Of Ashes and Rivers that Run to the Sea Read Free

drained every last drop from my body and left my desiccated husk lying despondently on the airstrip clutching my belongings.
    A few fluffy clouds scud across the sky and I try to think which way the houses were when the plane was coming in. Come to think of it, where did that plane go? I was so absorbed in arriving that I didn’t notice it had even left. I am weighing up whether to open another ‘apple juice’ or to go in the direction of the horses when I hear the sweet sound of a vehicle, and a ute approaches at great speed before pulling up in a cloud of dust. It parks next to the boxes and two men alight and start loading them into the back. I approach them warily as they are black and I can’t stop thinking of the old bat’s dire warnings of the dangers of shifty black people. On closer inspection they don’t look too shifty to me but then what would I know.
    â€˜Do you speak English?’ I say slowly and clearly while they look sideways at each other and then back at me.
    â€˜Yes,’ says the skinny one in perfect English.
    â€˜Um, can you help me?’ I ask.
    He looks at me and when I don’t say anything he goes on picking up boxes with the fat one as though I wasn’t there. I note that the boxes are nearly all picked up and I start to panic. They might drive away and leave me here to die.
    â€˜Can you give me a lift?’ I say.
    â€˜Yes,’ says the skinny one as the fat one picks up the last box. I give them my mother’s name.
    I’m not happy as I have been consigned to the back of the ute with the boxes and must sit there hanging on to whatever I can to avoid being flung out as the driver takes the corner on two wheels. He’s no better on the straight as he lines up every pothole and bump in the road. The totally fucked suspension bounces me into the air and I’m wondering if I’m ever going to make it there alive when the driver slows. We have reached the turn-off and some houses. I am thankful for my discussion with an anthropologist at the Melbourne Museum who assured me that nobody lives in the bush anymore like when Captain Cook arrived, that Aborigines are civilised now and live in houses. But I am astounded at what I see and gape open-mouthed. This is not the tropical island I had imagined with luscious vegetation and cute little palm-frond houses. It is a dump. I have never seen so many dogs, they lie around or wander or sit scratching in the dust while kidschase each other, lost in their own world of play. I feel myself blushing at the sight of their bare arse cheeks and private parts. Although I saw my sister naked in the bath when we were kids the sight of this exuberant and mass nudity embarrasses me to the core and I modestly attempt to focus my gaze elsewhere. Groups of black people sitting on their verandas and under trees watch us go past. I’ve never seen so many black faces and I’m feeling very uncomfortable under their curious and scrutinising gaze. The houses look like they should be condemned, with missing windows and doors hanging off their hinges, but there are people wandering out of them and washing hanging on rope lines so they must actually be lived in. Unpleasant and unfamiliar smells pervade the air and I put my hand over my nose to block them. I’m wondering what the fuck I’ve gotten myself into when we pull up in front of a house. It’s no better than any of the others we’ve passed except that the front yard has been recently raked and a small pile of soft-drink cans and assorted detritus sit near the forty-four-gallon drum rubbish bin. There must be some mistake and I tell them so, no mother of mine would live in a house like this. But they sit there waiting for me to dismount so I climb out and they drive off, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust fumes.
    I tentatively survey my surroundings and then turn to see a woman coming down the stairs. She walks over and stands beside me.
    â€˜Who