The Aboriginal story was one of the most intriguing things to me about Australia. Maybe it was because I didn’t feel like it was told very well, but only hinted at. I’m sure there are loads of books on the subject. Our friend Dean, who we would stay with the following week, teaches at an Aboriginal school. I looked forward to learning more from him but for now it was a lot of, “There’s a dreamtime story about that but we can’t tell you what it is because you’re not Aboriginal and it’s sacred.”
There may have also been a factor of Aboriginals losing their culture by being forcefully removed from it. This was one of the similarities between Australia’s Aboriginals and Native Americans.
“I went to a powwow in Wisconsin a few years ago,” I told Heidi, “and when I asked my Native American in-law what a certain dance signified, she didn’t know.” Was that because the meaning had been lost to time, or because she personally just didn’t happen to know, or something else? It felt like a sensitive subject and I didn’t want to ask a follow up question for fear of implying she was ignorant about her own traditions. But a lot of natives and maybe Aboriginals are not well versed in their culture, because in both countries children were taken away from their families and forbidden to speak their language or practice their traditions.
Heck, I don’t speak any Czech or German and I know nothing about those cultures except as it relates to the World Wars.
I sure wasn’t going to ask of the Aboriginals, “Are your people plagued by alcoholism, diabetes, and domestic violence, like Native Americans?”
Our next destination was Kings Canyon, where we would hike the next day. It was a four-hour drive from Ularu, halfway between nowhere and the back of beyond. The road and the hours unrolled, flat and monotonous; I sat up front in hopes of seeing a kangaroo but no dice.
After our one toilet break, which was a fetid, smelly “long drop” toilet, I sat in back with Heidi and tried not to drink any more water. My Restless Legs Syndrome started to torment me, as it sometimes does on long flights or drives. Heidi had caught a signal on her phone that morning and I had piggybacked via her hotspot but now there was nothing. Heidi leaned over on the window and slept while I wiggled and kicked my legs.
If I could just get up and walk around … I got my wish, as Meg pulled over and put us to work collecting firewood on the side of the road.
“Man, it’s roasting out today,” she remarked as she watched us load parched wood into the back of the bus. “No wonder we haven’t seen any roos. You know they don’t sweat, so they literally bake to death if they move around too much in the heat.”
That seemed like a very counterproductive natural adaptation for an Australian animal.
Back on the bus, we entered the Kings Canyon Resort.
“Ooh, this looks nice,” said Heidi.
“I wonder if there’s a pool?” I said excitedly.
Then we passed a sign that said Campground and Meg announced, we’ve got another 20-minute drive over some pretty rough … argh!” The bus lurched sideways, then rocked to the other side, and I was grateful I didn’t have sciatica on this bone-crunching trail.
I just looked up George Gill; he was the editor of a Navy journal. Interesting choice for a desert campground.
The site was beautiful.
Katie was there with a burrito bar for us. After wolfing it up we built a bonfire.
Megan gave a swag demo. Swag = an outback bedroll.
“Just make sure there’s nothing in it before ya get innit,” she advised. “Like a snake or a spider. And if you wake up and there’s a dingo staring down at you, don’t panic. They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”
Yeah, right. I’ve heard that before, about bears. I would miss the star gazing, which was bound to be awe inspiring, but I would wake up with my face intact, in the tent.