A Different Mind – How an Australian Indigenous Community Helped a Non-Indigenous Man to Live in Their World

Allan Tegg

(This paper was presented at the Asia Pacific Conference 2024)

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples should be aware that this paper includes the names of people who are deceased. All persons referred to in this paper lived on the Warmun Community.

The Kimberley region is in the far north west of Australia. It is about 425,000 sq km – 3 times the size of England, twice the size of Victoria and just smaller than California. The population when I was there in the early 1980s was about 15, 000 people. The current population is about 35,000. Warmun is in the East Kimberley near the Northern Territory border. The nearest town is Halls Creek, approximately 160 kilometres to the south and has a population of about 1200 people. When I was at Warmun, the population was about 200 people, all but 10 of whom were Indigenous. The only whites worked for the community, or where family of those workers.

It is November 1984 and we are assembled at bottom camp. This is the third evening we have gathered and nearly everyone from the township is present. Three adolescent boys sit on a rock at the front of the assemblage. A group of elders sing to them in Gija, the local language. Periodically, someone approaches the boys and whispers to them. They then look proudly into their eyes. 

I am standing about ten metres in front of the boys, as I have for each of the previous evenings. I stand still while around me there is constant movement. An old man approaches. He says, “This the Law, Joongoorra. Blackfella way. Ngarrranggarniny. We got to keep him strong. Make these boys learn, proper way.”

“Yes,” I say. “This Law, got to keep him strong. Only way.”

 He looks at me for a moment, as if sizing me up. He says, “You got him. You know.”

I have been engaged in similar interactions with the old men of the community for each of the three evenings. Both the ritual playing out in front of me, and what the old men tell me, are examples of what the people have been showing me during my four years as the Community Advisor to the Warmun Community at Turkey Creek in the East Kimberley Region of Western Australia. My job is to help them communicate the importance of the Law to politicians, bureaucrats, the media, mining companies and the myriads of other stakeholders the community has to deal with, particularly regarding land rights issues.

(It is a long time since I have been Allan. I am referred to as Joongoorra, the skin name that was bestowed on me when I first came to the community and places me in a classificatory relationship with everyone on the reserve. There are times when I am called ngajiny by my classificatory brothers who share the same skin name, wadoony by my brothers-in-law, ngabyi by my fathers, and ganggal by my grandmothers.)   

Night is falling and the singing ends. The three boys lift themselves up from the rock and join their families. An old man comes to tell me to be ready at dawn the next morning. I am not given any indication of what to expect. I do not consider this strange. I am used to being moved around, put into place.

The next morning, a utility arrives and I jump on the back. We drive across the creek to a place near middle camp. All around us, the township is coming to life. Women are making breakfast while children are waking up. 

A number of men are gathered near a series of low mounds that break the long red plain on which the township stands. One of the boys who were the centre of attention during the ritual is sitting on one of the mounds. The remains of a small fire smoulders next to where we are standing. I do not pay it much attention. There is always a fire. 

I am placed directly in front of the boy. He is then instructed to remove his trousers. I suddenly realise what is about to happen. The boy, who has been calm, panics. An elder tells him everything will be alright. 

I start to edge back. I am held in place by someone standing behind me. “You watch, Joongoorra,” he says. 

The man performing the operation acts quickly and the procedure takes no more than a few seconds. Coals are scooped from the fire place and used to anaesthetise the wound. The group starts to disperse. There is no discussion of what we have witnessed. I am offered a lift home but prefer to walk.

It is later that same day and I am walking through the township with Left Hand George and Hector Jandany. Hector is also a Joongoorra, my classificatory brother. We first talk about the events of the morning. Then Hector says, “Might be we cut you, ngajiny.”

I am taken aback. I think that Hector is joking. I decline the offer of initiation. We walk on as if the communication did not happen.

So many things occurred during my time at Warmun, the interaction with Hector had slipped out of my mind. Now, when I look back, I wonder whether he was serious in his offer. Is that why I was invited to the initiation that morning? Was I being introduced to the procedure so I could see that it was no big deal? It might hurt a bit but would soon be over.

I have no way of knowing the truth. However, whatever Hector’s motivation, going back to the event has helped me to view my time at Warmun through a different lens. Specifically, it has led me to wonder whether the community wanted me to be more than just someone who gathered information and helped shape it into political communications. If so, who was the person they wanted me to be and how did they teach me to be that person?

From this perspective, I can see that my tuition started from the time I arrived at Warmun. My education was a moment to moment, daily reality. There is not the space here to fully capture my schooling. I am going to limit myself to two events.

The Bungle Bungle Ranges lie to the south east of Warmun. They are known for their spectacular cone shaped hills, each striated by grey and yellow bands. They are now the main feature of the Purnululu National Park. 

Some of the Traditional Owners of the Bungle Bungle area lived at Turkey Creek when I was there. As it became obvious that the Bungles would be developed as a conservation zone and a tourist destination, we worked hard to make sure the importance of the area for the Traditional Owners was well understood and they would be included in any decision making. We employed anthropologists to map sacred sites. Another anthropologist worked with the women to record how plants were used for medicinal purposes. Bungle Bungle was an isolated area, accessible only by rough roads. Still, we started going to the area regularly to help substantiate the Traditional Owners’ claim. 

One day, we were driving back to Turkey Creek when we stopped in a low gorge for lunch. As we were eating, a goanna wandered into where we were sitting. I always carried a gun. We would be driving along a bush track when someone sitting in the back of the utility would knock on the roof of the cabin. I would stop and the person would point to a mob of kangaroos, a scrub turkey or an emu, all potential bush foods. I picked up my gun and shot the goanna. We were getting ready to leave when I noticed that the reptile was still laying on the ground. I asked what the problem was and Left Hand George told me, “It’s old. Too bony.” 

An hour later, we arrived back at Turkey Creek. We heard wailing from one of the camps. I was instructed to drive over so we could find out what was happening. We were told an old man had died.

I was never quite sure how to place myself at these moments. I knew the family well, considered them friends. However, I thought it appropriate that I hang back while people who had spent their lives with the old man gave their condolences to his wife.

After a few minutes, Left Hand George said to me, “Joongoorra, that old goanna came to tell us about that old man.” Left Hand George did not say, “And you shot him!” Nor was his demeanour accusatory in any way. He was simply letting me know that I had to be aware of what was going on around me. An old goanna coming into a camp could mean many things. “Come,” he said, “You give your sorry to that old lady.”

I went over and gave my condolences. Everybody cried at those moments but I was not easy with tears back then.

She said, “That’s alright, boy. You go now.”

The other story begins with the discovery of diamonds at Smoke Creek, just north of Warmun. The mine could not be developed without destroying a women’s site associated with the barramundi, a giant perch. The discovery led to an explosion in the number of companies exploring for diamonds. There was the real possibility that someone might send earth moving equipment into a sacred site with no idea as to what they were doing. We responded by obtaining maps that identified all the exploration leases in our area. I showed the maps to the Traditional Owners, asking them to nominate any places that needed protection. One Traditional Owner pointed to a place on a map and said, “They hurt that place, sores will break out on everyone.” We contacted the company and they said they did not plan to undertake exploration works in the area. I thought that would be the end of the story. 

A week later, I was told that Jingle, an elder from the Northern Territory, had made the long trip to Warmun and wanted to talk to me about the site. I told Jingle we had contacted the company and they did not intend doing any work in that area. He was not satisfied with my response and insisted I go with him to a place where sacred objects were kept. There, I was given an object to hold. After a few moments, Jingle took the object back and said, “Now you know.” The truth is I was confused. I did not know how this experience helped me to do my job. 

I now believe my bewilderment captures the issue I am exploring here. I think the people wanted me to be more than someone who just did his job. This is obviously speculative, but I wonder if they were helping me to develop a different capacity—an ability to intuitively understand the world I was now living in, an interconnected world where goannas tell you that an old man has died. I wonder if these inner shifts were occurring without my knowing. For example, without thinking, I knew where to place myself for the three nights the young boys were being prepared for initiation. 

There were times at Warmun when I felt that I should not be too close to the action. I would find a place on the edge of the group and sit crossed legged, enjoying the privilege of watching a ritual that had been performed for thousands of years. However, even at those times, I was never alone for very long. Someone always hived off from the main gathering and came to talk to me. Sometimes, they explained what was happening in front of us. “You see that old man, Joongoorra. Watch what him do now.” When the old man had finished, my companion would shake his (it was always a he) head and say, “Ah. Him too good that old man.” 

“That’s a true word,” I would say in agreement, “Him too good.” 

Sometimes, my comrade and I would discuss the current events that were happening in our relatively small, but incredibly busy, world. “Ah Joongoorra, too much humbug,” he would say. “Too much jarrag jarrag. Drive a man proper walganel.” 

 However, for those three nights, I stood in the middle of the group, positioning myself in a way that facilitated the interactions with the old men. When the elder said, “You know,” it might have meant you have learnt how to place yourself, allowing you to play your part in this ritual within a ritual.

I suspect, alongside the development of a capacity to intuit how to act in an interconnected world, there was also the need to create a space within me where I could feel the community’s vulnerability. I had to feel how their way of being was under existential threat. That is why Jingle came all the way from the Northern Territory when I believed that everything had been resolved. It was not enough to act to ensure the site was safe. I had to fully realise what was at stake.

I worked hard at Warmun, doing what I could to make sure the local people were not further displaced by the next wave of economic development in the East Kimberley. During my time at Warmun, we managed to get some monies from the developer of the Argyle Diamond Mine. There was a level of Indigenous input into the creation and maintenance of the Purnululu National Park. We successfully lobbied the Aboriginal Development Commission to purchase the nearby Bow River Pastoral Station. We also managed to gain Aboriginal ownership of the old Violet Valley Reserve, to the west of Warmun.  However, as I write this paper from the perspective of the internal changes that were happening within me, one event stands out.

Our ongoing lobbying to make sure the Traditional Owners would be involved in the development and maintenance of Bungle Bungle led to the House of Representatives Standing Committee on the Environment visiting Warmun in 1984. The Federal politicians arrived in two helicopters. Myself and two Traditional Owners joined them for the flight to Bungle Bungle. We enjoyed a spectacular flight down Picaninny Gorge, the red cliffs rising on both sides of us. However, after we touched down in an open area of Picaninny Creek, it soon became apparent that the language and conceptual barrier was too great. The politicians stood to one side and talked politics. The Traditional Owners sat on a rock.   

It was decided that we should have lunch and the pilots took us to a plateau in the nearby Osmond Ranges. We were put down at the top of a deep gorge that stretched out to the east. It was still early in the dry season and a thin stream was falling over the side of the cliff. A breeze was blowing directly up the gorge. As it gusted, it whipped in behind the falls and blew the water out from the edge. The sun was shining at just the right angle to create a rainbow. When the gust died, the water fell back and the rainbow disappeared. This meant the rainbow pulsated with the ebb and flow of the water. When the Traditional Owners noticed this, they stopped dead. A committee member asked me what was happening. I pointed to the rainbow and explained the potency of the Rainbow Serpent, a powerful entity in the cosmology of the Kimberley people. The committee member suggested we have our lunch away from the gorge. I think in that moment, I managed to be who the community wanted me to be. I was in tune with what was happening, including the danger the two Traditional Owners found themselves in, and had the ability to speak with confidence for people who had long been silenced.

I have resisted the temptation to provide an introduction and a conclusion to this paper. I have not tried to locate my presentation in psychoanalytic theory or explore which theorist best helps us to create a bridge between what I am presenting and psychoanalysis. I have decided to simply give my talk in the manner Jingle handed me the object; with intent but without explanation. 

 What I will say is that without the generous efforts of the Warmun elders, I may never have become a psychotherapist. They helped stimulate my curiosity—particularly as to how meaning is created and how someone’s ideas about themselves and the world can be generative and limiting.  

They also helped me to be comfortable with goannas wandering into my consulting room. Sometimes, it is the patient who has an insight that seems to come out of nowhere. Sometimes it is me. No matter who receives the message, it always moves the therapy forward. My experiences at Warmun helped me to accept that understandings can come from the least expected places, in unexpected ways.

Finally, I hear Left Hand George saying, “It’s time to give your sorry, Joongoorra.” I want to say sorry to the people of Warmun for what you and your ancestors suffered. I am also sorry that that I did not treat your teachings with the respect they deserved. I am particularly sorry that I did not do more to help.