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| Giff Miller, Richard Tax, Marilyn, Sean Pack (standing); Geoff Hunt (rooftop), Mulan area 1999 |
As
we wound our way to the Top End, we experienced social norms very different
than those in the United States at that time. For example, it was surprising to
almost everyone that I was the scientist leading the trip, not my husband. In
the town of Daly Waters, we attended a comedy show in a restaurant and heard
many racist and anti-gay jokes. In indigenous people's communities, we saw poverty,
alcoholism, and segregation, typically with a white couple running the show
through the local gas and food store. The availability of fresh food in the
Outback was minimal—frozen kangaroo tails were considered a delicacy. Chips
(French fries), sweets, and white bread (also frozen) were about the only
groceries available to the community.
Working
in remote Aboriginal communities requires several years of planning. We
obtained permits for our studies in the Lake Gregory region of Western Australia. Getting there wasn't easy. Working with local people required
building trust and respecting local customs. Our relationships with the people
of Mulan, the community near Lake Gregory, were very good.
On my
second trip to Australia in 1998, my family and I started our voyage in Perth,
drove north along the Indian Ocean coast, then inland to Halls Creek, a
mid-size town in Western Australia. Our destination was the village of Mulan,
an Aboriginal outpost with a population of about 200 people. We were headed to
this area because Mulan was on the shores of Lake Gregory, a 400 square mile
lake that has been accumulating sediments for thousands of years. Mulan wasn’t
on any of the maps that we used to get us to the Lake Gregory field area. Giff
Miller had sent a cryptic email that said, “Turn right about 30 kilometers
after you pass through Billaluna. We’ll be camping about 10 kilometers out of
town on a creek. You can’t miss it.”
We
drove from Halls Creek, past the Wolfe Creek Meteorite Crater to Billaluna, a
town with several shops and a gas station. There, we asked where the road to
Mulan was, but we asked in a way that was destined to take us in the wrong
direction.
We
did not realize that indigenous people never answered “no” when asked a yes or no
question. We asked, “Is this the road to Mulan?” The answer was, of course,
yes. Our family of four, mom and dad with our two kids, headed down a dirt
track that got smaller and smaller. Just outside of town, we passed a
hitchhiker and without much thought, offered him a ride. He was heading in the
same direction as we were, but we didn’t notice until he hopped in the car that
he was carrying a rifle. Perhaps this wasn’t the smartest thing we’d ever
done.
After a few kilometers, we came up to a group of Aboriginal hunters, and our
rider thanked us and took off. The hunters had set fire to the area on the left
side of the road in order to drive game to the other side where they would
shoot any bustards--turkey-sized birds--or kangaroos, both of which were
considered delicacies. It was our first time driving through a bush fire, but
not the last. When we let off our hitchhiker, the road diverged into three
directions. Chris pointed to the left fork, “Is this the best way to get to
Mulan?” The answer, of course, was yes. Chris headed the jeep down a one-lane
dirt track. Within a kilometer or two, the road had diverged again. We stopped,
thought about it for a moment, then took the left fork. Shortly, the road
started to fade out with thorny acacia bushes covering the way. We had reached
a dead end.
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| Painting of Lake Gregory and Serpent |
Fortunately we had food, water, and enough fuel to camp out if we were lost—and
we were. Carefully, we turned the vehicle around and retraced our steps. In
1998, I did not have a GPS unit so were traveling on our own with maps. After
returning to Billaluna, we stopped in the store, this time asking the white
proprietor how to get to Mulan. He directed us back to the Tanami Track and
told us to look for a primitive sign and an even more primitive track leading
to Mulan. Near 5 pm, as the sun was low in the horizon, we finally turned off
on the track that took us through sand dunes and swamps to the village of
Mulan.
Over the years, I met many indigenous people, even working with them in the
field. I went many times through the village of Mulan, 40 kilometers off the
Tanami Track in Western Australia, but that first trip influenced my son to
become a medical professional. Years later he reflected on this trip:
“I
traveled with my family through the Australian outback in search of the small
Aboriginal town, Mulan, where my mother conducted fieldwork, 8 hours away from
the nearest paved road. After years of abuse from the Australian government,
the village greeted us with wary skepticism. Mulan hosted high levels of
chronic illness, drug and alcohol abuse, and impoverishment. The village
leader, Whiskey, took us in and we exchanged ideas on wildlife and climate.
Throughout our stay, what impressed me more than the accumulation of 100s of
years of passed down knowledge was the distinct and overwhelming respect the
community held for him as their leader and, more importantly, as their healer.
He treated everyone with the utmost kindness and kept an open ear for all who
sought his counsel. The degree of trust they had in him inspired resilience
that pushed them through times of drought and illness. Observing Whiskey made me
realize how one person can make a difference in the lives of others. The
strength he inspired in his people allowed them to turn the Australian outback
into a home where they could grow for generations.” Evan Swarth, December
2018.
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| Marilyn and Evan on the road to Mulan, 1998 |
We
drove out of Mulan with Whiskey’s directions—over a sand hill, through a creek
bed, then over a sand hill, you’ll see them on the right, he said. We took off
confident we’d be in the camp within a few minutes. No problem with the first
couple of sand hills and creek beds, but no sign of Giff or John. Then the road
forked. We got out of the vehicle and looked for recent tracks, but the sun was
now well below the horizon and it was getting dark. We chose the left fork
heading into a vast open plain dotted with the outlines of gum trees. Suddenly,
there in the distance we saw the bright orange glow of a campfire! The relief
was palpable.
We’d made it or so we thought. As we drove closer, the orange glow grew
larger—but it was the rising moon. Disappointment lay heavy in the vehicle.
Chris and I kept an upbeat tone. But it was 9 pm, pitch black outside. The kids
were hungry, and we were beat. We pulled off the road under a gum tree, pitched
our tent, heated up some baked beans, and called it a day. The kids slept in
the car.
Where was Giff? Would we ever find the camp? The next morning we packed up
camp, and with determination, continued on the track. Within 20 minutes, we ran
straight into a small caravan of field vehicles driven by Giff, John Magee and Jim
Bowler. Relief flooded over me. We’d actually made it, this time. After
spending the day collecting plants, we headed at last to the camp, another 10
kilometers from where we’d parked the night before, far from the few sand hills
past Mulan.
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| Nancy Tax (Richard's wife), Lake Gregory painting |
That
first field season in the Mulan and Lake Gregory area was a good experience for
learning how to incorporate a whole new field area into a study. We had
originally thought that we could take sediment cores from the center of Lake
Gregory, a sizeable lake in native territory. We were naïve in this thought
because the community had no boats and forbid sampling sediments in
any part of the lake. When we thought about this, we realized that the Mulan
people’s dreamtime stories included a serpent coming from the center of the
lake, who morphed into the tribe that occupies the land today. To drill into
the lake would in essence disturb the sacred ground—a religious area strictly
off limits to geologists.
Richard Tax, Senior Lawman,
Rainmaker, and Artist
Collecting plants and eggshells was no problem for the elders in Mulan, but
taking soil samples was another matter, because soil meant earth, meaning their
land. In 2001, we wanted to take cores of sand dunes in the Lake Gregory area
around Mulan. To do so, we were assigned a “senior lawman” to travel with us to
make sure we did not violate any sacred sites. Monday morning we picked up
Richard Tax, who was accompanied to our vehicle by his wife, Nancy Tax. Richard
was dressed in an older, buttoned shirt, some three-quarter length pants, and a
pair of seemingly ill-fitting shoes. He reeked of tobacco, sat quietly in the
back seat sans seatbelt with his lunch in a tin container. We took off
going places, we learned later, that Richard had not seen since he was a boy.
As we crested one particularly steep sand dune where everyone, not just me
squealed, we heard his seat belt click on. Together we were on a once in a
lifetime ride into wilderness where the closest inhabitants were 100 kilometers
away in all directions. The power and beauty of the landscape filled us with
quiet awe.
Tax became a member of our team on Wednesday of that week. When we stopped to
pick him up, he leaped into the vehicle, nodded good morning, clicked his seat
belt, and we were off. At lunch time, we would park under a gum tree, gather
some twigs and make a small fire to heat the Billy for tea and Jaffles, heated
sandwiches filled with yesterday’s leftover dinner, slices of cheese, and
pepper sauce, melded together over the fire. Student Sean Pack offered Tax
sugar for his tea with the phrase “Say when!” We watched as more and more sugar
was dumped into Richard’s cup, finally realizing he had no idea what “Say when”
actually meant. The syrupy tea was dumped and everyone laughed.
On
our last day with Richard, we stopped and took a group photo. It is said that
indigenous people of Australia don’t like to be photographed, but that did not seem a problem. We
shook hands warmly as we drove out of Mulan, knowing we’d had a cultural
experience and glimpse into the life of a native Australian that almost no
white Australians ever have. When we departed via the town of Balgo, stopping
at the local art shoppe, we were surprised to learn that not only was Richard
Tax a valued senior lawman, but he was the Rainmaker of the community, a man
who could put a spell on us if we’d misbehaved! He was also an internationally
recognized painter with tourists flying into Balgo to purchase his artwork. His
painting of people sitting around a campfire hangs on the wall of my home
office as I wrote this.
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| Richard Tax, abstract painting of people (Xs) around a campfire |
Wolfe Creek
Meteorite Crater or the Rainbow Serpent’s ascent
The
samples we were ultimately able to collect in the Lake Gregory area weren’t
good enough to provide a robust climate signal. Giff, John Magee, and I had
another idea. We thought the Wolfe Creek meteorite crater just north of Lake
Gregory might provide us with laminated sediments, if we were to take a core in
the very center of the crater. Wolfe Creek meteorite crater is part of a
national park of the same name. We obtained permission to sample the sediments
inside the crater from the National Park folks, as well as the senior lawmen
from the Aboriginal community that resided in Billaluna to the south.
An
international team was assembled. Bev Johnson, postdoc Matthew Wooller, and two
students of Bev’s from Bates College joined Giff, John Magee, and scientists
from Australian National University at the campground just outside the crater.
A sizeable drilling rig had been hauled up on a trailer from Canberra. Using a
system of ropes and pulleys, the rig was carefully lowered from the east rim
down to the crater floor. After a couple of days of testing, we took our first
few meters of core sediments. The floor of the Crater contains plants that are
specially adapted to that environment. At its very center, there are small
ponds 1-2 meters in diameter that are filled with aquatic plants and slimy
microbes. It is without a doubt a surreal place that exudes a feeling of
cultural importance.
On the
third day of drilling, we were relaxing around the campfire, discussing the
day, when a man walked into our camp uninvited. He was about 50 years old,
wearing a pair of grey woolen slacks, a short sleeved white sport shirt, and a
skinny tie. At first glance, I took him for a religious missionary of some
sort. We said hello to him, then he spoke.
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| Mat Wooller, Giff, Marilyn, and John Magee, 2001 Wolfe Creek campsite |
“I’ll have
to ask you to cease and desist from your drilling operation in the Crater, or
I’m afraid I’ll have to put you under arrest,” he announced somewhat
sheepishly. He was from the government council in Halls Creek, 158 km north,
the nearest major town. “We’ve had complaints from the local community down
here. You need to stop.”
We were
stunned—almost speechless. Giff was the first to get control, “But we’ve got
permits from the National Park and the community. Who complained?”
“I can’t
really say,” the government fellow answered, “but this is a sacred site and it
can’t be violated. I’m afraid there is no choice but to stop your work and
leave the crater.”
I pictured
myself in a jail cell in Halls Creek, sharing the space with women who were
sleeping off a night of heavy drinking. It wasn’t appealing. After a
twenty-minute conversation, we obtained more details and discussed appealing
our situation to the government office in Halls Creek the next morning. Giff,
Magee, and I packed overnight bags and drove into the town after breakfast. We
spent time going from government buildings to community spaces speaking with
both white and indigenous people leaders. No one was sympathetic. The area was closed
to drilling and that was that. Eventually, we learned how to get in touch with
cultural leaders in the Billaluna—not the senior lawmen that we’d gotten
permission from.
Two days
later, three older members of the community came to our campsite and listened
to our story. Most geologists in Australia are economic geologists searching
for mineral deposits to make money. We were simply doing research—and spending
money. We tried to make our case, but continued to be denied.
We learned
from a government anthropologist that the Crater site was so sacred, even the
local community did not know its full importance. We gleaned that the Crater
held their answer for the origin of their people. One of their enduring stories
is that the Rainbow Serpent emerged from the center and created Sturt Creek, an
important landmark. We’ll never know the full story because its written record
is sealed and never to be opened by any but the indigenous people of the area.
Mat Wooller
and I spent a day collecting plants and surface soils in the Crater, while the
drill team hauled the rig back up the side and out. We had tried but had run
smack into cultural norms that we don’t have in the United States. Giff and
John cored a sand dune just outside the rim. We made the best of a bad
situation. That can easily happen in any research endeavor. I learned that it’s
best to undertake complicated projects with an open mind. Fortunately for us,
we were a strong team and able to lick our wounds and continue on with our work
in other areas.
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| Inside the meteorite crater, 2001 |
The indigenous people of Australia have gone through near annihilation during their
first couple of centuries of contact with Europeans. I treasure the times I was
able to visit their lands and see first hand their view of their history and
culture. Both Giff and I purchased many Aboriginal paintings during our trips
there. They mind me, daily, that there is still a world out there that doesn’t
depend on tweets and television.
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