The Lunch

The joys of fieldwork

Another snippet from my field notes. Just as it happened (except that the morning tea bit really belongs to my mate Will Powrie - apologies for nicking it Will, but too good to pass up!)…I think it captures the (often) intense discomfit of the cross-cultural exchange rather well.

Most,if not all of these men are departed I am afraid. The last generation of people who walked and sang the land naked are disappearing fast. The tragedy of this, is beyond words. Three cheers for development!

Morning Tea

Tungku is sitting in the passage seat. A charred kangaroo head is on the seat

between him and me. We’re somewhere north of Watarru.

“Stop ‘ere”, he says, gesturing urgently and jumping about in the seat. I

suspect a goanna, and pull up quickly. Tungku leaps out and selects a rock from

the side of the road, then climbs back into the Toyota.

Moving again, he picks up the kangaroo head, and uses the rock to smash his

way into the skull, and then proceeds to pick out the tender (and evidently

delicious) brains, slurping the jelly through his fingers.

Lunch

We stop for lunch. Will gets out wipu (kangaroo tails) – three.

“Not enoughp”, someone says. I get out another four. A bit more satisfaction.

But someone else pipes up:

“Take too long, wipu”, and “what about chop?”

“OK. I’ll get the chops”. So I produce a big pack of chops from my fridge, and

lay a barbeque plate over the fire. Too hot…it had been built up to make coals

for wipu.

There is a tense moment as I wordlessly digest the knowledge that I was cook.

Again. I start cooking. The men can’t wait. Flames lick the meat. Flames lick my

hands. Fat drips onto the fire, and the flames are redoubled.

I’m trying to turn the chops with a small pocket knife. There’s no hair left on

the backs of my fingers.

The men are each eying off their favourite chops – circling as it were from

their seated positions in an arc, backs to the wind, around the fire.

The first batch are ready, at least, on the outside. They are decidedly rare on

the inside. I manage to flick those that I think are done onto an enamelled tin

plate that is sitting beside the fire. Soon a clamour rises for them to be passed.

My fingers are burning. There is smoke in my eyes. Ginger is getting in my way,

trying to cook a wipu, burning the hair off in the flames and raising a

sulphurous stink.

Before I am quite ready, the pressure is too much, and with some irritation I

pick up the plate and pass it to Ginger Mick. He yelps, and drops the plate,

chops and all, quickly pouring water onto a burnt thumb – he had grabbed the

side of the plate that had been against the fire.

I try to say sorry. I try to feel sorry. But I can’t. I can just conceal my glee.

Then Tungku arcs up. “Gimme that big one there”.

I give it to him, speared onto my knife. He eats half, decides it’s raw, and puts

it back.

So the men eat, and I cook, feeling mildly harried, though the worst of the fire

has died down. Now I’m having to distribute chops.

“Gimme that little one, there. Uwa, that’s ‘im”.

”I’m havin’ that pig one”

“Hey, Wati, gib me that chop!”

“Any purita?”

“Tjalta?”

Eh, tumatu tjutji?” Not all this is directed at me. Thank goodness.

Tungku has had four chops. Now he’s eying off a fifth, a big one. “Eh, wati,

gimme that big one there”. I ignore him, and pass the few remaining to the

quieter men, those who have only managed one or two. Tungku is almost

shouting with excitement and anxiety.

I am utterly repused, and though I had previously decided agaist chop for

lunch, I wait for the last possible second, and said “Wiya, nganatja

nyayuku..this bloke didn’t have one yet, and whipped the object of desire from

under the nose of the little bugger.

Later old Bernard comments on Tungku: “He’s a greedy man, that one”