MUTANT MESSAGE DOWN UNDER
MARLO MORGAN
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother;
my children, Carri and Steve;
my son-in-law, Greg;
my grandsons, Sean Janning
and Michael Lee;
and most especially to my dad.
CONTENTS
Dedication
Epigraph
From the Author to the Reader
1. HONORED GUEST
2. STUFFING THE BALLOT BOX
3. NATURAL FOOTWEAR
4. READY, SET, GO
5. GETTING HIGH
6. THE BANQUET
7. WHAT IS SOCIAL SECURITY?
8. CORDLESS PHONE
9. HAT FOR THE OUTBACK
10. JEWELRY
11. GRAVY
12. BURIED ALIVE
13. HEALING
14. TOTEMS
15. BIRDS
16. SEWING
17. MEDICINE OF MUSIC
18. DREAM CATCHER
19. DINNER SURPRISE
20. UNCHOCOLATE-COVERED ANTS
21. OUT IN FRONT
22. MY OATH
23. DREAMTIME REVEALED
24. ARCHIVES
25. COMMISSIONED
26. HAPPY UNBIRTHDAY
27. WIPED OUT
28. BAPTISM
29. RELEASED
30. HAPPY ENDING?
I, Burnam Burnam ...
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Marlo Morgan
Copyright
About the Publisher
EPIGRAPH
Man did not weave the web of life, he is merely a strand in it. Whatever he does to the web, he does to himself.
—American Chief Seattle
The only way to pass any test is to take the test. It is inevitable.
—Elder Regal Black Swan
Only after the last tree has been cut down. Only after the last river has been poisoned. Only after the last fish has been caught. Only then will you find that money cannot be eaten.
—Cree Indian Prophecy
Born empty handed,
Die empty handed.
I witnessed life at its fullest,
Empty handed.
—Marlo Morgan
FROM THE AUTHOR TO THE READER
This was written after the fact and inspired by actual experience. As you will see, there wasn’t a notebook handy. It is sold as a novel to protect the small tribe of Aborigines from legal involvment. I have deleted details to honor friends who do not wish to be identified and to secure the secret location of our sacred site.
I have saved you a trip to the public library by including important historical information. I can also save you a trip to Australia. The modern-day Aboriginal condition can be seen in any U.S. city, dark-skinned people living in their section of town, well over half on the dole. The employed ones work in menial jobs; their culture appears lost, like the Native American, forced onto designated soil and forbidden for generations to practice all sacred ways.
What I can’t save you from is the Mutant message!
America, Africa, and Australia all seem to be trying to improve race relations. But somewhere in the dry heart of the Outback there remains a slow, steady, ancient heartbeat, a unique group of people not concerned with racism, but concerned only with other people and the environment. To understand that pulse is to better understand being human or human beingness.
This manuscript was a peaceful self-published work that became controversial. From this reading you could come to several possible conclusions. It might appear to the reader that the man I refer to as my interpreter may not have complied in past years with government rules and regulations: census, taxes, required voting, land use, mining permits, reporting births and deaths, and so on. He may also have aided other tribal citizens in noncompliance. I have been asked to bring this man to the public and to take a group into the desert along the route we walked. I refused! So, one may conclude either that I am guilty of aiding these people in not conforming with the law, or that because I have not produced the actual tribal members, I am lying and the people do not exist.
My answer is this: I do not speak for the Australian Aborigines. I speak only for one small Outback nation referred to as the Wild People or the Ancient Ones. I visited them again, returning to the United States just prior to January 1994. I again received their blessing and approval for how I was handling this assignment.
To you, the reader, I wish to say this: It appears that some people are only ready to be entertained. So if you are one of these people, please read, enjoy, and walk away as you would from any good performance. For you, it is pure fiction, and you will not be disappointed; you will get your money’s worth.
If you are, on the other hand, someone who hears the message, it will come through to you loud and strong. You will feel it in your gut, heart, head, and the marrow of your bones. You see, it could easily have been you selected for this walkabout, and believe me many times I wished it had.
We all have our own Outback experiences to grow through; mine just happened to be literally in the Outback. But I did what you would have done, in or out of any shoes.
As your fingers turn these pages, may the people touch your heart. My words are in English but their truth is voiceless.
My suggestion is that you taste the message, savor what is right for you, and spit out the rest; after all, that is the law of the universe.
In the tradition of the desert people, I have also taken another new name to reflect a new talent.
Sincerely,
Traveling Tongue
This book is a work of fiction inspired by my experience in Australia. It could have taken place in Africa or South America or anywhere where the true meaning of civilization is still alive. It is for the reader to receive his or her own message from my story.
—M.M.
1
HONORED GUEST
IT SEEMS there should have been some warning, but I felt none. Events were already in motion. The group of predators sat, miles away, awaiting their prey. The luggage I had unpacked one hour before would tomorrow be tagged “unclaimed” and stay in storage, month after month. I was to become merely one more American to disappear in a foreign country.
It was a sweltering October morning. I stood looking down the drive of the Australian five-star hotel for an unknown courier. Contrary to receiving a warning, my heart was literally singing. I felt so good, so excited, so successful and prepared. Inwardly I sensed, “Today is my day.”
A topless jeep pulled into the circular entrance. I remember hearing the tires hiss on the steaming pavement. A fine spray of water leaped over the bordering foliage of brilliant red bottlebrush to touch the rusty metal. The jeep stopped, and the driver, a thirty-year-old Aborigine, looked my way. “Come on,” his black hand beckoned. He was looking for a blond American. I was expecting to be escorted to an Aboriginal tribal meeting. Under the censoring blue eyes and disapproving manner of the uniformed Aussie doorman, we mentally agreed to the match.
Even before I made the awkward struggle of high heels into the all-terrain vehicle, it was obvious I was overdressed. The young driver to my right wore shorts, a dingy white T-shirt, and sockless tennis shoes. I had assumed when they arranged transportation for the meeting, it would be a normal automobile, perhaps a Holden, the pride of Australia’s car manufacturers. I never dreamed he would arrive in something wide open. Well, I would rather be overdressed than underdressed to attend a meeting—my award banquet.
I introduced myself. He merely nodded and acted as if he were already certain of who I was. The doorman frowned at us as we pr
opelled past him. We drove through the streets of the coastal city, past rows of veranda-fronted homes, milk-bar snack shops, and grassless cement parks. I clutched the door handle as we circled a roundabout where six directions merged. When we exited, our new heading put the sun at my back. Already the newly acquired, peach-colored business suit and matching silk blouse were becoming uncomfortably warm. I guessed the building was across town, but I was wrong. We entered the main highway running parallel to the sea. This meeting was apparently out of town, further from the hotel than I anticipated. I removed my jacket, thinking how foolish it was not to have asked more questions. At least I had a brush in my purse, and my shoulder-length bleached hair was pinned up in a fashionable braid.
My curiosity had not subsided from the moment I received the initial phone call, although when it came I couldn’t say I was truly surprised. After all, I had received other civic recognitions, and this project had been a major success. Working with urban-dwelling, half-caste Aboriginal adults who had openly displayed suicidal attitudes, and accomplishing for them a sense of purpose and financial success, was bound to be noticed sooner or later. I was surprised; the tribe issuing the summons lived two thousand miles away, on the opposite coast of the continent, but I knew very little about any of the Aboriginal nations except the idle comments I heard occasionally. I didn’t know if they were a close-knit race or if, like Native Americans, vast differences, including different languages, were common.
What I really wondered about was what I would receive: another wooden engraved plaque, to be sent back for storage in Kansas City, or perhaps simply a bouquet of flowers? No, not flowers, not in one-hundred-degree weather. That would be too cumbersome to take on the return flight. The driver had arrived promptly, as agreed, at twelve o’clock noon. So I knew, of course, I was in for a luncheon meeting. I wondered what in the world a native council would serve for our meal? I hoped it would not be a catered traditional Australian affair. Perhaps they would have a potluck buffet, and I could sample Aboriginal dishes for the first time. I was hoping to see a table laden with colorful casseroles.
This was going to be a wonderfully unique experience, and I was looking forward to a memorable day. The purse I carried, purchased for today, held a 35-mm camera and a small tape recorder. They hadn’t said anything about microphones or spotlights or my giving a speech, but I was prepared anyway. One of my greatest assets was thinking ahead. After all, I was now fifty years old, had suffered enough embarrassment and disappointments in my life to have adopted plans for alternative courses. My friends remarked how self-sufficient I was. “Always has Plan B up her sleeve,” I could hear them saying.
A highway road train (the Australian term for a truck pulling numerous full-sized trailers in convoy style) passed us heading in the opposite direction. They came bolting out of fuzzy heat waves, straight down the center of the pavement. I was shaken back from my memories when the driver jerked the steering wheel and we left the highway, heading down a rugged dirt road, followed for miles by a fog of red dust. Somewhere, the two well-worn ruts disappeared, and I became aware there was no longer a road in front of us. We were zigzagging around bushes and jumping over the serrated, sandy desert. I tried to make conversation several times, but the noise of the open vehicle, the brush from the underside of the chassis, and the movement of my body up and down, made it impossible. It was necessary to hold my jaws tightly together to keep from biting my tongue. Obviously the driver had no interest in opening the portals of speech.
My head bounced as if my body were a child’s cloth doll. I was getting hotter and hotter. My pantyhose felt like they were melted on my feet, but I was afraid to remove a shoe for fear it would bounce out into the expanse of copper-colored flatness surrounding us as far as the eye could see. I had no faith the mute driver would stop. Every time my sunglasses became filmed over I wiped them off with the hem of my slip. The movement of my arms let open the floodgate to a river of perspiration. I could feel my makeup dissolve and pictured the rosy tinge once painted on my cheeks now streaking as red trails down my neck. They would have to allow me twenty minutes to get myself back in order before the presentation. I would insist on it!
I studied my watch; two hours had passed since entering the desert. I was hotter and more uncomfortable than I could remember feeling in years. The driver remained silent except for an occasional hum. It suddenly dawned on me: He had not introduced himself. Maybe I wasn’t in the correct vehicle! But that was silly. I couldn’t get out, and he certainly seemed confident about me as a passenger.
Four hours later, we pulled up to a corrugated tin structure. A small, smoldering fire burned outside, and two Aboriginal women stood up as we approached. They were both middle-aged, short, scantily clad, wearing warm smiles of welcome. One wore a headband that made her thick, curly black hair escape at strange angles. They both appeared slim and athletic, with round, full faces holding bright brown eyes. As I descended from the jeep, my chauffeur said, “By the way, I am the only one who speaks English. I will be your interpreter, your friend.”
“Great!” I thought to myself. “I’ve spent seven hundred dollars on airfare, hotel room, and new clothes for this introduction to native Australians, and now I find out they can’t even speak English, let alone recognize current fashions.”
Well, I was here, so I might as well try to blend in, although in my heart I knew I could not.
The women spoke in blunt foreign sounds that did not seem like sentences, only single words. My interpreter turned to me and explained that permission to attend the meeting required I first be cleansed. I did not understand what he meant. It was true I was covered with several layers of dust and hot from the ride, but that did not seem to be his meaning. He handed me a piece of cloth, which I opened to discover had the appearance of a wraparound rag. I was told I needed to remove my clothing and put it on. “What?” I asked, unbelieving. “Are you serious?” He sternly repeated the instructions. I looked around for a place to change; there was none. What could I do? I had come too far and endured too much discomfort at this point to decline. The young man walked away. “Oh, what the heck. It will be cooler than these clothes,” I thought. So, as discreetly as possible, I removed my soiled new clothing, folded it neatly into a pile, and donned the native attire. I stacked my things on the nearby boulder, which only moments before had served as a stool for the waiting women. I felt silly in the colorless rag and regretted investing in the new “making a good impression” clothing. The young man reappeared. He, too, had changed clothing. He stood before me almost naked, having only a cloth wrapped around in swimming trunk fashion and barefoot, as were the women at the fire. He issued further instructions to remove everything: shoes, hose, undergarments, and all my jewelry, even the bobby pins holding my hair. My curiosity was slowly fading, and apprehension was taking over, but I did as told.
I remember stuffing my jewelry into the toe of my shoe. I also did something that seems to come naturally to females, although I am sure we are not taught to do it; I placed my underwear in the middle of the stack of clothing.
A blanket of thick gray smoke rose from the smoldering coals as fresh green brush was added. The head-banded woman took what appeared to be the wing from a large black hawk and opened it to form a fan. She flapped it in front of me from face to feet. The smoke swirled, stifling my breath. Next she motioned with an index finger in a circular pattern, which I understood to mean “turn around.” The smoke ritual was repeated behind me. Then I was instructed to step across the fire, through the smoke.
Finally I was told I had been cleansed and received permission to enter the metal shed. As the bronze male escort walked with me around to the entrance, I saw the same woman pick up my entire stack of belongings. She held it up above the flames. She looked at me, smiled, and as our eyes acknowledged one another, she released the treasures in her hands. Everything I owned went into the fire!
For a moment my heart was numb; I took a very deep sigh. I don’t know why
I didn’t shout a protest and immediately run to retrieve everything. But I didn’t. The woman’s facial expression indicated her action was not malicious; it was done in the manner one might offer a stranger some unique sign of hospitality. “She is just ignorant,” I thought. “Doesn’t understand about credit cards and important papers.” I was grateful I had left my airline ticket at the hotel. I knew I had other clothes there too, and somehow I would deal with walking through the lobby dressed in this garb when the time came. I remember thinking to myself, “Hey, Marlo, you are a flexible person. This isn’t worth getting an ulcer over.” But I did make a mental note to dig one of the rings from the ashes later. Hopefully, the fire would die down and cool off before our return jeep ride back into the city.
But that was not to be.
Only in retrospect would I understand the symbology being played out as I removed my valuable and what I considered very necessary jewelry. I was yet to learn that time for these people had absolutely nothing to do with the clock hours on the gold-and-diamond watch now donated to the earth forever.
Much later I would understand that the releasing of attachment to objects and certain beliefs was already indelibly written as a very necessary step in my human progress toward being.
2
STUFFING THE BALLOT BOX
WE ENTERED the open side of the three-sided, roofed shed. There was no actual door or need for windows. It was simply constructed for the purpose of shade, or perhaps as a haven for sheep. Inside, the heat was intensified by another fire encircled in stone. There were no signs of its providing for human needs: no chairs, no flooring, no fan; it was without electricity. The entire place was rippling tin held together precariously by worn and rotting lumber.
My eyes adjusted quickly from the glare I had been experiencing the last four hours to the darker hue of the shade and smoke. A group of adult Aboriginal people were standing or sitting on the sand. The males wore colorful, ornate headbands and had feathers attached both to their upper arms and around their ankles. They wore the same type of wrap as the driver. He was unpainted, but the others had designs painted on their faces and along their arms and legs. They had used white to make dots, stripes, and elaborate patterns. Drawings of lizards adorned their arms while snakes, kangaroos, and birds appeared upon legs and backs.