“I’ve been mates with Aboriginal people since I was a jackaroo in Queensland years ago – and have written books about the vile whitefella treatment of them – but it’s my marsupial friend who epitomises the shame I feel for what went before,” writes columnist ROBERT MACKLIN.
DOWN the coast at our little Tuross bolthole we have a regular visitor. She’s no trouble, either to us or to the paying guests who help with the rates, the mortgage and all the other seemingly endless expenses that come with a coastal hideaway.
She makes her own bed, feeds herself, entertains the occasional cousin, but very discreetly. In fact, she comes from quite a large family. They’re a bunch of layabouts who come and go as they please.
She’s not a pet exactly. In fact, if she thinks about it at all – and I’m not sure just how deeply kangaroos contemplate such matters – but if so, she would be the official resident while we were her occasional roomies.
Either way, it works for both sides. Usually I pretend she’s not there, even though her bed is in a little bush alcove beside the back deck, and when I emerge in the mornings with my bowl of Crunchy Nuts and sliced banana I sit on the steps in a non-threatening manner before starting a fairly one-sided conversation.
I generally pick a non-controversial topic. “Another lovely day…forecast is pretty good, too; maybe an afternoon shower…” I give her a quick glance as she flicks her ears back and forth while looking straight ahead. And after a while she either hops out to the grassy back lawn for her breakfast or leaves for what I fondly hope is her morning exercise by the nearby golf course.
She’s one of the many reasons I’ll be campaigning for a “Yes” vote in the referendum for an Aboriginal Voice to be enshrined in the Constitution. For while I have met and become instant mates with a fair number of Aboriginal people since I was a jackaroo in western Queensland all those years ago – and have written books about the vile whitefella treatment of them – it’s my little marsupial friend who epitomises the personal shame I feel for what went before.
At the end of a day’s mustering, we shot them from the back of a Land Rover. We did it, we told ourselves, to feed the dogs on the legs we sliced from their carcasses. But in truth, we did it for the thrill, and to show off our expertise as riflemen, even though the “targets” were usually standing quite still only 60 metres away.
But that’s just us. The truly great joy of the Christmas-New Year break is the way it reconnects a whole nation with that Australia of the bush and the coast where despite the ravages of civilisation, we’re again exposed to the natural world of yesteryear. For so long we’ve tried to bury it in the Big Fib we call the British history of our country.
The religious stuff is not very convincing, and the mad buying spree makes even less sense. But somehow, the real Australia has been surviving in the Aboriginal people and their unique totemic creatures – the glorious birds, the reptiles, the fish and the mammals – that populated their world. And it’s so refreshing to make their acquaintance again, even if they cause a pang of conscience.
To me, they’re the real meaning of Australia’s holiday season; and happily, I’ll soon have the chance to make what small amends are symbolised by the simple casting of a vote for my gentle marsupial visitor. Looking forward to that.
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