Mutant Message Down Under (2 page)

W
E ENTERED
the open side of the three-sided, roofed shed. There was no actual door or need for windows. It was simply constructed for the purpose of shade, or perhaps as a haven for sheep. Inside, the heat was intensified by another fire encircled in stone. There were no signs of its providing for human needs: no chairs, no flooring, no fan; it was without electricity. The entire place was rippling tin held together precariously by worn and rotting lumber.

My eyes adjusted quickly from the glare I had been experiencing the last four hours to the darker hue of the shade and smoke. A group of adult Aboriginal people were standing or sitting on the sand. The males wore colorful, ornate headbands and had feathers attached both to their upper arms and around their ankles. They wore the same type of wrap as the driver. He was unpainted, but the others had designs painted on their faces and along their arms and legs. They had used white to make dots, stripes, and elaborate patterns. Drawings of lizards adorned their arms while snakes, kangaroos, and birds appeared upon legs and backs.

The women were less festive. They appeared to be about my height—five-six. Most were elderly but had creamy milk-chocolate skin, appearing soft and healthy. I saw no one with long hair; most of it was curly and closely cropped to their scalp. Those who appeared to have much length to their hair wore a narrow band that crisscrossed around their head and held it down firmly. One very old, white-haired lady near the entrance had a garland of flowers hand-painted around her neck and ankles. It had the artist's touch, with detailed leaves and stamen portrayed in the center of each blossom. All were wearing either two pieces of cloth or a wraparound garment like the one they had given me. I saw no babies or young children, only one teenage boy.

My eyes were drawn to the most elaborately attired person in the room—a man, his black hair flecked with gray. His trim beard accentuated the strength and dignity of his face. On his head was a stunning full headdress made of bright parrot feathers. He, too, wore feathers on his arms and ankles. There were several objects strapped around his waist, and he wore a circular, intricately crafted chest plate made from stone and seeds. Several of the women had similar, smaller versions worn as necklaces.

He smiled and held out both hands to me. As I looked into his black velvet eyes, I had a feeling of complete peace and security. I think he had the most gentle face I have ever witnessed.

My emotions, however, were stretched in straining opposition. The painted faces, and the men standing around the back clutching razor-sharp spears, supported my growing sense of fear. Yet, everyone wore a pleasant expression, and the atmosphere seemed to release an aroma of nourishing comfort and friendship. I settled emotionally midstream, by judging my own stupidity. This did not resemble even a token of what I had expected. Never in a dream could I have invented such a threatening atmosphere holding so many seemingly gentle people. If only my camera weren't engulfed in flames outside this shack; what great photos I could paste in an album or show as slides to some future captive audience of relatives or friends. My thoughts returned to the fire. What else was burning up? I shuddered at the thought: my international driver's permit, orange Australian paper money, the one-hundred-dollar bill I had carried for years in a secret compartment of my wallet that dated back to my youthful, telephone-company employment days, a favorite tube of creamy lipstick unobtainable in this country, my diamond watch, and the ring Aunt Nola had given me for my eighteenth birthday, were all fueling the fire.

My anxiety was interrupted as I was introduced to the tribe by the interpreter, whose name was Ooota. He pronounced it with “Ooo” drawn out almost like “Oooooo” and then ended abruptly “ta.”

The brotherly man with the incredible eyes was referred to by the Aborigines as Tribal Elder. He was not the oldest male of the group but more like our definition of a chief.

One woman began clicking sticks together and was soon joined by another and another. The spear bearers began thumping the tall shafts in the sand and still others were clapping hands. The whole group began to sing and chant. By hand gesture I was invited to sit down on the sandy floor. The group was putting on a
corroboree
, or festival. At the conclusion of one song, another would begin. I had not noticed before that some of the people had ankle bracelets made of large pods, but now they became focal points as the encased dried seeds became pulsing rattles. At one point there was a single female dancer, then a group. Sometimes the men danced alone and at other times women joined them. They were sharing their history with me.

Finally the tempo of the music slowed, the movements wound down to a much slower pace. Then all the movement ceased. Only a very steady beat, one that seemed synchronized to the pulse of my heart, remained. All the people were silent and still. They looked toward their leader. He stood up and walked to me. Smiling, he stood before me. There was an indescribable sense of communion. I had the intuitive feeling we were old friends, but of course that was not true. I guessed his presence just made me feel comfortable and accepted.

The Elder took off a long leather tube of platypus hide strapped to his waist and shook it at the sky. He opened the end and threw the contents out onto the ground. There were rocks, bones, teeth, feathers, and round leather discs lying around me. Several members of the tribe helped mark where each item landed. They were as adept at using a toe as a finger on the earthen floor to make the marks. Then they put the items back into the case. The Elder said something and handed it to me. I was reminded of Las Vegas, so I too held the tube up in the air and shook it. I repeated the game by opening the end and throwing the contents, feeling absolutely no control over where each landed. Two men on hands and knees used the foot of another to measure where my items had fallen in comparison to the Elder's. A few comments were passed among several people, but Ooota did not offer to tell me what was being said.

We did several tests that afternoon. One very impressive one involved a piece of fruit. It was something with a thick skin like a banana but shaped like a pear. I was given the light green fruit and told to hold it, to bless it. What did that mean? I had no idea, so mentally I simply said, “Please, dear Lord, bless this food,” and handed it back to the Elder. He took a knife, cut the top, and started to peel it. Instead of the peeling falling down like a banana skin does, this outer coat curled around. When it did, all faces pivoted in my direction. I felt uncomfortable with dark eyes staring at me. In unison, as if they had practiced, all said, “Ah.” It happened each time the Elder pulled down the peel. I did not know if the “Ah” was a good “Ah” or a bad “Ah,” but I seemed to sense that the peel did not normally curl when cut, and whatever the tests were indicating, I was scoring a passing mark.

A young woman came to me holding a plate full of rocks. It was probably a piece of cardboard rather than a plate, but it was piled so high with stones I could not see the container. Ooota looked at me very seriously and said, “Choose a rock. Choose it wisely. It has the power to save your life.”

Goose bumps appeared instantly although my limbs were hot and sweaty. My gut reacted with a question in its own language. The knotted stomach muscles signaled, “What does that mean? Power to save my life!”

I looked at the rocks. They all looked alike. There was nothing outstanding about any of them. They were simply gray-red pebbles about the size of a nickel or quarter. I wished something would glow or look special. No luck. So I faked it: I looked intently as if I were studying them seriously, and then I selected one from the top and held it up triumphantly. The faces surrounding me beamed in approval, and in mental silence I rejoiced, “I got the right rock!”

But what should I do with it? I couldn't drop it and hurt their feelings. After all, this stone meant nothing to me but seemed important to them. I had no pocket to put it in, so I stuck it down the front of my current covering in the chest cleavage, which was the only place I could think to put it. I promptly forgot the contents secured in nature's pocket.

Next they put out the fire, dismantled the instruments, gathered up their few possessions, and started walking out into the desert. Their brown, nearly naked torsos sparkled in the bright sun as they filed into journey position. It seemed the meeting was over: no lunch, no award! Ooota was the last to leave, but he too was walking away. After several yards he turned and said, “Come. We are leaving now.”

“Where are we going?” I inquired.

“On a walkabout.”

“Where are you walking to?”

“Across Australia.”

“Great! How long will this take?”

“Approximately three full changes of the moon.”

“Are you saying, walk for three months?”

“Yes, three months, more or less.”

I sighed deeply. Then I announced to Ooota as he stood in the distance: “Well, that sounds like a lot of fun, but you see, I can't go. Today is just not a good day for me to leave. I have responsibilities, obligations, rent, utility bills. I have made no preparations. I would need time to make arrangements before I could take off on a hike or camping trip. Perhaps you don't understand: I am not an Australian citizen; I am American. We can't just go to a foreign country and disappear. Your immigration officials would be upset, and my government would send out helicopters looking for me. Maybe some other time, when I have plenty of advance warning, I could join you, but not today. I just can't go with you today. No, today is just not a good day.”

Ooota smiled. “All is in order. Everyone will know who needs to know. My people heard your cry for help. If anyone in this tribe had voted against you, they would not walk this journey. You have been tested and accepted. The extreme honor I cannot explain. You must live the experience. It is the most important thing you will do in this lifetime. It is what you were born to do. Divine Oneness is at work; it is your message. I can tell you no more.

“Come. Follow.” He turned and walked away.

I stood there staring out across the Australian desert. It was vast, desolate, and yet beautiful, and like the Energizer battery, it seemed to go on and on and on. The jeep was there, ignition key in it. But which way had we come? There had been no road for hours, only endless twisting and turning. I had no shoes, no water, no food. The temperature this time of year in the desert ranged between 100 and 130 degrees. I was glad they had voted to accept me, but what about my vote? It seemed to me the decision was not in my hands.

I did not want to go. They were asking me to put my life in their hands. These were people I had just met, and with whom I couldn't even talk. What if I lost my employment position? It is bad enough; already my future held no security from any company retirement check! It was insane! Of course I couldn't go!

I thought, “I'll bet this is a two-part deal. First they play games here in this shack, then they go out into the desert and play some more. They aren't going very far; they have no food. The worst thing that could happen to me would be expecting me to spend the night out there. But no,” I thought, “they can take one look at me and see I am not a camper; I am a city bubble-bath type! But,” I went on, “I can if I have to! I will simply be assertive since I have already paid for one night at the hotel. I will tell them they must return me before checkout time tomorrow. I'm not going to pay for an extra day just to satisfy these silly uneducated folks.”

I watched the group walking further and further away and appearing smaller and smaller. I didn't have time for my Libra method of weighing advantages and disadvantages. The longer I stood there thinking about what to do, the further out of sight they were becoming. The exact words I said are embedded in my brain as clearly as a beautifully polished wooden inlay might appear. “Okay, God. I know you have a really funny sense of humor, but I don't understand this one at all!”

With feelings that rapidly ping-ponged between fear, amazement, disbelief, and sheer numbness, I began to follow the tribe of Aborigines who call themselves Real People.

I wasn't bound and gagged, but I felt like a captive. To me, it appeared, I was the victim of a forced march into the unknown.

I
HAD
walked only a short distance when I felt stabbing pain in my feet and looked down to see barbs protruding from my skin. I pulled out the piercing thorns only to find each time I took a step, more reentered. I tried to hop on one foot in a forward pace and extract the painful sticker from the other at the same time. It must have appeared comical to the members of the group who turned to look back. Their smiles were now full grins. Ooota had stopped to wait for me, and his facial expression appeared more sympathetic as he said, “Forget the pain. Remove the thorns when we camp. Learn to endure. Focus your attention elsewhere. We will help your feet later. You can do nothing now.”

It was his words “Focus your attention elsewhere” that were significant to me. I have worked with hundreds of people in pain, especially in the last fifteen years as a doctor specializing in acupuncture. Often in terminal situations the person must decide between some drug that renders them unconscious or the use of acupuncture. In my house-call educational program I have used those exact words. I have expected my patients to be able to do it, and now someone was expecting it of me. It was easier said than done, but I managed.

After a while, we stopped to rest for a few moments, and I found most of the tips had broken off. The cuts were bleeding, and splinters were embedded under my skin. We were walking on spinifex. It is what botanists refer to as beach grass, binding to the sand and surviving where there is little water by developing rolled, steak-knife sharp blades. The word
grass
is very deceiving. This stuff doesn't resemble any grass to which I could relate. Not only were the blades cutting, the barbs on them are like cactus tips. When they entered my skin, they left a stinging, swollen red irritation. Fortunately I am a semi-outdoor person, enjoying a moderate suntan and often walking barefoot, but my soles were not nearly prepared for the abuse ahead. Pain continued, and blood in all shades from bright red to dark brown appeared at the surface of my feet, even though I was trying to put my attention elsewhere. Looking down, I could no longer distinguish the ragged polish on my toenails from the red color of my blood. Finally my feet became numb.

We walked in complete silence. It seemed very strange, no one talking at all. The sand was warm, not beastly hot. The sun was hot, but not unbearable. Periodically the world seemed to take pity on me and provide a brief breeze of cooler air. As I looked ahead of the group, there seemed to be no clearly defined line between earth and sky. The same scene was repeated in all directions, like a watercolor painting, with the sky melting into the sand. My scientific mind wanted to appease the blankness with a compass. A cloud formation thousands of feet overhead seemed to make one lone tree on the horizon appear as a dotted “i.” I heard only the crunching sound of feet on the earth as though strips of Velcro were repeatedly separated and reunited. The monotony was occasionally broken by some desert creature moving in nearby brush. A large brown falcon appeared out of nowhere and circled, swooping over my head. Somehow I felt he was checking my personal progress. He did not swoop at any of the others. But I looked so different from everyone else, I could understand why, perhaps, he needed closer inspection.

Without warning, the whole column of people stopped walking forward and turned off on an angle. It surprised me; I heard no words directing us to change course. Everyone seemed to sense it except me. I thought perhaps they had this trail down pat, but it was obvious we were not following a path in the sand and spinifex. We were wandering in the desert.

My head was a whirl of thoughts. In the silence it was easy for me to observe my thoughts fleeing from subject to subject.

Was this really happening? Maybe it is a dream. They said walk across Australia. That isn't possible! Walk for months! That isn't reasonable either. They heard my cry for help. What did that mean? This is something I was born to do! What a joke. It wasn't my life's ambition to suffer, exploring the Outback. I also worried about the concern my disappearance would cause my children, especially my daughter. We were very close. I thought about my landlady, who was a grand elderly matron. If I didn't pay my rent on time, she would help me straighten it out with the property owners. Only last week I had leased a television and VCR. Well, repossession would be a unique experience!

At that point, I couldn't believe we would be gone for more than a day at the most. After all, there was nothing to eat or drink in sight.

I laughed aloud. A private joke. How many times I had said I wanted to win an exotic all-expenses-paid trip! Here it was. All provisions were supplied. I didn't even have to pack a toothbrush or a change of clothes. It was not what I had in mind, but it certainly was what I had verbalized time and time again.

As the day wore on, there were so many cuts on the bottom and sides of my feet that the slits, hardened blood, and swollen circles combined into ugly, numb, discolored extremities. My legs were stiff, shoulders burned and aching, face and arms red and raw. We walked about three hours that day. The limitations of my endurance were expanded over and over. At times I felt that if I did not sit down soon I would collapse. Then something would happen to attract my attention. The falcon would appear, making its strange eerie screech over my head, or someone would walk next to me and offer me a drink of water from an unfamiliar-looking nonpottery vessel tied to a rope around the neck or waist. Miraculously the distraction always provided wings, carrying new strength, a second wind. Finally, it was time to stop for the night.

Everyone was immediately busy. A fire was lit, using not matches but a method I recalled seeing in the Girl Scout Wilderness Manual. I had never tried twirling a stick in a slotted groove to spark a fire. Our scout leaders couldn't get it to work. They could barely get it hot enough to ignite the tiny flame, and blowing on it only worked to cool, not spread, the heat. These people, however, were experts. Some gathered firewood and others gathered plants. Two men had been jointly sharing a load all afternoon. They had a colorless cloth draped over two long spears and made into a pouch. It held contents that bulged like giant marbles as we walked. Now they set it down and removed several items.

A very old woman approached me. She looked as old as my grandmother—in her nineties. Her hair was snowy white. Soft, folded wrinkles filled her face. Her body appeared to be lean, strong, and smoothly supple, but her feet were so dry and hard they had developed into almost a sort of animal hoof. She was the one I had seen earlier with the elaborately painted necklace and ankle ornament. Now she took off a little snakeskin pouch tied at her waist and poured something that looked like discolored vasoline into the palm of her hand. I learned it was a leaf oil mixture She pointed to my feet and I nodded an agreement for help. She sat in front of me, took my feet into her lap, rubbed the ointment into my swollen sores, and sang a song. It was a soothing melody, almost like a mother's lullaby for her babe. I asked Ooota what her words meant.

“She is apologizing to your feet. She is telling them how much you appreciate them. She is telling how much everyone in this group appreciates your feet, and she is asking your feet to get well and strong. She makes special sounds for healing wounds and cuts. She also tones sounds that draw out the swelling fluids. She asks that your feet become very strong and tough.”

It wasn't my imagination. The burning, stinging, raw sores really did began to ease, and I felt gradual relief.

As I sat with my feet in this grandmotherly lap, I began mentally to challenge the reality of today's experience. How did this happen? Where had it all started?