61highway,theWarmunArtCentreis themainexhibitionspace
forresidentpainters.Patrick,theGijaseniorlawwoman
andartistI cametomeet,hasherworkdisplayedthere.She
drawsthejoomooloony, or boab tree, that members of her
clan group died under during the Mistake Creek Massacre,
which took place near Warmun in 1915. It’s a personal dream-
ing, rather than a more traditional work based on the shared
mythology of country. Another rebel painter, so to speak,
her work is otherworldly.
Too often I have parachuted into unfamiliar places with-
out any deep understanding of the culture. Mostly with-
out personal consequence. Not this time. Friends put me
together with Patrick, across oceans and continents. We met
in the light cast by that fire. Unruly white hair framed her
face. Sharp eyes and pursed lips. In her suitcase, a crumpled
picture of a giant pink diamond. Born in the 1930s, Patrick
worked as a truck driver, teacher, and nurse in the Kimberley
before picking up the paintbrush. Over time she also became
TRAVEL BloombergPursuits June 29, 2020
the custodian of significant song cycles, such as the Daiyul
Lirlmim, or Barramundi Dreaming.
That night she practiced it with her friends and their
grandchildren under a paperbark tree. I listened, unaware
of the regional complexities of land ownership vs. outsider
interests, especially involving the world’s largest pink dia-
mond mine in nearby Barramundi Gap, where a Dreamtime
fish was once chased by clanswomen with grass nets.
Squeezing through a fissure in the rock, it scraped off its
sparkling scales to escape.
Patrick’s raw alto soared, wavered, cracked with laughter.
When the group finally stopped, I asked how long she had
been singing the song cycle. “Since I was a kid,” she replied.
Then that other thing was said. I ignored her, to be honest.
Maybe it was the lumpy bed. Or jet lag. I slept fitfully.
Late in the night, a fierce reptile emerged, like lightning on
the horizon, glittering gemlike against the darkness of the
dream Patrick promised. It vanished just as quickly, a trippy
hallucination shattering my subconscious. I may have cried
out. The next morning, I left the women of Warmun behind.
Almost at once, the trouble started. A flat tire on a
famously dangerous unpaved road. No jack, miles from help.
A lost credit card. A lost laptop, thankfully found again.
A few weeks later, driving through a wilderness area
in the Northern Territory, I braked sharply and pulled
overontheshouldernexttooneofthosewildlifecrossing
signs.A joltofrecognitiontookmerightbacktothenight
ofthejoonba.
Onthemetaldiamondwasa symbolofthereptilefrom
mydream.(I lookedit up,becauseI’dneverseenit other-
wise.) Chlamydosaurus kingii. A frilled neck liz-
ard, spiny orange ruff extended in full display.
Binges on butterflies, climbs trees, basks in the
sun. Appeared on the Australian 2¢ coin and
had a cameo in Jurassic Park. For Aboriginals
inthefarnorth, I discovered later, the Frilled Neck Lizard
Dreamingisa powerful totemic rainmaker, bringing both
emotional storms and cleansing, signifying the unrelent-
ing force of nature and the use of communal energy. An
agent of chaos.
More than a decade has passed, and I still think about that
night in Warmun as a crossroad. Narratives about indigenous
wisdom are so often fraught with privilege and exploitation.
Too easily appropriated by those lacking in perspective, for
the sake of a trophy trip or an artifact of material culture that
loses its relevance when spirited away. On the other hand,
meeting those women in that troubled and distant place per-
manently shifted my worldview. They reminded me to think
outside the confines of my own understanding and to listen
to histories besides my own. I changed my field of concen-
tration, from lifestyle journalism to cultural anthropology.
Wrote a book about it. Embraced the creative chaos embod-
ied by that totem. Certainly not the same way as a Dreamtime
artist, because that’s not my medium. Yet they let me in for a
second, and that’s probably more than I deserve. <BW>The next morning, I left the women
of Warmun behind. Almost at once,
the trouble started