The Red Earth

by Sahar Delijani | 2009

Being in Melbourne, a coastal city, with its reassuring trees, its cold swiping wind, and staring possums, it is easy to forget that just beyond its borders, there lies a dangerous, red desert. A desert as large as Europe, whose every breath, dry and austere, makes one feel one step closer to death. The red desert is said to be one of oldest part of the Earth; one of the first lands to emerge from the ocean billions of years ago. It is a place where not humans, but nature has the upper hand. Where nature has always had the upper hand.

For more than six hours on the bus from the town of Alice Springs, into the heart of the desert—where the Uluru Rock, mighty and sacred, heaps into view like a giant red cocoon—there is nothing other than red sand, a few dusty gray bushes, and corpses of animals that have died of scourging heat and incurable hunger. For hours, nothing changes in the landscape. Red earth expands as far as the eyes can see. When it does change slightly, it is only upon the appearance of dry riverbeds winding their way from one side of the road to the other like enormous dead snakes. Nevertheless, there is, in this monotony, in the blank stare with which the desert returns my gaze, something majestic at work. I cannot take my gaze off of its sore, sun burnt skin. It is alluring in all its cruelty, irresistible in the way it reminds me of my own insignificance, and confirms this with every hot nauseating breath it blows upon my face.

As if it whispers into my ear with an aged rusty voice, its throat clogged with sand: Just one day here without your little air-conditioned bus, your little pool-included resort, and your little heavily-stocked supermarket and you'll be dead.

It is hot, but the menace in this voice makes me shiver. For I know it is true. I know I have no chance before this violent nature, in this land where the few raindrops that fall once in a while evaporate before reaching the earth. I can see the sand pulsating with the rhythm of death.

Frightened, I embrace myself and try not to think of the murderous nature around me. I run from the bus to the safety of my hotel room, take a long shower, turn on the television, pour myself a glass of chilling white wine. I do everything necessary to push the desert to the edges, forget about its existence. But I know it is out there, breathing slowly, taking its time, creeping into my bed at night. Civilization has never seemed so fleeting.

Which brings us to the Aborigines and their sad eyes. Before the arrival of the Europeans, they lived on this red land for more than 30,000 years. Now, with bare feet, disheveled hair, 'modern' clothes seemingly forced upon them, the Aborigines of Alice Springs roam about the town like ghosts who have lost their way to paradise. Never have I seen such profound gloom, such unnerving dismay that borders on resignation in the faces of a people. It is as if centuries of injustice, humiliation, prejudice, and exploit have left of them nothing but restless shadows on the verge of disappearance. I almost feel them fading right before my eyes, becoming hazier and hazier, like a lost memory, until they vanish from sight.

They sit in groups on the little bit of grass and shade that they can find, staring at the sand that remains of once a Todd River. Their skin is worn. I get the feeling that they look much older than they really are. They rarely exchange a glance with the travelers, but talk to each other in low voices. They remain where they are until dusk falls. Then a few of them rise and start walking. They cross the riverbed, carrying bags of groceries bought from the nearby supermarket. Hardly any of them live in the town. On the way to the Uluru Rock, I see dilapidated shacks from afar, isolated from the city. That is their home.

On the day of the tour, an Aboriginal guide leads us beyond the Uluru rock and through the desert. He is tall and stocky. His gaze is kind and timid. His voice is soft and he makes jokes once in a while. In his traditional language, he tells us creation stories thousands of years old. He speaks of their ways of life and survival, from making spears for hunting to making fire, carrying food, making tools, etc. The simplicity is both overwhelming and disconcerting.

Sitting there in our impenetrable boots, our sunglasses and hats, waving the persistent flies away with an impatient hand, we watch as he rubs one piece of wood to another to create fire. It takes a long time to kindle the first flames, and the interpreters come to his aid. First they suffice to show us a lot of smoke. But in order to demonstrate how to make the tools, they need the fire. The entire tour is merely an hour; there is not enough time to spend rubbing two pieces of wood together. The guide's assistant, a young half-Aboriginal man, with dyed blond hair and humorous eyes that are mostly hidden behind his sunglasses, takes out a lighter from his pocket, smiling ironically. He clicks once and the dry sticks immediately crackle with a shy fire.

A man in the group remarks good-humouredly, "You're cheating!"
The young Aborigine puts the lighter back into his pocket, and says with a wink, "It's a miracle."

We return to the town after learning how to throw spears, but I doubt we have turned into effective kangaroo hunters. Nonetheless, the tour has made the desert look slightly less threatening. If the Aborigines were able to survive here for more than 30,000 years, then there is hope to befriend this nature, no matter how austere.

There is a section of Australia where the Aborigines can continue their ways of life, similar to what the Aboriginal guide demonstrated, without being disturbed and without our rhythms and 'civilization' being imposed upon them. But that is not the case for the Aborigines who live in Alice Spring. They have lost their way. They live in a limbo between old traditions, bonded tightly to the Earth, and the ways of the 'white man's world': their supermarkets, their alcohol, their cars. When the town of Alice Springs was built in 1872 because of a telegraph station, the Aborigines living there were cut off dramatically from their traditions and ways of life. Thus a culture in which knowledge of nomadic life and survival in the domineering desert is passed on from one generation to the next through oral means begins to disappear, for the descendents are not taught the old ways. And since they do not know the old ways, they cannot return to that nature which was once their home.

And yet, this does not mean that they have come to terms with the 'white man's world', which has been erected around them like an inescapable nightmare. Their life has been turned into a perennial purgatory, where the past roars, decrying injustice; the present is a black hole of despair sucking them in; and the future looks grim. Their devastated history has left upon their souls a scar that is reminiscent of a wound that was never cared for, but instead left to dry under the sun's heat. A permanent scar. They give one the impression that when they walk, they do not know where they are going; when they sit, they do not know why they are sitting; and when they sleep, they wish they would never wake up again. They look as if they are the embodiment of a historical depression.

It is a quiet Saturday morning in Alice Springs. Most tourists are still sleeping. But the Aborigines are awake, sprawled on the grass, enjoying the early morning freshness. A few elderly women have half-emptied bottles of wine hanging in their hands. A few children run around, chasing each other, laughing loudly. The children do not have the same sad look in their eyes, but laugh merrily kicking a small plastic ball around. And then there are colors. Colors everywhere. Colors in dashes, dots, curves, lines, sprinkles. Colors like I have never seen before. The Aborigine women and men sitting on the grass have paintings for sale, all unfolded at their feet. Some of them are painting as we pass. I stop and watch as one woman with a bowed neck stoops over her canvas on the ground, patiently laying her brush dripping with yellow paint, spreading it across a sea of dots and shapes.

I stop next to another woman who has two paintings in front of her. She is much older than the others. As she unfolds the paintings for me I gasp in awe at the sunlight that she is holding in her hands. I kneel on the ground, overcome by the life sprouting in full spate out of the paintings. The woman lowers her eyes. She barely meets my gaze. Her face is lackluster, haggard, surrounded by loose gray hair. The contrast between her face and her paintings is as sharp as a blade.

Then at last, she turns her wizened face towards me and speaks with a barely audible voice, pointing at this feast of color she is displaying for me: "They're stories. Our stories."

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