“Nah, nah, nah, that’s not right. My ole granny’s granny had a story about that balanda mob – long before dat Matthew Flinders come ‘ere! She showed me when I was just a little kid, she took me to that special place, dat ‘ollow cave, and showed me ta bit o’ mirror, dat ole white smokin’ pipe. She reckon dem olden mob was gib it for showing dat balanda sailor the water ‘ole behind the beach.”
I was sitting on the beach at Malga Point with Djamina Ganambarr, a senior Galpu man for the country adjacent to Galiwinku, Elcho Island, in East Arnhem Land. I had been reflecting on a recent read – Ernestine Hill’s My Love Must Wait, prompting me to mention Matthew Flinders, to recount what I thought was accepted history; Flinders’ contact with the Galpu people on his 1802/3 circumnavigation. A wonderfully shadowy, counter story unfolded!
Djamina’s family were able to draw upon a long oral history. I reckoned that the story was at least three hundred and fifty years old, back to the earliest voyages of the Dutch East India Company.
His family recall a distant fishing expedition, two lippa lippa in the shallows off the coast, the family on the beach. A huge boat sails around the point and anchors. A small boat appears, with ‘moon men’ rowing towards the canoes. Fishing is abandoned, as terrified fishers race the ghosts back to the beach. The strangers gesture an urgent need for bogala, unloading a water barrel.
The family lead them up behind the dunes, to the bush apple tree: it’s still growing next to the spring. The ‘ghosts’ fall upon the water, drinking greedily. Their barrel is filled and returned to the ship. Over the next few days, the rest of the crew came ashore, in rotation. Galpu hospitality offers roasted meat, and is reciprocated with several mirrors, tobacco, clay pipes, and metal belt buckles.
Djamina’s story references the appearance of a pussy-cat, a strange animal coming assure with the men. There were sports played on the beach. The ghosts join a hunt and use guns to kill several wallabies. Not to be outdone, an old Walamanu demonstrates his skill with the spear, dropping an animal at 50 paces. The story tells of the cat’s death, from snake bite, and its beachside burial.
It’s a couple of weeks later that Djamina calls me aside, and says we should go “…to dat ‘ollow cave.” We walk across the savannah, sometimes wading across remnant wet season flood plains. Djamina breaks into liturgical song as we approach the upland, a fire is lit, its smoke cleanses us before entering the space. I am instructed in the protocols to be observed inside the ‘ollow!
There is a crevice, maybe 300mm wide, a metre high and we squeeze through. There is a shaft of light softening the gloom. I follow Djamina. Inside there is a ledge with an old mummified cat, also two mirrors, a broken meerschaum pipe and an old metal buckle.