After a few minutes the door at the top of a tall flight of stairs opened. The startled and calculating look on the proprietor’s face suggested she was already composing a sign about what to do when arriving with donkeys. We were shown to a cabin as lifeless as the rest of the park but perfectly functional with a small veranda on which to unpack out of the rain. I got a good night’s sleep but in the morning there was nothing appealing to distract me from efficiently packing, cleaning up the manure and loading. We got away nice and early.
Only a kilometre down the road was Ayton Village where ‘Viv’s Café’ looked welcoming. The owner and her three local customers were warm and friendly, asking lots of questions. I told them over several cups of tea what I was doing and my plan from here: to follow what is known as the CREB Track which was cut to maintain the power lines over the Donovan range. A café customer, who had ridden horses along the infamous CREB Track, warned against it. After the five months of rain they’d had here, there was no way it would be safe for me and my donkeys. She pointed to photos on the café noticeboard showing just how bad the mud could be. The track into Auravale farm had also revealed what ‘muddy’ means in this part of the world. With the CREB track out of the question we discussed alternatives.
My next stop would be the Aboriginal community of Wujal Wujal, about 15 kilometres south of Ayton, near the start of the CREB track. The general consensus amongst my café companions was that at Wujal Wujal I should instead cross the Bloomfield River and follow what’s known as The Coast Road across two mountain ranges to Cape Tribulation. From there I would follow the bitumen road for 50 kilometres to rejoin the BNT at Daintree.
The road to Wujal Wujal followed the banks of the mighty Bloomfield River, but was hidden from the road by 20 metres of thick rainforest. It was hard to find a spot for a break because the rainforest came right to the edge of both sides of the road. I finally found a little clearing in the forest where low tide had exposed some firm mud down to the water’s edge.
I tethered the donkeys within reach of little bushes they’d been enjoying on and off since Cooktown but, to my surprise, they showed no interest. For the whole time I was eating my breakfast, Grace and Charley stood still and alert, their ears continually turning in every direction. I began to feel rather strange, then somewhat anxious. I gulped down just one cup of tea and quickly gathered my things.
It was not until we moved off that I remembered that the Bloomfield River was serious saltwater crocodile country. Oh my goodness! The donkeys could have been on full alert because there was a crocodile nearby. Being close to the road I hadn’t considered the possibility, or the warnings about not stopping on riverbanks at any time. Remembering how attuned they are to their environment, I made a mental note to take more notice of the donkeys’ behaviour.
It was the hottest part of the day when we arrived at Wujal Wujal. I wanted to find Agnes Walker, the senior community elder who could give permission to walk through Kuku Yalanji country. Agnes’s house was on the farthest corner of an urban-like setting of quarter acre allotments with shadeless streets in a grid pattern. It was a long two kilometres. Many mothers, fathers, children and dogs came out of their houses to watch us. They were interested and curious about where I was going, what I was doing and what I could tell them about the donkeys.
There were lots of dogs. The same scenario repeated itself over and over again. A savage, growling dog beat its owners to the front boundary at which point the donkeys synchronised a slow turn of their heads to give the dog a look. The donkeys didn’t even put their ears back. They just gave a look, at which every canine without exception backed off and slunk into its house with its owners still smiling, waving or asking me questions. I was comforted by the donkeys’ assertiveness in view of the dingo country we’d be going through later.
I was expected at Agnes’s house and people came out onto the veranda. It looked like the first house with no dog.
Someone called, “Come on in.”
Someone else said, “Beautiful donkeys.”
A young man and an older man walked down the steps to help me unload.
“Hi, I’m Liz.”
“Eric,” said the older man, “And this is my son, Rainess.”
Eric assisted in unloading. I couldn’t help noticing how perfectly he timed his removal of the donkeys’ saddle bags with mine on the other side. Then as I unstrapped Grace’s saddle, I was aware of the ease with which Eric unbuckled Charley’s saddle and folded the straps exactly as I do. It was not as if he would have done it before, because every pack saddle is slightly different and my way is… well … just my way. He was simply extremely observant and what fascinated me most was that not once did I see him look in my direction to watch how I was doing it.
I finished cleaning the donkeys’ hooves, tethered them in the front yard and unloaded all my gear onto the front veranda. Somebody pointed to a chair. Few words were exchanged yet I felt warmly welcome with no judgement about attending to my animals before meeting social obligations. I sat down and Agnes brought out cups of tea.
We finally sat around and yarned in the relaxed way of people who are aware that talking is merely the surface level of communication that goes on between people. When I was with strangers in white man’s world, I mostly felt socially inept and ill at ease in conversations that seemed to serve no other purpose than avoiding the dissonance produced by prolonged silence. I’d always thought it strange that silence is comfortable between people who know each other well (and therefore have plenty to talk about), but that drawn-out silence in social settings involving people who are not well-acquainted made many uncomfortable. I was aware how at ease I felt with these people whom I didn’t know and who didn’t know me; and could detect no discomfort in any person present when nobody spoke for a couple of minutes. It had never occurred to me before that the social discomfort with silence that I’d often encountered was a cultural issue. Aboriginal culture did not demand that someone fill the social space with conversation.
Agnes was an attractive woman in her late 40s with a ready smile showing flashing white teeth that lit up her dark brown eyes and skin. But her real beauty was in the serenity of her unlined face. In contrast to her husband Eric whose face revealed a life of hardship, the tranquillity in Agnes’s face and compassion in her eyes seemed to reflect surrender to suffering rather than struggle against it. I enjoyed several hours sitting on the veranda amidst the ebb and flow of easy conversation with Agnes, Eric, Rainess, his wife and their 2-month-old daughter, with Agnes’s numerous sisters and grown-up daughters popping in and out. I loved how the baby was never left on her own; one or other of the grown-ups was holding or playing with her at all times.
Early in the evening Agnes had to go out and Eric offered me access to any food to make myself dinner. I had my own supplies but felt that to refuse would be jarring to him. I looked in their cupboards and fridge, saddened to see little nutritious food, mainly processed groceries with practically no fresh fruit or vegetables. This might be the case also for non-indigenous people in remote areas where produce is no longer grown in home gardens and fresh food is expensive, but reports from early explorers commenting on the extreme good health of the native people makes their situation (I feel) particularly distressing. I was also dismayed to see the baby’s mother warming a bottle instead of breastfeeding, which is so much easier, cheaper and better for the long-term health of a baby born into an already at-risk cultural group.
Sleeping on Walker’s veranda I kept an ear out for roaming stallions and packs of dogs they had warned me about. Although the donkeys could clearly take care of any dogs that bothered them, I was not confident they could cope with a pack, especially with one of them tethered. Awaking frequently to the sounds of horses whinnying, I could see the donkeys on full alert in the moonlight. But the night passed uneventfully.
Eric strongly agreed with the people at Ayton that I should not attempt the BNT-nominated CREB