Bama Ngappi Ngappi

Greetings friends!

I will be returning to the USA (New York) on Wednesday December 18, via Los Angeles. If you are around Los Angeles, I have a 7 hour layover there, so I would love some company! Let me know if you are around. I can't wait to see you all!! Big giant smiles!!
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Burri Koman: One fire. Bama: the Aboriginal people. Ngappi Ngappi: coming together. Burri Koman Bama Ngappi Ngappi, they say.

The red and orange flickers within the concrete bricks. Smoke dances away into the palm trees above. Fish, crab, damper, and a large pot of hot water sit atop the one crackling fire. Their home is a mere shelter; a washed up piece of corrugated iron supported by four timber poles. Four ripped mattresses lie on the floor beyond the fire, where the uncles are lounging. 'Coo-wee!' I suddenly hear. Uncle is calling me. 'Coo-wee!' He shouts again. 'Ya have a feed yet, Minna?'
'No, not yet Earl.'
'Come, Minna, Uncle Palo say we need ta take care of ya. Ya have a good feed.' His fingers make an eating gesture.    

 'Our people. We cook over de fire, ya know? Ya cook over a fire before? A wood fire. Id get der flavor, you know?' He places a whole footlong fish in front of me. I sit quietly, waiting for the others to join in. Uncle looks at me curiously: 'Have a feed, Minna.'
'Please, I can't eat this all by myself!'
'Na na na, yar our guest. Dat what Uncle Palo say. Say look afta Minna. You know we de mob. We all broders and sisders. We goddo wut Broder say.' All the uncles urge me to eat the gigantic fish.
'Thank you,' I reply and reluctantly take my first bite. 'Please eat,' I plead as all the uncles stare at me eating alone. 'It's happier when everyone eats together.'
'You 'right, Minna. This is our Law. Guests always first' Uncle smiles. 'My-ee Boo-gan. Means good feed.'

Poot…poot. An engine sputters into sight. Aunties pull up in an old car. It must be low tide. Dem aunties come to crack oysters. As I follow them over the oyster covered rocks,
the eldest auntie looks at me, 'Where you sleep?'
'Over there in my tent Elder Auntie.'
'Over dere?! Why you over dere? Dem crocodiles come here. You look out fer dem crocodiles.' Crocodiles in the ocean? Never heard of that before. Thought crocodiles were only in rivers and swamps.
'You move your tent, so dem uncles see you. You over dere, dem crocs get you.'
I walk over to the other aunties, eager to learn their cracking technique. Auntie Carey tells me carefully, 'You listen to dem old people. Dem old people know.'
'Dem crocodiles! Dem crocs!' Elder Auntie repeatedly echoes, her hands flaring at the shoreline, where the crocodiles live, but do not make their appearance today. 'Dem crocs!'
Auntie Carey continues, 'Our people live off the land. And dis how our mothers and grandmothers taught us. Dis our Law. It's different from white man law. We listen to our elders and dey teach us. Dey tell der stories and sing songs. Like my father. He taught me how to look at the sun.' Clunk, clunk, crack; clunk clunk crack; there reveals a white oyster only as big as a thumb. 'Only take the white ones, the clear ones aren't ready yet,' and Auntie places the oyster into her jar.

For the next two days, the Uncles drive me around the community. The first thing seen: the police station. At the school, children are chasing each other during recess. At the gardens, elder aunties and uncles are passing on knowledge of plants and trees. The community hall is decorated with xray paintings, didgeridoos, and turtle shells; the voices echoing are the legends that surround the hills and shorelines, where dem old people were. They take me to the hills and shorelines to visit their ancestors, the rocks that lay atop.

I look curiously at the uncles who have taken time to share their community, 'And what do you do when I am not here?'
'We making a building over there. You know, so when de mob come we can sit down. But the council don' want approve it. We waiting for few weeks now.' Uncle Earl stares intently at the stack of building materials, and tips a tin of beer into his mouth. His eyes move slowly across to the shoreline. 'You know, dem white men wanted to build a resort over dere, and the council approved it in couple o' days.'
'You can teach others many things. You have taught me many things.'
'Dat mean we havedo leave. We cand leave. We da mob. We goddo look after dem brodas and sisdas, and de land dat our grandfaders gave us.' He takes another mouthful of beer.
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I shift uncomfortably in my seat. There is so much to learn. The fruits, the trees, the land, the stories, the songs, the old ways. It doesn't have to be this way. My heart burns as I search frantically for something to say that would stop their drugged and drunken state. Fists, dope inhales, smashes, screams, shoves, shouts, bottle shatters, louder louder louder…and shrieks! shrieks of fear, violence rattling through my veins; ringing out through my ears, fingers, intestines, toes, stronger stronger stronger…and smash! Into my brain, and tearing my body into rips of anguish. I slam my eyes shut and let out a giant scream. Except no one can hear it. The tears stream down, but no one can see them. I dare not let them see it.

It's just a nightmare! I open my eyes but it is not a dream. The uncles and aunties stagger in limps of lifelessness; marijuana smoke hovers in and out between their dazed, half open eyes. The alcohol, the drugs have poisoned them. Even they know that. But while everything around them falls apart, at least they have each other—the mob.

Burri Koman Bama Ngappi Ngappi. This is the fire that gives them hope. The fire that wakes them up every morning to gather wood. Some of the uncles are half breeds and some full breeds. But they are all indigenous peoples. And we are all one fire.