had to endure - secret business. He kneels down and once again that is our cue to leave. Our part of the ceremony is over and we head for home.
For much of the night I remember thinking to myself how privileged I am to be invited to witness and participate in such a ceremony. I am overwhelmed by the ancientness of it but also by the sacredness it still holds for these people.
It has made me pensive about the lack of ceremony in my life now and the lack of connection I have to sacred practices in my life and my culture. I am lucky to be witness to theirs but I am still an outsider, it does not belong to me and I will never be fully part of this world. It seems funny that the deeper I go into indigenous community and the more accepted I feel the less I feel I belong. Why is that I wonder?
A hunting story
April 2005
Well I'm happy to report that I have graduated to the big time in terms of hunting. I have now been involved in a proper Perentie chase. For those of you city slickers who don't know what a perentie is, it's a big monitor lizard. The one we saw today was about a metre and a half from head to tail. They are about the same colour as tree bark and have big, sharp, nasty claws designed to help them avoid being hunted and caught.
Up until now I have mainly been involved in the hunter/gatherer tasks that involve digging eg. Witchetty grubs, honey ants, sugarbag (although that involves more chopping than anything). I have also been involved in a number of successful goanna and dragon lizard chases, but until today the Perentie had been thought "too much for the white girl". Perentie is bigger and faster and more vicious than goanna. No more kids stuff, perentie is adult hunting! So perhaps it was because I found myself driving home with no Angela in the car and Loretta and Veronica (two 12 year olds) in the front that when we saw the perentie on the road in front and came to a halt just shy of it that I found myself being encouraged to join the hunt. "C'mon Lisa, go this way, do like this". The instructions as always came thick and fast. Time is a factor is hunting. The pesky lizards have a habit of running away! Although, I learnt today that the trick to keeping them in one place is to tell them a story. One does this by calling out in a high pitched voice "bee, bee, bee, bee, bee". When the perentie hears this sound it stops, amazingly, and parts of the neck which almost look like ears perk up. It is just as though the perentie is listening to you tell it a story!
The cunning hunters then use this moment of weakness to throw large rocks, wood and whatever else they could find to pelt at its head. While feeling the rush of my first real perentie chase I was still reminded of my junior place in the team. Veronica and Loretta circled around the perentie crouched under a tree. They commanded that I continue to 'do like this..bee bee bee' which I dutifully did. They commenced the rock hurling and my only other job became retrieving the rocks that they had thrown and missed. Loretta had a diret hit, but unfortunately was unable to capitalise on it because Julie, Angela's sister who had stayed behind in the car to look after the little kids arrived on the scene. Apparently the arrival of a third adult was enough to break the spell of the story i was telling and the perentie was off, outta there.
We tracked him for a while. Well I say we, but really it was Veronica and Loretta finding the to my eye indistinguishable footprints of the lizard while I trailed along behind searching the ground with no clues what i was looking for.
This time the perentie was the winner but it provided us with enough fuel for conversation for the rest of the journey home, a bit of post hunt evaluation, bragging about how we had it surrounded and we would have had it too if only Julie hadn't come along. Then the priceless suggestion for how to achieve success next time, "We should get crowbar and put'em in Toyota and next time we see perentie, we bin take that crowbar and hitem like that on perentie's head!" Yes Veronica, that sounds like a plan!
Well I'm happy to report that I have graduated to the big time in terms of hunting. I have now been involved in a proper Perentie chase. For those of you city slickers who don't know what a perentie is, it's a big monitor lizard. The one we saw today was about a metre and a half from head to tail. They are about the same colour as tree bark and have big, sharp, nasty claws designed to help them avoid being hunted and caught.
Up until now I have mainly been involved in the hunter/gatherer tasks that involve digging eg. Witchetty grubs, honey ants, sugarbag (although that involves more chopping than anything). I have also been involved in a number of successful goanna and dragon lizard chases, but until today the Perentie had been thought "too much for the white girl". Perentie is bigger and faster and more vicious than goanna. No more kids stuff, perentie is adult hunting! So perhaps it was because I found myself driving home with no Angela in the car and Loretta and Veronica (two 12 year olds) in the front that when we saw the perentie on the road in front and came to a halt just shy of it that I found myself being encouraged to join the hunt. "C'mon Lisa, go this way, do like this". The instructions as always came thick and fast. Time is a factor is hunting. The pesky lizards have a habit of running away! Although, I learnt today that the trick to keeping them in one place is to tell them a story. One does this by calling out in a high pitched voice "bee, bee, bee, bee, bee". When the perentie hears this sound it stops, amazingly, and parts of the neck which almost look like ears perk up. It is just as though the perentie is listening to you tell it a story!
The cunning hunters then use this moment of weakness to throw large rocks, wood and whatever else they could find to pelt at its head. While feeling the rush of my first real perentie chase I was still reminded of my junior place in the team. Veronica and Loretta circled around the perentie crouched under a tree. They commanded that I continue to 'do like this..bee bee bee' which I dutifully did. They commenced the rock hurling and my only other job became retrieving the rocks that they had thrown and missed. Loretta had a diret hit, but unfortunately was unable to capitalise on it because Julie, Angela's sister who had stayed behind in the car to look after the little kids arrived on the scene. Apparently the arrival of a third adult was enough to break the spell of the story i was telling and the perentie was off, outta there.
We tracked him for a while. Well I say we, but really it was Veronica and Loretta finding the to my eye indistinguishable footprints of the lizard while I trailed along behind searching the ground with no clues what i was looking for.
This time the perentie was the winner but it provided us with enough fuel for conversation for the rest of the journey home, a bit of post hunt evaluation, bragging about how we had it surrounded and we would have had it too if only Julie hadn't come along. Then the priceless suggestion for how to achieve success next time, "We should get crowbar and put'em in Toyota and next time we see perentie, we bin take that crowbar and hitem like that on perentie's head!" Yes Veronica, that sounds like a plan!
Friday, April 14, 2006
First times
It is a week exactly since 19 tired Anmatyerr speakers and one very tired 'whitefella' arrived back in the desert after an 11 day excursion to Melbourne for the Commonwealth Games. I am almost at the point now where I feel I can eliminate the afternoon nap from my daily routine. Honestly, I was as tired as I have ever been upon my return, and there were moments where the 10 days in Melbourne tried every fibre of me.
However, with a bit of distance now I can reflect happily on what was an amazing 11 days. The Games themselves were great. We saw Jana win, we saw the best night at the gymnastics and we saw an Aussie win gold in the discus on his last throw. We saw some amazing Kenyans run a long, long way and we cried with them as they received their gold medals. We met people from all over the world and the students of Mulga Bore are now experts at identifying just about any flag from the Commonwealth. We also consumed more hot chips than I thought was possible and if I never hear the phrase 'Lisa, I'm hungry' again it will be too soon!
But what I will remember most are all of the first times that these kids experienced during those 11 days.
First time in an aeroplane - taking off, ears popping, in flight meals, movies and radio, flying above the clouds, turbulence and then landing with a bump.
First time seeing the ocean - running towards it with joyful excitement then stopping at its edge unsure of its dangers and perils. Showing the kids how to roll your jeans up and go paddling, racing the tide and laughing when the tide beats you. Someone picking up a shell and asking me 'Lisa, what's this?'
First time on a tram - waiting at the tram stop and looking for the right number, hoping it wont be standing room only, getting on anyway when you think it's full, loosing your balance when the Tram jerks forward, talking to strangers interested in this group who obviously live a long way from Melbourne.
First time going over the Westgate Bridge - gazing out over the port and seeing the enormous ships that are resting there, seeing the skyscrapers and realising just how far the city stretches.
First time on a boat - feeling the gentle flow of the river rather than the hard, bumpy surface of the road, being rocked by the wash of other boats, hanging out up the back and ducking to avoid hitting your head on the low bridges, getting up close to the big boats they saw from the Westgate bridge and realising just how big they are.
First time in a crowd of 83,000 at the MCG - soaking up the enormity of it all, never realising that this many people existed in the world.
First time meeting, really meeting, non-indigenous kids from another school - being shy at first, bonding over a game of basketball and a footy clinic with Collingwood ruckman Josh Fraser (Go Pies!), teaching these eager new friends some Anmatyerr language and wanting them to get on the bus with us when it's time to leave.
There is no price I can put on those kinds of memories, and when I put everything into perspective, it is actually worth every ounce of hard work I put in. I'm pretty glad it's another 2 years until the next one though. Then it will be time for a whole lot of new kids to experience their own 'first times'.
To those of you who came along to something or helped out in some way a huge THANKYOU! Thank you from me and thankyou from the whole group. They don't really ever say thankyou, it's not their way, but they haven't stopped talking about you all since we got back.
Thanks to Julie and Janine for the hard work you both put into our day together. You are legends for life in Mulga Bore Community and they are now forever convinced that I have some magical connection to the Collingwood football club!
Biggest thanks to my Dad - you know why!
Lisa xx
However, with a bit of distance now I can reflect happily on what was an amazing 11 days. The Games themselves were great. We saw Jana win, we saw the best night at the gymnastics and we saw an Aussie win gold in the discus on his last throw. We saw some amazing Kenyans run a long, long way and we cried with them as they received their gold medals. We met people from all over the world and the students of Mulga Bore are now experts at identifying just about any flag from the Commonwealth. We also consumed more hot chips than I thought was possible and if I never hear the phrase 'Lisa, I'm hungry' again it will be too soon!
But what I will remember most are all of the first times that these kids experienced during those 11 days.
First time in an aeroplane - taking off, ears popping, in flight meals, movies and radio, flying above the clouds, turbulence and then landing with a bump.
First time seeing the ocean - running towards it with joyful excitement then stopping at its edge unsure of its dangers and perils. Showing the kids how to roll your jeans up and go paddling, racing the tide and laughing when the tide beats you. Someone picking up a shell and asking me 'Lisa, what's this?'
First time on a tram - waiting at the tram stop and looking for the right number, hoping it wont be standing room only, getting on anyway when you think it's full, loosing your balance when the Tram jerks forward, talking to strangers interested in this group who obviously live a long way from Melbourne.
First time going over the Westgate Bridge - gazing out over the port and seeing the enormous ships that are resting there, seeing the skyscrapers and realising just how far the city stretches.
First time on a boat - feeling the gentle flow of the river rather than the hard, bumpy surface of the road, being rocked by the wash of other boats, hanging out up the back and ducking to avoid hitting your head on the low bridges, getting up close to the big boats they saw from the Westgate bridge and realising just how big they are.
First time in a crowd of 83,000 at the MCG - soaking up the enormity of it all, never realising that this many people existed in the world.
First time meeting, really meeting, non-indigenous kids from another school - being shy at first, bonding over a game of basketball and a footy clinic with Collingwood ruckman Josh Fraser (Go Pies!), teaching these eager new friends some Anmatyerr language and wanting them to get on the bus with us when it's time to leave.
There is no price I can put on those kinds of memories, and when I put everything into perspective, it is actually worth every ounce of hard work I put in. I'm pretty glad it's another 2 years until the next one though. Then it will be time for a whole lot of new kids to experience their own 'first times'.
To those of you who came along to something or helped out in some way a huge THANKYOU! Thank you from me and thankyou from the whole group. They don't really ever say thankyou, it's not their way, but they haven't stopped talking about you all since we got back.
Thanks to Julie and Janine for the hard work you both put into our day together. You are legends for life in Mulga Bore Community and they are now forever convinced that I have some magical connection to the Collingwood football club!
Biggest thanks to my Dad - you know why!
Lisa xx
First post
Who knew that a couple of bottles of red wine and some interesting conversation on Good Friday would end up in the creation of a blog. I wont write too much as the red wine is still influencing my typing, but I hope that some of the friends who encouraged me to set up this blog actually bother to read it now - Cheryl, Cam, Geoff, Sue, Sam that means you!!
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