1 The Lombadina Track
My new bride and I
squashed alongside our Aboriginal driver Malachi on the Landrover’s bench seat, the gear stick between Margaret’s legs. Our worldly belongings, covered in a
thickening layer of red dirt, bounced on the ute’s tray. A long pindan-red dirt
track stretched out before me. Eucalypt
saplings crowded the track like swaying green fans along a Tour de France
ascent.
The temperature nudged
towards 40 degrees; our skins clammy with humidity. Air conditioning meant
opening a window and inviting forty degree humid air to burn our faces. The
bare aluminum floor had no insulation and was close to melting the rubber soles
on my desert boots. This was a paid adventure. My pulse raced and the sense of
anticipation was exhilarating. Youthful exuberance, a young bride, a sense of the
unknown. Welcome to Lombadina Mission.
I’d first laid
eyes on Margaret Cannon two years earlier at an Aboriginal education conference
just prior to returning to Halls Creek to teach in 1965. My five-year diary recorded
my first impressions of the Perenjori farm girl ‘looks like a good tough sort’.
Less than a month
later I kissed her warm, sweet lips while we swam in the muddy, red waters of a
storm-swollen Halls Creek. Margaret’s new white, one-piece bathers were never
white again. One swim meant a permanent Halls Creek rusty red stain.
Marg and I married
twenty months later on 28 August 1967. Our decision to apply for a remote
teaching post was simple. We were keen to save enough money to put a deposit on
our own home.
At Lombadina Mission
our initial accommodation was the disused stockman’s quarters. The toilet was a
44 gallon drum sunk over a deep bore-hole in the front yard. When I lifted the loo-lid
a swarm of mozzies buzzed away under the fierce Kimberley sun. When I sat over
the bore hole I listened for the ‘PLOP’ as my poo hit the water. Using my
physics formula of S=UT+1/2AT squared I calculated the drop was almost 70 feet.
Better not drop anything but poo down there.
Six weeks into the
1968 school year a telegram arrived at the mission via the Royal Flying Doctor
radio. Father Butcher, the German Pallottine priest scrawled the message on a piece
of lined paper. Everyone in the Kimberley listened to the RFD radio so everyone
new that our vehicle had arrived at the Broome jetty as cargo on a state ship.
Marg took charge
of the tiny two-teacher school for the afternoon and I hitched a ride on the
tray of the mission truck for the five hour bone-jerking trip back to Broome.
Three Aboriginal seniors sat in the cab and I climbed onto the open tray with
six Bardi Aboriginal men. They smoked and laughed and jabbered in language.
They were probably telling jokes about the young ‘gudea’ (white fella) in the shorts and white
socks hanging on for grim death.
The rhythmical
bouncing and swaying on the bush track, the unintelligible chatter in language
and the sunlight sparkling through the canopy of trees lulled me into a
trance-like dreamland. Suddenly there
was a shout from one of the guys near me. They leapt up in violent animation, louder
shouting, bodies flying around me. The truck braked sharply and swerved left,
tyres gouging into the red clay. All six blacks jumped off the truck in frenzied
sprints. With lightning speed and ballet grace they picked up wooden clubs, crashed
through the bush, darting left and right, jumping over logs and branches. It
was like a crash scene shot in slow-motion.
Within a second or
two, I ran after them. I had no idea what I was running to or from. I just ran
because they all ran. I had no idea what they were doing. I just followed the
pack. This was group dynamics at its best.
I burst from the
bush to a rocky creek and saw Aloysius Sampi swinging what I thought was a
small crocodile by the tail around his head. CRACK! He smashed the 'croc’s' head
onto a solid branch; blood instantly spurted from its twisted mouth. It was no small croc; it was one very large
bungarra. Almost five feet long this athletic reptile had met his match and was
destined to be dinner.
Our journey
recommenced, this time with the bungarra lying unconscious near my feet. I
started to doze off again as the red dirt road temporarily smoothed out. A loud
‘WHUMP’ and I was wide awake; one of the Aboriginal men clubbed the bungarra
over the head to render him unconscious again but not kill him. Every time the
poor old bungarra started to regain consciousness one of the Bardis, lounging
laconically on the back of the truck would lift the bush club and knock the
poor bugger out again. This was refrigeration - Kimberley style. The Bardis smoked, told stories
and laughed the rest of the way into Broome.
I slept with a priest
that night. Well, not quite. In fact I slept at the presbytery with several
Pallottine priests and brothers. I wandered down into the main street of Broome
and went to the Sun outdoor theatre. The 30 degree air was still and sticky; sweat
clogged the hairs on my forearms. Half way through the film there was a violent
flash of lightning followed by a huge thunderclap. The Broome town lights went
out and the heavens opened for a torrential downpour. I never got to see the
end of the picture but I guess the goodies won. Nobody seemed to mind. This was
a regular occurrence.
The following
morning I got a lift to the Broome jetty to collect our battleship grey Landrover
ute. Three months earlier Marg and had I
bid for the ex PMG (Post Master General) ute at a Government auction in Perth
and bought it for $600. Living as remotely as Lombadina the Landrover meant
transport and independence.
I stayed the
Saturday night as a guest of the Native Welfare Officer, Jean-Pierre
Cardineaux. I thought having a ‘Frog’ as a Native Welfare Officer was a bit of a
hoot. Jean-Pierre was a slim, dapper, quietly-spoken Frenchman. He was a nice
enough guy; hospitable and generous.
The tropical
downpour continued unabated. I could no
longer hear the ceiling fan because of the rain on the iron roof. The rain
became a torrent; the torrent became a waterfall. Just before first light the
rain eased off and the dark grey skies lightened. Through the window I noticed
the road had all but disappeared. What had been a road was now a river and the
swirling water had cut under the bitumen and had been washed away. What
had been a 12 foot wide bitumen road was now just 2-3 feet in width, the rest
having been washed away.
2 The Body
Just before lunch
I had a telephone call from the parish priest.
‘Dale, can you do
us a favour?'
'Yes, of course’,
without asking what the nature of the favour.
But I had been
their guest two nights before and owed the clergy a favour.
‘There’s a body in
the morgue. Could you pick it up and take it to Beagle Bay Mission on your way
to Lombadina’
‘With all the rain on the track its best if
you travel with a few other trucks’
That made sense,
especially as I was really the new kid on the block.
What the priest didn’t
tell me was the story behind the body. A strong, young Aboriginal stockman about
21 had mysteriously died in a stock camp a few miles out from Beagle Bay Mission.
He was buried in a bush grave. The coroner, on reviewing his age and physical
condition demanded an autopsy. The body was dug up, transported to Broome and
an autopsy performed. He was then frozen awaiting the outcome of the autopsy.
Unfortunately, the
medico who performed the autopsy hadn’t read the rule book and had deposited
all the specimens in just one container. The coroner ordered that a second
autopsy be carried out. The body was thawed, new specimens taken and the body restitched and refrozen. The new specimens met the Coroner’s requirements for
evaluation.
Now it was my job
to transport the Aboriginal stockman’s body back to his home country at Beagle
Bay. I collected the bush coffin from a local boat builder. It was a neat wooden
coffin, expertly made but without the fancy polished finishes and silver
handles of city coffins. My Landrover
chugged contentedly to the unimpressive, dusty-red mortuary near the
Broome hospital. Unafraid, but full of anticipation, I knocked on the door and
met the sole mortuary attendant, a tall slim Anglo-Indian. I thought he would
have fitted in well to Broome’s melting pot of races, religions and cultures.
Broome was probably a couple of decades ahead of the rest of Australia in terms
of multi-culturalism. Whites, Aboriginals, Japanese, Chinese and Afghans had
cross bred in the town for years, producing some delightful blends of
cross-fertilization.
I had never seen a
dead human before. The black corpse before me was
completely naked and lying on his back. He was about twenty to twenty-two years
of age and would have topped at least six feet in the old money. His legs were
long with the muscles of a runner. I imagined he could have been a competitive
runner. However, he was more likely to have hunted dugong and turtle with a
spear. The eyes were closed. He was at peace.
What shocked me
was the coarse, rough stitching from below his naval to the middle of his
powerful chest. The stitching with looped rough chord was the legacy of two
Broome autopsies. I’d seen far neater stitching on wheat bags on my uncle’s
farms at Benjaberring. Whoever was responsible really didn’t care. I never
asked who was responsible.
'He’s too big for the coffin' I said.
'No, he’s not'
replied the Anglo-Indian mortuary attendant.
'Jim came and measured him first.' Jim was the local
boat builder.
The attendant and
I carried the rough Kimberley coffin from the back of my grey landrover ute into
the mortuary. I took the dead man’s head
and we gingerly lifted the cold, stiff, naked, black body and lowered it into
the coffin. He was 6” too long.
'There, see, he’s
too big' I said.
We tried bending
his legs to no avail. He was frozen solid. I straddled the corpse and clasped
my hands behind his neck and attempted to bend his neck forward. Nothing would
flex even half an inch. We stared at the body and pondered the problem.
A Broome police
vehicle pulled up outside the mortuary and a couple of uniformed policemen entered
the morgue. A senior officer asked me to sign papers to release the body. I signed the papers and told the police about
the size problem. I explained that the Aboriginal stockman was too big for the
coffin. The senior officer headed for a
large bow saw hanging on the wall and beckoned me to take it.
'Here! Saw his legs off.'
'What?'
'Saw his fuckin’
legs off. Nobody will know.'
I suddenly became
scared.
'No, I’m not
sawing his legs off.'
'Bloody city pansy
teacher! Saw his fuckin’ legs off. Just fuckin’ do it!'
The policeman
thrust the bow saw into my stomach.
I fixed my gaze on this big cop ‘You saw his legs
off but I’m not doing it’.
I was stunned and
scared. But I simply refused. I stood there defiantly until the police left. I
was really nervous, but I knew what I had to do. The policemen grumpily stormed
out and drove away.
I was still
shaking. I looked at the Anglo-Indian attendant
‘I’m taking the
coffin back to Jim. Give me a hand would you’
I found Jim
propping up the bar in the Roebuck Bay Pub. It was said that you could get a
fight quicker than a feed at the ‘Rowie’. Judging by some of the patrons I
could easily see why. Some of these guys made shearers and farmers look like
Catholic choir boys. One lanky inebriate wore cowboy boots and a sweat-stained
cowboy hat. In his mid-twenties I could smell his body odour from ten paces.
There was half-congealed blood dripping from his right ear from where he had
opened a king brown using his ear as the bottle opener.
I found my boat
builder and smiled. The sort of restrained smile that I thought I could get
away with in the Roebuck.
‘Jim, the coffin’s
too short. You need to make it bigger’ I said
‘Come and have a
beer’
‘’No thanks. Just
come and fix the coffin’
‘Come and have a
beer’ Jim insisted.
‘Nope. I don’t
want a beer. Just come and fix this coffin’
Jim didn’t look
all that happy me refusing to have a beer with him.
‘If you don’t have
a beer with me I’m not moving. You can fix your own bloody coffin’. Jim turned
his back on me. The jackeroo with the bottle-opener ear glanced my way.
I was between a rock
and a short coffin.
‘Ok, Right. Just one
beer’ I relented.
Despite the fact
that Jim had sunk about a dozen beers before I met up with him he managed to
saw, hammer, chisel and screw without slicing off any of his fingers. His was a
work of pure drunken artistry. The coffin was now six inches longer. I was
confident the body would now fit where it belonged.
I drove the lengthened
coffin back to the mortuary. The irony was that the coffin no longer needed to
be lengthened. In the time it had taken me to get the coffin lengthened the
body had thawed, yet again, and was pliable, soft and bendable. He would have
fitted into a coffin six inches shorter with ease.
We placed the body
in the coffin, nailed the lid on and carried it to the back of my Landrover and
slid it into the back. It was now time to join the convoy and head north to
Beagle Bay. I packed boxes of groceries around the coffin to stop it sliding
around.
3 Burial at Beagle Bay
Our convoy stopped
at the first major creek crossing. The twelve inches of rain in the preceding
12 hours had turned the sandy creek into a river of liquid red mud. On my own I
would never have attempted the crossing. An Aboriginal bush mechanic removed
the fan belt and told me to drive straight through the water. He emphasized not
to steer left or right. ‘Just go straight’.
I locked in low
ration 4WD, second gear and the hand throttle and the old grey landrover surged
and bucked as we created a bonnet-deep, bow wave through the creek. I didn’t have
time to think that the coffin or groceries might get washed away. On the other
side my Aboriginal mechanic replaced the fan belt. I could see he had done this
hundreds of time before.
Just on dusk I drove
slowly into the sleepy little settlement at Beagle Bay Mission. Shady,
sprawling white-barked gum trees were interspersed with mission buildings. The
convent, presbytery, school, store and the Beagle Bay church with its famous
pearl shell altar. The other convoy
vehicles had gone somewhere else. I sat alone in the Landrover for a few
minutes wondering what to do.
Cautiously an
Aboriginal couple approached my Landrover. Out of curiosity they looked in the
back of my Landrover and saw the coffin. They didn’t need to ask me what that
meant or whose body was in the coffin. They knew. They started calling out and
yelling loudly to everyone on the mission. Two people turned into six, turned
into sixty. They mobbed around the Landrover in frenzy. The yelling continued.
Women were crying and screaming. Other women started bashing their own heads
with stones making them bleed. More than a hundred Aboriginal people pressed
around my Landrover.
The Mission priest
arrived, assessed the situation and told someone to ring the church bell. More
people clambered closer to my vehicle striving to glimpse the coffin. I stood
on the outside of the crowd as my vehicle was rocked side to side. The priest
left briefly and returned in a white surplice ready to conduct a burial
service. The crowd was frenetic. Women were wailing and bleeding, still
smashing their heads with rocks. Small Aboriginal kids poked their faces
between the bodies and legs to be part of the scene.
The priest took
control. He told people to step back and asked three or four young guys to slide
the coffin from the back of my Landrover. I stood at the side like an invisible
spectator. As the young men slid the coffin from my ute I saw the bottom of the
coffin come away from the sides and sag down with the weight of the body. The
further the coffin was pulled out the more the bottom dropped out of the
coffin. I caught glimpses of the naked body as the bottom of the coffin sank
further from the coffin. It seemed that a combination of water, corrugated
roads and the boat builder’s workmanship were to blame.
The priest
immediately called a halt to proceedings. He told a few men to fetch sturdy
bits of wood to place at right angles under the coffin base to
prevent any potential disasters. Three wooden struts were placed at right
angles beneath the coffin. The collapsing coffin was now carefully removed from my ute
without further mishap.
With the church
bells ringing, the priest led the funeral procession of family and friends to
the small mission cemetery just a few hundred yards away. A long line of
wailing, bloodied women, sober men and beguiled Aboriginal kids joined the
funeral procession. I tailed on at the very end. A hundred
thoughts flashed through my mind. But the thought that was foremost was
absolute relief in that I had been steadfast and not allowed the dead man’s
legs to be sawn off. If that had happened and the crowd had have discovered I
doubt I would be writing this today.
Just after 8.30pm
I arrived home at Lombadina Mission and unloaded the groceries. Filipino,
Martin Sibosado switched off the generator at 9pm as was the custom. Martin was
rarely out by more than one minute. The lights stopped, the fans stopped and
quiet prevailed in the remote little mission.
Margaret and I lit the Tilley light and I told her the story over a cup
of English Breakfast Tea.
Post Script
The results of the
two autopsies were inconclusive. Here was a strapping 21 year old married
stockman. There was no identifiable cause of death. There were some rumours that
it may have been one of the last cases of bone pointing in the Kimberley. Had
the young stockman upset some of the tribal leaders and been subjected to
traditional lore and ‘bone-pointing’? Bone-pointing was a powerful and lethal
form of sentence and execution under tribal lore. Mainly psychological but part
physical it was a tried and tested means of ensuring abidance of tribal lore.
The young man’s
widow was one of the beneficiaries of her husband’s untimely death. She became
eligible for a State widow’s pension which was five or six times more than
local payments for Mission workers. To the best of my knowledge she never
remarried and enjoyed life as a relatively wealthy widow.
Check out Dale Neill's UWA Extension Photography Workshops
Then I
attended the most bewildering interview of my life. It was for the position of
trainee windmill salesman with Southern Cross Machinery. The factory and administration
buildings were non-descript, corrugated
iron buildings alongside a railway line in Welshpool. Mr Savage was the
manager; Savage by name and nature! A
tallish, mid-weight ‘suit’ in his forties he greeted me in a friendly
professional manner. He told me that he had some ‘tests’ for me. That was a
surprise – I expected an interview or chat. Mr Savage started by reading a list
of about nine digits like 5, 7, 1, 0, 6, 1, 4, 8, 9. He then smiled at me and asked me to repeat
the numbers! I had a shot but missed by one or two. 
