CLOSE TO PARADISE: ARKAROOLA

The area around Italowie Creek had once been the location of a violent family scene in the world of birds. Here, Mr. and Mrs. Mistletoe Eater had had a fierce, short argument.

AWI – IRTANHA THE MISTLETOE EATER

“A long time ago there lived a bird called Awi – Irtanha. One day he went out looking for tucker to eat. He looked all over the place but at first he couldn’t find anything. Then he found a tree loaded with juicy mistletoe berries. so he started eating them.
Awi – Irtanha’s wife, who had children with her, looked up towards the west and saw a big shower of rain coming up over Wayanha. She called out to her husband: ‘Vurlka! Vurlka! There’s a big shower of rain on, its way over the hill! Quickly! Bring a skin blanket! The kids might get wet!”
Awi – Irtanha called back:’Hang on a minute! I’m going to have a feed of vartapi first!’ Now this made her really angry, so she picked up a mun-guwirri and ran towards him. With a single blow she cracked him hard on the skull. You should have seen the blood pouring down his chest! It just came flooding down!
This is why today Awi – Irtanha has a red chest, but his wife has not.”
Tunbridge, D., “Flinders Dreaming”, p. 17
The bird with such an unfortunate family history is the Mistletoe Bird (Dicaeum hirundinaceum), although today its name is applied to the Red Capped Robin, as well. Vartapi, its food, is the Harlequin Mistletoe (Lysiana exocarpi ), an edible mistletoe and therefore food for the Adnyamathanha people, too. The weapon mun-guwirri is a wooden waddy with one side sharpened (ibid,p. 17).

Unfortunately I failed to spot the red-breasted evidence of such vicious domestic attack of long ago. Half an hour later, I reached the Arkaroola turnoff near the Balcanoona National Park Headquarters.

From now on I would be on the one and only road to Arkaroola and since I had encountered a few surprise meetings further south, where there was a network of many roads, I was bound to meet someone on this last stretch. This however was not to be, until surprise popped up from a totally unexpected angle: the air! Just as I was approaching the Arkaroola airstrip, 15 km outside the village, a low-flying plane skilfully chased a couple of kangaroos off the runway, circled once more, ‘waved’ his wings at the odd pedal-propelled contraption on the ground and then landed. Bob Rowe, a pilot from Leigh Creek, had just arrived for tonight’s party and, within no time, was picked up and driven to the village. We had a great laugh as his pick-up-vehicle passed by but little did I know that the news of my imminent arrival would spread through the village at great speed. My idea of quietly parking the bicycle and then walking into the bar was killed instantly by Bob Rowe’s alerting of the mob.

Quite merry after a couple of hours of pre-party partying, they put on a real show for me. I could hear them singing from about a mile away. Approaching the last creekbed, one that could be full of devious boulders, perfectly concealed by spreading darkness, the atmosphere was in no way different to the finish line of a real cycle race. Even down to the fine touch of a white ribbon across the road, made up on the spot by a roll or two of toilet paper. Having no immediate competitors in hot pursuit, I cycled through this banner first and comfortably ‘won’ this race of one. However, what I had considered to be the end, was only the beginning. As I was about to get off the bike and say hello, some hands grabbed the bike at either side while others pushed me on uphill. The idea behind this revealed itself as soon as I got to the top: miraculously, the door to reception opened, and, to the utmost surprise of some stunned tourists, simply receiving the keys to their motel rooms, I pedalled past reception and straight to the bar. Accompanied by the loud cheers of everyone, and while I was still sitting on my saddle, the barman Trevor handed me a cool can of beer, piling up a few more on the counter, wearing a big smile on his face.

I do not know how many beers I had before the party even started, but I still can remember Ian, the party man, continuously shaking his head in utter disbelieve at the sight of a bicycle in what had been ‘his’ bar for so many years. Only when I repeated to him the words of the postmaster in Melrose that someone had to be as determined as the Germans and as foolish as the Irish, did the movement of his head change course to a distinct nod. – Well, from now on the night was his and, after a shower, I was ready to join the beginning celebrations. Tonight was party-night!

Tomorrow I would get my walking boots and compass out, pack note pad and notebooks into my day-pack and explore the secrets of Arkaroola’s-600- square kilometres. From tomorrow on I would be ready to absorb, again, the wild landscape of Arkaroola, a landscape for which the following words by Doris Lessing, although said on Africa, were not only equally true but some of the finest words capturing the magic of the place:

 

“… That is not a place to visit unless one chooses to be an exile ever afterwards from an inexplicable majestic silence lying just over the border of memory or thought. A. … gives you the knowledge that man is a small creature, among other creatures, in a large landscape. ”
Lessing, D., “Collected African Stories”, Triad Grafton, Vol. I, p. 10

Miraculously, the door to reception opened, and, to the utmost surprise of some stunned tourists, simply receiving the keys to their motel rooms, I pedalled past reception and straight to the bar.

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