74 Australian GeographicThere’s a spring in their step as we stride across an open plain
near the community of Pipalyatjara. This is South Australia’s
far north-west, and the borders with Western Australia and the
Northern Territory are each less than 20km away. Out here,
however, such boundaries seem arbitrary.
Jacob and Bronson are taking me to a special place – a marker
considerably older than any line on a map. A few hundred metres
off the road we approach an arrangement of dark stones standing
in red sand, their tops arching skywards from the blond grass.
They’re small and burnished with a strong creature-like presence.
“We got Dreaming story here,” says Jacob, arms outstretched.
“This is Warru Tjukurpa. Dream them here. If we touch him
and talk to him we get more Warru.” Jacob pauses and then,
with a long wave of his right hand, he gestures to distant
Dulgunja Hill and beyond. “That population there and all the
others – their spirits are all here,” he says.
The Warru is the black-footed rock-wallaby, one of SA’s most
endangered species. For the Anangu people, the Warru is a lively
embodiment of place and spirit. Occupying less than 10 per cent
of their former range, today only 200–300 Warru survive across
the Anangu, Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands
(Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara are two of the tribal groups
that make up the Anangu people, whose lands cover much of
the Red Centre). This precarious state is driving a push to ensure
the Warru’s survival, using a strategy combining ‘whitefella
science’ with millennia of Anangu insight and bush skills.
The recovery program is more than a wildlife protection
exercise. It echoes Tjukurpa – a body of traditional law, knowl-
edge and song. From one perspective, daily life in the APY Lands
can appear muddled, even baffling. Behind the scenes, however,
the sacred power of the Tjukurpa functions as a sinewy binding
force. As such, there’s perhaps no better emblem for these lands
and their associated culture than the startling, vivid and elusive
Warru. A tenacious survivor, its homeland is a labyrinth – a
world rocked by change but patterned with promise.L
OOMING ABOVE Pipalyatjara, Dulgunja Hill stands on the
threshold to this labyrinth as the western outpost of
the Warru. From its spinifex and rock-strewn slopes, the
horizon is cut by the Tomkinson Ranges. Further east lie the
Mann Ranges. Beyond that lot there’s the Musgrave Ranges with
their craggy ridgelines, while 350km to the south-east the Everard
Ranges straddle the skyline in a tumble of domes and monoliths.
The region unfolds as one of Australia’s most remarkable
highland provinces with 24 of SA’s loftiest summits. Yet to
the outside world these mountains and their wider realm
are virtually unknown.The reason is partly due to scale and isolation. Covering
103,000sq.km, the APY Lands occupy an area larger than
Tasmania, but with a human population of just 3000 or so.
Residents are scattered among seven far-flung communities
and a constellation of smaller settlements. Adelaide is 1200km
away, and access to the lands for outsiders requires a permit.
This seclusion stemmed from the Pitjantjatjara Land Rights Act 1981 ,
which granted the Anangu title over their homelands.
This trailblazing legislation recognised the traditions of the
Anangu and their enduring ties to country. In practical terms
it was built on pioneering work begun by Charles Duguid at
the Ernabella Mission in the 1930s. With land rights came the
schools, housing, health clinics and art centres that have under-
pinned community life for more than 30 years. Along the way,
however, the task of administering such a vast estate as a single
entity has grown increasingly troubled. The APY Lands haveBig-sky country. Viewed from the
lower flanks of Dulgunja Hill, clouds
float across a dusty sky above the
western outliers of the Mann Ranges.Jacob Mackenzie and
Bronson Bennett are
walking out towards
the setting sun.