In Part 1, defying the wisdom of the elders, Daku, an Aboriginal teen, pushes cultural culinary boundaries as he tries to find his place within his clan against a backdrop of life and death in the Australian bush. In today’s conclusion, discover how Daku reconciles his beliefs against his own cultural framework.
Author, Nick Morphew.
Lessons learned
Three finely sharpened spearheads shot a short distance through the air and punctured the surface of the water as Uncles Yarran, Nyukuti and Abbagan stood purposefully in knee-deep water around the masterfully crafted woven fish traps. Aqueous wisps of blood began to fill the enclosure, but within mere moments, the red trails became a homeopathic dilution, vanishing downstream with the rushing water until the fish were lifted, impaled on spears. “What you doing there, boy?” Uncle Yarran threw his question at me, hitting me between the eyes. I looked up and casually tossed back, “Sharpening new spearheads, Uncle.” In reality, I had finished sharpening the last of the points some time ago. I opened a paperbark pouch to reveal a collection of different seeds, freshly picked flowers and berries still attached to short, flexible stems. I smoothed an area of dry dirt to work in and used the fine point of a spear tip to draw my botanical specimens - amber flower, fur berries and spurge seeds, the latter of which are born from tender, propeller-esque, white flowers pollinated by hover flies. I moved the spear tip carefully over the dirt, clearly defining important anatomical features of the plants such as leaf serrations, internode length, fruit shape and the number of stamina. I smoothed my earthen canvas and repeated the process, this time from memory. I knew these plants well.
My quest continued to create uniquely special foods from forbidden plants. I had identified these three parts of plants two moons ago after experimentation with various means of preparation. Our clan’s Elders were rigid on what was edible and what was not. They had seen foolish youngsters defy their instruction and succumbed to tragic loss. My two cousins, Djalu and Tidam would always run away, exploring. None of the adults were worried. Children would always run through the dense scrub scratching up legs and feet, playing, chasing and climbing the tallest eucalypts to spy the Ancient Spirits far away. When it came to yarning and corroborees, the children would pay attention and listen with eagerness. The clan knew they were taking it in, repeating instruction, following dance and reciting song. After all, it only takes one sour seed to spit out the rest, or a spine in your sole to watch your footing. It was the fate of youth and recklessness that Djalu and Tidam met disaster. After climbing a white, gnarled tree with branches that tickled the clouds, they began eating the small, pink fruit that it bore. When Aunty Bibby found the children, she hollered until her mouth was parched and the bush emptied around her. The fruit had pacified them into a state of vacant mindedness. As their hands became limp, they released their grip and fell to the stony creek bed below. Our clan walked a full day into the scrub to an outcrop of enormous, jagged rocks where the two were laid to rest. Aunties gathered handfuls of loose chalk and dragged large branches from nearby fallen trees for the burial. I carried lumps of charcoal in my shaking hands. Nobody spoke. An eerie veil of sadness draped over the trees around us, hushing our voices and minds. I felt my heart thump in my chest. Uncle Yarran mixed the ground chalk and some water to form a paste and sloshed it about in his mouth. A white spray puffed from his lips across a smooth section of stone, memorialising the departed. We are all supposed to learn from tragedy, but my heart, my blood and my adventurous palate tempt me, dare I say, to the fate that befell my kin, rest their Spirits.
The clan Elders were more fearful than ever. This was exactly why they could not know until I had proven to myself that my discoveries were not only safe, but necessary. My discoveries must be edible, but more importantly, enhance the qualities of all the foods we are eating already. I thirst to expand our alimentary possibilities to give us an abundant selection of foods in all their variations across and beyond seasonal limitations. I will be remembered as Daku, the bush tucker dreamer.
Desperation
The increasingly long months of high sun were the hardest across Country. This summer was breaking life down to its most basic forms, shedding the superfluous, revealing the indispensable. Vanishing tributaries turned to muck and the shrubs that remained as fibrous cellulose webs, clung to life as they drew up moisture through their taproots, sipping slowly on their finite water stores. Huge, red kangaroos were more difficult to catch, as only the strongest had remained. Cupped ears and nervous eyes surveyed the roasting landscape for signs of danger. It’s protruding front teeth nudged into the red soil, tearing out and grinding up all remotely green growth from the increasingly struggling environment. Uncles Yarran, Nyukuti and Abbagan crouched down around me as my mind whirred between our clan’s survival and the rigidity of cultural tradition. Uncle Nyukuti gripped the curved blade in his hand and flung it with decisiveness into the clearing. It was too late. The roo’s perceptive ears had detected the movement. Adrenaline shot through its bloodstream as its rippling, muscular legs propelled it away and over the bleached skeleton of a fallen ghost gum. Uncles wiped the sweat from beneath their eyes as a common thought entered their minds. A sense of relief washed over me knowing the roo was safe, just as I realised that time was against us. Uncle Abbagan held my shoulders. He lifted my chin and stared into my eyes. “This day you become a man, Daku. We search until we find food. We must. Our clan depends on us.” Long spaces separated each message. Life depended upon us. Upon me.
We had received the words from Kula, a messenger from a neighbouring clan that everyone must move. Elders agreed that the Ancient Spirits were pushing us away toward the ocean, further from our original home than we had ever been before. “Tiddalik returned. Water all gone.” His words ushering urgency. It was my time to speak. If I did not share new wisdom, I knew our lives would never be the same, away from old Country into a new, unknown space.
I asked Uncles and Kula to sit with me. We gathered in the shade of a shrub with sharp leaves and dried flowers. I folded my legs and began drawing the shapes of my discoveries in the sandy soil. I wiped it clear and repeated, demonstrating my knowledge. Uncle Nyukuti held my head, his thumb pressing hard against my forehead, his eyes darkened. “I see this. Spirits warned of dangers of all these plants. We will die eating these. We must leave Country. Our old life is over.” He flung my head back. I gritted my teeth, opened my concealed paperbark pouch and revealed the contraband. I stuffed my mouth with its contents, chewing thoroughly until a paste had formed. I swallowed, glaring at Uncle. He was stupefied. Uncle’s mind raced to disastrous finality; however, the injurious components nullified one another in a series of reactions, erupting curious flavours. These plants were in abundance, untouched for fear of death. However, it was fear of death that provoked the courage to reclaim new life. I am Daku, bush tucker dreamer.
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