“No,” he answered. “It housed a Mutant. It has been here many, many years—long forgotten by your people and possibly even by the survivor who created it.”
“Why then did you fix it?” I inquired.
“Why not? We do not understand, agree, or accept your ways, but we do not judge. We honor your position. You are where you are supposed to be, given your past choices and your current free will to make decisions. This place serves for us the same as other sacred sites. It is a time to pause, to reflect, to confirm our relationship to Divine Oneness and all life. There’s nothing left here, you see, not even any bones! But my nation respects your nation. We bless it, release it, and become better beings for having passed this way.”
That afternoon, I thought about reflection—looking at myself, sifting through the rubble of my past. It was dirty work, scary, and even dangerous. There were lots of old habits and old beliefs that I had defended with swords of vested interest. Would I have stopped to repair a Jewish or Buddhist grave? I could remember becoming upset in a traffic jam caused by people leaving a religious temple. Would I now have the understanding to remain centered, be nonjudgmental and let others follow their own path with my blessing? I was beginning to understand: we automatically give to each person we meet, but we choose what we give. Our words, our actions, must consciously set the stage for the life we wish to lead.
Suddenly there was a gust of wind. The air licked my body, scratching, like a cat’s tongue on my already abused skin. It lasted only a few seconds, but somehow I knew that honoring traditions and values I did not understand, and did not agree with, was not going to be easy but would bring me immense benefits.
That night, as a full moon dominated the sky, we gathered around the outdoor hearth. An orange glow painted our faces as the conversation drifted onto the subject of food. It was an open dialogue. They asked me, and I answered everything I possibly could. They listened to my every word. I told them about apples, how we created hybrid varieties, made applesauce, and Mom’s “good-ole” apple pie. They promised to find wild apples for me to sample. I learned that the Real People were fundamentally vegetarians. For centuries they freely ate the natural wild fruits, yams, berries, nuts, and seeds. They occasionally added fish and eggs when such an item presented itself with the purpose for being, to become part of the Aborigine’s body. They prefer not to eat things with “faces.” They have always ground grain, but it was only when they were driven from the coast into the Outback that eating flesh became necessary.
I described a restaurant and how foods are served on decorated plates. I mentioned gravy. The idea was confusing. Why cover meat with a sauce? So I agreed to demonstrate. Of course there wasn’t an appropriate pan available. Our cooking had consisted of bite-sized pieces of meat, usually placed on the sand after the coals were moved to one side. Sometimes the meat was put on skewers supported by poles. Occasionally a type of stew was constructed using meat, vegetables, herbs, and precious water. Looking around, I found a smooth, hairless sleeping skin, and with the help of Sewing Woman, we were able to create curved edges. She always carried a special pouch around her neck; it held bone needles and sinew. I melted animal fat in the center, and when it was liquid I added some fine powder they had ground earlier. I added salt grass, a crushed hot pepper seed, and finally water. It thickened, so I put it over the bite-sized meat we had served earlier, which was a very odd creature called a frilled lizard. The gravy evoked new facial expressions and comments from all who tried it. They spoke very tactfully, and at that moment my mind reverted back about fifteen years.
I had entered the Mrs. America pageant and found out that a part of the national contest was creating an original casserole recipe. For two weeks I made casseroles every day. Fourteen consecutive dinners in our home consisted of eating and evaluating the taste, appearance, and texture of each day’s entry, looking for a potential award winner. My children never refused to eat, but they soon became masters of telling me tactfully what they thought. They endured some unconventional tastes in support of Mother doing her thing! When I won “Mrs. Kansas,” they both shouted in celebration, “We beat the Casserole Challenge!”
Now I was seeing those same expressions on my desert companions’ faces. We had fun doing almost everything we were involved in, and this was a source of great laughter as well. But because their spiritual quest is so present in everything they do, I was not surprised when someone commented how symbolic gravy was to the Mutant value system. Instead of living the truth, Mutants allow circumstances and conditions to bury universal law under a mixture of convenience, materialism, and insecurity.
The interesting thing about their remarks and observations was that I never felt I was being criticized or judged. They never judged my people as being wrong or this tribe as right. It was more like a loving adult observing a child struggling to fit a left shoe on the right foot. Who is to say you can’t get a lot of mileage out of walking with shoes on incorrectly? Maybe there is valuable learning in bunions and blisters! But it does seem unnecessary suffering to an older, wiser being.
We also talked about birthday cakes and the tasty frosting. I found their analogy of icing extremely powerful. It seemed to symbolize how much time, in the one-hundred-year Mutant life span, is spent in artificial, superficial, temporary, decorative, sweetened pursuits. So very few actual moments of one’s life are spent discovering who we are, and our eternal beingness.
When I spoke of birthday parties, they listened intently. I talked of the cake, songs, and gifts—an increase in candles each year as we get older. “Why would you do that?” they inquired. “To us celebration means something special. There isn’t anything special about getting older. It takes no effort. It just happens!”
“If you don’t celebrate getting older,” I said, “what do you celebrate?”
“Getting better,” was the reply. “We celebrate if we are a better, wiser person this year than last. Only you would know, so it is you who tells the others when it is time to have the party.” Now that, I thought, is something I must remember!
It was truly amazing how much nutritious wild food is available and how it appears when they need it. In dried regions that appear inhospitable to vegetation, the appearance is deceptive. In the barren soil are seeds with very dense coatings. When the rains come, the seeds take root, and the landscape is transformed. Yet, within only days the flowers have completed the cycle of existence, the winds scatter the seeds, and the land returns to a harsh, parched condition.
Scattered through the desert, on the land nearer the coast and in the northern, more tropical areas, we had hearty meals using some type of bean. We found fruit and wonderful honey for our wild sassafras bark tea. At one point we peeled paper bark off trees. We used it to shelter us, to wrap around food, and to chew for its aromatic qualities that clear head colds, headaches, and mucous congestion.
Many of the bushes contained leaves with medicinal oils for treating bacterial invasions. They acted as astringents that rid the body of intestinal infections and parasites. Latex, the fluid in some plant stems and certain leaves, will remove warts, corns, and calluses. They even have alkaloids available, such as quinine. Aromatic plants are squeezed and soaked in water until the fluid changes color. It is then rubbed into the chest and back. If heated, the vapor is inhaled. They seemed to be blood cleansers, stimulants to the lymph glands, and an aid to the immune system. There is a small willowlike tree that has many aspirin characteristics. It is given for internal discomfort, for the pain accompanying a sprain or break, as well as for relief of minor muscle and joint aches and pains. It is also effective on skin lesions. There are other barks used for loose bowels, and the gum from some are dissolved in water to make cough syrup.
Overall, this particular native tribe is extremely healthy. Later, I was able to identify some of the flower petals they ate as being active against the bacteria of typhoid fever. It made me wonder if perhaps their immune systems were boosted in this way, much as our vacc
ines are designed to do. I do know that the Australian puffball, a large plant fungus, contains an anticancer substance called calvacin that is currently under research. They also have an antitumor substance called acronycine in one of the barks.
They discovered the strange properties of the wild kangaroo apple centuries ago. Modern medicine uses it as a source of the steroid solasodine in oral contraceptives. The Elder advised me that they feel very certain that new lives brought into the world are meant to be welcomed, loved, and planned. New life for the Real People tribe since the beginning of time has always been a consciously creative act. The birth of a baby means they have provided an earthly body for a fellow soul. The bodies, unlike those in our society, are not always expected to appear without flaws. It is the invisible jewel, housed within, that is flawless and both gives and receives help in the joint soul projects of becoming polished and advanced.
I felt that if they were to pray, in our understanding of petition prayer, it would be for the unloved child, not the aborted one. All souls who choose to experience human existence will be so honored, if not through one parent and that set of circumstances, then another, in another time. The Elder confided to me that the random sexual behavior among some tribes, without regard for the resulting birth, was perhaps the most backward step humankind had taken. They believe the spirit enters the fetus when it tells the world of its presence by movement. For them a stillborn child is a body that housed no spirit.
The Real People have also located a wild tobacco plant. They use the leaves for smoking in pipes on special occasions. They still use tobacco as a rare and unique substance because it is not abundant, can produce a feeling of euphoria, and can become addictive. It is symbolically used when greeting visitors or starting meetings. I saw a similarity between their respect for the tobacco weed and the Native American traditions. My friends spoke often of the earth we walked upon, reminding me it was the dust of our ancestors. They said things do not really die, things just change. They talked of how the human body returns to the ground to feed the plants, which in turn are humans’ only source of breath. They seemed much more aware of the precious molecule of oxygen needed for all life than the vast majority of my American acquaintances.
The tribe of Real People have incredible eyesight. The pigment rutin, found in several of their plants, is an acceptable chemical used in ophthalmology drugs for treating fragile capillaries and blood vessels of the eye. Over the thousands of years that they had Australia to themselves, it seems they learned how food affected the body.
One problem with eating food grown in the wild is the large number of poisonous items. They recognize immediately what is off-limits. They have learned how to remove poisonous parts, but they did tell me how sad it was that some of their splintered tribes in the Aboriginal race, who have reverted to aggressive behavior, have a history of using the poison against human enemies.
When I had traveled with the group long enough, they accepted my inquiries as being sincerely necessary for my own personal understanding. I approached the subject of cannibalism. I had read the accounts in history and heard jokes from my Australian friends referring to Aborigines eating people, and even eating their own babies. Was that true, I asked?
Yes. Since the beginning of time, humans have experimented with everything. Even here on this continent, it was not possible to keep people from it. There had been Aboriginal tribes with kings, with female rulers, some who stole people away from another group, and some who ate human flesh. Mutants kill and walk away, leaving the body for disposal. The cannibals killed and used the carcass to nourish life. One group’s purpose is neither better nor worse than the other. Killing a human, regardless if it’s for protection, revenge, convenience, or food, is all the same. Not to kill another is what differentiates Real People from mutated human creatures.
“There is no morality in war,” they said. “But cannibals never killed more in one day than they could eat. In your wars, thousands are killed in a few minutes. Perhaps it might be worth suggesting to your leaders that both parties in your war agree to five minutes of combat. Then let all the parents come to the battlefield and collect the pieces and parts of their children, take them home and mourn and bury them. After that is over, another five minutes of battle might or might not be agreed upon. It is difficult to make sense out of senselessness.”
That night, as I lay on the thin means of separating my mouth and eyes from the terrain of grit, I thought about how far humankind has come in so many ways, and how far away we have drifted in so many other aspects.
12
BURIED ALIVE
COMMUNICATION WAS not a simple task. Pronouncing the tribal words was difficult. In most instances they were very long. For instance, they spoke of a tribe called Pitjantjatjara and one called Yankuntjatjara. Many things sounded identical until I learned to listen extremely carefully. I realize that reporters around the world do not agree on how to spell Aboriginal words. Some use B, DJ, D, and G, where others for the same words use P, T, TJ, and K. The point is that there is no right or wrong to it, because the people themselves do not use an alphabet. It is a no-win situation for the folks who wish to argue. My problem was that the people with whom I was walking used nasal sounds I found extremely difficult to make. To sound “ny,” I learned to force my tongue against my back teeth. You will see what I mean if you do this and say the word “Indian.” There is also a sound made by elevating the tongue and flicking it forward rapidly. When they sing, the sounds are often very soft and musical, but then there is a very abrupt forceful noise.
Instead of using one word for sand, they have over twenty different words, which describe textures, types, and descriptions of soil in the Outback. But a few words were easy, like Kupi for water. They seemed to enjoy learning my words, and they were more adept at learning my sounds than I was at learning theirs. Because they were the hosts and hostesses, I used whatever made them most comfortable. I had read in the history books Geoff had provided that when the British Colony was first established in Australia, there were two hundred different Aboriginal languages and six hundred dialects. The books didn’t mention talking mind-to-mind or using hands. I used a crude form of sign language. It was the most common method of talking during the day because obviously they were sharing mind messages and telling stories by mental telepathy, so it was simply more polite to indicate something to a person walking next to me with a sign rather than disrupt with a spoken sentence. We used the universal sign of moving the fingers to say “come here,” or holding up the palm for “stop,” and fingers over the lips for “silence.” In the first weeks together I was told to be quiet often, but eventually I learned not to ask so much and to wait to be included in the knowledge.
One day I caused a ripple of laughter through the group as we walked along. I scratched myself in response to an insect bite. They roared with comical expressions and imitated my gesture. It seemed the specific sign I used meant I had spotted a crocodile. We were at least two hundred miles from the nearest marsh.
We had been together for several weeks when I became aware of eyes surrounding me anytime I ventured away from the group. The darker the night, the larger the eyes seemed to become. Finally the forms became clear enough for me to identify. There was a pack of vicious wild dingos on our trail.
I went running back to the camp, truly frightened for the first time, and reported my finding to Ooota. He in turn told the Elder. All the people standing nearby turned and joined our circle of concern. I waited for words, because I had learned by then that words from the Real People tribe do not automatically pour forth; they always think before they speak. I could have counted slowly to ten before Ooota relayed the message. The problem was one of odor. I had become offensive. It was true. I could smell myself and see the expression from the others. Unfortunately, I had no solution. Water was so scarce we would not waste it on bathing, nor was there a tub available. My black companions did not have the foul smell I had. I suffered with the problem, and t
hey suffered because of me. I think part of the problem was my constantly scorching and peeling flesh and the energy being used by the burning of stored toxic fat. I was obviously losing weight daily. Of course, having no deodorant or toilet paper didn’t help, and there was something else I observed. I noticed that soon after we ate, they went into the desert and emptied their bowels, and it truly did not have the strong smell that is associated with waste matter in our lifestyle. I was sure that after fifty years of my civilized diet it would take some time to detoxify my body, but I felt if I stayed in the Outback, it was possible.
I shall not forget how the Elder explained the situation to me, and the final solution. They were not concerned for themselves; they had accepted me for better or worse. Their concern was not for our safety; it was for the poor animals. I was confusing them. Ooota said the dingos believed the tribe was dragging some rotten piece of meat, and it was driving them crazy. I had to laugh because that really was the smell, like an old hunk of hamburger you left sitting in the sun.
I said I would appreciate any help they could offer. So the following day at the peak of the heat, we jointly dug a forty-five-degree angle trench, and I lay down in it. Then they covered me up completely with soil; only my face was exposed. Shade was provided, and I was left there for about two hours.’ Being buried, completely helpless, unable to move a muscle, is quite a feeling. It was another new experience for me. If they had walked away, I would have become a skeleton in that very spot. At first I was concerned that some curious lizard, snake, or desert rat would run up my face. For the first time in my life I truly related to a victim of paralysis, thinking about moving an arm or leg, telling an arm or leg to move, and it did not respond. But once I relaxed and closed my eyes, concentrating on releasing toxins from my body and absorbing the wonderful, cool, refreshing, cleansing elements from the ground, the time went faster.