Redemption of Truganini

By Max Delano Beers

"Australia! I've always wanted to go to Australia," Max, our teenage adventurer, responds to the prophet Isaenam's call. But this adventure will be different. "In Dreamtime, time is place," Monti, Max's Aboriginal mentor, explains to his shocked realization of how different. But it's more than just a different time and place. It's a new life, growing from infant to man in a 40,000 year old culture.
Interfering with the Aboriginal law, Max leaves his adopted mother's clan to accept an invitation to help Master Robinson and his beautiful Bruny Island assistant, Truganini, rescue the natives of Tasmania from the encroaching colonists.
But, in his travels, Max becomes a victim of the 19th century British convict colony. Rescued by Master Robinson, Max and his young convict comrades, Jonathan and Molly, acquire the help of the future political leaders in London, those charged to secure Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness for all mankind.
Anxiously returning to assist Master Robinson, Max is crushed by Truganini's survival approach: succumbing to the wicked desires of the sealers and whalers. Max now knows why he was sent to Australia: all in preparation, the metaphor for all past and future life's activity: The Redemption of Truganini.
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• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Delano Beers
• Release date: Jun 19, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476051499

Max Delano Beers

I was born in 1937 to a poor family. I know. There were a lot of poor people in the days of the Great Depression. But we were of the poorest of the poor: moving from place to place, working as migrant farm workers, etc, etc., etc.; just like you read about in John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. I didn’t even know I could go to college when I graduated from High School. It took my older brother coming out of the Air Force with the GI bill to convince me. Then I met Jeannie. I had no thought of getting married or settling down. But when I met her, I was doomed. I started my thirty-five-year Boeing career hugging the company tree with tenacious steadfastness--especially after the kids started coming. Seven children and several grandchildren later, I retired at fifty-seven to start a new life: two years in mainland China; two years in Australia; four years working with the Marshallese; travels around the world to far-away places in Europe, Malaysia, the Pacific, the Philippines, Mexico; learning and loving different and diverse peoples and cultures of the world. I started my story telling at the bedsides of my children, and evolved to writing poems and stories, and now novels. I love to write. It’s my hobby, my passion, my satisfaction, my deliverance from old age gloom and boredom. If you really want to know about me, read my books, my stories, my poems. They come from me, the inner-me: the real Max Delano Beers.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1: MYSTERIOUS ARRIVAL

I felt the scream surging from my throat before I heard it, his broad flat nose blasting air into my face and his arm high, holding a spear to my chest. I instantly came to my knees. A large black woman in a blurry red flowered dress confronted the attacker with chastening shouts and a forceful shove. He retreated. Through a haze, I saw him dancing around the periphery with several other naked, stick-slender men with red and white painted bodies, hovering around my center of horizon--wolves around their prey.

And a Kookaburra laughed hysterically.

I fell exhausted to the ground. I had no strength. Everything hurt as if on fire: my arms and legs cramped, my stomach burned, my head continuously exploding. And the tangy smell of rotten fish--I almost vomited.

What’ve you done to me? Where am I? Who are you? I’m just a boy, I cried.

Even though in a half sleep, I knew cannibals had taken me. The whalers had warned me about the cannibals. And I couldn’t escape.

I was in and out of consciousness many times, each time smelling, hearing, feeling, and seeing my condition unchanged; each time frantically attempting to get up and escape, but without the strength; and each time the women’s calming voices soothing me, and their restraining threats to the men reassuring me.

Nightmarish dreams flooded in and out of reality. Tied to the tall ship’s aft beam, I fought to help the captain who swung by one ankle from the yard arm shouting threats.

Why do you want to kill the captain? I screamed, as the butt of a muzzle-loader crashed me into unconsciousness.

Partly awake again with the continual body massaging, cooing women’s voices, and the stick-men’s eerie dancing and chanting, I tried another feeble attempt to escape, but fell back to the writhing, squirming, burning. And the taunting Kookaburra’s laughter.

Then back to the nightmare with blood running down my face and neck into my shirt, I heard the screams of horror as the vicious whaler swung the sword severing the captain’s leg, dropping his writhing body into the tossing sea, leaving his bloody leg swinging. The ghastly laughing and cheering mixed with my screams, as darkness came again.

Then another nightmare: I was a baby lying in a bed with my stomach on fire. I cried and cried to get my mom to feed me. The dream went on and on, my cries turning to screams, and the fire penetrating through my whole insides.

Back on the ship again, still tied to the mast, and hanging limp against the restraining ropes cutting into my flesh, I felt the violent impact of the raged whale’s spermaceti filled head raise the bow, setting the ship vertical on its stern. Everything was in slow motion. I hung in shock with the ship slipping slowly into the sea. Hearing the screams, and watching the bodies fly with the splintered masts and yards, and the mass of tangled rope and sails, I had no strength or will to resist the inevitable. Then I dreamily heard the voice of little Billy-Joe, the captains boy and my good friend, and I felt the ropes loosened as I followed the ship into the sea.

Next I was a baby again with stomach burning, screaming for my mother. And again back to the raging sea frantically trying to keep my head above water; pulled deeper and deeper into the black waters--back and forth between near consciousness with the dancing phantoms and the purring women, to the burning, screaming baby, to the hopeless watery grave.

But then I felt the leviathan’s warm flesh lifting. I grabbed the harpoon buried in his back and felt my aching lungs fill with air and the fresh wind rush past my body. Covered with blood spurting from the whale, I soared farther and farther away, still holding onto my unexpected rescuer. Near the horizon, the whale turned and hesitated a brief moment, as I watched the distant ship disappear into the raging depths.

Then my mother pulled me into her bosom. I felt the warm milk flow into my mouth, down my parched throat into my stomach, soothing and warming as it oozed into every cavity and extremity of my body. Nothing ever tasted this good. Nothing ever felt this good. And I slept--peacefully.

And now in a peaceful dream I stood before Isaenam, my mentor, tall and stooped, with long white hair and beard, and twinkling blue eyes.

Australia! I exclaimed, as Jeannie, my best friend, squeezed my hand, and my two tiny Penguin friends eagerly danced around me. I’ve always wanted to go to Australia.

Isaenam led me to a log overlooking the Lake of Purity, my special place of peace and serenity--the mysterious starting and ending place for all my adventures.

Are you up to it? he asked, sitting next to me.

He knew me better than I knew myself. Nodding he said, God be with you. It will be well worth all the trials.

I awoke calm and relaxed in the shade of a bark lean-to-shelter large enough for four or five others, and lying on the only animal skin in the shelter.

The dancing stick-men were gone. The women sat around a fire cooking fish rolled in leaves on the hot rocks. Some children ate; others played. Almost everyone was nearly or entirely naked except for a few women who had on colorful dresses. I saw one wearing two dresses, one over the top of the other. But the smell was still there, repugnant, but not burning.

Then I saw him, standing like a stork on one leg with his right foot against his left thigh, balanced with a long spear to the ground. I blinked and strained my eyes to assure it wasn’t a dead tree, an illusion from my in-and-out-of consciousness. But no, he was real: a statue, tall and straight without moving, staring at me with those black, penetrating eyes; a hazy apparition--a phantom--with smoky long forked beard and matt-black skin absorbing the sun’s rays. His red painted body was decorated with white lines and circles, and scars adorned his chest like roots gnarled and taut. I knew he could see right through my flesh to my soul.

He was the ugliest, scariest creature I had ever seen. I shuddered.

My defender in the red flowered dress, seeing I was awake, knelt by me gently wiping my eyes with the hem of her dress. As I attempted to wipe the greasy mucous from my face she shook her head, shooing away flies and motioning to the sun, saying something I knew was explaining why I must leave it on. My whole exposed body was smeared with it, my only clothing being the tattered sea trousers I was wearing when the ship sank--barely protecting my privacy.

The matronly saint helped me rise to a sitting position. She called out to a young girl who responded with a bowl-shaped piece of bark filled with mashed-potato-like food. The young girl motioned for me to eat it with my fingers, and then stood with cocked head studying me as I scooped the mushy food into my mouth. Several more naked children joined the curious girl, watching me. The food didn’t taste good or bad, just bland. But it felt good. I was glad they didn’t offer me fish. I like fish, but it just didn’t sound appetizing. I barely tolerated the fishy smell surrounding me, emanating from everyone who approached--emanating from me.

After I emptied the bowl, a young boy brought a skin of refreshing water, which I quickly emptied. He raced away, soon returning with a re-fill. I emptied it straightway. Starting to run again I called to him in a voice I didn’t recognize, That’s all I need now. The children giggled not understanding my strange words, but understanding the intent. I sat looking at them, smiling and talking with unnaturally raspy voice. They stared and giggled some more, tilting their little heads back and forth, wondering who and what this strange pale creature was.

My name is Max, I said pointing to myself. Max, I repeated several times. It didn’t take them long. They repeated it over and over in sing-song, giggling and laughing. Then a sudden burst all at the same time pointing to themselves in response. It was too jumbled to understand.

One boy spoke slowly trying to explain something to me. Seeing that I didn’t understand, he pointed to me, then to the matronly woman and said clearly, Yothu. Nandi. I felt immediately connected.

The woman blushed and looked down; the children giggled. I don’t think they mocked. Their eyes shone with pride and tenderness as if looking at a new infant. I didn’t understand, but assumed the woman was designated to be my mother, which her actions for the next several months continued to confirm. She was easy to love.

From that point on, the women and children called me Yothu Max. I couldn’t convince them to just call me Max.

That evening in a sleepy haze, I watched my Aborigine mother weaving a basket from pandanus leaves, with her young toddler sitting on her lap nursing. He nursed for a while, ran and played with the other children, then cozied up again to his mother’s waist length breast, finally settling down to a deep sleep.

And I wondered at my situation, confused and amazed at where I was and how I got here. I could remember well my life at home on the forty-acre-farm north of Seattle by the border of Canada; how I worked with my dad and brothers to make a bare living in the tough post World War II economy. It seemed like all we did was work and go to school. And I remembered like it was yesterday when I met my old and stooped prophet, friend, and mentor, Isaenam, while looking for the lost lake at the top of the mountain above our farm; how my life changed as he sent me on my adventures, first to find the Fountain of Youth with my very best friend, Jeannie, and then to the Yucatan with the Maya lord, Pacal. And I remembered Isaenam’s answer when I asked if I would go on another adventure. So I suspected that I was in Australia somewhere. But I don’t remember much from there, only spotty incidents of being on a square-sailed whaling ship, screaming as the mutinous crew cut off the captain’s leg, dropping him into the sea; all ending with the whale carrying me from the sinking ship. That was it. The next I knew I was here, with these strange black, naked people.

Exhausted, I followed my new young toddler friend, falling into a contented slumber.

CHAPTER 2: MY FATE

I awoke early, curled up in the animal skin lying next to four young naked children in hollowed out places lined with sand from the beach. I felt ashamed being the only one with the comfort of an animal skin. It was barely dawn and I had to pee--bad. I rose to my knees with the intent to rise to my feet, but I was weak and unsteady. I wiped the grease from my face, stumbling, falling, and scrambling up again and again, toward a clump of trees. Now I understood why the grease. Squinting my eyes, I swatted, swatted, swatted to keep the flies out. I didn’t know flies would bite your eyeballs. By the time I arrived at my goal, a private place to pee behind a gnarled tree in the tall grass, I had successfully waked the entire camp. Thirty some children and adults stood watching me kneeling in the grass, attempting to hide my embarrassment as I relieved myself. I had no choice. It was either in the bush or in my pants--they were the only pants I had.

My adopted mother quickly rescued me, shooing away the gawking flock and replacing the fishy mucus around my eyes from excess on her arm. She pulled me up on her hip and carried me like a baby. Looking at my body for the first time, I realized why it was easy for her--I looked like an Auschwitz survivor. I felt like crying.

Again on the cozy animal skin, I lay back to catch my breath, then raised myself on my elbow to watch the camp come alive. Older girls and women pounded yams and tubers into pulp, cooked on open fires, and fed the younger children and the men and boys. My designated mother cooked separately. I saw a lizard, some eggs, animal bones, plus some roots. She labored over them for some time; finally calling the young girl who had fed me the evening before, who I later learned was her daughter. Placing the mixed entrée carefully on a woven bark bowl, she sent her daughter to me.

The girl first gave me a small bowl of milk. I didn’t see any cows or goats so wasn’t sure where the milk came from, but it sure felt good on my sensitive stomach. She then handed me the bark bowl with the collage derived from the eggs, bone, lizard and roots. I let it cool and ate carefully, not knowing what to expect. It tasted awful, but it felt good. I wanted more, but the mother shook her head. I understood. I trusted her wisdom. I obviously hadn’t eaten much for a long time.

It took me several days to start feeling any strength or seeing any improvement in my emaciated body.

After breakfast, they took me--part carried, part led--to a freshwater pond where all the children and women jumped in joyously bathing. My designated mother motioned for me to give her my pants. I refused to take them off and bathe in the women’s and girls’ presence--I was fifteen years old. After many awkward attempts I finally convinced them to take me to a secluded spot. All the boys joined me in the spirit of a game. The mother laughed, taking the pants I threw to her as I undressed in the privacy of the tall grass. While I lived with them, our secluded spot became the traditional place for the boys to bathe separate from the girls. It was a fun game to them. The girls liked the game too. We heard their giggles, as they hid in the tall grass adjoining our private place.

Nandi returned my pants, now short-shorts, but better protecting my precious privacy.

Returning to camp from the bathing billabong, I watched the mothers direct their toddlers to follow in their footsteps. Literally. Nandi sat her toddler, Barega, on the ground pointing to her footprints. When the child started to ramble off into the bush Nandi turned him, moving him back in line, pointing again to her footprints. He was an active boy, even naughty, but his mother was patient--beyond patient. My real mother was patient too, but when the little ones were being naughty she scolded them sharply, sometimes with a light swat to get their attention. These mothers never spoke a cross word and never struck them. They just patiently moved the child into line, over and over.

After the bath, they all smeared fish oil over their entire bodies. It worked well, keeping the flies away. But there were always some spots rubbed bare which the flies quickly attacked. Nandi also rubbed a mixture of ashes, charcoal, and goanna fat on me the same as a mother did for her infant child. I understood without knowing the words that my skin was light and needed protection from the sun. The infant was also quite light. It took me several weeks to get accustomed to this added layer to my skin and the fishy, greasy stench.

Everyone but the old and young left each day to perform their various duties. Some men and older boys took their spears, clubs, and boomerangs into the bush for game; others went out to the sea in their dugout canoes to fish. The women and children took their digging sticks and clubs to dig and gather small animals, tubers, and grubs.

Murnyang, Nandi repeated several times getting us to repeat until all us children could say clearly Murn – yang. We soon learned that the yams, the soaking cycad seeds, the dark blue gampila fruits, the bulrush roots--all fruits and vegetables the women and children gathered--were called Murnyang.

When the men and older boys came with their day’s catch, the lessons began again.

Gonyil, Nandi told us, repeating it over and over, locking it in our memory, pointing to the wallaroo, the goanna, the crab, the cat-fish and the goose eggs.

We caught on quickly to the two food groups we must eat, as Nandi and the other mothers served us a mixture of Murnyang and Gonyil foods.

No Yam, little Barega cried out with the mashed blob still in his bowl asking for more crab. Nandi’s tender rejection sent the clear message: no more crab until he finished his healthy portion of mashed yams.

It took me awhile to catch on to why, when the men returned from an extended magpie goose hunting trip, why they dug into mother’s Murnyang tucker. They had eaten nothing but eggs for two days. Their bodies, used to the balance, craved the grains, fruits and vegetables.

The first several days in the camp, they left me with the grandma and grandpa who cared for me and the infants and toddlers. I feared the first time grandma and grandpa asked me to lie down before them. They sang little ditties as they warmed their hands over the fire and touched me. At first I felt violated, but after awhile realized this was some special ordinance, as if they were blessing me. I heard the same words each time they touched my eyes and then my ears and mouth, systematically touching each part of my body with specific words and tunes. I learned the words for body parts from these songs.

Grandma and Grandpa were always alert to my needs. Whenever I showed any sign of pain or discomfort, they sat by me singing songs and massaging my limbs, back, and head--every part of my body. I immediately relaxed with the pain diminished and usually dozed into a calm sleep. When I had trouble sleeping, they rubbed my skull and forehead with the pollen from the needlebush tree. It truly helped.

I could get used to this, I said. Of course no one understood the words, but they understood the message: satisfied and thankful.

They did the same with the younger children, regularly massaging the babies and the toddlers when they cried with anger or pain, or when they couldn’t sleep. It was an important tool to help cope with the strong spiritual energy within the child’s body. Harmonious spiritual flow, they call it. It truly works.

The most frightening day was the day they smoked me. I thought for sure my mortal adventures had come to an end. Grandma dug a hole in the ground, while Grandpa gathered wood from a scraggly bush: the konkerberry bush, dry wood to make the fire, green leaves to make the smoke. I didn’t understand any of this while happening. Immediately, the sweet incense odor filled the air. Grandma poured water on the fire and added an armload of konkerberry leaves, nearly smothering the fire. Then she put her head in the smoke and blew vigorously. Immediately a white puff arose increasing the air pungency. While Grandma and Grandpa prepared the fire, a couple mothers and an older boy and girl poured water over my head to prepare me. All the children watched in wonder.

When I realized what I thought they were doing, I violently resisted.

Leave me alone! I cried out, flailing my arms and trying to raise myself. But their strength easily overpowered me, still weakened from my depravations.

They poured water over my head, chest, back, legs and arms. The only part kept somewhat dry was the part my short pants covered.

Please don't cook me, I cried out. At least wait until I'm fatter.

They all worked together holding my flailing arms, raising me to my unsteady legs, balancing me as they leaned me over the white puffy smoke. Grandma continued her blowing, increasing the smoke. I resisted unsuccessfully, holding my breath, expecting to react convulsively to the smoke. Soon I had to breathe. But no coughing. No burning eyes. Calmed and soothed, I relaxed.

They held me there for two or three minutes, then laid me on the animal hide where I again tried to raise myself. But I fell back, peacefully exhausted. They laughed and smiled nodding their heads, and jabbered on and on in their incomprehensible language. I dozed into a deep sleep. I don't know how I slept, being further assured they would cook and eat me.

But that was the end. No more smoking or threatening to put me in the fire.

I was relieved a couple weeks later when they smoked a young infant. They went through the same process: preparing the fire with the konkerberry bush, watering down the baby and holding her over the smoke. This, I learned, purified the child from the evil spirits. Life’s true beginning, they called it.

I also learned that the konkerberry relieved the common cold.

Within a few days I rose myself and moved around camp. It encouraged me to see some flesh coming to my arms and legs, although it worried me to be getting more ready to be eaten.

After several days in the camp, the adults gathered together in the evening for an organized meeting of some sort. Several from other camps unceremoniously ambled into camp and joined the gathering. It started with a corroboree: dancing and singing. Then they put the younger children to bed and the conference started. At first only the men talked, calm and matter-of-fact, all agreeing. I joined with the older children sitting around the periphery.

With the glances and motions I soon realized they were talking about me. I was the object of the entire discussion.

Maybe I’m getting fat enough for eating, I mumbled to myself.

As the men jabbered on and on, Nandi stood, interrupting. She spoke as if presenting a proposal, several times mentioning me specifically by name: Yothu Max. The Stork-man jumped up, raising his spear and shouted some threatening remarks, including a definite negative reference to yothu. Other women stood with Nandi, and several men stood with the Stork-man waving their spears and shouting commands. But the women stood firm, yelling back defiantly. I started to get up to make an attempt at mediating; I sure didn’t want a bloody battle to start over me. The two pre-teen boys sitting on each side quickly pulled me down, shushing me in firm whispers.

After several minutes of fierce arguing, the men looked at each other, troubled, lowered their spears and sat down. The women all followed except Nandi--she continued her proposal as if no interruption had occurred. Now they discussed, civilly, back and forth between Stork-man and Nandi with others periodically adding thoughts.

I first heard the Aborigine language as a garbled, slurred mish-mash of sounds. But now I had heard the language enough to pick out words, even though I didn’t know what the words meant. They made several references to yura, monka, and Balanda, as they made motioning references to their bodies and to me. I imagined these words had something to do with getting me ready for eating.

Then it ended. Settled I guess, all agreeing to some arrangement for Yothu. The men and older boys looked at me with defeated submission, shaking their heads and mumbling, yothu.

I guess I should have felt victorious. But, even though relieved, I did not feel delivered. I just felt the inevitable postponed. Escape was foremost in all my thoughts from that time forward. The plans were already forming.

CHAPTER 3: YOTHU EDUCATION

Now, gaining more strength and stamina, I started participating in the camp’s activities. At first they instructed me to stay with the mothers and their toddlers, to just follow along.

The mothers explained everything. Gang-gangs, Nandi instructed, as her young toddler, Barega, laughed, pointing to the squawking cockatoos. Gurumdgi, she instructed again, as a gaggle of magpie geese flew over in tight formation. On and on she taught about each animal, bird, tree, and shell. The child was the wind, flying around at will, with the mother patiently explaining in simple words each discovered item. She dug with her digging stick for yams or grubs and set traps for small animals, describing each plant and animal by name and habits, describing in detail what she did and why.

At first I hung back and observed. But the mothers continued to encourage me. I eventually joined in. Even though I was much larger, they not only accepted me, but expected me to participate with the children.

It’s a great way to learn a language and customs. If I wanted to know something, I just did as the children did. When I started to study an item, my adopted mother told me the name and described in simple graphic language.

One day I saw a little ant and started following him. Nandi seeing my interest came to investigate. We followed it as it joined with many others and went into a hole in the ground. Nandi immediately sat down and started digging with her digging stick. Several other mothers and children excitedly joined in the digging, some starting an adjacent hole. I thought they would dig small holes, but they kept digging about two feet deep down to where we saw little caverns: the ant's homes. I watched Nandi gently brush the little ants from the caverns with a twig. Some ants had huge, grape-sized bags on their rears. The women jabbered excitedly and the children laughed when Nandi brought several in her hand to the surface, showing us how to hold it up and suck the honey from the bag. Then she carefully put the tiny creature down to rejoin its mates. Everyone grabbed for one as Nandi continued to replenish the supply. It was sweet like syrup, with a tint of barley taste.

As the toddlers grabbed for more honey ants I watched the mothers’ response.

Mmmm! Nandi said. Barega, mmmm! she said again, getting her toddler's attention.

Barega quickly understood and offered one to her. Mmmmm! Thank you, she exaggerated. Soon it became a game. Barega offered one to me. Mmmm! Tankoo, I mimicked Nandi, attempting my new language. It caught on with all the toddlers. They offered to the mothers and me and soon to each other.

This was my first of many experiences with the honey ant. I learned later that the worker ants force feed some of their comrades with nectar, water, and body fat from insect prey. This was used to feed their fellow ants when food was scarce. The Aborigine mothers taught the children this same behavior: sharing what they had with each other.

Later Nandi sent me back with a couple young boys to fill in the holes. Deep in the hole, a small porcupine-like animal rooted through the caverns with his snout. Piggy, a boy called out, with the other one joining, Piggy, Piggy.

The boy ran quickly to get Nandi. We laughed and giggled watching the little creature roll into a spiny ball, as we poked him with a stick.

Nandi gently took the sticks from us, stopping us from poking him. Piggiebillah, she said reverently. Then she looked at me with a disappointed look, the same way I remember my mother looking when I did something that displeased her. Nandi knew I led the taunting.

We watched and waited for the little animal to make her next move. We didn't wait long. Piggiebillah soon was on her way, out of the deep hole, through the brush, and into a hidden burrow. Several other mothers and children now joined us. Nandi crawled on the ground showing us the tiny footprints where the piggiebillah had run into his burrow. Then she sat, gathering us around her, and told a story. I liked her stories, many like the just-so stories I used to tell my younger sisters and brothers.

She told us how the piggiebillah got his spines and the tortoise got his shell. I didn’t understand much, but grasped the story’s essence from her graphic actions and expressive words. First she got on all fours, digging in the ground with her nose making a blowing sound and sticking out her tongue to capture her prey, like we had seen the piggiebillah do. We laughed until tears flowed. Next she angrily picked up imaginary bamboo spears and threw them one after another at the piggiebillah, giving him his spines. She ran around wildly with spears sticking out of her body. Then she mimicked the piggiebillah, taking the flat stone and throwing it at the tortoise. She stumbled around from the stone’s weight on her back, falling to all fours carrying the burden, depicting the tortoise receiving his shell. We all continued laughing and jabbering back at her. Not only did we understand the stories, but also learned the words. She repeated the stories over and over, founding our knowledge first on the footprints and the sounds. Then came the words.

The mothers added more stories, as the days went by, building on the knowledge until we each knew all about the piggiebillah. Nandi told us we shouldn't kill or harm a piggiebillah. I didn't understand; we ate many animals. Using words for father and mother in describing Piggiebillah, finally led me to conclude that Piggiebillah was the Munhakumirri clan’s ancestor and the Munhakumirri clan was part of the Yolngu tribe. It took several repeatings of the names Munhakumirri and Yolngu in several different contexts for me to finally understand. They told us nearly daily, We are Munhakumirri and Munhakumirri are Yolngu. Much later in my stay with the Munhakumirri clan, I put it together: the Piggiebillah was the totem for the clan, and the clan’s totem links the clan with its spiritual source, back to their creation.

Most importantly, we learned the piggiebillah eats ants and termites, their favorite being the honey ants. Our favorite too. We learned that when we found a piggiebillah we could usually find honey ants.

The next day we explored farther, finding ants eating the sap from a small scrub tree.

Mulga, Nandi identified. She instructed us to hide in the bush and wait. We waited and waited and were soon rewarded. A piggiebillah came cautiously to the mulga tree. We watched her sticky tongue scoop ant after ant, putting them into her pointed snout. But it didn’t appear she swallowed. The excited toddlers’ faces shined, as they sat eagerly still and quiet. We covered our giggles, sneaking behind the piggiebillah, watching her waddle through