In the austral winter of 1987 I served as guide and lecturer aboard a 30-passenger vessel that took Western tourists, Americans and British mostly, to the remote coastline of the Kimberley region in northwestern Australia. Except for the towns of Wyndham and Broome, respectively on the northeastern and southwestern edges of this region, this is a wilderness, virtually devoid of settlements, roads and other infrastructure. The major population, quite small in number, is Aboriginal, but are a few European missionaries and cattle ranchers. It is a land of sandstone, spinifex grass, Eucalyptus trees and abundant wildlife, including the fearsome saltwater crocodile.

My journal from August 10 reflects on past and present cultural encounters in this tropical wilderness:

Last night we sailed from the Bonaparte Archipelago and made our way to the northern tip of the Kimberley. This part of the mainland is known as the Mitchell Plateau. It has long been an important Aboriginal region, and today most of the lands in this coastal area are actually Aboriginal Reserve Lands. Traditionally very resistant to outsiders, these indigenous people succeeded in driving off Malays, Indonesians and Europeans over a period of several hundred years. Within the past 100 years various Christian groups successfully established several missions in the area.

Early in the afternoon we went entered Napier Broome Bay, and did a brief shore excursion. From the beach where our zodiacs [inflatable boats] landed we climbed up to a rocky sandstone promontory. From there was an excellent view of the beach and the mangrove-lined inlets on either side. In the distance the smoke of bush fires lit by Aborigines could be seen. Returning to the beach, we saw a young green turtle poke its head out of the water for a look around. When he saw us he decided it wasn't safe, and submerged and paddled off rapidly into open water. Some of the crewmen strung out a long net from the beach in the hope catching some mullet. Almost immediately, a small school blundered into the net. The catch became our gift to the Aboriginal people we met later in the day.

Peter [Sartori, the vessel's captain] shifted the ship around Mission Bay, and we went ashore. We were received by a small but very enthusiastic party of Aboriginal children, who enjoyed themselves immensely clambering in and out of the zodiacs [inflatable boats}. Their parents were our hosts for a very interesting couple of hours.

These people are members of the Wunumbal tribe. They had come down from the Kalumburu Mission, about 18 miles inland on the Prince Edward River. One of them, a woman named Mary, was the last child born at the old Pago Mission on the shore of Mission Bay. The Pago Mission was founded by Benedictine (Spanish Catholic) monks in 1908. The missionaries' relationship with the Aborigines was not always peaceful; there were a few hostile encounters in which the missionaries came out the worse. However, the parties came to trust one another, and enjoyed good relations right up until the Pago Mission had to be abandoned in the 1930s, when its water supply ran out. The Kalumburu Mission was established to take its place.

Our hosts were very congenial and went out of their way to make us feel comfortable. We spoke freely with them, and found their English quite good; they had after all been educated at the Mission. The men, who had been wearing Western clothes, disappeared for a while and then returned decked out with loincloths and their finest white ochre dance paint. Just before dusk a signal was given and a traditional corroboree or ceremonial dance began.

The women danced too, but wore western clothing, and had a minor role in the corroboree. The dance leader, Basil, was a real ham, boasting about his talents at every opportunity. But mainly he explained how each dance or skit told a story about some aspect of daily or ritual life of the Wunumbal. It was quite clear that although they had been in a Christian mission environment for decades, these people held their ancestral beliefs about their origins and the world around them. Of the Kalinda dance, Basil said: "It has to do with cyclone Tracy. Kalinda is the song spirit. When we see people coming in a line to the Pruru or Dancing Place with the totems, we know it is the Song Spirits coming. When we know there are strong winds or cyclones coming, we take the totems to the hills for safety. When we are going to the hill where the Rolling Stone is, and we are halfway up the hill the big stone rolls down and all the people stop until the stone falls to the ground. One man ventures out to see if it is safe, then all people come out to dance." Then there was the Palgo; Basil explained: "The spirits catch fish at night time. They light a bundle of sticks and take them to the waterhole. The fish are attracted by the light, and so we catch them." The last dance that told a story was the Djarlarimirri (Witch Doctor): "A man is killed by a spear, and the Witch Doctor is called. He performs his magic, and the man is restored to life." Finally there was the Djalurru, and dance without spiritual significance, performed just for fun.

A month later I visited the ruins of the Pago Mission, and the Kalumburu Mission that succeeded it:

From the landing site I followed a dirt track through dry savanna to reach the old mission. Not much is left -- some concrete floors, a few posts, and three wells that now have water in them -- but its surroundings are attractive. A grove of old mangoes survives untended. The cemetery is overgrown. There is a billabong here used by water buffalo, and the locals say saltwater crocodiles lurk in it. The first monks who came to this place, in 1907, scrawled their names on a large boab tree still towering over the place. I learned more about their relations with the Aborigines. When the mission was founded the locals were reluctant to accept it. A few stayed there. Most of the Aborigines in this area though came to get food and supplies, visited with their settled kinsmen, and then disappeared back into the bush. Missionary records note that the Aborigines of the time practiced formalized warfare, at least once attacking the mission; in 1913 a missionary was speared. Later the place settled down, and the population grew. So did the demand for water, and soon there was not enough, and so the mission had to be abandoned in 1939 in favor of Kalumburu, whose construction had begun four years earlier up on the King Edward River. Later in the day I visited the Kalumburu Mission at the invitation of one of the nuns working there, the redoubtable Sister Agnes, who sported about on an all-terrain vehicle. Of all things, rather than a cross as her motor vehicle's masthead she had a bark painting of a wandjina, the Aboriginal ancestral spirit of typhoons and monsoon rains.

The Mission was celebrating the 55th Anniversary of its founding. There was a mass going on during much of my brief visit, and I walked around the lifeless grounds. All was tidy. The grass had been mowed close and in this clearing in the bush, amid tall palms and wide mangoes, stood residences, a clinic, the community's church and school. When mass ended, the Mission's entire population poured out. Every one of these Aboriginal people, from all ages, wore Western clothes; one young girl even had a Mickey Mouse T-shirt. And each wore distinctive Mission and Aboriginal marks on this feast day: a blue headband symbolizing the Mission, and traditional Wunumbal white face paint.

Copyright 2002, Joe Hobbs

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