A face of creased hickory

and black hair, like a wire-wool afro,

he waited in the clearing

where Uluru cast its ancient shadow.

As we sat down, he began to talk.

 

He spoke of his tribe, the Anangu,

and how they’d lived in the area and beyond

for countless years;

not recorded in books,

but by verbal tradition.

 

He spoke of the hardships

of daily survival,

of the hunt roaming far and wide.

 

He spoke of the tribal territory,

extending from Uluru

to the south coast,

some thousand kilometres away.

 

He spoke of the stone tools,

which they fashioned from rocks

wrested from the ground.

 

He spoke of the weapons they

painstakingly carved from Mulga wood,

using these stone tools;

the boomerangs and spears.

 

He spoke of how these were designed

as ruthless killing devices,

essential to the survival of the tribe.

 

He spoke of the distances the men travelled

to find game,

how they butchered it,

and carried it on their backs

to feed the tribe.

 

He spoke of the gathering of insects,

small animals and plants

by the women of the tribe.

They knew where to find them,

which were poisonous,

and which could safely be eaten.

 

He spoke of how grandparents

taught the children of the tribe,

because they thought

the parents hadn’t yet learned enough

to teach them properly.

 

He spoke,

and we hung on every word,

painting a window into the past,

going back maybe sixty thousand years.

 

He spoke,

we listened in rapt silence,

humbled.

and captivated.