that houses the ducklings. I let Mother Duck out, not wanting
her to go through that again (or her ducklings!) and she happily
quacked off about her own business. I'm still of the opinion
that this is her first clutch, hence her inexpert attention.
We went to the Warrnambool Show on Saturday, and I met a man there who
yesterday afternoon happily took most of the geese away. Brian,
unfortunately, is not so happy. His geese, you see. And
not even any money for them.
I have promised the ducks and ducklings to Leah, who will happily take
them. So I, too, will lose the little ones I love. But I
know they will go to a new and good home. And they won't care,
just so long as they are fed, watered, housed and allowed to do duckly
things. It will be sad, but who knows, in this World, what the
future will bring? Smiles help one along the way, and it's of
little use to mourn that which has passed.
I have now heard that my interview for this position is slated for
Tuesday, which is good. I feel very odd about being a
Receptionist, having had little formal training for it, and learning
so much on the job. But I do still love it! If you get a
chance, will you pray for me?
Brian is currently mowing part of our large paddock, preparatory to
baling. It seems that he may also have some work to do outside
of the farm, which is work that he loves. I hope so, he could do
with the stimulation, and he wants to save up for a Harley.
We still haven't been able to sell the pigs, but with Christmas in the
offing, I am seriously considering re-advertising them.
The weather here has been topsy-turvy, with incredible warmth (28
degrees on Saturday) to mildness (19 for today) and predicted rain
later in the week. Which means, in our not-so-sunny climes, far
cooler temperatures. Ahh, the vicissitudes of Spring! But
at least I'm getting the washing done...
Back to the Cultural Awareness Training.
After visiting Danny, we went on to Hawker, a small town in South
Australias mid-North, and were lectured by a local Aboriginal woman
about the Stolen Generation, of which she was an unhappy part, bush
medicine, which she and her daughter collect, process and sell (I
bought a small jar of native honey and some other ingredients that had
been made into a salve that was supposed to be awfully good for
Alice's slight traces of eczema), most of which are secret ingredients
as she has already had people stealing her recipes that were handed
down through her nation, and diluting them, thus limiting their
efficacy and making money from the recipes without any acknowledgement
(I'm sure Arlene understands this point of view!).
Unlike Danny, the lady still bears mental scars of her childhood, and
this has, in turn, been passed on to those around her. It is
understandable but lamentable, and at least she is willing to pass on
her experiences so that we might all learn.
When we came back to the Camp, we set about being taught how to make
bracelets and necklaces using local and imported materials.
Almost all of us were delighted with the idea of using echidna quills,
and the gentleman who showed us how to thread (although I had had
quite a bit of experience threading in my wholesale jewellery days, I
always like learning more) could use traditional patterns as he was
from a local nation. He has relatives and friends out gathering
dead echidna bodies and then processes the spines.
I am pleased to say that I was able to help him, too, showing him a
quick and easy method of cutting the quills without damaging them.
I made a bracelet for Alice, which was far too big (shows how much
I've forgotten!), and then went on to a necklace for me with the
lovely strident colours of the Aboriginal national flag and some - you
guessed it! - echidna quills. The colours were red (for the
soil), black (for the skin colour) and yellow (for the sun). It
was a great memento of the visit, and will always remind me of the
Stolen Generation and how grateful I am that it does not still exist
and that I was not a part of it. Alice will always be my
daughter.
After he had left, Colin, who was our official tour guide, Aboriginal
himself, and who had run through what was acceptable behaviour towards
Elders and what wasn't, gave us rock picture basics so that we could
paint our own stones that we had gathered earlier. We didn't use
anything like ochre, modern poster paints did us very well.
I put together one that had the cross in white, a deep blue Rain of
the Holy Spirit, and a man and a woman figure underneath. Alice
was really chuffed with it.
The next morning, we packed everything ready for the trip home, and
drove into Port Augusta. We went to the Rural Health Office,
learning how difficult it is to speak to people who have taboos that
must be gently circumvented in order to have the patient treated, and
sometimes even finding the patient can be a challenge if the camp has
moved or the patient has decided to use native healing methods out
bush. The high rate of youth suicides, gaoling (sorry, jailing,
for Americans!) and drug abuse was also touched on, along with the
hope that all Aboriginal people will one day come to terms with their
heritage.
We then headed to the local Interpretive Centre, where I found some
more of Alice's beloved Tasmanian Devils in genuine plastic, so
increased her collection. Unfortunately, I didn't get time to
fully explore the Centre, which has been set up to provide people with
a history of the area and its original inhabitants.
After having had a rushed morning tea there, we were keen to visit the
Port Augusta indigenous radio station, which not only relays from the
Australia-wide Imparja network, out of Alice Springs, but also has
their own, local programming, including education on the perils of
alcohol. A big feature of this station is the chance that people
have to record their own music and play it on air. It was great
to see a couple of young musicians, putting together tracks for later
release.
In the bus again, and this time to the local Clinic, where we were
given a lecture over Subway lunches about distance medicine, hygiene
problems in the Outback and the time and effort it takes to get in
medical experts to the area to assist the locals in maintaining health
and even to tutor them in etiquette. When, for example, an
Aboriginal lady answers "Yes" to a question, that does not
necessarily mean an affirmative response. It could mean that she
is agreeing to agree, because she sees the doctor involved as an Elder
and must be respected. Or it could mean that the question is too
private to answer and is putting off a response with what she believes
is basically none of the doctor's business. Or it could mean
yes.
After the tour of the Clinic, we were back on the bus and across town
to where the local decisions regarding all manner of topics from
housing, to health and welfare, to funding are handled. This has
recently changed name from ATSIC (Aboriginal and Torres Strait
Islanders Commission) to something so new it hasn't even made the side
of the building yet. The Indigenous Coordination Centres will now
bring together specialist in their fields to hopefully re-structure
Aboriginal issues to the betterment of Aborigines everywhere, as money
is not filtering down to the grass roots, where it is needed.
