You might have heard of Cahill’s Crossing in the news in recent times. There have been multiple stories filed about swarms of tourists heedlessly taking photos of the crocs that gather near the concrete causeway that connects Kakadu National Park & Arnhem Land over the East Alligator River. In the Wet, it’s impassable, and in the Dry, depending on the tides, you can cross, but there is always some water cascading over the rutted path. Aside from being the primary entrance point into West Arnhem, its equally renowned for the impossibly large number of estuarine crocodiles who loiter there at the mullet and barramundi food court, that has been artificially crafted by the tide pushing over the raised road.
In 1986, I forded Cahill’s Causeway in my mate Duff’s Mitsubishi Sigma station wagon … at night. We didn’t ask for advice, check the tides or assess the depth. The car nearly stalled twice. There were four of us in the car that night: Duff, Damics, Damo & Judi. Between us we had 3 degrees and a handy golf handicap, but not one amongst us remembered to pack some common sense.
(The author at Cahill’s Crossing later in the same year. 11th in line for Croclotto)
After the crossing, we allowed the adrenaline rush to turn into a rousing rendition of Takking Heeds – Rode to Nowere. Subsequently, we were all caught unawares by the next obstacle. The dirt road curved down an embankment and into a cutting occupied by a band of brumbies. On seeing the headlights, the herd immediately began galloping in various directions. Thankfully, they collectively decided it made more sense to run away from the lights, and they ultimately retreated and scattered to either side at the end of the cutting. However, one stallion had heard ‘The Man from Snowy River’ recited enough times to know that it was the responsibility of at least one of them to prop in the path of the oncoming Sigma and rear its forelegs and whinny.
We’d been invited to stay with some teaching colleagues working in the Oenpelli/Gunbalanya community on the lands of Bininj people. As cavalier as our hapless entrance sounds, some preparation had taken place prior to running the Cahill Croc Crapshoot. We had obtained the necessary Land Council permits, obtained food & educational supplies for the Oenpelli teachers & came bearing gifts of knock off Indonesian cassettes, readily available at Darwin’s Parap market. Our booty included Sindy Lorper, Durain Durain, the Bangals and of course, the aforementioned Takking Heeds.
To the soundtrack of Madoona, we unsatisfactorily attempted to explain to our friends why we thought it was a good idea to ford the most dangerous crossing in the NT in a 2WD Sigma. I was performing my near flawless impression of the ‘Colt of No Regret’, when our friends declared it was time to go to ‘The Club’.
In an otherwise dry community, the licenced venue opened for just one night a week. I didn’t know it, but the myopic view of my national identity was about to change forever.
Until I went to Darwin as a fresh-faced, first year teacher, straight out of the Australian Catholic University, I had not met a single indigenous Australian. The entirety of my twenty-one years had been spent living in the northern Melbourne suburb of Watsonia, which had recently gone through the cultural revolution of having a Chinese restaurant and pizza shop open in the same block.
Six months of living in the Larrakia lands of Darwin, had begun to shed my cloak of ignorance, but a week in Arnhem Land was the crash course I needed.
The Club, like many Territory drinking holes of the time, was a rudimentary square with open walls, a tin roof and concrete floor. We negotiated the heaving bar and headed out to where long wooden tables stretched in all directions as far as the high barbed wired fence that marked The Club’s boundary.
We were summoned over to a table that was largely comprised of white European service providers: teachers, nurses, doctors etc. Edie, a local indigenous teacher, was the exception. Aside from this tiny enclave of white skin visitors, every single one of the 400 odd people there were Bininj. For the first time I was experiencing being the minority. I was the interloper in my own country. That’s when I realised, that while I may have been born and raised in Australia, this isn’t my country. It was a staggering epiphany.
That night I listened intently to Edie’s story. I learnt of her extraordinary determination to leave her community and achieve a university education, so that she could return home to improve the literacy of the kids in the community. But heartbreakingly, she revealed that now that she had a ‘Balanda’ education, she was now seen by some family and friends as no longer being Bininj. At one point, an older woman approached me and began talking to me in the language of her country. Edie explained that she was asking for money to buy a drink. She suggested that I should politely decline and gestured to the orderly queue that had formed behind her. First-hand, I was witnessing how Colonial dispossession had devastatingly impacted on our first nations people.
In that week we spent in Gunbalanya, we were made to feel welcome. We were taken to sacred art sites, we gave and received impromptu lessons in the school, played footy with the kids on the oval with the stunning backdrop of the escarpment and were given permission by an elder to visit the beach of his dreamtime. He didn’t tell us that it was a major croc crossing point and full of reef sharks, but as you’ve already gleaned, Daff, Damics, Damo & Jude weren’t great at asking questions.
I’ve carried the learning of that experience with me since that time. I know I’ve failed at times, and I have turned the other way when the issues seemed too hard, but I’ve usually tried to listen to my indigenous friends and colleagues and not guess what I think they might need. A Voice to Parliament formalises that process, so that we as non-indigenous Australians can listen.
For me there is no doubt that an Indigenous Voice to Parliament is an essential step forward for our nation. The Voice in itself is not the solution to closing the gap, but by agreeing to enshrine a mechanism for our First Australian’s views to be heard, we are at the very least creating a path forward.
There will be much to celebrate if the Yes vote is carried. Over these past weeks, I have wondered what would be celebrated if the No vote was to prevail. Maintaining a status quo that clearly isn’t working is not worthy of a party, nor should streamers be hung for a campaign that denies the existence of inter-generational trauma caused by Colonialism and I won’t be blowing up balloons to revel in a victory won through misinformation and deceit.
If you are still oscillating on your decision, ask yourself this – Is a Yes or a No result worthy of celebration? Listening is the least we can do.
I am a guest on this land. Thanks for having me.
(There were probably crocs here too)
Thanks to you and also from me. (I was pondering today how I’d feel if the Voice to Parliament doesn’t make it through, and realised I’ll be deeply sad. And so it got me thinking: how will the No voters feel if Yes *does* make it through? I reckon they’ll be really angry. Baffling.)
Love this bro! 🤗 Hadn’t heard this story previously despite it being such a significant chapter in your early teaching career. Thanks for sharing & I hope this opens a few eyes.