Saturday, October 06, 2007
Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek
It's the Queen's Official Birthday, October 1st here in Western Australia. Actually, it's not really her birthday which is April 21st. And it's not her Birthday anywhere else in Australia except Western Australia. The rest of the country celebrates on the 2nd Sunday in June which is the beginning of snow season. The Governor of WA sets the holiday for this state, which just coincidentally happens to be the Monday after the biggest sports weekend of the year- the Grand Finals for the Australian [Rules] Football League, and the Australian Rugby league- held on Saturday and Sunday, respectively.
CLICK PHOTOS TO SEE ALBUMS
Because we are not into celebrating a history of colonization, or watching the impacts of sweaty men on the playing fields, we decided it would be more appropriate to visit Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek.
We had planned to visit Windjana Gorge for a long time but had put it off for various reasons. I'd read that this was a sacred spot, but actually walking in this place brought home its magical nature. This is an area with deep spiritual historical significance to the local Aboriginal people.
Windjana Gorge is a chasm where the Lennard River cuts through the Napier range. For centuries it was a holy place to the Bunuba people. They believe that the spirits of their unborn children rested in the permanent waterhole beneath a giant boulder. And the people did not live in the Gorge despite its abundant wildlife. For them it was a place of life and power; it was the place they laid their dead, wrapped in bark, in the cliffs.
So in the 1860's, when cattlemen invaded the country, enslaving the men, raping the women, and moving cattle into these sacred places it sparked resistance. Jandamarra, a Bunuba man, turned on the police who were enslaving his people, and waged a guerrilla war for over 3 years. He led a battle to protect the Gorge and hid out in Tunnel Creek. Vicki and I read his story in Jandamarra and the Bunuba Resistance and we are here to visit these battlefields on the Queen's Birthday holiday.
We left the house at 0630, and bumped up the Gibb River Road to the turnoff to Windjana. It is a very hot day, forecast to hit 40C. By 9 AM we are on the track up the gorge, with camera and water bottle. We walk through a narrow crack in the rock-the gateway to a magical world. A cloud of butterflies rises out of crevices in the rock walls and flutters about our head. The trail is listed as 7 km round trip. Vicki took off at her usual blistering pace and within 45 minutes was out of sight. I lagged behind, stopping to photograph the wonderful birds and wildlife. The gorge is magnificent, with red rocks radiating both heat and power. The cries of the cockatoos and other birds echo within the canyon. The still green water reflects the cloudless sky and freshwater crocodiles swim lazily. But it is hot. After a couple of kilometers the trail rises and runs close to the cliff base. I see there is quite a distance to the end of the gorge still. I come upon Vicki who is sitting on a rock, not looking so well. She is overheated and starting to get a bit nauseated. I make her drink most of the water and sprinkle some on her hair. By this point the Gorge is like an oven, with the sun higher, and reflecting off the rock walls, the water and the sand. Out of the shade the sun feels 20 degrees hotter. I am reminded of the old movies, where parched men slog across the desert seeing mirages, as we run out of our water and are still a kilometer away from the car. We keep to the shade and take it slowly. The last 100 meters across the parking lot are torture, but we open the car, turn the aircon on high, and guzzle more water from the esky. It feels great, but we are parched and just sit there for 20 minutes, nibbling on our peanut butter sandwiches for the salt. Even prepared, it is so easy to get heat exhaustion in this country, I can understand how many people die just meters away from their vehicles.
We drive down to the Lillimilura Police Station. This is where Jandamarra's conscience finally led him to start resisting. The only marker here is to the policeman he shot. And while it's true he shot him in his sleep, he did it only after severe and prolonged provocation. Later in his guerrilla war, he and his men tried to drive the settlers and police away with psychological warfare- raining rocks down from the heights on top of the police station at night, stealing the cops' food and weapons- when they could have very easily massacred every policeman in retaliation for enslaving their families. It is ironic that the only monument in these national parks is to the white man. One of my medical students told me this made him so angry, that when he visited he pissed on this marker. From the stains it is clear he was not the only one. I like to think I am too civilized- but the truth is I'm just too dehydrated- to join in. But I mentally applaud those who do.
CLICK PHOTOS TO SEE ALBUMS
Twenty-nine kilometers down the road, through dry, scrubby, rocky hills and boabs, we come to Tunnel Creek. We put on our wading shoes, and again enter a sacred place through a narrow cleft in the mountain. It is amazing: dry, cool, very wet- a cave full of life. There are small fish in the water, and a colony of large flying fox bats hanging from the ceiling and from a tree outside. Water drips from the flowstone and stalactites overhead. We walk on through, using our little crank flashlights. Just as it gets so dark we can't see anything but the narrow beams, a glimmer of light appears ahead, and we come to the middle, where the tunnel has opened to the sky. The dark to light transition happens again after walking past this area to the far end- but here the water from the cave flows out into a lovely creek with water bugs, little fish and kookaburras in the gums overhead. It is remarkably cooling- the yin to the yang of the Gorge.
We complete the loop by driving through the Bunaba people's current lands. These resemble nothing more than a post-nuclear attack landscape, with burned over rocky soil punctuated by blackened, twisted trees. It is awful country. A sign to one of the communities has a cow skull hanging on it. It is a relief to regain the Great Northern Highway and drive the two hours back to Derby.
I am struck by the lack of Aboriginal involvement in these Australian National Parks. Imagine the Little Big Horn monument without Native American input and presence. It is a sad legacy. Here in Australia, Ned Kelly, a lowlife criminal, is admired, while Jandamarra is still seen as a terrorist, instead of the freedom fighter he truly was.
 |
| Windjana Gorge |
Because we are not into celebrating a history of colonization, or watching the impacts of sweaty men on the playing fields, we decided it would be more appropriate to visit Windjana Gorge and Tunnel Creek.
We had planned to visit Windjana Gorge for a long time but had put it off for various reasons. I'd read that this was a sacred spot, but actually walking in this place brought home its magical nature. This is an area with deep spiritual historical significance to the local Aboriginal people.
Windjana Gorge is a chasm where the Lennard River cuts through the Napier range. For centuries it was a holy place to the Bunuba people. They believe that the spirits of their unborn children rested in the permanent waterhole beneath a giant boulder. And the people did not live in the Gorge despite its abundant wildlife. For them it was a place of life and power; it was the place they laid their dead, wrapped in bark, in the cliffs.So in the 1860's, when cattlemen invaded the country, enslaving the men, raping the women, and moving cattle into these sacred places it sparked resistance. Jandamarra, a Bunuba man, turned on the police who were enslaving his people, and waged a guerrilla war for over 3 years. He led a battle to protect the Gorge and hid out in Tunnel Creek. Vicki and I read his story in Jandamarra and the Bunuba Resistance and we are here to visit these battlefields on the Queen's Birthday holiday.
We left the house at 0630, and bumped up the Gibb River Road to the turnoff to Windjana. It is a very hot day, forecast to hit 40C. By 9 AM we are on the track up the gorge, with camera and water bottle. We walk through a narrow crack in the rock-the gateway to a magical world. A cloud of butterflies rises out of crevices in the rock walls and flutters about our head. The trail is listed as 7 km round trip. Vicki took off at her usual blistering pace and within 45 minutes was out of sight. I lagged behind, stopping to photograph the wonderful birds and wildlife. The gorge is magnificent, with red rocks radiating both heat and power. The cries of the cockatoos and other birds echo within the canyon. The still green water reflects the cloudless sky and freshwater crocodiles swim lazily. But it is hot. After a couple of kilometers the trail rises and runs close to the cliff base. I see there is quite a distance to the end of the gorge still. I come upon Vicki who is sitting on a rock, not looking so well. She is overheated and starting to get a bit nauseated. I make her drink most of the water and sprinkle some on her hair. By this point the Gorge is like an oven, with the sun higher, and reflecting off the rock walls, the water and the sand. Out of the shade the sun feels 20 degrees hotter. I am reminded of the old movies, where parched men slog across the desert seeing mirages, as we run out of our water and are still a kilometer away from the car. We keep to the shade and take it slowly. The last 100 meters across the parking lot are torture, but we open the car, turn the aircon on high, and guzzle more water from the esky. It feels great, but we are parched and just sit there for 20 minutes, nibbling on our peanut butter sandwiches for the salt. Even prepared, it is so easy to get heat exhaustion in this country, I can understand how many people die just meters away from their vehicles.
We drive down to the Lillimilura Police Station. This is where Jandamarra's conscience finally led him to start resisting. The only marker here is to the policeman he shot. And while it's true he shot him in his sleep, he did it only after severe and prolonged provocation. Later in his guerrilla war, he and his men tried to drive the settlers and police away with psychological warfare- raining rocks down from the heights on top of the police station at night, stealing the cops' food and weapons- when they could have very easily massacred every policeman in retaliation for enslaving their families. It is ironic that the only monument in these national parks is to the white man. One of my medical students told me this made him so angry, that when he visited he pissed on this marker. From the stains it is clear he was not the only one. I like to think I am too civilized- but the truth is I'm just too dehydrated- to join in. But I mentally applaud those who do. |
| Tunnel Creek |
Twenty-nine kilometers down the road, through dry, scrubby, rocky hills and boabs, we come to Tunnel Creek. We put on our wading shoes, and again enter a sacred place through a narrow cleft in the mountain. It is amazing: dry, cool, very wet- a cave full of life. There are small fish in the water, and a colony of large flying fox bats hanging from the ceiling and from a tree outside. Water drips from the flowstone and stalactites overhead. We walk on through, using our little crank flashlights. Just as it gets so dark we can't see anything but the narrow beams, a glimmer of light appears ahead, and we come to the middle, where the tunnel has opened to the sky. The dark to light transition happens again after walking past this area to the far end- but here the water from the cave flows out into a lovely creek with water bugs, little fish and kookaburras in the gums overhead. It is remarkably cooling- the yin to the yang of the Gorge.
We complete the loop by driving through the Bunaba people's current lands. These resemble nothing more than a post-nuclear attack landscape, with burned over rocky soil punctuated by blackened, twisted trees. It is awful country. A sign to one of the communities has a cow skull hanging on it. It is a relief to regain the Great Northern Highway and drive the two hours back to Derby.
I am struck by the lack of Aboriginal involvement in these Australian National Parks. Imagine the Little Big Horn monument without Native American input and presence. It is a sad legacy. Here in Australia, Ned Kelly, a lowlife criminal, is admired, while Jandamarra is still seen as a terrorist, instead of the freedom fighter he truly was.
Labels: Aboriginal Health
