26 March 1936

'WALKABOUT' THAT PROVED FATAL

Young Blackboy's Romance Nipped In The Bud

The 'walkabout' is an exclusive characteristic of Australian Aborigines, and its origin has given more than one anthropologist food for thought. Just why an Aborigine must embark on an aimless wandering across the deserts, leaving his regular haunts and familiar hunting grounds, is unfathomable. Doubtless some primitive instinct manifests itself in the urge to shift camp periodically. Just how strong this urge can become is clearly demonstrated by several unusual cases of 'walkabouts' that I have known. 

Black Charlie was only a little mite when his parents got the job of tending a waterhole on an outback station, and being well away from the homestead and the influence of whites, little Charlie spent the first few years of his life in much the same way as hundreds of other young full-bloods did. But misfortune soon came the little fellow's way, for at the age of seven both his parents died. 

Charlie was then taken to the station and placed in charge of a half-caste woman who helped around the house. As soon as he was old enough he was given a horse to ride, and was soon taking his part in the work of the station. 

The boss of the station was one of the best in that part of the country, and he realised quite plainly the somewhat sad fate and outlook for young Charlie. Being a full-blood, he would not tolerate his present existence for many years, and even if he went 'bush' the odds were against him receiving a warm welcome from the wild blacks. He was, in short, practically an outcast in the world of both whites and blacks; but the primitive instincts of his forefathers would dominate him from time to time, as the boss knew from experience. 

The first intimation of any such influence affecting him was the increasing surliness of Charlie's expression. In stead of smiling and being tolerant towards any mishaps, he became the opposite, and everyone was quick to notice it. 

There must have been a strange awakening in the instincts of this young black, as the call of the desert, for such it is, came to him. For days he would be restless and worried. He himself knew not the cause, but eventually his restlessness would get the better of him. Though only a lad of seventeen or so, and quite a stranger to the out back—his whole life's activities having been limited by the boundaries of the station— he one day expressed a wish to the boss that he would like to have a look around further outback. 

'But what is the good of it?' asked the boss. 'You can't speak the black Myalls' tongue. They won't understand you, and you don't know your way about. Why, you'll get lost and starve. Maybe the Myalls will spear you.' 'No,' said the black lad. 'I not frightened, I go. No good here all the time with you people.' 

The boss saw that at all costs he must change the lad's ideas for a while, until the longing for the 'walkabout' wore off. So he said, 'You take a trip down with the boys when the sheep go off and have a spree, Charlie. Then you'll feel better, like a good fellow. Won't you?' 

'No boss, I don't want a spree. 'White men don't like blacks. Only to sell them drink and bacca. I'm going where I belong.' That seemed definite. The boss knew what to expect, and warned the lads to watch their best horses. The odds were that Charlie would bolt off on horseback. 

After a few days of sulking and refusing to eat Charlie disappeared and, as we expected, one of our best conditioned packhorses was also missing. We were somewhat surprised when, a few days later, the mare returned. 

The boss always claimed that a homing pigeon had nothing on her, and it was plain that she had not been treated badly or ridden any great distance. It appeared that quite unconsciously, guided probably by some strange intuition, Charlie had ridden the old mare due north-west, straight into a wild blacks' camp. These blacks were in all probability blood brothers of his parents, and it was their duty to initiate the young buck as a member of the tribe. 

About two weeks after his sudden disappearance Charlie slunk back to the station, and hung around the kitchen for some food. Everyone saw him but refrained from passing any remarks at his appearance, so as not to embarrass him. 

He received his evening meal and slunk off to his camp alongside of the woolshed, a miserable and dejected specimen of an Aborigine. No one could imagine the vast change that had taken place in the lad in the short period of a fortnight. He seemed an altogether changed being, and bore three nasty horizontal scars across his chest — doubtless the symbols of initiation. 

For weeks after his 'walkabout' Charlie was sullen and remorseful, and refused to take any interest in his work. His boss, being a kind-hearted man, gave him all the peace and quiet he desired, and eventually the effects of his adventure wore off somewhat, and he resumed a more normal demeanor. 

Some months later the effects of his 'walkabout' seemed to have left him completely, and Charlie began to take an interest in a half-caste girl working on a neighboring station. He began to dress up, that is, he wore decent cowboy clothes, and even, purchased some very highly scented hair oil from an Afghan hawker. 

Doubtless his Mary was quite pleased with her spruiced-up beau, and the boss gave Charlie every opportunity to improve his position, both with the young lady and on the station, hoping that perhaps the black lad might be induced to settle down and make some sort of home for himself, and the girl, whose outlook in life was anything but pleasant or promising. 

Just as the kindly old boss was looking forward to seeing Charlie and Mary married, there came over the black an unusually severe attack of moroseness. Nothing could be done to affect any change for the better in this sudden turn. 

Attempts were made to induce him to brighten up, but of no avail. It was the call of the wild— the instinct of the full blood which seems to be a seasonal urge. Poor Mary was desolate and grief-stricken at the change in her lover, but it was useless to reason with him, and after a few weeks of aimless loitering around Charlie disappeared, as on the previous occasion — almost twelve months to a day.

A few days later we heard from a missionary that a tribe of wild blacks was camped outback, and beyond doubt they were Charlie's people following their usual route in their rambles through the deserts. 

Every one expected Charlie back in a short time, but on this occasion he was out in the desert for over three weeks, and when he did return it was because of sheer necessity. At first we hardly recognised the starved and weary black. He was obviously ill, and was clad only in a loin cloth. The mole skins he had worn on his departure had probably been kept as souvenirs by the Myalls. 

But what caused everyone concern was his sick condition. He avoided everyone and lay about in his camp for a few days dressed in some old rags, sneaking to the kitchen occasionally for a meal. When the boss questioned him he received a reply to the effect that he would soon be all right. He only wanted to be left alone. 

Shortly afterwards he was no longer able to leave his camp, and only responded feebly when called, so the boss went to investigate. Charlie evidently knew that his hours were numbered; so he confided in the boss, and a strange tale unfolded itself. 

Somehow the wild tribe had discovered Charlie's attitude towards the half-caste girl Mary, and using their influence in some strange manner had lured him into the desert to deal with him. Probably they considered it a serious breach, of tribal laws for a full blood to consider marriage to a half caste. 

When the unfortunate Charlie was in their hands they subjected him to most cruel and hideous outrages, probably at the witch doctor's instigation. The cause of his sickness and suffering was two gaping wounds in his back, one on either side, and it is probable that the incisions were made with crude stone knives to enable the operator to remove the kidney fat, an operation that is occasionally performed by the wild blacks and invariably attended by fatal results, as it was in this case. 

After the boss had done all he could to make him comfortable, Charlie expressed a wish to see his sweetheart before he died. The girl was sent for, and her lover died in her arms that night. 

There was an air of extreme melancholy and sadness over the station for many days after Charlie was finally laid to rest near the graves of his parents. The little halfcaste girl was heartbroken at the tragic ending to her romance. Perhaps none realised better than the boss just what the loss of her lover meant to her. 

It is extremely doubtful if the inherent nature of the Australian Aborigine can ever be displaced by any attempts at civilisation. Born ramblers and desert lovers, they move through life from camp to camp, hardship to hardship, and invariably the instincts of their ancestors will assert themselves.

— "KANNATTA.''

See also: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walkabout for a better contemporary understanding of abrupt temporary social mobility, particularly in teenage male aboriginals.

'Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast'

One encounters some super-optimists at times, and is apt to marvel at the manner in which defeat is defied until the very last. My story in this respect refers to an old fellow who, in his optimism, refused to bow to the in evitable until absolutely forced to. 

Nearly 20 years ago, I was looking after a mob of bullocks on some relief country. Not far from where we had our camp was an old man engaged in fossicking for opal. To hazard a guess, he must have been 70, but such was his constitution that he could have passed for many years younger. 

One day, while returning to camp, I came to where the old chap was working. At least 15 shafts, averaging about 50 ft. in depth, were to be seen within a radius of a mile of his camp, definite evidence of several years' fruitless work. 

As I rode up to the shaft where the old fellow was working (he was at the moment winding up a bucket of dirt), I was figuring out just how long he might have been sinking those shafts. I dismounted, with a view to having a yarn. 

After commonplace matters had been discussed, I became inquisitive, and was surprised to hear that he had been working there for three and a half years, the only breaks being when he had to drive to the nearest township for rations. More surprising still was the information that no opal had been yet uncovered. 'Colors' only had revealed themselves when the bottom of each shaft had been reached. 

Every day for a month I pulled up at the shaft, and each day the answer to my question was, 'I know I'll strike it in this hole,' or 'never saw better prospects.' 

Having plenty of time on my hands, I would turn to and wind up a few buckets of dirt that the old chap filled below, and in order to please him, I would admit being able to see the colors he said existed in the dirt. All I ever saw, however, were just plain dirt and stones. 

Becoming friendly with the old fellow, I learnt that since being on the job over £300 had been spent on food, and that, if he did not 'strike it' in the hole he was then on, he would have to sell half a dozen draught horses, a dray and fencing tools. I had seen the horses several times, and, had I been a buyer for draughts, I would have willingly paid him £20 each for them; they were all quality and mud fat. Knowing his independent nature, I did not like to offend the old chap, but took the risk and told him he could get all the rations he required from me. He wouldn't hear of it, remarking, 'What I want I'll pay for.' I let it go at that. 

A few days before I was to shift camp the hole was bottomed, but no opal came the old chap's way. I suggested that he should try elsewhere, mentioning a station where I knew small parcels of opal were being obtained. But he would not move, and almost as soon as bottom had been struck, another shaft was being put down. 

The day before I left, the old fellow told me that he would be going in to sell his dray and horses to get enough rations to do him 12 months. My attempts to discourage him were futile, the old chap insisting that opal would be found. 'It's here, all right, If I can only get on to it,' he said. It might have been, but to me it seemed a hopeless job. 

Nine months later I was passing through the township, when a familiar voice hailed me; it was my old friend, the opal digger, slightly inebriated. Naturally, I thought that he had struck luck and was celebrating, but such was not the case. 

He had sold his dray and horses, spent most of the money he had received for them in rations, had sunk three more holes, eaten himself out, and was temporarily prevented from carrying on. Refusing the pound note I offered, the old chap said he was going out to a fencing job, as a post cutter, and with the money he expected to make, rations would be purchased, and back he would go to ferret out that opal he was sure existed. 

In a little over four years, all the return the old chap had received for his hard work and £400 worth of rations, was the will to get back to find the elusive opal, that according to those who knew, did not exist within two hundred miles of where he had been working. Still, there is nothing like being optimistic.— 'Old Timer.'