Hosted by the Yothu Yindi Foundation, the festival showcases traditional miny’tji (art), manikay (song), bunggul (dance) and storytelling. It is also an important meeting point for the regions’ clans and families.

This year, the festival’s theme was ‘fire, strength, renewal’ – a response to the rejection of the Voice by the Australian people on 14 October 2023, says Yothu Yindi Foundation Chairman, Djawa Yunupiŋu.

“Gurtha (Fire) is at the centre of the Yolŋu world; it is the foundation of life that gives strength, energy, and power. Gurtha is in the people and is of the land. Worrk (Renewal) is in the life of the land and the people. It is the goodness that rises in the country after fire has burnt the land and cleansing rains have come.”

Garma Festival also plays host to the Key Forum policy conference, which has become Australia’s premier platform for the discussion and debate of issues affecting Indigenous people. Although the conference agenda changes each year to reflect the Garma theme, topics such as land rights, health, education, economic development and government funding are regularly discussed.

(Clockwise from top left) The theme for this year’s Garma was ‘Gurtha-Wuma Worrk-gu’ – Fire, Strength and Renewal – which focused on the next generation of young Yolŋu. Image credits : Leicolhn McKellar/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Garma is an important meeting place for the families of Arnhem Land, drawing in clans from across the region. Image credit: Nina Franova/Yothu Yindi Foundation; All aboard: Garma road trip 2024. Image credit: Teagan Glenane/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Malati Yunupingu from the Diamond Dogs band – music has been a mainstay of Garma since its inception. Image credit: Teagan Glenane/Yothu Yindi Foundation; The Gumatj clan are the Traditional Owners of the Gulkula site where Garma is held. Image credit: Peter Eve/Yothu Yindi Foundation; Prime Minister Anthony Albanese is escorted to the dance grounds by Gumatj leader Djawa Yunupingu and Red Flag dancers during the opening ceremony. It was the first Garma Festival since the failed referendum on a First Nations Voice to Parliament. Image credit: Melanie Faith Dove/Yothu Yindi Foundation

Bunggul

The call of the yidaki (didgeridoo), the rhythm of the bilma (clapsticks) ring out and the voices of the Yolŋu song-men rang out across the Festival site each sunset, summoning all to the dance grounds. Here, the people of the different clan groups took turns performing traditional dances, sharing stories and songlines that stretch back millennia.

Around the grounds

Throughout the festival, attendees engaged in traditional Yolŋu experiences such as fireside chats, poetry readings, astronomy tours, and women’s healing sessions. Works from local and regional galleries were exhibited among a grove of stringy-bark trees in the open-air Gapan Gallery. Each night, as the sun went down over Gulkula, a cinema under the stars presented a series of films produced by First Nations people from Arnhem Land, Australia and the world.

Cultural workshops

A chance to practice different aspects of Yolŋu life, cultural workshops are hosted by senior Yolŋu knowledge-holders throughout the festival to teach skills such as weaving, spear-making and learning on country during a bush walk, as well as language and kinship lessons and Yidaki classes.

The information and photographs in this article have been collated with thanks to the Yothu Yindi Foundation.

The post In photographs: Garma Festival 2024 appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Born in England, Wragge was dynamic and unconventional and, in 1881, he established a weather observatory on Britain’s highest peak, Ben Nevis, on behalf of the Scottish Meteorological Society. He also established a comparative sea-level station at Fort William nearby. The principle of this work was that forecasts could be aided by making and comparing ‘upper’ atmosphere studies (through simultaneous readings of instruments) with the findings of the sea-level station. British scientists welcomed the results and Wragge was awarded a gold medal by the Society.

Wragge then came to Australia and, in 1887, he became Queensland’s Government Meteorologist, establishing a network of weather stations and publishing Australia-wide forecasts. He furthered the study of tropical cyclones and began the practice of naming them, as we do today. 

Wragge wasn’t a typical Victorian-era man. Vegetarian, interested in eastern religions, with green environmental views, he stood out from a 19th-century crowd. This lack of orthodoxy, plus his outspokenness and lack of tact, often put him at odds with his intercolonial peers. 

Wragge got to work on high-level/sea-level observatories in South Australia and Tasmania and then announced his intent to build a station on Mt Kosciuszko. In the context of his times, many decades before weather balloons or satellites, his ideas were sensible. He was well regarded by overseas peers but was criticised by his intercolonial contemporaries. Wragge’s Mt Kosciuszko project required the summit station, plus a coastal station at Merimbula, and was privately sponsored.

In December 1897 Wragge set out for Mt Kosciuszko, taking tents and instruments. With him was Charles Kerry, a well-known Sydney photographer and Snowy Mountains publicist who’d led the first winter ascent of Mt Kosciuszko only four months before – his Kiandra ski photos are famous. Mountain stockman James Spencer acted as their guide. 

Mad place to live

Despite it being summer, the expeditioners arrived at the summit in freezing conditions. One of the Queenslanders went to bed one night wearing no less than 29 items of clothing!

By 10 December the tent-based weather station was up and running and an assortment of weather instruments was operating from atop Mt Kosciuszko to take regular readings of air pressure, temperature, humidity, wind, cloud mass, precipitation and surface ozone. The next day, Wragge left the summit for Merimbula, and for the next five years he directed both stations from Queensland. At Mt Kosciuszko the observatory was run by his team (at times including Wragge’s sons) who pursued their science in one of Australia’s harshest and most isolated environments. 

Related: Unearthing Australia’s climate history

The tent observatory stood for only two months. In February 1898 a terrible storm hit Mt Kosciuszko and 160km/h winds shredded the tents. The three observers abandoned the summit and retreated to Jindabyne, lucky to survive. Clearly, if the observatory was to continue, the NSW government would have to fund a permanent building. Premier George Reid obliged and Wragge was elated.

By April 1898 a hut had been constructed. Built by two Cooma builders, brothers Arthur and Herb Mawson, and their partner, D. McArthur, the simple weatherboard structure had a number of adaptations for the severe summit weather, including 2.5cm-thick storm glass in the windows. Outside, boulders were piled against the walls to prevent the hut being blown away. 

Despite the fears of locals who thought it madness to try to live on Mt Kosciuszko in winter (one local wit presented Newth with a coffin catalogue!), observers Newth, Bernard Ingleby and Harald Ingemann Jensen saw out the season. 

That experience led the men to adapt the building. The hut’s door was often snowed under, so they built an enclosed stairway with a hatch at the top, providing roof-level access. Although no sign of the observatory exists today, this form of access can still be seen at Cootapatamba Hut, built for the Snowy Mountains Hydro-electric Scheme in the 1950s. 

Wragge ordered a 24-hour schedule of instrument readings that dictated the routine of the observers. The schedule was no easy task, particularly during night-time blizzards. An evocative description of a midnight winter reading was documented by one of Wragge’s sons, Clement Lionel ‘Egerton’ Wragge. 

The rostered observer, wrote Egerton, was woken by an alarm clock. He left his sleeping bag, dressed and placed a lamp near the window to guide him back to the hut through the dense cloud outside. He then climbed the stairway and opened the hatch, “…which is no easy matter under the circumstances. Waiting for a slight lull in the fury of the tempest, he exerts all his strength to force it open, while the wind is trying to force it down on his head… As the fury of the blast strikes him, he is seen to stagger, and is almost blown to the ground… Breathing is difficult, and it is necessary to place the hand over the mouth in order to do so. Snow and sleet driving across the mountain at a furious rate almost blinds him, and cuts his face. The light from the lamp at the window is thrown in a great yellow streak out against the fog bank.”

Related: The emu: nature’s weatherman

The rostered observer reaches the thermometer screen and reads the instruments. All the while he’s trying to ignore the fine snow “that has found its way down his neck and over his gum boots”. The observer hastens back to the hut: “As he goes, the light from the lantern perhaps flashes on a [ski-] brake-pole stuck in the snow, now covered with long white icicles, standing like some ghastly spectre against the fog. The sudden sight of this chills his blood, and floods the mind with a dread of the supernatural, and he makes a bound for the hatch. In his hurry to get into the hut he slips on the steps covered with ice, and goes tumbling to the bottom, cursing meteorology and meteorological instruments in general. This performance must be repeated again at 4am, and although unpleasant at the time, is extremely fascinating.” 

Given that it was hard even for drays to get to Mt Kosciuszko in summer, and wheeled transport anywhere into the mountains west of Jindabyne was difficult, the observers were living in a very isolated part of the country.

Amazingly they maintained the winter link to Jindabyne. Every few weeks they skied over the alpine plateau, descended to the Thredbo River valley, rode to Jindabyne, posted data to Wragge and purchased provisions. 

Newth, a Candelo clergyman’s son, was the first to make this winter journey solo and is a hero of the Wragge story. In 1899 Newth and Rupert Wragge saved the life of Rupert’s 19-year-old brother, Egerton, when he became hopelessly lost during a trip from the town, surviving hypothermia.

A place of natural beauty

Nature’s wonder and beauty, however, made up for the privations. Ingleby wrote of a fine winter’s day: “Away to the north-east and south-west…were mountains rising tier upon tier, clad from base to apex in a mantle of purest white.” 

Natural phenomena were legion. They witnessed St Elmo’s Fire – natural luminous electrical discharges – with Jensen recalling how Newth took a crosscut saw outside and “each tooth of it became a living flame”. They also experienced a Brocken spectre, in which the men’s shadows were projected onto cloud and surrounded by prismatic colours.

Much of the men’s winter leisure time was spent on skis (known as snow-shoes at the time). Jensen wrote that as soon as a fine day arrived, “We donned our snow-glasses, fur caps and snow-shoes and raced wildly down the mountain side like dogs let loose from the chain. Sometimes, when the moon was bright, we would indulge in this sport by night.” 

The observers raced to Lake Cootapatamba, and built ski jumps. They made the first ski trips to mainland Australia’s second-highest peak, Mt Townsend, and to Blue Lake, with the station’s two dogs, Zoroaster and Buddha, trailing through the snow. The observers mounted a sail on the station’s sled. Their winter activities were captured by intrepid Wagga photographer Donald McRae, who climbed Mt Kosciuszko in 1899 carrying his heavy glass-plate camera. 

Related: Short on trees, big on story

But with funding short and little published data, scepticism increased. Some of the observatory information was supplied to British and German Antarctic expeditions, though with no telegraph or telephone link between Mt Kosciuszko and Merimbula and no speedy transmission of data, any forecasting ability was crippled. 

In June 1902 the NSW government cut its support for Wragge’s observatory and demanded the instruments and stores be removed. It was midwinter. Egerton Wragge and two other observers struggled to get the gear down. 

Remembering Wragge’s men

Only 13 years later, Egerton, serving in the 2nd Light Horse Regiment, was killed at Gallipoli and buried at sea. His name is on the Lone Pine Memorial, signifying he has no known grave. He was 34 years old. 

Basil de Burgh Newth, meanwhile, had a happier career. By 1904 he’d become maths and science master at The Scots College, Sydney. He died in 1959, aged 83. 

Bernard Ingleby went on to work in Sydney advertising, and associated with leaders of the Bohemian set, including Henry Lawson and the Lindsay art family. He died in 1941, aged 63. 

In 1902 Clement Wragge failed in a Queensland rainmaking attempt, damaging his reputation. After the Commonwealth government assumed responsibility for monitoring weather, Queensland closed its bureau and Wragge left Australia in 1903,  settling in New Zealand, where he died in 1922 at the age of 70. 

Wragge’s Mt Kosciuszko project, though unsuccessful, was part of the long scientific thrust into the High Country that began in 1834 with naturalist Dr John Lhotsky – the first European to bring the Snowy River to the attention of the public. Through focusing attention on the summit area, the weather station helped open the peaks to tourism, and the Kosciuszko Road and the Hotel Kosciusko were opened by the NSW government not long after the weather station closed. There’s no memorial on the summit today, though Wragges Creek is near Smiggin Holes. The story of Wragge’s men deserves to be remembered.

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Kaija is on what she calls “quokka watch”. It’s key to catch the creatures before they strike. With their cat-sized bodies, wild eyes, and permanently fixed smiles, quokkas are widely regarded as “cute”. And yet this innocent facade belies a life of crime. 

“We have to keep the quokkas out of the backyard because we’re trying to grow vegies,” Kajia says. “The second something green pops out of the ground, they nail it. So we’re on quokka watch. But a big one slips in every night. It jumps over a five-foot-high fence to have a munch.” 

There are currently nine quokkas wandering around her front yard. “Where we are, with plenty of natural habitat, they’re healthy: gorgeous and fluffy,” Kaija says.

“How crazy good are they?!” says Steve, Kaija’s partner, as a quokka advances towards us. Is this the mastermind behind the vegie patch raids? 

Related: Quokkas: why we need to look beyond the smile

Peak swells

Wadjemup is the Noongar name for Rottnest Island,  a 19sq.km patch sitting 33km west of Perth in Western Australia. In 1696 Dutch explorer Willem de Vlamingh mistook the quokkas for giant rats and named the island ’t Eylandt ’t Rottenest, which translates to “Rats’ Nest Island”. 

In late 2022, Irish vlogger Allan Dixon – who calls himself the “animal whisperer” – jokingly referred to quokkas as “rats” in a viral video, much to the chagrin of a few West Australians. Due to several celebrity #quokkaselfies, the marsupials have struck internet gold. So Rottnest Island, known affectionately as “Rotto”, has become one of WA’s top tourist destinations. The island’s pristine beaches are an asset all on their own. 

During peak season the small population swells. “There are about 100 permanent residents here, but in terms of seasonal hospitality workers, the population might balloon out to 400,” Kaija says. “During summer or school holidays, we get long-term visitors who stay on boats or on the island. The numbers are extreme. But in winter and the off-season, it’s very quiet.” 

In the cottage where Kaija lives, she rarely sees a soul. Unlike some island communities around Australia, Rottnest Island embodies the isolation and solitude typically associated with living in a place surrounded by the sea. “Where we live in the middle of the island, there’s no-one around. Plus, it’s bushland without any facilities or water. It’s a solid 20-minute bike ride into town, so it’s remote,” Kaija says. 

The island is home to a variety of self-contained cottages, a hostel, camping ground, a handful of cafes, pubs, restaurants and a small primary school with about a dozen students. 

“Pretty much everyone lives in the town, except for us,” Kaija says. “It makes a difference because out here you can switch off. Still, the island’s town is tiny and isolated compared with most places on the mainland.” 

The cottage’s remote setting gives Kaija unrestricted access to the nearby beaches, where she spends her days boating, surfing, fishing and snorkelling. And it shows; her long, blond hair gleams with the touch of sun and sea. 

The island is home to 63 beaches – a mixture of tidal plunge pools, small sandy bays and an exposed limestone reef. “You can’t even imagine the bays. Some days, you can’t stop looking at them. It’s the most beautiful coastline I’ve ever seen,” Kaija says. 

The clarity of the water provides ample opportunity to spot vibrant populations of tropical fish both inside and outside the marine sanctuary zones. Inland, the island has 12 salt lakes, where salt-tolerant plant species such as coastal bonefruit, grey saltbush, and beaded samphire thrive. In summer, several lakes dry up, leaving behind a patchwork of pink and white hues.

Kaija and Steve enjoy the company of a close-knit group of local friends, gathering on the beach for barbecues. However, the ebb and flow of seasonal tourism makes establishing a consistent sense of community a challenge. 

“There can be lots of temporary staff who are here for a good time, here to work hard,” Kaija says. “Plus, we get inundated with visitors. So it’s quite a mix; we don’t really have all the elements of a community here.” 

Like other islands around Australia, Rottnest Island attracts those in search of solitude. “It can be a funny vibe here. You can get some happy, sea-loving people, but it is a typical small town in many ways,” Kaija says. “There are reclusive people, quiet souls. They’re hiding out here.”

Isolation without loneliness

Despite living in the most isolated part of the island, Kaija rarely feels alone. She has Steve and a lively cohort of vegetable-loving quokkas right by her side. Then there are the sounds of the night. “The house dates back to the late 1800s, so we get a lot of strange noises at night,” Kaija says. “It’s the old lighthouse-keeper’s cottage. I think until about 60 years ago, keepers were living here. I’m yet to spend a night here alone, but it would be a little weird.” 

Kaija’s work phone rings, interrupting the conversation. She moves away to answer the call and Steve steps in. He says he works in construction, handling various projects on the island. When off duty, he soaks up all that comes with their unique way of life. “We live sustainably here,” Steve says.

“We catch a lot of our food from the sea, getting crayfish and squid. We’ve got our boat and so we get to travel around. We mix it up. We’re salty!” The couple’s water supply comes from the island’s desalination plant. While their shower tanks are refilled for them, they need to be “tight” with the drinking water. When they run out, they refill the tank in town and cart it all the way up to the cottage. Fortunately, the thrill of reeling in their evening meal offsets the tedium of hauling back their water. 

“We eat fish every three days, but we could eat it every night if we didn’t get sick of it,” Steve says. “The crays here are out of control – the cray pots are always full. We’re getting squid and full-sized fish. Our freezer looks good. We have three.” 

During her phone call, Kaija playfully sings out to the person on the other end. She says their name five times as the reception wavers. The mobile phone tower is under repair, so the signal hasn’t been great recently. 

Kaija returns to me and apologises. “We had a yacht all wrapped up in ropes today, so we were just checking in,” she explains. 

During winter, she and three other rangers handle wildlife care and environmental maintenance. During summer, when a few more rangers are rostered on, the work revolves around answering visitors’ calls. More often than not, they require marine rescue.

“The other day we got called to a yacht that was sinking, and I went down into the galley of the boat and was up to my knees in water. I got flashes of Titanic,” Kaija says. Using a petrol pump, she extracted the water from the yacht. It was then towed out by a rescue boat.

Rescues occur up to three times a week during most of the year, but in summer it’s almost every day.
“It’s something I didn’t know how to do before I came here, but it’s been fun to learn!” Kaija says. “A real hit of adrenaline.” 

Related: Rottnest Island: Knowing the good life

A healthy environment

During her first few weeks as a Rottnest Island resident, Kaija attached herself to several wildlife projects she’d long been passionate about – nurturing seal colonies, rescuing sea snakes (and the occasional penguin) and monitoring the local marine ecosystem. Recently, she worked with a team to install 160 underwater cameras. When Kaija watched the first round of footage, she was astonished. She saw large numbers of tiger sharks, stingrays, squid, octopus and jewfish stopping by to inspect the new tech. 

These visuals – proof of a thriving, healthy environment – were a great comfort to Kaija.  

While Rottnest Island doesn’t restrict visitor numbers, there are a range of strategies employed to manage and minimise visitor impact.

 For Kaija, her role is more than a livelihood. It’s also a way to serve as a guardian of this unique environment, while enjoying it too. “Talking to you about the island makes me realise what I love about living here,” she says. “It can be hard work, but I get to appreciate it and get excited all over again.” 

ISLAND LIFE

Less than 1 per cent of Australia’s population lives on the small islands dotted around our continent. This number is growing as more people head across the water after the onset of COVID, rejecting costly city living and office-based work. But is “island paradise” a myth, fuelled by a desperate search for escapism? Or have these far-flung residents truly found the key to happiness? This is the
second instalment in a series exploring the realities of island life.

Also in this series:

Related: Coochiemudlo Island: Beyond the emerald fringe

Related: French Island: Life in trees, surrounded by water

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The trio from the University of Melbourne’s Grimwade Centre for Cultural Materials Conservation were heading to the municipality of Kabayan, Benguet to meet with local community members to request access to the area’s ancient rock shelters.

Tucked away within these secluded shelters are ‘meking’ or ‘fire mummies’ – the preserved ancestors of the Ibaloi people, one of the distinct ethnolinguistic groups of the mountainous Cordillera Benguet region.

Coming together

Fen, Camille and Sarah first met while studying the Master of Cultural Materials Conservation program at the University of Melbourne. In their shared class, Respect, the trio partnered to write a mock grant proposal.

They decided to investigate the Kabayan mummies – a topic especially close to home for Fen, an Ibaloi descendant.

“Growing up, I was very aware of my great-grandmother and her identity as an Ibaloi woman,” Fen says. “When she passed in 2021, I was starting this course and wanted to connect to her and her heritage.

“That led to this research pathway and learning about the mummies and my cultural heritage. As I was learning more, my grandmother flagged that we had somebody in our family within living memory who was, they say, ‘half-mummified’.

“They began the [mummification] process on her for a few weeks, but her children, who were Catholic, stopped the process and gave her a traditional burial. Her name was Kong, and she passed away in the 1920s.”

Camille also had a close connection with the project. Working on projects related to the mummies for several years, her expertise offered a unique insight. This led Fen, Camille and Sarah to learn about the mummies’ current deterioration and write their mock grant proposal on potential research into how they could work with the Kabayan community to conserve them.

However, the grant proposal didn’t stay in the classroom: “We realised we had this completed grant proposal with all the structural components,” Fen says. “We’ve got the budget, we’ve got the aims, we’ve got the significance; why don’t we actually submit it and see what happens?

“It was October when we submitted the grant, and we sort of forgot about it, especially with the holiday period. Then, in March of the next year, we got an email saying the grant was approved.”

The making of  ‘meking’

Most of the secrets of the Kabayan mummification process have been lost over time. The methodology was passed down solely through oral storytelling and anecdotes dating back to as early as 200 BCE.

According to Fen, the process involved drying and dehydrating human remains using heat and smoke from a fire – hence the term ‘fire mummy’.

“The actual process of mummification would take several weeks to do, and they would sit the body by a fire and have the chemical aspects of the smoke and heat dry it out over time,” Fen says. “Once that was done, they would enter the body into a wooden coffin, and that would be placed in a rock shelter or cave in the mountainside.

“If successful, the mummification was so effective it preserved tattoos and hair still visible today.”

Preserving an ancient people

While many of the rock shelters that house these ancient remains have been forgotten or remain purposefully hidden, around ten Kabayan sites are well known.

For hundreds of years, the cooler climate of the mountains helped preserve these mummies, but due to progressive environmental changes, the mummies are slowly deteriorating.

According to Sarah, the deterioration of the Kabayan mummies started increasing significantly in the 1970s due to climate change, growing industrialisation and a rise in tourism in the area.

These factors have led to environmental changes within the burial caves, causing the skin of some mummies to become brittle, and enabling mould growth and insect activity.

“Our project decided to use technology to monitor the environments that the mummies reside in and assess and monitor the agents of deterioration so that we can better understand why they are deteriorating,” Sarah says.

“We hope that by getting a better understanding of the temperature and the relative humidities of the rock shelters in which the mummies are housed, we can then figure out what we need to do so we can conserve the mummies and so they can remain in situ.”

To do this monitoring, Fen, Camille and Sarah would need to install data loggers in the caves where the mummies reside, which required permission from the locals.

“We wanted to make sure everything we were doing was going to be approved by the community and that we didn’t do anything that they would be even slightly uncomfortable with,” Sarah says.

“It was completely up to them whether or not they wanted us to come in and do this project. Even though it would be helping conserve like their ancestors, it was completely up to them whether they wanted outsiders to participate in the conservation.”

Fen adds that it was stressful making the long journey without knowing whether they would be allowed to conduct their research.

“It was a little bit scary having to face these Elders who are wary, and rightfully so,” she says. “There’s been a history of bad experiences with other research teams that have come to that community, so I think it was essential for us to make a good impression and to do right by them.

“At the end of our time in the community, there was a physical show of hands, like, stand up if you agree with the project,” Fen says. “It was almost like a moment from a movie – all the Elders stood up. It was unanimously agreed upon in terms of support.”

Connecting with culture

Fen, Camille and Sarah got to know the Kabayan locals and learned about their culture first-hand to ensure they showed respect to the ancestors whenever they conducted their research.

When meeting with the community, the team joined a Kabayan tradition known as ‘Cañao’, in which they danced and offered a pig to ask the gods for permission to do their research and as a blessing.

They also needed to be respectful of the mummies whenever they entered the caves.

“It’s really important to be respectful of the ancestors and the spirits of the mummies that are housed within the rock shelters, and before you can enter or even look into one of the rock shelters, you’re supposed to explain exactly what you’re going to be doing and then ask for permission,” Sarah explains.

The team would say hello and introduce themselves, explain what they were doing and why, and apologise for disturbing their rest. They would work with local spiritual guides to make offerings to the ancestors, providing them with items such as cigarettes, tobacco and gin.

The team believes the most essential part of their project was respecting and understanding the Kabayan culture so they could equip them with new skills and knowledge to continue caring for their ancestors.

Finding answers

The team partnered with the National Museum of the Philippines to continue the research and has now installed data monitors in seven separate sites.

These data loggers are specifically designed for outdoor temperature and environmental readings.

They will provide data on temperature and humidity at 30-minute intervals for ten months, allowing the team to understand the environment and recognise how it changes over seasons and times.

The loggers have Bluetooth functionality, so the caves don’t need to be disturbed to collect data. Each month, a team member in the Philippines visits the cave sites and downloads the data by remotely connecting to the loggers from within a 30m radius before sending the information back to Melbourne.

Fen says that this data will allow the team to best predict how environmental changes are impacting the mummies and provide insight on how to find practical solutions for their care and preservation in the future.

“At this point, it’s a bit too early to say exactly what those conservation actions will be, but we know that this information will provide a really good basis for us to start to understand why the mummies are deteriorating.”

The post Conserving the Kabayan mummies: from an Australian classroom to the Philippines mountains appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Loveday Internment Camp was not a single camp, but several. The internees – men aged 16 years and older – were divided into camps based on their ‘nationality’. However, many of these so-called enemy aliens had been born in Australia. Others were naturalised citizens who had lived in the country for decades. The camp also received internees rounded up in the territories of overseas allies, including Britain, Palestine, Iran, the Dutch East Indies, New Caledonia and New Zealand. 

Facilities in the camps included bunk houses for sleeping, kitchens, mess huts, recreation halls and a hospital. The 1929 Geneva Convention on Prisoners of War stipulated that enemy civilians receive the same rations as Australian troops and could not be subjected to forced labour. But many chose to work to overcome boredom, and they were paid one shilling per day. Some internees worked as woodcutters – a job that allowed them to leave the barbed-wire perimeter for several hours each day – and others in the poultry farms or the piggery, whose meat fed soldiers on the frontlines. Poppies and pyrethrum daisies – raw materials used to manufacture morphine and insect repellent, respectively – were cultivated in the lands around Loveday. 

According to local historian Rosemary Gowers, popular pastimes included woodwork, sculpting, making jewellery and musical instruments, and holding concerts. The Germans even built a nine-hole golf course. 

Italian-born (and naturalised Australian citizen) Fernand Charles Bentivoglio – described by Loveday’s senior medical officer as “one of the cheeriest men in the Compound” – had been a languages professor at the NSW Conservatorium of Music and spent his internment teaching English to Italian internees. 

Loveday’s facilities were reasonable, but camp life proved monotonous. Internees’ mental health often suffered from boredom, social isolation and separation from their community, wives and families. Others were indignant at being labelled an enemy alien by the country they were born in. In the Japanese camp, military personnel observed a distinct social divide between internees born in Australia and those born in Japan. Patrick Yoshio Ahmat, born in 1916 in Onslow, Western Australia, was interned at Loveday from 1942 to 1946. An officer noticed he only mingled with other Australian-born Japanese, “none of whom have much in common with the Japanese Internees…”

Loveday’s German and Italian internees were transferred to Tatura Internment Camp in Victoria before VE Day. When Japan surrendered in September 1945, most Japanese civilians were repatriated to Japan – including some who had been born in Australia. The last Japanese internees left the camp on 28 February 1946. 

The post Looking back at Loveday: Australia’s largest WWII internment camp appeared first on Australian Geographic.

He had a typical lower-middle-class suburban upbringing; his father was a teacher, mum a librarian. “My Indigenous culture wasn’t a huge part of my life,” he says. “For instance, if I was filling out a form and there was a box to tick if you were Aboriginal, I didn’t, because I didn’t think those details should matter. It’s one of those weird things, I suppose; it’s only recently that I’ve had a chance to re-embrace my cultural heritage, particularly as a composer.”

The son of Ken Wyatt AM, Australia’s first Indigenous federal minister (appointed to the health portfolio in 2015), Aaron also has several firsts attached to his name. Notably, he’s the first Indigenous person to conduct an orchestra in Australia. Like his father (one of 10 children, and one of the Stolen Generations), he too started from humble beginnings and has worked his way up the octaves.

“Music has always had a special place in my life,” Aaron recalls. “Fooling around with the piano at a family friend’s house and listening to my parents’ eclectic record collection – my mum didn’t care about the Beatles; it was all classical music to her – gave way to more formal studies at age five when I picked up the violin.” 

Aaron admits he was “no child prodigy”, but he was headstrong and opinionated about how best to navigate the instrument. “It’s a huge credit to my teacher that I didn’t end up with more self-imposed technical issues to fix in my teenage years,” he says.

With a burning curiosity about the natural world, he didn’t throw himself “too deeply into practice” and, like many children, he went through phases. “I had dreams of becoming a palaeontologist, an astronomer – what kid doesn’t like dinosaurs and space? – a chemist, a geologist, before finally settling on studying biomedical science and electronic engineering at uni.” But music was always a constant refrain in the background.

Aaron credits this sustained love affair to having grown up through the youth orchestra system in his home town of Perth. “Although there were times where it felt like it was as much a social activity for me as a musical one,” he says, “it was the sounds of orchestral music that I always found myself particularly drawn to.” As his first year of university was ending, he realised there’d be a world he would miss in a few years time when he’d be too old to be considered “youth”.

There were community orchestras, but the standard wasn’t quite the same. “I’d only just recently switched to the viola as well and found that the oddball reputation of my new instrument was one that seemed to fit me perfectly,” he says. “On top of that, I’d managed to pretty much cruise my way through high school with very little effort, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that that approach wasn’t going to cut it for too much longer.”

Related: These artists use music to advocate for conservation

Faced with the choice of study or practice, he picked the latter. “Walking away from the offer of an engineering scholarship to pursue a career in music is a choice I’ve never regretted,” he says. Graduating with a Bachelor of Music from The University of Western Australia, Aaron spent years as a regular casual playing symphonic repertoire with the West Australian Symphony Orchestra (WASO).

During this time he also took on the musical director role with Perth’s youngest community orchestra, South Side Symphony Orchestra, was a regular conductor of the city’s Allegri Chamber Orchestra, and performed in a number of acclaimed fringe and festival shows. These included the award-winning City of Shadows, a musical performance of stories inspired by Sydney crime scene mug shots from the early 1900s.

Created and directed by Rachael Dease, it (and Aaron) went on to perform seasons in New York and Melbourne. He also played a lead role in Perth-based Barking Gecko Theatre’s critically acclaimed adaptation of Wolf Erlbruch’s Duck, Death and the Tulip – a heart-warming story about a duck that strikes up an unlikely friendship with Death. 

Aaron further supplemented his income by giving private music lessons and, for fun, he sang bass with the eclectic choir Spooky Men of the West (“we all had to wear black and a hat, and sing in Georgian style – not the state, the country – but polyphonic”) and played violin with an Indian/jazz fusion group.

In 2020, a year after he was nominated for a Helpmann Award for his role as musical director of Speechless – a wordless opera composed by Cat Hope intended as a response to the plight of refugees worldwide – Aaron relocated to Melbourne, taking up a lecturing position at the Sir Zelman Cowen School of Music and Performance at Monash University. He continues to teach there and is working on his PhD, focused on animated graphic notation – the representation of music through the use of visual symbols outside the realm of traditional music notation.

In 2012 Aaron released the first iteration of this work, called the Decibel ScorePlayer – an iPad app that allows graphic, synchronised playback of non-traditional musical scores. He shares an example: Across the screen move images of jewellery and overlaying this are sounds of jewellery being swished, jingled, rattled and shaken. 

Aaron moved to Melbourne to further work opportunities and for the financial stability a permanent job provides, for him, his partner, Cathrin Sumfleth, and their busy 12-month-old son, Noah, only to be stymied by COVID. “Isn’t it always the way?” he says. “Melbourne had the most prolonged and stringent lockdowns so performing in front of live audiences was non-existent, whereas in WA life largely went on as normal [due to a hard close on the border]. People were still going out to performances, orchestras were still playing…but life has worked out as it has meant to.” Since restrictions lifted, Aaron has made hay. 

In 2022 he became the first First Nations person to conduct a state symphony orchestra in concert. It was with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra (MSO) performing Long Time Living Here, a musical Acknowledgement of Country penned by another history-maker, MSO First Nations creative chair and composer Deborah Cheetham Fraillon AO.

“It was such an amazing opportunity and represented such a huge step forward, both for me as an individual and for Indigenous representation in Australian classical music,” Aaron says. “Of course it was good being the first, but also it wasn’t…because it was 2022 when it happened. It seems crazy it’s taken that long. Obviously there are socioeconomic reasons why there aren’t more Indigenous people in classical music. But it’s still a shame it has taken that long.”

He’s since had engagements with the Melbourne, Adelaide and Sydney symphony orchestras, and in early 2024 he conducted the premiere of Noongar opera Wundig wer Wilura, composed by Gina Williams AM and Guy Ghouse.

Sung entirely in language, it’s an ancient tale of a forbidden love, desperate desire and feuding families. As a composer, Aaron has written for new and groundbreaking groups such as Ensemble Dutala, Australia’s first Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander chamber ensemble, currently consisting of nine Australian musicians and providing scholarships to promising young students.

I ask Aaron why it’s important to specifically champion First Nations artists and his answer is emphatic: “We’re not at the point where we’re in a colour-blind society, and if you try to ignore colour at all you’re just entrenching the status quo, so we do have to speak up and make a point about these sorts of issues. Representation matters.”

This was boldly on show in March when Aaron conducted his own work, The Coming Dawn, to open WASO’s 2024 season at Perth Concert Hall. Originally written for a string quartet, vibraphone and yidaki (didgeridoo), it was expanded by Aaron to include brass, percussion and timpani, and is a masterful marriage of Western and Indigenous instrumentation.

Written during the hopeful crescendo of the 2023 Voice referendum, The Coming Dawn was, Aaron says, imbued with even more meaning after the No vote prevailed. “It wasn’t created for that specific purpose, to herald in a new age, but I think it speaks to the fact that the union of Western and First Nations cultures has never been more important,” he says.

The powerful piece flags a full-circle moment for the boy who refrained from ticking the Aboriginal box in high school. It also reaches back a generation, for his father, who as a WA Liberal MP in 2012 was referred to by then PM Tony Abbott as an “urban Aboriginal”, not an “authentic” Indigenous representative. 

“A lot of Indigenous Australians remain stuck between a rock and a hard place, with a broken connection to culture,” Aaron says. “But if music – if my music, if our music – can help broker greater bonds…then cue the music.”

Related: Soundtrack to a new life

The post Cue the music appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Under the guidance of GunaiKurnai Elders, archaeologists from the GunaiKurnai Land and Waters Aboriginal Corporation and Monash University excavated at Cloggs Cave near Buchan, in the foothills of the high country near the Snowy River in East Gippsland, Victoria.

What they found was extraordinary. Under the low, subdued light in the depth of the cave, buried under layers of ash and silt, two unusual fireplaces were revealed by the tip of the trowel. They each contained a single trimmed stick associated with a tiny patch of ash.

A sequence of 69 radiocarbon dates, including on wood filaments from the sticks, date one of the fireplaces to 11,000 years ago, and the deeper of the two to 12,000 years ago, at the very end of the last Ice Age.

Matching the observed physical characteristics of the fireplaces with GunaiKurnai ethnographic records from the 19th century shows this type of fireplace has been in continuous use for at least 12,000 years.

Enigmatic sticks smeared with fat

These were no ordinary fireplaces: the upper one was the size of the palm of a human hand.

Sticking out from the middle of it was a stick, one slightly burned end still stuck into the middle of the ashes of the fire. The fire had not burned for long, nor did it reach any significant heat. No food remains were associated with the fireplace.

Two small twigs that once grew from the stick had been trimmed off, so the stem was now straight and smooth.

Microscopic and biochemical analyses were performed on the stick, showing it had come into contact with animal fat. Parts of the stick were covered with lipids – fatty acids that cannot dissolve in water and can therefore remain on objects for vast lengths of time.

The trimmings and layout of the stick, tiny size of the fire, absence of food remains, and presence of smeared fat on the stick suggest the fireplace was used for something other than cooking.

The stick had come from a Casuarina tree, a she-oak. The branch had been broken and cut when green. We know this because of the splayed fibres at the broken end. The stick was never removed from the fire during its use; we found it where it was placed.

A second miniature fireplace slightly deeper down in the excavation also had a single branch emanating from it, this one with an angled-back end like on a throwing stick, and with five small twigs trimmed flush with the stem. It had keratin-like faunal tissue fragments on its surface; it too had come into contact with fat.

The role of these fireplaces in ritual

Local 19th-century ethnography has good descriptions of such fireplaces, so we know they were made for ritual practices performed by mulla-mullung, powerful GunaiKurnai medicine men and women.

Alfred Howitt, government geologist and pioneer ethnographer, wrote in 1887:

The Kurnai practice is to fasten the article [something that belonged to the victim] to the end of a throwing stick, together with some eaglehawk feathers, and some human or kangaroo fat. The throwing stick is then stuck slanting in the ground before a fire, and it is of course placed in such a position that by-and-by it falls down. The wizard has during this time been singing his charm; as it is usually expressed, he ‘sings the man’s name,’ and when the stick falls the charm is complete. The practice still exists.

Howitt noted that such ritual sticks were made from Casuarina wood. Sometimes the stick mimicked a throwing stick, with a hooked end. No such miniature fireplace with a single trimmed Casuarina stem smeared with fat had ever been found archaeologically before.

Related: Aboriginal inventions: 10 enduring innovations

500 generations

The miniature fireplaces are the remarkably preserved remains of two ritual events dating back 500 generations.

Nowhere else on Earth have archaeological expressions of a very specific cultural practice known from ethnography, yet traceable so far back, previously been found.

GunaiKurnai ancestors had transmitted on Country a very detailed, very particular cultural knowledge and practice for some 500 generations.

GunaiKurnai Elder Uncle Russell Mullett was on site when the fireplaces were excavated. As the first one was revealed, he was astounded:

For it to survive is just amazing. It’s telling us a story. It’s been waiting here all this time for us to learn from it. Reminding us that we are a living culture still connected to our ancient past. It’s a unique opportunity to be able to read the memoirs of our Ancestors and share that with our community.

What does it mean to be one of the oldest living cultures in the world? It means despite millennia of cultural innovations, the Old Ancestors also continued to pass down cultural knowledge and know-how, generation after generation, and have done so since the last Ice Age and beyond.

Related: Awakening a sleeping language

The authors are just six of the 17 authors of the journal article, including Birgitta Stephenson, who undertook the residue analyses.

Russell Mullett is a Traditional Custodian — Kurnai, Indigenous Knowledge; Ashleigh Rogers is a Lecturer in Archaeology at Monash University; Bruno David is a Professor at the Australian Research Council Centre of Excellence for Australian Biodiversity and Heritage at Monash University; Carney D. Matheson is an Associate Professor at Griffith University; Fiona Petchey is an Associate Professor and Director of the Radiocarbon Dating Laboratory at the Te Aka Mātuatua – School of Science at the University of Waikato, and Nathan Wright is a Lecturer in Archaeology (UNE) and Senior Research Archaeologist of the Everick Foundation at the University of New England.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Discovering what it means to be the oldest living culture in the world appeared first on Australian Geographic.

We’ve also got Mt Great Groaner in New South Wales, the Great Swamp in Victoria, the Great Basalt Wall in Queensland and the Great Dragon Reef in Tasmania. Across Australia there are more than 200 placenames that contain the descriptor.

Emeritus Professor Roly Sussex, from University of Queensland’s School of Languages and Culture, explains the etymology:

“The word is Old English, spelt the same, and has been around for more than 1000 years. It is related to the German ‘gross’, meaning large,” he says. “Use of the prefix ‘great’ is a British pattern. If you search the Gazetteer of British Place Names you will find hundreds of them.”

Actually, you will find thousands. Of the 280,000 names listed with the Gazetteer of British Place Names, 2106 contain great, representing about 0.75 per cent. With colonisation the descriptor travelled, meaning Australia’s fascination with the term is not unique. For example, the United States and Canada also have 0.05–0.07 per cent of total placenames including the word.

New Zealand bucks the trend with a mere 11 placenames – it’s home, for example, to the Great Unknown and its cousin the Little Unknown, both peaks in the Southern Alps.

David Blair is the editor of Placenames Australia, the newsletter of the Australian National Placenames Survey.

“You’ll notice that, unlike Britain, almost all [Australian greats] are natural, rather than habitation, features,” David says.

In Australia, great has been used to preface water features (including waterfalls, swamps and anabranches), topographical features (including mountains, ranges and cliffs), marine features (including sand bars, beaches and shipping channels) and, to a lesser extent, man-made features such as roads, localities and walks.

The Dutch named our big island Terra Australis, or Great Southern Land, while in A Voyage to Terra Australis Matthew Flinders describes the reefs off northern New South Wales (as Queensland was known in 1802) as the Barrier Reefs. On finding a dry sand bank in the Coral Sea (now known as Cato Reef, east of present-day Gladstone), he writes: “Some apprehensions were excited for the following night by meeting with this bank but as it was more than two degrees to the eastward of the great Barrier Reefs, we thought it unconnected with any other.”

Ernest Giles was one of many explorers who ventured overland in search of the mythical inland sea, and in his record of his travels Australia Twice Traversed he reflects on his 1875 discovery of a spring, in what we now know as Western Australia.

“Geographical features have been terribly scarce upon this expedition and this peculiar spring is the first permanent water I have found. I have ventured to dedicate it to our most gracious Queen. The desert in which I found it, and which will most probably extend to the west as far as it does to the east, I have also honoured with Her Majesty’s mighty name, calling it the Great Victoria Desert,” Giles wrote.

The Great (Australian) Bight is referenced in the 1792 journals of explorer Joseph-Antoine Raymond Bruni D’Entrecasteaux, while the Great Dividing Range was named by those at Sydney Cove who felt hemmed by the mountains to their west.

David concurs with Roly that the use of the word harks back to our English ancestry. “The Brits couldn’t believe how big everything was here when they first struck our natural phenomena,” David says. So it is the early days of European exploration that are mostly responsible for many of our greats.

The Victorian Department of Transport has gone one further and says: “The current naming rules for places in Victoria do not permit prefixes, including the word ‘great’. Geographic placenames are required to be succinct and it is expected that a unique name be applied to a place which has a strong connection to place and shared cultural history.”

So while great may continue to lose its significance as Australia moves to change many placenames back to their Indigenous origins, the term will serve to mark a place in our history.

Related: The A–Z of Aussie slang

The post What’s behind our fascination for naming places ‘great’? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

But in 1967 Donald Forbes, Secretary of the Cairns District Cane Growers’ Executive, applied for a lease to mine coral on Ellison Reef, south-east of Innisfail, for agricultural lime, claiming Ellison’s corals were “dead” after a cyclone. Concerned the application might set a precedent for future mining on the reef, John Büsst and poet Judith Wright of the WPSQ, together with the QLS, successfully opposed the mining proposal through the Innisfail Mining Warden’s Court. 

However, the conservation societies didn’t have the resources to fight every mining application in court, so, soon after their Innisfail success, they launched a state-wide Save the Reef campaign, calling on the federal government to take control of the area and declare it a marine park. 

During this time, the Queensland government, under the leadership of Joh Bjelke-Petersen, was determined to establish an offshore petroleum industry and in 1968 opened up the state’s entire coastline to oil exploration. Within two years, six exploration holes had been drilled by different companies along the GBR. 

The turning point for conservationists came when an Australian–Japanese joint venture, Japex Ltd, announced it would begin drilling in February 1970 at Repulse Bay, south of the Whitsunday Passage. The Queensland Trades and Labor Council threw its support behind a wider reef conservation campaign by black-banning all reef mining and drilling activities, preventing trade unionists from providing goods or services necessary for the Whitsunday drilling project to continue. Public opinion against mining on the reef intensified after a series of international disasters involving oil tankers from 1967 to 1970. 

In January 1969 the Queensland and federal governments launched a joint inquiry to look at the “possibility” of oil drilling causing damage to the reef, leading to the establishment of a royal commission the following year. The then prime minister, John Gorton, supported a mining moratorium, but a lack of clarity about state–federal jurisdiction over offshore resources meant he was reluctant to override the petroleum exploration leases issued by the Queensland government. Gough Whitlam, who was leader of the Opposition at the time, believed the federal government already had the constitutional right to protect the reef. When Whitlam’s Labor government was elected on 5 December 1972, it moved quickly to enact the Sea and Submerged Lands Act 1973. This legislation provided the federal government sovereignty over territorial seas and resources to the extent of the continental shelf.

In November 1974 Whitlam announced the Australian Government would create a marine park to protect the reef from oil drilling, leading to the Great Barrier Reef Marine Park Act 1975. The first area of the marine park – the Capricornia Section – was proclaimed in 1979 and covered 12,000sq.km. Today, the marine park has an area of 344,400sq.km. and coral reefs make up about 7 per cent of the area. The park’s other ecosystems include shallow seagrass, mangroves, sand, and algal and sponge gardens. Areas within the park are zoned for certain activities and some are open to general use.

In 1981 the GBR was inscribed on the World Heritage List as “one of the richest and most complex complex natural ecosystems on earth” and an area of “superlative natural beauty”.

‘Protecting the Great Barrier Reef’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Protecting the Great Barrier Reef appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Building the three big R’s – roads, railways and runways around Australia – was great nation-building work at the time. A flight around Australia would not only “prove it could be done”, but be reconnaissance to investigate areas for airfield construction. It was the early days of air travel and public confidence was buoyed by intrepid flights. The adventure captured the nation’s attention, was spread across newspaper front pages and was followed by families listening to the wireless in their sitting rooms. 

Wing Commander Stanley ‘Jimmy’ Goble and Flight Lieutenant Ivor McIntyre (G&M) of the RAAF had been tasked to undertake the mission, following the coast, and chose to use a Fairey Mk III Seaplane because there weren’t enough runways to cater for a conventional aeroplane. This caused all sorts of complications – fuel drums were delivered to about 50 rivers, lakes and beaches over several months by sea and land, so they could land on water and refuel. They often slept by the plane.

Five years of planning

In 2019 I was preparing to fly from England to Australia in Southern Sun, retracing the original flight by Keith and Ross Smith to commemorate that centenary, when I received an email from businessman and entrepreneur Dick Smith, who founded this magazine, suggesting I start planning for the centenary of the first flight around Australia in 2024. Dick has been one of my inspirational heroes since I was a teenager, so of course I said yes. That was only the first step in five years of planning and research that led to this endeavour. I was assisted enormously by Tom Lockley from the New South Wales branch of the Aircraft Historical Society of Australia, who researched and wrote a short book, First Flight Around Australia. It became my bible for the trip, guiding me to towns, bodies of water and even the dates and times to land.

A faithful reconstruction

On the original journey there were many delays – the month they’d planned for extended to six weeks. I decided I would follow their route and dates as closely as possible, but would have to make some changes due to the passage of time, modern practicalities and even for personal satisfaction. I’d embark in Southern Sun, a twin engine amphibian, able to land on water or land. I also decided to follow the Gulf of Carpentaria coast all the way around (see map below) rather than flying directly across the top like G&M had done. 

Apart from those two major changes, I planned to follow the same dates for the 44 days and choose the same landing spots, cities or towns. If G&M had been stuck somewhere for a few days, I’d wait those same days. I’d touch down on the water where they did, but then head to the closest local airport to refuel and park the plane overnight. For me to see the coast up close I’d hug the beach all the way at a height of 500ft, while filming using a standard and a 360-degree digital camera.

RAAF Base Point Cook was a land-and water-based airfield in the 1920s, with a large boat ramp and jetty for seaplane operations. G&M set off from Point Cook on Saturday 6 April 1924, a day later than planned due to rough seas. They made great progress on the first day, reaching Eden, on the far South Coast of NSW, for refuelling, then on to Rose Bay on Sydney Harbour for their first night’s stop. 

My departure on Saturday 6 April 2024 was late morning, after a send-off by RAAF personnel, family and friends, leaving plenty of time and daylight to reach Rose Bay. The first stop after following the rugged coast around Wilsons Promontory was a water landing on Corner Inlet, where G&M had put down to repair a leaking fuel tank. 

After a “splash’n’dash” (SnD) (as opposed to the “touch’n’go” performed by land planes), I noticed a lot of low cloud and scud rain rolling through, so diverted to Yarram airfield in southern Victoria to sit out the weather. Visibility wasn’t good for flying, but I could do something not possible 100 years earlier – open my iPad and study the radar display of weather moving through via the Bureau of Meteorology app. This has been one of the greatest safety advances for aviators and would be used many times throughout my trip. When the weather improved, I departed, tracking east along Ninety Mile Beach, but soon it became clear there was still more low cloud ahead. I headed to Bairnsdale, near Lakes Entrance, for the night, accepting that already, on Day 1, I was already behind! Disappointing, but safety must be the first consideration.

Next morning, a blue enough sky welcomed me back to the airfield and I continued. An SnD at Eden, where G&M refuelled, then on to Rose Bay for a never-gets-old flight over Sydney Harbour with a view of the Bridge and the Opera House, followed by an SnD at Rose Bay. It was early enough for me to recover lost time and continue on to Myall River, putting me back on schedule by the end of the day. G&M left Rose Bay at lunchtime, having waited the morning for rain to clear. 

But heading north along the coast, they encountered more weather and couldn’t get more than 100ft above the water without entering cloud. North of Newcastle they abandoned plans and headed into Port Stephens, looking for shelter. They alighted on the Myall River and stayed the night. I put down on Myall Lakes and was met by local friends. We had dinner cooked over an open fire and I slept in the plane. This was one of my favourite nights of the whole trip and reset my mind from manic departure mode into adventure mode; Day 2, and I was now in the groove. 

Things progressed well up the coast: clear weather, no delays, and stops in hospitable Southport and Gladstone in Queensland. 

My arrival in Townsville needs special mention. A couple of weeks before the trip I was contacted by the RAAF 6 Squadron, based at Amberley, near Gladstone. They confirmed the RAAF would commemorate the centenary with a circumnavigation of Australia by a pair of EA-18G Growler aircraft, taking seven days, and they’d time their departure to rendezvous with me in the air over Townsville, then we’d park together overnight at the air base: very exciting and not something private pilots ever experience! 

Beyond Townsville I continued up the increasingly undeveloped coast. G&M had three nights in Cooktown to repair a compass, so I stayed for three nights. Just as well – both days there it rained relentlessly and I couldn’t have flown anyway.

Related: Around the nation in 44 days

Awe-inspiring Kimberley

I was looking forward to Cape York, where G&M spent seven days on Thursday Island because of weather and for maintenance. After a splash on the protected water to the north-west of the island, I flew into Horn Island, which has full airport facilities and even commercial flights from the south. I was keen to see some of the Torres Strait islands from the air, before visiting by boat on a few spare days ahead. My wife flew in with Qantas, and we spent a few days exploring Horn, Prince of Wales, Thursday and Friday islands. From beautiful beaches to a fort, a historic cemetery to a pearl farm, a local art gallery to discovering a scrumptious crayfish toastie for lunch – it was a wonderful, if brief, taste of the area.

Rather than wait a week, on the fourth day I ventured south along the coast to follow the shoreline of the Gulf of Carpentaria for a few days, including dropping in to see my brother and his family who live on Vanderlin Island, about halfway along the Gulf, north of Borroloola. I then had a night on Elcho Island before arriving in Darwin for a few nights, then on to two highly anticipated days in Western Australia’s Kimberley – my first time. The further from Darwin and closer to Napier Broome Bay I flew, the more spectacular the scenery became, but it was next day, en route to Broome, that the Kimberley’s full allure was revealed. All the awe-inspiring beauty that’s made it one of the world’s bucket-list destinations lay before me. The Horizontal Falls, my single most anticipated destination, did not disappoint. At the time of my arrival mine was the only aircraft in the area, so I had complete access, allowing me to explore over and around the falls. Gobsmacking indeed…if two days of this coast had been a perfect degustation of visual treats, then this was the cherry on top. 

Arriving in Broome on a high, I was greeted warmly by the ground crew and air-traffic controllers. The Horizontal Falls air-tour operators even put Southern Sun up in their hangar for my stay. My two nights there let me catch up with some other seaplane pilots who were on a clockwise flight around Australia and also visit one of my favourite places – Sun Pictures, the oldest outdoor cinema in Australia. It’s a real Broome institution. On to Port Hedland, where I spoke to School of the Air kids on an excursion and showed them over the plane. Next, Carnarvon, where everything was about to come to a grinding halt.

G&M arrived in Carnarvon on the Facine, the sheltered stretch of water in front of the town that today has a lovely boardwalk and provides safe anchorage. When they tried to depart the next day, they were unable to attain full power on the engine. The engineer tried but failed to remedy the problem, leading to an unplanned 10-day delay. Luckily, they had a spare Rolls Royce engine in Perth, just in case it was needed. Today, it’s a 10-hour drive to Carnarvon on a sealed highway, but back then it took seven days, on a train then a truck on a difficult track. Once the engine arrived, it was exchanged and tested successfully in a single day, all the more amazing because there was no crane available and they were working in shallow water on the beach where the plane was resting. 

I made good use of the 10-day Carnarvon stop, meeting locals, visiting the excellent Space and Technology Museum and speaking at schools. I carried out maintenance on my plane in the Coral Coast Helicopters hangar and caught up on work and some writing. On 11 May 1924, Day 36, G&M restarted their journey southbound, as did Southern Sun in 2024, with a brief splash in Geraldton then on to Perth, where they alighted on the Swan River at 4.15pm for an overnight stop. I was excited to land on the Swan, at Elizabeth Quay, parallel to Langley Park just south of the CBD, a spectacular location, and was determined to land 100 years to the minute after G&M. With the help of Perth’s Air Traffic Control, Swan River Seaplanes and a few minutes of orbits overhead, I successfully splashed down right on 4.15pm – huzzah! 

The next few days saw stops along a coastline visually the equal of the Kimberley – the Margaret River region, Albany, Esperance and onto Israelite Bay – for one of the more memorable nights of the journey. G&M stopped on the semi-protected waters of Israelite Bay, in the Great Australian Bight, at the Telegraph Station. Today, that building is abandoned, the roof and other features long removed by the passage of time and weather. But striking ruins remain, with no-one in sight. I was able to land on a sandy strip beside a dry lake and spend the night, camping in the plane. I took a long walk around the area to the beach and through the ruins, finishing with a slightly sad tin of tuna. However, thanks to clear skies and a carpet of stars, it was both surreal yet splendid.

The most spectacular day

Thee longest flight of the trip was next, across the Bight to Ceduna in South Australia. There was simply nowhere suitable for water landings across this famously rugged coastline. I thought a lot about the several people who have circumnavigated Australia by kayak…this would be one tough stretch to conquer. The cliffs along this coast are 60–120m high. On a most spectacular flying day, sitting 500ft above the ocean, I was awarded an incredible view back to the cliffs, at times seeing the Nullarbor Highway and people parked by the cliffs’ edge. I found myself pondering the images we see of huge chunks of Antarctic ice falling into the sea each season, and wondered whether my video camera might chance upon a rock version of it during these couple of days. Alas, all remained intact (for now).

The next leg, from Ceduna to Port Lincoln, would be judged, by me, to be winner of the Southern Sun Award for the most spectacular day of the entire Australian coastline. It was so varied, with dramatic cliffs faces in colours from rich red, brown and off-white, along with vast dunes, white sandy beaches, azure blue water and intricate bays. It was a smorgasbord of nearly everything I’d seen over six weeks. That night, to top it all off, I enjoyed fresh Coffin Bay oysters from the waters I’d flown over only hours earlier.

On reflection, the Kimberley came a close second. That region really does deserve the accolades and sense of awe in our collective psyche.

The joy of followers

With only two days to go, a mixed sense of relief of nearly being home and sadness that it was nearly over, yet trepidation that anything could still go wrong, kept me alert. Here I flew the longest over-water stretches of the journey as I crossed the Spencer Gulf and Gulf of St Vincent, past Kangaroo Island, to reconnect with the coast at Cape Jarvis. Then along the almost mythical sandy stretches of the Coorong (thanks to a childhood instilled love of Storm Boy), towards Beachport. Alas, on Day 43 of the trip, it was too rough to alight. This was a shame because quite a crowd of locals were there to meet Southern Sun, so I performed a few orbits over the Beachport town and foreshore and continued on to the closest local airport at Millicent. There, as with many of the airfields en route, I was greeted by locals who had been following the flight. This is one of the joys of all travel, meeting people along the way, connecting with communities, albeit quickly. There is often a cuppa, a chat and a lift into town on offer. 

Sunday 19 May, Day 44 – the final leg. A pretty tough day of flying, frankly, with a lot of weather to fly around along the coast, passing the Apostles, through the heads and up Port Phillip, to an orbit over St Kilda then back to overhead Point Cook at exactly 2.10pm, 100 years to the minute that G&M arrived. 

A splendid afternoon of welcome-home celebrations followed. I was a tad elated to find a crowd, an RAAF flight display, two pairs of fire trucks forming a water arch to taxi through and even the Air Force Band, which played at the return of the original flight 100 years ago. A huge thanks to the RAAF.

Reflecting on the original flight, while looking at what has changed in 100 years – without a doubt, planes are more reliable today. G&M navigated with a compass, a speedometer and a watch. Today, GPS tells us exactly where we are, reducing both workload and stress levels! They often spent hours fuelling the plane, transferring small tins while wading through the water to the plane to make up the 400 litres needed. Today there are hundreds of airports around the country equipped with fuel bowsers, making it generally as easy as filling a car. G&M didn’t have a radio and could go days without being in touch with the outside world, with people worried for their safety, whereas today we have access to aviation radio, satellite tracking and Internet, and mobile phones working on about 80 per cent of the coast. They didn’t take a camera, while I had a digital camera and two video cameras running, even live-streaming at times.

But what I did find that was remarkably the same was the weather – G&M were delayed in certain areas, mainly the east coast, Cape York and the Gulf of Carpentaria. At the same time of year I also faced the same problematic weather – so it seems 100 years later, autumn low cloud and heavy rain are still a challenge for small planes. I went four weeks straight without a drop of rain after the Gulf of Carpentaria, until crossing the border from SA into Victoria on the last day. Of course it rained – welcome to Melbourne!

Another thing that thankfully hasn’t changed is the generosity of strangers and how communities come together to help each other. In 1924 they always found the locals would help them to refuel, beach the aircraft or help lift it off when the tide went out further than expected, be fed and bedded when needed. Similarly, I had people always willing to give me a lift, offer a bed or put on a barbecue dinner for locals interested in the flight, wanting to chat and learn more. Especially in the regions, hospitality and helpfulness is alive and well.

Finally, as I flew past the many towns of the east coast of Australia, I reflected on the changes to infrastructure and cities along the way, what we would typically call the “progress of civilisation”. But once I passed Cooktown to the north, signs of humankind became a rare sight, and for the next month, most of the time I didn’t even see buildings, let alone cities; the vastness of uninhabited Australia prevailed. It really sank in that, for the vast majority of this country, 100 years is a mere blip in time. For so much of the myriad of stunning, rugged and gorgeous coastline, nothing much has changed over 10,000 years. 

This centenary is also an RAAF celebration, while I am proud to be sponsored by Australian Geographic to retrace this journey and share the story. I carried commemorative airmail, an AG flag and an RAAF Ensign (flag) throughout the trip. The latter has now been donated to the RAAF Museum at Point Cook, and will form part of a display. It’s been a wonderful experience, which I look forward to sharing more of. But for now I’m getting back to work until the next big idea comes along!

To see more, visit southernsun.voyage/aroundoz100 or the SouthernSunTV YouTube page, where there are multiple videos of scenery covering the journey. There simply aren’t enough adjectives to adequately describe the beauty of our coastline. 

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The island’s unique name, Coochiemudlo – or, as the locals say, “Coochie” – originates from the Traditional Owners, the Quandamooka people, who named it kutchi (red) and mudlo (stone) in the Jagera language, after its small but distinctive red cliffs. The 410ha island is located north of MacLeay Island and west of North Stradbroke Island. During her 14-plus years on Coochie, Rachel has enjoyed a lifestyle she couldn’t find in the suburbs: a supportive, artistic community, affordable housing and daily ocean swims. “It’s the only place I’ve lived where I have a personal relationship with the landscape, as if it’s a person,” she says. “You understand its seasons, its tides, and the smell of it. I sound like a romantic, but it’s a place that’s got under my skin in a way that no other place has.”

Following the island’s rhythm

Coochie has an “emerald fringe” – a reserve that is locally heritage-listed and development-free – meaning the sea is equally accessible to everyone. It’s Queensland’s only inhabitated island with an intact esplanade. Many locals, including Rachel, are in tune with the tidal changes. Some head to the beach every day to do yoga, swim laps, or enjoy a glass of wine at sunset. “It’s how I structure my life – around the tides,” Rachel says. Enter the water at low tide and your legs get muddy. But when the water rises and the calm sea draws closer, you have what she describes as a “multi-millionaire’s plunge pool”. At high tide, the sea folds over the path, so all you have to do is walk to the end of the street and hop in. 

This attention to the island’s natural rhythm allows Rachel to avoid being overly locked into her daily work routine. The presence of the sea frees her from her busy mind. “When I was running a business, and more recently as an employee working from home, I can get tense working all day, with my shoulders up to here,” she says. “I love that I can walk down the road and experience nature, lie under the trees, feel the sea lapping at my feet, and see the sun dappled through the leaves.” Being the former publisher of the independent island newspaper, Coochie Island News, she knows the stories of this captivating place – and most people know hers. 

The island has seen Rachel through many seasons of her life, including the dissolution of her marriage. As a newly single woman, she formed close, supportive friendships on the island, but when she was ready to wade into the waters of modern dating, she wasn’t spared the judgement. “Just as it is in other parts of Australia and the world, there is scrutiny of single women of a certain age. There’s gossip,” she says. “One night I had a friend over to my house and we had a couple of wines, so they left their car at mine and walked home. The next day, I was on the ferry heading to work, and a local gossip said, ‘Had a sleepover, did we?!’ because she’d driven past and seen the car.” 

Don’t get Rachel started on the necessary evil that is dating apps. “If you get on Tinder, you see everyone else who is single on the island,” she says. Coochie is home to about 700 people, so opportunities to meet someone on the island are low, while the chances of awkward run-ins are high. “If you find someone off the island, and you’re all dressed up at 5.30pm heading to the ferry, all your island friends coming home from work spot you. They whistle and they scream, ‘Rachel’s got a date!’” she says with a laugh. “It’s hardly worth it.” This lack of privacy has taken getting used to, but Rachel knows that living in close proximity to others bestows a sense of connectedness that is priceless.

Island connections

Coochiemudlo Island is home to a number of social clubs. There are groups for poetry, meditation, writing, lifesaving, indoor bowls, food appreciation, card playing, Christian fellowship, outrigger canoeing and turtle rescue. Facilities include BMX tracks, tennis courts, an art gallery, a library and a golf course. There’s also a thriving Men’s Shed and an active creative community. For musicians, there are music nights, hosted in alternating houses, and a larger “jam-a-long” each month, where everyone is welcome. There was a succesfull music festival held in 2021 that was, of course, referred to as “Coochella”. For the artists – most of whom have studios attached to their homes – there’s a collective that runs a gallery above the local cafe. 

Because many of these groups and events are easily accessible, the island attracts a lot of seniors. “It’s like a moated retirement village,” Rachel says. “There’s so much going on that is accessible and age-friendly. My friend, who’s 80, just joined a new ukulele group and they had their first performance a few weeks ago in this grassed amphitheatre, with beautiful gums behind it and kookaburras. Everybody was having a go.” When Rachel lived in Sydney and Brisbane, most of her friends were of a similar age. She stuck to “her kind”. But over the past decade on Coochiemudlo, Rachel since embraced a more expansive kind of socialisation, farewelling the previous limitations. 

Her divorce was a pivotal part of that change. She instinctively turned to other women in their 40s but found they were busy with their partners and their children. What could have been an isolating experience became one of enlightenment; she made plenty of friends – only they were two, maybe three, decades older. “On the island, you bond with people because of who they are and what you have in common,” Rachel says. “Not because of your age. Some of my best mates are 70. We go swimming together, we have dinner parties. It’s a joy. Because my family lives interstate, it’s like I have a new bunch of aunts, uncles, mums and dads. We look after each other.” This element of care means older, child-free people can thrive within the island’s extended family.

Like nearly one-quarter of Australian women, Rachel doesn’t have children. As she approaches her 60s, she wonders how she’ll cope with the inevitable health issues that come with age. From her experiences on the island, she feels reassured. “I will have a better old age here on the island than if I was anonymous in a suburb,” she says. A few years ago, Rachel looked after one of her older friends on the island who underwent cataract surgery, cooking for him and staying overnight to care for him. When she recently had an operation, he did the same for her. In a time where some people dread the social interaction that comes with accidentally wheeling out the bin when the person next door does, these expressions of neighbourly care might seem like a thing of the past. A study by the Italian Università degli Studi di Cagliari on the Sardinian Blue Zone – a region with a high prevalence of centenarians – found that living in a socially connected community, where people looked out for older members, improved the ageing population’s physical and mental health. Like these Mediterranean islands, Coochiemudlo’s older residents are able to lead healthy and fulfilling lives in a community where kindness and care are core values.

A caring spirit

This caring spirit extends beyond looking after neighbours. Coochiemudlo Island Coastcare, a local volunteer group, works to protect the island’s coastal ecosystem by reprofiling dunes in response to shoreline erosion, replanting coastal grass, collecting litter and monitoring wildlife. Several pythons call the island home (“What I don’t see I don’t need to worry about,” Rachel says) as well as a community of birds, including brahminy kites, rosellas, bush stone-curlews and sea eagles. 

A few years ago, Coochiemudlo locals banded together to defend a pair of local eagles. “The eagles liked to nest on the tallest tree on the island, so when a new radio tower was set up on the island, they built a nest up there. When Telstra wanted to switch the island from 4G to 5G, the community was in uproar, saying the eagles were there. So Telstra built a contraption for the nest. It’s not ideal that the eagles are up there at all – just imagine the radiation – but the fact that the community and Telstra worked together to save the nest is pretty special,” Rachel says. 

The island also used to be home to a thriving peacock population, but these birds didn’t receive the same kind of community support. They were classed as pests and moved off the island – except for one. Kevin – the “bachelor peacock” – is rumoured to have hidden when the others were removed. “I wish I could bring him a peahen. I feel so sad seeing him just sauntering about on his own,” Rachel says.

The island has no medical facilities, but there are several people trained by the Queensland Ambulance Service who triage patients before further assistance arrives. In emergencies, a rescue helicopter can collect patients on the island and transport them to hospital, which takes only 10 minutes. “I had vertigo once and got taken by the ambulance on the ferry, at peak hour, surrounded by the island community. They were taking my medical history on the ferry in the middle of everyone. It was awkward,” Rachel says. “There are things like that that happen here and you just need to suck it up.”

Unlike some of Australia’s other small island communities, Coochiemudlo has roads. Some people drive on the island, especially those who live far from the jetty, and parents with young children. But Rachel prefers to walk. There’s a vehicular barge that can transport people and their cars to the mainland, as well as a regular ferry service for people and their dogs. But many of the islanders zip around in their tinnies. It’s a short ride to the mainland (which the locals refer to as “overseas”) and an hour to the middle of Brisbane. “You can commute to work and then at the end of the day you can come home and live on an island,” Rachel says. Despite its proximity to the big city, the island can feel like worlds – even decades – away from urban life. “It still has the seaside hamlet holiday vibe – people riding around on bikes, boats piled onto utes, lots of people just cruising around being Australians,” says Rachel. 

People are catching on. The island’s new-found popularity has already encroached on one of Rachel’s favourite activities. “[The island] is spectacular, but it’s been a sleeping secret for a while,” she says. “It’s definitely been discovered now. I used to be able to go to the beach every morning and swim nude if I wanted to. But now there are too many people!” Coochiemudlo has experienced a surge in house prices since the pandemic and the shift to home-based working, attracting unprecedented levels of interest. “Now people can work where they love, and not where they have to. We’re in the middle of a property boom; our properties on the island have gone up in value – which is nice. But the downside is, it used to be that anyone who wanted to live here pretty much could. But even now, lovely working families are having to move off the island,” Rachel says. 

Since March 2020, house prices on Coochiemudlo Island have increased steadily. Thanks to the local newspaper and a podcast Rachel hosted in 2020, people from all over Australia have written to her to discuss the possibility of moving to the island, with one Victorian even asking her to inspect a property for them via a video call. She hopes that despite this popularity, the island will retain its mystique, of being a home for people from all walks of life, even the eagles on the radio tower. 

“You can be yourself here. It’s not the Gold Coast; it’s not Noosa. People aren’t going around in sandals and white linen. It doesn’t have the glamour,” Rachel says. “There are ‘salt of the earth’ people, but also professionals. It’s a microcosm of Australian society. There are good people here.” 

ISLAND LIFE

Less than 1 per cent of Australia’s population lives on the small islands dotted around our continent. This number is growing as more people head across the water after the onset of COVID, rejecting costly city living and office-based work. But is “island paradise” a myth, fuelled by a desperate search for escapism? Or have these far-flung residents truly found the key to happiness? This is the
second instalment in a series exploring the realities of island life.

Also in this series:

Related: Rottnest Island: More than quokkas

Related: French Island: Life in trees, surrounded by water

The post Coochiemudlo Island: Beyond the emerald fringe appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A flock of yellow-tailed black-cockatoos glides lazily overhead, screaming their pterodactyl calls as a brown goshawk drifts across the cloudy sky. From somewhere in the dense wet sclerophyll forest nearby comes the whip-crack shriek of a lyrebird. 

And yes, his surname hints to a profound legacy. His great-great-grandfather was Charles Darwin, the British naturalist who, in 1831 while in his early 20s, set sail aboard HMS Beagle on its mission to chart South America’s coastline. On the voyage Charles collected a dazzling array of fossils, specimens, data and thoughts about how the extraordinary diversity of life he saw on his travels fitted together. 

The result of his analysis was a theory that evolution by natural selection – survival of the “fittest” – was the driving force behind the diversity of life on Earth, from bivalve molluscs to finches, and that all this wonderfully rich, vibrant diversity stemmed from a single common ancestor. It was such a profound scientific theory, backed by the reams of evidence he’d collected, that it made him one of the most famous scientists in history. His remains are interred in Westminster Abbey, alongside those of Isaac Newton.

The move to Sydney

Back in the bushy urban fringe of Sydney, Chris wrestles with a particularly stubborn weed, but takes care to preserve the native seedling just next to it – a sort of unnatural selection in which the weed’s superior fitness is no match for a determined gardener.

It’s a long way from the manicured grounds of the Georgian manor in Kent, south of London, where his ancestor Charles lived out his days with his wife, Emma, and their children. Chris did grow up in London but showed far more affinity for the creative arts than scientific pursuits, famously failing a biology exam (much to everyone’s shock). 

He began his working life as a photographer but found it a lonely profession. On someone’s suggestion, he got into advertising, and he loved it. “It was creative and kooky, lots of action and difficulty and storytelling,” Chris recalls. It brought him to Australia through pure serendipity – the need for a hot location to shoot an advertisement during the middle of a British winter. He was sent here to scout it out and report back, and simply never left.

His career and life in Sydney were going well until fate threw him a curve ball, and Chris fell apart. He had, he says, a “resilience problem”. “Nothing had ever really gone badly wrong in my life,” he says, “then something pretty minor went wrong and I had a nervous breakdown.” Chris spiralled into depression, which led to a suicide attempt.

While in that dark, dark place, he found a psychologist who challenged him to think about his values and purpose in life, to find a philosophy and reason for existing. “We ended up, long story short, with the values of ‘love myself, others and the planet’,” Chris says. 

And his purpose? To stop the mass extinction of species by stopping habitat destruction.

“If you’re going to solve something, you might as well solve something big,” Chris reflects. His goal is to stop habitat destruction by 2040 – a deadline he picked so he would have a chance of being alive to see it happen.

Ambitious? For sure. Achievable? Chris is less sure, but he’s giving it all he’s got, and he’s bringing both his advertising nous and famous surname to help solve the problem. 

Step one was for him to be the change he wanted to see in the world. “I discovered my ecological footprint was six planets, so that means that if everybody lived like me, we would have to tether six planets together,” he says. The global average is 1.75 planets, the Australian average is 4.5 planets, and the USA’s average is 5.1. “There I was, trying to be an environmentalist, and I was actually the problem.” So he set about transforming his lifestyle to achieve an ecological footprint of less than one planet. Recognising that meat and dairy are a major cause of habitat destruction, he became vegan, and also now eschews sugar and alcohol. He doesn’t fly, and drives an electric car. He buys second-hand goods as much as possible, and his house is powered by renewable energy. “I’m now down at 0.8 of a planet [the equivalent of India’s average],” he says. “I’ve been there for seven years now.”

At the beginning, he thought it would make him miserable. Instead, it’s had the opposite effect. “It turned out that not only did I feel good about it, but actually I’m happier,” Chris says, “because suddenly I’m aligning what I say, what I do and what I think.”

Step two was to encourage others to undertake a similar, if less radical, transformation. Along with communications consultant Plamena Slavcheva, Chris co-founded the Darwin Challenge charity, with the aim of raising awareness of the massive impact that consumption of meat and dairy has on deforestation rates, and hopefully inspiring others to reduce their impact through dietary change. 

Chris is realistic about the enormous psychological barriers he’s trying to overcome – in particular, our deep-seated aversion to loss. “One of the things about behavioural change is that you’ve got to allow people to have small changes and huge celebration instantly – short-term reward,” he notes. He’s not trying to inspire people to go vegetarian or vegan – although that would be the ideal. His goal is to achieve “peak meat and dairy” – the long-term decline in meat and dairy consumption following their extended period of growth.

But given humanity’s recalcitrance when it comes to acting swiftly on the existential threat of climate change, Chris also has what he calls a “rear-guard strategy”. In partnership with not-for-profit Bush Heritage Australia (BHA), he and Jacqueline donated funds to buy 68,000ha of a former grazing property north-east of Perth, Western Australia, on the traditional lands of the Badimaya people, to restore it as a biodiversity hotspot. 

“When we went there originally, it just looked unbelievably awful because it had been trashed by a combination of overgrazing, fire and drought,” Chris recalls. 

Twenty years later, it’s the Charles Darwin Reserve and home to flourishing woodlands that nurture mallee fowl, pink cockatoos, dunnarts, skinks and numerous rare insect species, including a pseudoscorpion – a scorpion-like arachnid – named after him: Synsphyronus christopherdarwini. “As long as you give nature half a chance, she will come back,” he says. Chris is now working on BHA plans to help purchase an even larger tract of land in South Australia. “You’ve got to buy big,” he says. “You’ve got to buy very big.” 

The moral path

While he may not have followed professionally in the footsteps of his great-great-grandfather Charles, Chris has certainly done so in the spiritual and moral sense. “Late in life, he [Charles] said, ‘I feel no remorse for having committed any great sin, but I have often regretted that I haven’t done more for our fellow creatures’,” Chris says. “Even 150 years ago, he could see the natural world was in trouble.”

Chris has also inherited a deep appreciation for the importance of data and his ancestor’s unique method of thinking through a problem by using relevant facts. “It’s like a big machine; you pour facts in the front of this thinking system, and you get results at the far end,” he says. 

That hunger for data and knowledge and understanding permeates his life, and imbues him with a sense of restless energy, as if there aren’t enough hours in the day or years in a life to achieve what he wants to achieve. 

He knows it’s a race against time, against deforestation, against greenhouse gas emissions, against human fallibility, but it’s a race we can’t afford to lose. “I’m not going to stand still, I’m not going to rest, I’m just going to keep going,” he says. “This is my life purpose.”

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The only caveat the university imposed was that he had to achieve at least credits in all subjects. No problem. “I’m an enthusiastic person,” Trevor explains. It’s an understatement that’s clearly evident after only an hour’s conversation with the lifelong resident of Broken Hill. 

That trademark enthusiasm did waver slightly, however, at the beginning of the course, when he had to introduce himself to his fellow students from around the world. “There was a guy in the USA and he commissioned nuclear submarines for the US Navy, and there was a guy in the UK who was an ex-British Airways captain; he’d flown the Concorde,” Trevor recalls. “And I said, ‘Well, I’m Trev, and I’m an ex-miner from Broken Hill.’”

Trevor frequently describes himself as such. It’s as if he’s reminding himself that, even though he receives international astronomy accolades and personal invitations to visit NASA, has had multiple co-authorships of papers in the most prestigious scientific journals, and is on a first-name basis with some of Australia’s – and the world’s – leading astronomers, he’s still also Trevor Barry, a fitter/machinist from the mines of outback New South Wales.

From mineworker to stargazer

Traditionally, a story like this would tell of a child captivated by the stars from an early age, and for whom fate had other ideas. But that’s not how Trevor tells it. 

“I wasn’t interested in astronomy at all,” he says. “Most of the population doesn’t look up.” The child of a mining father – a former Rat of Tobruk – and a housewife mother grew up in Broken Hill, but left high school after four years to become an apprentice machinist in a zinc mine, because “that’s what young people in Broken Hill did”.

For the next 34 years, he worked in the mines, making good use of the diversity of skills he’d learnt as an apprentice on rotation around the mine’s power station, engineering design office, and maintenance departments on the surface, underground and in the mills. The career taught him to be resourceful. 

“Often when something broke down, we wouldn’t have the specific necessary spare parts, but that machine had to work,” Trevor says. “There’s always a solution to just about any problem, but you have to think outside the square.”

One day, an apprentice in Trevor’s department asked him to take a look at a telescope he’d built from scratch. Trevor took some persuading – “why would I want to look at or through a telescope?” – but eventually, one cold winter night, he made his way to the apprentice’s house. The 1.5m long, 8″/203mm-aperture Newtonian telescope, set on a German equatorial mount, was on the back lawn. 

“He pointed out this nondescript star-like point of light, and said, ‘That’s what we’re going to look at’,” Trevor recalls. He looked through the telescope, and saw Saturn, its ring system and atmospheric banding, in full splendour. It was love at first sight, both with the planet and the idea that a homemade telescope could bring this celestial wonder into sharp focus. “I had to do something about that,” Trevor says. 

Armed with a book from Broken Hill City Library on how to build Newtonian telescopes, Trevor constructed a 10″/254mm-aperture telescope, with an equatorial mount – complete with counterweights – anchored to three concrete-filled holes in the back lawn carefully maintained by his wife, Cheryl (“I got in a bother with the missus over that,” he admits). 

A pair of lawnmower wheels enabled him to move and store the mount under the back veranda, while the telescope itself was deposited in a spare bedroom. That was all fine until one day, while extracting the mount from under the verandah, Trevor lifted one of the mount’s legs too high and, in accordance with the laws of physics, the counterweights did the rest. “Pulled me straight over the top and landed me in the ‘gorgeous-and -adorable’s’ rose garden,” he says.

With nothing seriously wounded except his pride, he set about building a permanent observatory and bigger telescope made from – among other items – a water tank, washing machine parts and a wire from Trevor’s catamaran. 

Taking on university study

When economics and a back injury brought his career in the mines to a close, Trevor was finally able to focus entirely on astronomy. He signed up for the Swinburne course, with encouragement from luminaries Fred Watson, AG’s longtime space writer, and British/Australian astronomer David Malin, who’d visited Trevor’s outback observatory a year or so earlier. 

Much to Trevor’s own surprise, he not only graduated from the course with straight high distinctions, but was awarded the prize for top student in the year. He’d loved the study, absorbing every bit of information “like a sponge”. So when a strange white spot appeared travelling across the vast swirling face of Saturn, Trevor recognised it from one of his textbooks as a rare electrical storm. 

At the time, NASA’s Cassini probe was orbiting Saturn, sharing the wonders of the ringed planet and its family of icy moons. However the probe had only limited ability to photograph and track the storm. 

With help from Watson and Malin, Trevor managed to get his telescope image in front of Georg Fischer, part of the radio- and plasma-wave science team with the Cassini mission…and thereby launched his second career as an astronomer.

Joining a worldwide network

Trevor is now an integral part of a global network of amateur-run observatories that regularly supply visual information to the world’s space agencies to help guide their missions and observations. 

His personal beat is Saturn, which was particularly handy for the Cassini team. “Whenever his [Georg Fischer’s] RPWS instrument detected [what] he called SEDs – Saturn Electrostatic Discharges – he’d contact our team, sending an email with the challenge to hunt down the optical counterpart to his radio source,” Trevor says. 

Since the planned demise of the Cassini probe in September 2017 – an event Trevor also managed to capture with his telescope – the outback starman has continued his observations of the ringed gas giant, working with astrophysicist Agustín Sánchez-Lavega, who heads up the planetary science and applied physics groups at at the University of the Basque Country
in Spain. 

“Whenever I think I’ve found something new, I fire right up and I harass the crap out of Agustín,” Trevor says. Agustín is the settling influence to Trevor’s excitable enthusiasm, right up until Trevor discovers something new, “then look out when you’ve got an excited Spanish astronomer”.

One of four scientific papers that Trevor has co-authored with Agustín describes an enduring storm in Saturn’s incredibly turbulent equatorial zone (see    nature.com/articles/ncomms13262), which Trevor first imaged as an odd white spot and brought to Agustín’s attention. It was so unusual that both the Calar Alto Observatory in Spain and the Hubble Space Telescope were used to take a closer look. The findings resulted in one of Trevor and Agustin’s co-authored Nature papers, coincidentally published on Trevor’s birthday. 

Another project used Trevor’s 3115 Earth-days-long study of Saturn’s ‘hexagon’ – the spinning six-sided jet-stream phenomenon around the planet’s north pole – and suggested the rotation rate of the hexagon might be connected to Saturn’s interior rotation.

Trevor’s extraordinary contributions were recognised in 2022 with the Astronomical Society of Australia’s Berenice and Arthur Page Medal for excellence in amateur astronomy), for which he was a joint award winner, then internationally in 2023 with the Walter H. Haas Observer’s Award from the Association of Lunar and Planetary Observers. “How was that?” Trevor exclaims. “A mineworker from Broken Hill!”

Despite being in his 70s, Trevor shows no signs of slowing down in his new career. He’s feeding images of Jupiter to NASA’s Juno mission, helping the team to decide at where to point the spacecraft’s imaging equipment each time it does a flyby of the planet. He has also directed his telescopes at Mars and Venus.

When not tending to the grounds at his local lawn bowls club – Trevor is also an award-winning lawn bowler – he’s revisiting his fitter/machinist roots, and tweaking his telescopic set-up to improve its function and capture regime. “I’ve always been a tinkerer, but I took that to another level with astronomy,” he says. “I do nothing in half-measures.”

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Charming and irreverent as they were, The Beatles themselves were only part of the reason the tour was so memorable.

It was the hordes of screaming fans who followed their every move that astonished onlookers.

The rise of Beatlemania

By 1964, Australian teenagers had access to a global youth culture. As the feminist author Anne Summers, then an Adelaide teenager, recalled in her memoir Ducks on the Pond:

It was rare for world-famous pop stars to come to Adelaide and unheard of for a group at the height of their celebrity.

That Australian teenagers had the opportunity to see The Beatles in person in 1964 was due to a stroke of luck for tour promoter Kenn Brodziak. In late 1963, Brodziak secured the then up-and-coming Beatles for a three-week tour of Australia at a bargain rate.

By the time the tour took place, The Beatles was the biggest band in the world.

Their popularity had skyrocketed throughout 1964. I Want To Hold Your Hand went to number one on the Australian charts in mid-January and the top six singles that year were all by The Beatles.

So when the band arrived here, Beatlemania was the predictable result: crowds of surging, screaming young people, who turned out in massive numbers wherever The Beatles appeared.

While the earliest rock ‘n’ roll fans (and even performers) in the late 1950s were often labelled juvenile delinquents, there were too many teenagers swept up in Beatlemania for them to be dismissed in the same way. The crowds became a spectacle in themselves.

‘A chanting mass of humanity’

Beatlemaniacs were loud and unruly. The Daily Telegraph reported:

50,000 screaming, chanting, struggling teenagers crowded outside Melbourne’s Southern Cross Hotel this afternoon to give The Beatles the wildest reception of their careers.

It was a similar story in Adelaide. The Advertiser described:

police, their arms locked together and forming a tight circle around the car carrying the Beatles, had to force a path through the surging, screaming crowd […] Police said they had never seen anything like it.

The crowds overwhelmed observers with their sheer size – a “solid, swaying, chanting mass of humanity”, according to The Age – and noise. The Daily Telegraph consulted an acoustics expert to conclude “Beatles fans scream like [a] jet in flight”.

Beatlemania was visible (and noisy) evidence of a growing teenage consumer market and the assimilation of rock music, dancing and youth culture into the leisure practices of middle-class youth. It was proof (if anyone still needed it) the youth market was highly developed and extremely lucrative.

The speed with which companies found a ready audience for Beatles merchandise (wigs, souvenirs, magazines) demonstrated the relative affluence of the youthful consumer in mid-1960s Australia. This market would continue to grow throughout the decade.

A new idea of youth

Perhaps the most remarkable characteristic of Beatlemania was its femaleness. While not all Beatles fans were girls, it was the crying, screaming girls who attracted the most media comment.

The Daily Telegraph described them this way:

It was the girls, the nymphets of 1964 in their uniform of black slacks and duffle coats and purple sweaters – who showed the orgiastic devotion due to the young men from the damp and foggy dead end of England […] the girls wept, screamed, grimaced, fainted, fell over, threw things, stamped, jumped and shouted […] [The Beatles] were the high priests of pop culture, taking due homage from a captive, hypnotised hysterical congregation.

The references to “nymphets” with their “orgiastic devotion” tells us many Australians thought these young women were transgressing the norms expected for their era. Young women in the early 1960s were still expected to be demure and responsible. Beatles fans were breaking these rules, and helping to rewrite the meanings of youth and gender in 1960s Australia.

Beatlemania was an expression of female desire. The Beatles were powerful objects of fantasy for many fans in a world where sexual mores were slowly changing but where women were still expected to police male desire, stopping young men from “going too far”. A fantasy relationship with a Beatle became a way for young women to dream about their ideal relationship.

Screaming, chasing a Beatle down the street: these were acts of rebellion and joy that prefigured the rise of women’s liberation, with its embrace of rebellious femininity.

Beatlemania reminds us that, even if women were not always behind the microphone or playing the guitar, they have been important to the history of rock ‘n’ roll music as fans and audience members.

Beatlemania marked the ascendancy of a new idea of youth: these young people weren’t mere replicas of their parents, but they were not juvenile delinquents, either. The Beatles tour drew young Australians more closely into a transnational youth culture, fostering the development of a distinctively Australian variant here.

Beatlemania also demonstrated the massed power of youth. By the end of the 1960s, many Australian teenagers were gathering on the streets to protest, rather than celebrate, and to make political demands, rather than to scream.

Michelle Arrow is a Professor of History at Macquarie University.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Beatlemania: the enduring legacy of the Beatles’ tour of Australia, 60 years on appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Related: Awakening a sleeping language

Indigenous communities have disproportionate occurrences of many serious diseases and it’s hoped that, by exploring and understanding the uniqueness and diversity of Indigenous genetics, researchers can better address these health concerns.

“We have so many people now living with conditions like end-stage kidney disease, cardiovascular disease and diabetes, and we’ve got lots of people dying from cancers that are coming out of nowhere,” says NCIG’s Deputy Director, Associate Professor Azure Hermes, a Gimuy Walubara Yidinji woman from Cairns in far north Queensland (FNQ), and one of the lead researchers on the study.

NCIG Director, and another lead on the study, medical researcher Professor Alex Brown is a member of the Yuin Nation of the New South Wales South Coast, with family connections to Nowra, Wreck Bay and Wallaga Lake. “I think the critical bit from what’s been found in the genomics is that our diversity, our uniqueness, is very strong,” Alex says. “It is similar to the linguistic, cultural and geographical diversity that we see in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities.”

The project faced significant challenges before it could commence due to the mistrust that years of cultural ignorance had created between medical science and First Nations people, which extended back to the first days of colonisation.

Overcoming mistrust

The strong bonds Traditional Owners developed with their surroundings during thousands of years have been constantly undermined since European colonisation. Early British colonisers, for example, identified Indigenous Australians as living in a state of “savagery”, as opposed to “civilisation”, leading to the assertion of terra nullius, that the continent was unoccupied. If the continent’s Indigenous inhabitants lived a largely nomadic existence, they couldn’t be regarded as having possession of the land they occupied. And if no-one owned it, it was free for the taking.

“Science, division and separatism have been used as a whitewash for the lie of terra nullius,” Alex says. “That historical context bleeds over into the way that science is viewed, trusted and accepted by Indigenous peoples even today…we’ve got to try to build trust in an environment where science has actually been used, not just poorly, but actively against Aboriginal people.”

Painful examples of medical mistreatment remain fresh in the hearts of many Indigenous communities. Before beginning its study, the NCIG team was given access to a historical collection of 7000 genetic samples collected from 35 different Indigenous communities throughout the 1960s and ’70s. That might seem like a boon for a research group looking at Indigenous DNA, but serious issues emerged regarding how the samples had been obtained.

“We don’t have any documentation to say that informed consent was given for [the collection of] those samples,” Azure says, explaining that without knowledge of the ethics of the collection process, NCIG couldn’t use the historical samples. “You’re starting on the back foot when you’re going to a community and saying, ‘Hey, I’ve got your dad’s sample that was collected from him back in the ’60s; he’s passed away, now I’d really like to talk to you about what to do next.’

“The first general question [asked] is ‘Did you ask permission?’ And then when we say, ‘I don’t know’, it’s: ‘Well, why are you keeping it?’; ‘What have you used it for?’; ‘How long have you had it?’; ‘Can I have it back?’; and ‘What are you doing here now?’”

The mistrust is understandable. Samples taken from the Yarrabah community, east of Cairns in FNQ, for example, were collected by researchers who would lie in wait on a corner and round up children as they walked home from school. “There were no parents [present], there was no consent, and there was no-one in the room to say, ‘No’,” Azure says.

Her team spent eight years working through the trauma of the past with these communities, allowing people to express their anger and grief, and decide if they were willing to put their trust in the NCIG study. The journey of rebuilding trust has been long and arduous, but Azure wouldn’t have it any other way. “I don’t want it to be easier,” she says. “I want to have those conversations because that’s the process. I think people need to feel those things, to be angry and to be upset, and to ask hard questions – and [they need] us to be accountable for what happened all those years ago.”

Azure’s work has allowed the study to happen in a way that fosters empowerment, inclusion and equity for the communities she’s dealing with. By consulting with participants at every stage, and ensuring informed consent was given, the project has empowered Indigenous people to actively take part in research that could benefit their health and wellbeing.

Improving First Nations health

Data gathered from the NCIG study could make an enormous difference to understanding how the genetics of First Nations people influence health. As well as highlighting that there is a great variance in the genetics across the cultures and communities of Indigenous Australians, it’s also clear that much of the variance is found nowhere else.

“It depends on how we measure it, but up to 25 per cent of the genetic variance is unique to Indigenous Australians,” Dr Hardip Patel, the Bioinformatics Lead at NCIG, says. “It’s well known that genomic databases are biased towards Europeans. There is pretty much no information that exists for Indigenous Australians, and that creates a blind spot in our understanding of genomics.”

If the wrong templates are used to build medicines, it runs the risk of driving inequality even further, because medical practices that are not suitable are applied to First Nations people. The NCIG research group viewed it as their job to make sure that what has happened in the past doesn’t occur again. “We started with very a simple goal. We have to create reference genomic databases so that we can start understanding health and clinical implications for Indigenous Australians,” Hardip says.

Related: Stories told by Aboriginal Tasmanians could be oldest recorded in the world

The Indigenous communities involved are passionate about and committed to providing a meaningful benefit for future generations, but the question still remains: Will this genomic research actually provide meaningful health outcomes? In short, we don’t know.

“Genomics analysis is a hard problem,” Hardip says. With the diversity demonstrated by a study of just four Indigenous communities, it’s very possible that genomic research will need to include many more communities across Australia before any comprehensive health benefits can be found.

For now, a major outcome of the study has been to demonstrate how research with Indigenous communities can be conducted in a more collaborative and respectful way. “We’ve managed to bring together a good group of collaborators who are working hard to say that this is now the standard that we should be expecting when we do research with Indigenous communities,” Azure says.

Perhaps even more importantly, the study represents a growing empowerment of Indigenous Australians. “The greatest shift has been [with] Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in positions of authority enabling communities to make their own decisions as autonomous agents in their future,” Alex says.

Curiosity, science and research have been integral to how Indigenous Australians have been interacting with their environment for tens of thousands of years, but that has been taken away during the past two centuries. Now there’s a strong move to restore that in a way that not only benefits their health and culture, but also the whole of Australian society.

The post Understanding Indigenous DNA appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Members of Aboriginal communities are warned that this story may contain images and names of deceased people.

Thomas Watson had an “awesome childhood” growing up in Katherine, in the Northern Territory, but being away from his ancestral home in Queensland, he always longed to connect with his family’s culture. “I always knew I was Aboriginal and have been proud of it, but there was missing knowledge and a hole that I felt I needed to fill.”

Born in Melbourne, Thomas spent most of his childhood in the NT because his grandmother moved there in her twenties.

“At two-and-a-half-months old, my grandmother and her twin sister were moved to St Joseph’s Home, Neerkol, because their mother was unable to support them. Their mother was a domestic servant, and their father was a stockman, so they were incredibly poor. They were able to see their parents on occasion, but my grandmother has very little memory of her mother, which is really sad,” Thomas said.

“Because of all the policies, restrictions and general treatment of Aboriginal people and our culture and languages at that time, my nan was never taught anything about our culture, and therefore neither were we. My grandmother couldn’t even remember the name of our mobs.”

It wasn’t until he started university that Thomas caught a proper glimpse of his ancestry.

At the start of his Bachelor of Health Science and Bachelor of Applied Science (Osteopathy) at RMIT University, Thomas participated in Gama-dji, an orientation week for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students. He took a seat at random, and during an icebreaker activity, the students started talking about their families. Thomas met someone whose last name was White – his grandmother’s maiden name.

“We found out that her great-grandfather is my great-grandfather’s brother,” Thomas said. “And so that is how I discovered that my family is Gangulu. I finally had a mob that I could say I belonged to, which was very special. I had a bit of a cry over that.”

Armed with this new information, Thomas – then 21 years old – prepared for a family reunion, purchasing a GoPro and a notebook to record everything he could learn about his culture when he returned to Country. However, upon arrival, Thomas discovered he couldn’t learn his language as nobody spoke it anymore.

“That experience lit the fire in my belly because I didn’t want to accept that my language wasn’t there anymore,” Thomas said. “I was so excited to learn it, and then it no longer being there didn’t sit right with me.”

Rediscovering what was once lost

At the time of European colonisation, about 250 distinct First Nations languages were spoken across Australia. Approximately 150 languages are still actively spoken, with only 14 considered strong. Around 110 languages are considered severely or critically endangered, according to the National Indigenous Australians Agency.

Languages that no longer have native speakers – that is, no one who learned it as a child – are often described as being “extinct”. Thomas, however, prefers the term “sleeping language”, which has an important distinction – a sleeping language can be reawakened.

Refusing to give up on his language, Thomas started his research where every young adult does – with a Google search on his phone.

“I started by searching for the name of my mob on the internet,” Thomas said. “I clicked on every link and tried to work my way through the menus of all these different websites and resources until I came across a word list or a book.

“Initially, I was trying to find anything, but as I began learning more, I could search for more specific things.”

Related: Speaking up

Throughout his investigation, Thomas repeatedly came across references to the book Linguistic Survey of South-Eastern Queensland. It was written by a Swedish linguist named Nils Holmer, who conducted fieldwork on languages from Queensland, northern New South Wales and the Torres Strait during the 1960s–70s.

Many other linguists critiqued Holmer’s publication, believing it did not provide sufficient evidence to support his observations. “They were effectively saying that they didn’t trust his publication, but this could be solved with the original notes, or what they call a ‘corpus’,” Thomas said. “So, that got me thinking, ‘Where is this guy’s corpus?’”

At this time, Thomas was working with linguist Andrew Tanner from Living Languages, an organisation supporting Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people in their efforts to preserve and grow their languages. The pair would meet each week to do language revitalisation work, their efforts now set on finding Holmer’s corpus.

One day, while researching, the pair emailed Claire Bowern, an Australian linguist currently working at Yale Linguistics, who knows Nils Holmer’s son, Arthur, a linguistics professor at Lund University in Sweden.

“They had a conversation 20 years ago, and she recalled that he said he had a collection of his father’s work sitting in his attic, but he’d never looked at it before. We thought that maybe if he had all this stuff he had never looked at, the corpus we were after could be there.”

The only problem was this collection was halfway around the world. Thomas and Andrew contacted Arthur and asked if he knew anything about the corpus they sought.

Initially, Arthur said no, but after a week, Thomas received an email with 12 scanned notebooks of Holmer’s original works. A week later, 14 more notebooks and six audio tapes appeared in Thomas’ inbox.

“Each of the 26 manuscripts – the field notebooks – are handwritten, and they contain languages from northern New South Wales, all of Queensland and up to Torres Strait,” Thomas said. “Seven of them were significant to me and my work in my language.”

Each notebook had around 160 handwritten pages on First Nations languages, meaning Thomas now had around 2660 pages worth of content to sift through.

Putting the pieces together

Thomas shifted from his career as a health professional and applied to become an Industry Fellow for Indigenous Language at the University of Melbourne, where he currently works part time on a grant for his language studies.

He is working for a platform called Nyingarn, an online database that makes manuscript sources of Australian Indigenous languages available as searchable and reusable text documents to support language revitalisation.

Thomas transcribed all seven Holmer notebooks about the Gangulu language.

“Now, using all the information I have collected over the years, me and a small team are writing the first Gangulu dictionary and learners guide,” Thomas said. “My greater goal is to bring back Gangulu, my language, and I want to speak it fluently.”

The awakened language will inevitably differ slightly from the original one, as Thomas and his team make judgements to the best of their knowledge and take inspiration from other local languages that are part of the same language family as Gangulu.

Because the language stopped being spoken around the 1970s, some words must be ‘invented’ to fill the dictionary with modern phrases. The primary ways of introducing new words to the dictionary is by adapting English words using the Gangulu phonetic system, or using the same process that other languages in Australia use to make words in their own languages that don’t draw any inspiration from English.

“A common one we already use is the word for car,” Thomas said. We say ‘murraga’, which is a phonetic take on ‘motor car’. When said in a sentence, you hardly even realise that it is technically an English word.”

Another word Thomas and his team have created is ‘dibi’ which means television, and is a phonetic play on ‘TV’.

Related: Mapping Indigenous language across Australia

Speaking to the future

Having his language back is extraordinarily special for Thomas, and he hopes that when he has finished the key work on Gangulu, he can start looking into other sleeping languages documented in Nils Holmer’s further 19 notebooks.

“Once this learners’ guide dictionary is complete, we’ll move straight onto making a new, updated version because we’re still coming across and trying to figure out the language as we go,” Thomas said. “Then, when we bring back Gangulu, we can use that to revive other languages from around us.

“When you start to come across language materials and word lists, you realise all the puzzle pieces are here. We just need to put them back together again.”

Thomas also emphasises the need for the current generation to take the initiative to learn about their Indigenous culture before it is too late.

“We are at a critical point where we must be passionate about and willing to uncover this stuff because otherwise when our Elders pass away, that knowledge will be gone forever.”

There is much hope for reawakening sleeping First Nations languages, and Thomas has proven that it is possible.

“I can now string together sentences off the top of my head, and although my grandmother can’t speak the language and doesn’t necessarily understand what I’m saying, I can see that she’s so excited when I talk to her in our language.

“It will take a little while, probably a couple of generations, but hopefully, by the time I have grandkids, they will be speaking Gangulu, too.”

The post Awakening a sleeping language appeared first on Australian Geographic.

A series of critical events relating to Indigenous rights, respect and recognition followed throughout the 1990s. In 1992 one of the most momentous was the handing down by the High Court of Australia of the Mabo decision, which ruled that, when Britain made its claim to this continent in 1770, Australia was not terra nullius – a land belonging to nobody. Indigenous peoples, the decision acknowledged, had lived in Australia for thousands of years and had rights to the land under their own laws and customs.

Within 12 months the Native Title Act 1993 was passed, paving the way for First Nations people to claim legal ownership of traditional lands. The Wik decision followed in 1996, confirming that native title rights and pastoral and leasehold tenures could coexist and, perhaps even more significantly, that native title could not be extinguished by pastoral leases.

At about the same time, in 1995, Australia’s Human Rights and Equal Opportunity Commission, under the request of the federal government, conducted The National Inquiry into the Separation of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Children from their Families. The inquiry tabled its findings in Federal Parliament in 1997, in the landmark Bringing Them Home report, which addressed the institutionalised forced removal of First Nations children from their families throughout the 20th century, right up to the 1970s.

It was the first time this disturbing part of modern Australian history had been documented in a formal way, and the extent and nature of the practices it highlighted shocked many non-indigenous Australians.
The report made 54 recommendations aimed at redressing the impacts of the removal polices and the ongoing intergenerational trauma they’d caused. Among the recommendations was a national apology.

A year after the Bringing Them Home report was tabled, the first National Sorry Day was held on 26 May 1998, recalling the Stolen Generations as one of the most tragic and deeply emotional events in recent Australian history. It’s a day that’s been marked annually ever since, acknowledging the deep trauma suffered by generations of First Nations people who were forcibly removed from their families and communities under the sanction of misguided government-endorsed policies.

The Walk for Reconciliation came two years after the first Sorry Day, while the National Apology to Australia’s Indigenous peoples was formally offered in Federal Parliament on 13 February 2008, by prime minister Kevin Rudd, on behalf of the nation.

Related: Listening to the voices

The post Looking back at Australia’s largest political demonstration appeared first on Australian Geographic.

‘Assisted migration’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

Related: Australia’s forgotten child migrants

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Assisted migration appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“Mary Kathleen is up for sale today and, according to the auctioneers, buyers have been swarming over the site like ‘ants around the honey pot’,” reported The Canberra Times on 11 April 1983. The auction stripped Mary Kathleen to its bare bones; buildings were dismantled brick by brick and carted away, leaving behind concrete foundations and bitumen roads leading to nowhere.

Mary Kathleen’s uranium deposit was discovered in July 1954 by prospectors Clem Walton and Norman McConachie. Norman named the site after his wife, Mary Kathleen, who’d died from an illness just days before. Mining commenced in 1956 and a town – also called Mary Kathleen – was built about 6km south of the open-cut operation. The mine’s senior staff and their families lived on the town’s eastern boundary, away from employees. Miners with partners and children were allotted three-bedroom houses close to the town square, while single workers lived in donga accommodation – a private room with a communal kitchen and bathroom.

The shared accommodation sometimes fuelled conflict. Many of the men who lived together had little in common beyond their place of employment. In his memoir, Mary Kathleen Reflections: A Loss of Innocence Working at a Uranium Mine in the Australian Outback, mine geologist Andrew Cuthbertson recalled raucous youngsters from Sydney and Melbourne locking horns with older migrants from Poland and Yugoslavia.

“Life in the dongas required people to get on with…workers of vastly differing backgrounds,” Cuthbertson wrote. “In a twenty-four-hour continuous mining operation, split into three shifts, there were always men sleeping through the daytime… [Many] young men simply had no comprehension of respect for fellow workers trying to sleep and insisted on having their music boxes – ghetto blasters – on at full volume during the day.”

Mary Kathleen had several recreational facilities for people to visit in their spare time, including a drive-in cinema, 35m swimming pool, golf course and lawn bowls club, but many preferred venturing to Mount Isa instead. This neighbouring town offered rodeos, numerous bars, annual community dances, live music – and more single women. Men greatly outnumbered women in Mary Kathleen and single women were particularly scarce.

“[Mary Kathleen] had very few single women in town or on the mine site and those few attracted the undivided attention of the large number of lonesome male workers,” Cuthbertson wrote in his memoir. “The town primary school had stopped assigning young single women teachers just before I arrived, as they frequently resigned due to harassment.” Life wasn’t always rosy for married women, either. “There was an established pecking order amongst the wives…as the seniority of their husbands in the workforce spilled over into their private lives in the town,” Cuthbertson wrote. Gossip and rumours spread quickly in this isolated outback town, where “everyone knew everyone else’s personal business”.

Uranium ore was extracted from Mary Kathleen during 1958–63 and 1975–82. By 1982 the deposit was exhausted, and the mine closed for good. On 20 July 1982 The Canberra Times reported that mining executives and local politicians “decided it was not financially practical to keep the township alive…the town’s residents will have to find somewhere else to live”.

After the auction, Mary Kathleen became the site of Australia’s first major uranium mine rehabilitation project. Today, the open-cut mine is filled with electric-blue water, caused by the washing of minerals from its walls. Many tourists visit the mine – despite its mild levels of radioactivity – and camp on the empty streets of the long-gone settlement.

Related: Australia’s top 10 ghost towns

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For most of us, hot-air ballooning is a wistful meander through the clouds, punctuated by oohs and aahs. For competition balloonists, it’s a game of fierce concentration and razor-sharp precision – as much a battle of the mind as an exercise in leveraging wind. Fatigue and a lapse in focus are as likely to undo them as an unforeseen shift in the breeze. Then there’s the stuff that goes unseen. Well before any propane is lit, organisers oversee a labyrinth of behind-the-scenes operations. These include transporting 30 balloons and their baskets to a remote Australian town; negotiating with farmers whose lands may double as landing sites; forecasting conditions that will dictate the competition’s progression; making supervision arrangements for small children whose mothers will float skyward throughout the competition; and feeding everyone involved – the vast majority of whom are volunteers. With no prize money offered, it’s a passion pursuit, and one that’s stolen the hearts of about 621 competition pilots worldwide – nearly 10 per cent of them women.

Little-known sport

Outside of the amateur sport, little is known about competition ballooning. For a start, an event is not a race to a finish line. Instead, balloonists accrue points by completing tasks within time or distance limits. They’re usually given a half-hour window in which to launch, so they have the option of a staggered start.
“You ideally want to be flying in clear air,” Nicola says. “If there are other balloons around, you can quite easily have one fly underneath you and not be able to get where you want to go.”

This often happens near a land target, which is a white, 10x10m X on the ground. Balloonists drop or throw a weighted streamer as close as possible to the target, with points awarded for accuracy. Some pilots navigate solo, others fly with a co-pilot, but all have a ground crew who check coordinates, wind speed and distance, and call the readings through.

As pilots navigate land targets, the balloons look like racing yachts jostling around buoys. “There’s a bit of argy-bargy,” Nicola says, adding that those above must give way to those below. “Some people carry whistles, or you’ll hear people yelling out to let the person below know, so they don’t climb up.” Nicola doesn’t hold back pursuing targets. “I’m quite aggressive with my flying,” she says. “I know what my skill level is; if I can see an opportunity in among some other balloons to get down into an area, I am confident in my ability, and I’ll do it.”

Targets aren’t always physical. Often, they’re virtual. “Some of the flights can get quite technical; it’s a lot of plotting things on computers,” Nicola says. Invisible targets, suspended in the air, are hit using an electronic logger that records the balloon’s position and altitude. “You’ve got to fly, but also know when to press a button to drop an electronic mark,” she says. Clearly, there’s no steering wheel: the key is to travel different directions by riding winds at different altitudes. Northam’s well-suited winds are typically calm on the ground of the Avon Valley – particularly in the cool before dawn and at sunset – and faster above. In 2023 they reach up to 70km/h during the competition.

The science of wind

Understanding the wind’s whims is fundamental for every pilot. That’s where meteorologist Don Whitford comes in. At 3am – a full hour before Nicola starts her day – Don’s alarm sounds. As he rubs sleep from his eyes, the volunteer weather sleuth pops open his laptop and dives into data published by the Bureau of Meteorology, where he’s worked for 55 years. His eyes feast on synoptic charts, dew points, highs, lows and fronts, as he compares the data and assesses the conditions ahead for the day. By 3.30am, he’s in Northam’s ballooning headquarters, the Aero Club, musing over what information to include in his twice-daily briefings.

The first briefing is delivered at 5.15am. The balloonists hang on his every word and leave clutching the printed weather sheets he provides. “There’s an awful lot to look at,” says the Melbournian, who’s donated his time to ballooning events for the past three decades. “In the Bureau, we have big, triple screens with maybe four products on each screen, and another one to prepare text on,” he says. “It’s all done on the one laptop here. I’ve got windows open all over the place.”

Don’s presentation includes the latest radar and satellite imagery, as well as a weather chart and a forecast for the flying area predicting cloud base, visibility, surface winds, air pressure, and more. Final readings are collected as close to deadline as possible. “It can change from minute to minute, especially the lower 200ft of wind,” Don explains. “Temperatures might change a bit and that results in a change in wind direction at those critical lower levels – that’s called drainage. The air is like a fluid, similar to water; it flows around buildings, down hills and along creeks, and pilots can steer using that.”

The bearer of the crunch-time data is a small, battery-operated tool known as a Windsond. The device is launched skywards to gather wind and temperature calculations in real time. Don takes its final transmission – sent via automated SMS and email – just before 5am.

“When it’s high enough, a button is pressed and the device plumets to earth,” he says. “Then a team goes to the paddock and picks it up. Sometimes they’ve got to walk through swamps, or crops, or the bush to retrieve the thing.” The devices cost about $150 each, and only weigh a few grams. “It would fit inside your coffee cup,” Don says. “It’s a great invention.”

In all, Don is dedicating about 10 full days of work to this year’s competition, something he calls a “love job” for a sport he’s become passionate about. “It was the micro meteorology that got me interested to start with,” he says. “Now it’s the people. It’s such an interesting crowd.”

A blood sport for early risers

At about the time Nicola is up sipping her tea, I groan and hit the snooze button on my alarm. I’m reluctant to emerge from under the covers in my room at the Farmer’s Home Hotel in central Northam, but the promise of an extra-special hot-air balloon flight wills me from the warmth. By 5am, I’m pulling up at Windward Ballooning, where AG’s photographer Max Mason-Hubers is perkily at the ready, laden with lens bags slung over both shoulders. We, and a group of excited spectators, are joining a commercial flight to chase the competitors as they scatter like confetti into the sky.

“Ballooning turns into a blood sport when a competition is on,” says the driver of the Windward Ballooning bus, laughing, as she deposits us in a grassy paddock where the competitors and their crews are busily preparing, like ants before a storm. I sense she’s only half-joking.

At 5.40am, the field is lit up like a Christmas tree: hazard lights flash yellow from every vehicle, each one towing a trailer – mostly borrowed from local farmers – with a wicker basket on the back. Bulky balloon envelopes are unfurled as stars twinkle overhead, the half-moon glowing through a blanket of cloud. Inflation fans pop and chug like propellor aeroplanes warming up. They pump air into gaping balloon mouths held open by crew. When the balloons are nearly full, gas burners start spurting, sounding like whales puffing air through their blowholes. I notice black, party-sized helium balloons floating vulnerably through the air; they provide last-minute indications of wind direction and speed before the balloons take off. After the yellow five-minutes-to-go flag is swapped for a green one, competitors begin to levitate into the skies.

Watching the bulbs of primary colours fade silently into the wispy clouds is a wondrous, pinch-me experience. We ascend, following along behind the 30 pilots as they pass over Northam’s farmland, the green of maturing wheat contrasting with the highlighter yellow of blooming canola. We coast by a row of 16 towering grain silos and over a long line of manufactured dams that act as mirrors, reflecting low-flying balloons. The clarity of the acoustics up here is astounding – I hear sheep baa, magpies chortle and dozens of town dogs bark as though they were beside me. Coasting over the town’s historic main street grants a surreal thril

Our pilot, Dom Bareford, is a 30-year-old British national champion, who won the 2018 World Hot Air Balloon Championship held in Austria. Like many competitors, he comes from a passionate ballooning family: his father is a two-time world champion and nine-time British national champion. Dom’s here to support his 32-year-old sister, Steph Hemmings, who is competing in her first women’s world event, while on maternity leave from her job as a hospital doctor. “She fed her four-month-old baby before take-off,” Dom says, noting that Nicola Scaife was doing the same thing for her own baby at the 2018 event.

Juggling the sport with family commitments and the fragmented sleep that comes with having young children is something many women competitors talk about. “Steph’s pretty good at staying cool under pressure, but it can get tough as the week progresses and fatigue sets in, especially managing a newborn,” Dom says. “It’s a bit like batting in cricket: you’ve got to have technique and ability, but the biggest thing being tested is your decision making.” Dom says the intense pressure pilots feel is often underestimated. “It looks like a mundane sport with balloons just going up and down, but it’s very adrenaline-packed.”

Critical ground support

The rush of ballooning isn’t exclusive to those in the air. Each crisp morning during Northam’s ballooning season – from April to October – farmer Kathy Patterson stretches her limbs and wanders out to her verandah to marvel at something she’s been looking at since she was 10 years old. “How many years have I lived here, and I still stand out the front and watch them fly over?” she says, laughing. “I get excited every 1 April, then I feel sad at the end of October when they stop flying for summer.” The 430ha sheep and cropping property Kathy grew up on has been under the flight path since Northam caught the ballooning bug more than four decades ago. “For my 50th, my husband sprayed a big 50 in the crop, and he surprised me with a balloon flight over it,” she says.

Up to seven balloons at a time fly overhead on a regular basis, so when Kathy heard 30 would hit the skies for the Women’s World Championship, she was beside herself. “I was like a little kid in a candy shop. I get so excited,” she says. “It can be really magical with the mist in the valleys. We’ve got a million-dollar view.”

Kathy, her fifth-generation farmer daughter Joanne Smith, and countless others have agreed to offer their properties as spontaneous landing sites, should the balloons need to come down. It’s not ideal – crops can get damaged by baskets, and retrieval means paddock traffic, which equates to lost income – which is why volunteer farmer liaison Brendan Parker spends months visiting landowners to seek permission before the ballooning season. “I’ve grown up with balloons in the sky every winter and I love the spectacle. They take the breath away, even now,” he says. “I’d say 99.9 per cent of landowners feel the same and will happily have them launching or landing in their property.”

Pilots are well briefed that pasture paddocks, rather than crop fields, are preferred emergency landing spots. “At the pilot briefing, it’s made very clear they’re not to land in a crop unless they absolutely have to – they will be penalised,” Brendan says. “They are allowed to land with sheep in the paddock,” he adds. “We tell them to look for gates, don’t push the sheep around, try and find a farmer to say who you are as a courtesy, that sort of thing.”

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. “The advice is given, but there’s always a chance the wind might change or there’s a powerline in the way,” Brendan says. On this point, Kathy is resolute. “If you have to do it, you have to do it,” she says. “These are all talented women, so I’m very confident.”

Each of those talented women has had to work hard to ensure they have a balloon to fly in. With competitors hailing from 13 nations, including Japan, Lithuania and the USA, arrangements for transporting gear started early.

“A lot of pilots bring their own envelopes, then borrow the basket, burner and tanks,” says Australian team manager Sean Kavanagh, whose family runs Kavanagh Balloons, the only balloon manufacturing business Down Under. They, and many Australian pilots, have loaned equipment to visitors.

“Most people will have done it for the cost of the freight to get it here,” Sean says, explaining that it costs about $1000 to send a container back and forth across the Nullarbor. “The biggest challenge we’ve had is explaining to competitors that the majority of the gear has to come from the eastern states. They’re like, ‘It’s only across one country.’ We say, ‘Well, no, to get it from Sydney to Perth, it’s about the same distance as Amsterdam to Istanbul’,” Sean says. “For a lot of people, particularly Europeans who normally just drive across a border to another country, it’s a bit of a shock.”

Competition, camaraderie and passion

It’s day five of the Women’s World Championship, flight six of seven, and as the dawn sun casts a golden glow over Northam’s farmland, a winner has emerged so decisively a name has already been called. Nicola Scaife has achieved her dream of becoming a three-time world champ. After earning points across 20 tasks, Nicola drops the winning marker and radios to her crew that they’ve done it. “It’s an incredible feeling – real intense emotion,” she says. “There’re a lot of personal things that go into these long-term goals and journeys, so it means a lot.”

Upon accepting the trophy, Nicola publicly retires from competition ballooning, the sport she’s pursued for the past decade. “It was always my intention,” she says. “Life changes, things happen, and for me it just felt like a good time. I’m not going to stop ballooning, but it’s bittersweet to have that ending.”

The early victory allows Nicola to approach the competition’s final flight in a different headspace, dropping her characteristic laser focus for the joy of just taking everything in. Fittingly, it happens at sunset. “I was standing on the launch site surrounded by all these women from all around the world,” she reflects afterwards.

“We come together with this combined passion, so I was soaking it all up with an appreciation for what we all get to do, and for each other too. It’s this fierce competition, but there’s so much camaraderie.”

Visiting Northam

Brought to you by Shire of Northam

Located in the heart of the picturesque Avon Valley, Northam is home to a diverse range of tourist and heritage attractions, including hot air ballooning, cultural experiences, wildflowers, tours & trails, historic buildings, horse racing, white swans, and much more.

Northam comes alive during the cooler months as we welcome visitors for the ballooning season and the annual Northam Motorsport Festival in April – the classic car race where spectators can witness one of only two street circuits events left in Australia.

The famous Avon Descent sets off each August from Northam and festivities begin with the Northam Bilya Festival street parade, a community event full of colour and spectacle.

When events aren’t in full swing you can stroll across the Northam Suspension Bridge – the longest pedestrian suspension bridge in Australia that spans the Avon River. Visitors can often catch a glimpse of our majestic swans in the only remaining habitat white swans breed naturally in Australia.

Nestled seamlessly over the riverbanks is Bilya Koort Boodja, Centre for Nyoongar Culture and Environmental knowledge offering an immersive, interactive journey guided by local experts.

Northam is proud of its unique culture and diversity and its history is showcased in the many heritage buildings doted through the quaint streets alongside modern murals and a plethora of fine food and dining options.

Whether for a day trip or a weekend getaway, Northam promises something special for every visitor, making the Avon Valley an ideal destination for your next adventure.

The post Floating first appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Members of Aboriginal communities are warned that this story contains images and names of deceased people.

John Paul Young leans into the microphone to sing, just as he’s done thousands of times before. The Australian music icon, known simply as JPY, is a king of the stage – a position he’s held for half a century. But on this August day, his auditorium is one without walls. He stands in the shade of a solitary gum tree, his shoes beating time in the dust. Behind him, the flat, burnished land stretches on, punctuated by a sprinkling of trees. 

This time JPY’s audience is small compared with what he’s used to, perhaps fewer than 100. But these people have travelled from far and wide to be here, to sit on the ground or stand quietly in a community reserve on the edge of a town called Goodooga, in north-western New South Wales, not far from the Queensland border. 

John’s long-time musical director and close friend, Warren ‘Pig’ Morgan, begins playing a portable electronic keyboard, and JPY’s soulful tenor blooms. He’s not singing “Yesterday’s Hero”, or his international smash “Love Is in the Air” – but a song called “The Coloured Digger”. 

“He proved he’s still a warrior,” John hollers. “In action, not afraid.” In a way, both the soldier whose story is told in the song and his best friend are here. 

John and Warren are performing before a war memorial. Here, on blocks of granite, in a shape reminiscent of a boomerang, is a line of plaques. One reads that this memorial honours “all those Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander men and women who, from all branches of the military, have served our nation at home and abroad. LEST WE FORGET”. The other plaques recognise local men who served, including two best friends from Goodooga, Harold West and George Leonard. Their plaque reads: “Brothers in childhood. Brothers in arms. Brothers beyond.”

Harold, a Murrawarri man, and Kamilaroi man George enlisted together during World War II. They were posted to the 2/1st Australian Infantry Battalion and, as privates, served together in the Middle East, Ceylon, and on the Kokoda Track in Papua New Guinea. They died during that ruthless jungle campaign in 1942, far from their homeland. Both men slipped into history, all but forgotten…except in Goodooga, especially on this day. With the help of a rock legend, Harold West and George Leonard are emerging from the past and being recognised – and not just in song. 

John later notes that he wasn’t only singing for George and Harold, but to them. “I certainly feel like they’re there,” the singer says.

Goodooga is about 700km by road north-west of John Paul Young’s home on the NSW Central Coast.

The distance doesn’t perturb JPY and Warren. They’ve spent their professional lives on the road, touring. What’s more, John loves driving, especially on long road trips that take him into the heart of the nation. They set off with John’s son, Danny, and me, on the eight-hour drive to the north-western NSW community.

The craggy sandstone terrain of the Hunter Valley is left behind, as the journey takes us through towns with names that sound lyrical, like a song: Dunedoo, Gulargambone, and Coonamble. The earth flattens and the sky broadens, with the occasional bump of the Warrumbungles on the horizon. But even that range drifts away, leaving only vast plains. We gaze at distant trees shimmering and levitating in mirages.

“It’s just magnificent,” John murmurs, his tone honeyed with wonder, as though he’s 11 years old again, and stepping off the ship that brought him and his family from Glasgow to Australia to begin a new life. 

“When I think of my early days in this country, coming from Britain, the obvious thought was, There’s no history in Australia, because you’d come from a place of an older civilisation. But then it slowly seeps in over time that there’s no older civilisation than the one that lives here. This country has so much history,” he says.

We roll into Walgett and pass a water tower decorated with a mural of the groundbreaking Yorta Yorta singer Jimmy Little. John nods in respect, silently honouring a fellow musician. 

The next morning we still have 90 minutes driving ahead. We pass the turn to Lightning Ridge, before heading off the Castlereagh Highway onto a road slicing through sparse country. Finally we reach Goodooga. 

Never mind the distance. The journey that connects JPY and Warren to this township of about 250 inhabitants, and to the story of two of its lost sons, is much longer. 

In 2006 Warren attended an Anzac Day service in Redfern, Sydney, held to honour Aboriginal servicemen and women, and he heard a poem, “The Coloured Digger”. It was written by WWII serviceman Bert Beros, inspired by the bravery of a soldier he fought alongside. That soldier was Harold West. 

“I just thought “The Coloured Digger” was one of the greatest salutes to a soldier I’d ever heard,” Warren recalls. The poem’s final stanzas were also a searing critique of how many non-Indigenous Australians treated First Nations people, particularly when they returned home after serving their country. 

Galvanised by the poem, Warren set the words to music and performed it at the service the following year. But he wanted to do more than sing about Harold West, particularly when he read a memoir by WWII veteran Don Johnson, who’d served with both Harold and George on the Kokoda Track. The memoir recounted how the two soldiers from Goodooga were master bushmen, possessing skills that were invaluable in the jungle. 

George was killed in action on 23 October 1942. Grieving the loss of his best friend, Harold snuck behind enemy lines with a sugar bag filled with grenades to avenge George’s death. Harold broke his leg, was hospitalised, and died of scrub typhus barely a month after George. Both men were aged 31.

Warren dubbed Harold “the ghost of Kokoda” because of the soldier’s stealth. And, as Don Johnson wrote, there was no-one better at jungle warfare. 

“This guy was an incredible soldier, highly skilled, and no-one knows anything about him,” Warren says. “It’s embarrassing.” Warren resolved to take his song to the descendants of Harold and George and play it for them on Country. He wanted them to know he appreciated what their ancestors had done. 

A mate of Warren’s heard about his plan. Brian ‘Bear’ Mooney was a retired police detective and Vietnam veteran in Newcastle who knew all too well the pain of being ignored and shunned after serving his country. He was once refused entry to an RSL club while wearing his uniform. Brian told Warren he’d go with him.

So Bear and Pig ventured to outback NSW in 2014 and, by the light of a campfire in a tiny place called Weilmoringle, Warren played “The Coloured Digger”. In the small audience was Goodooga community leader and Murrawarri woman Phyllis Cubby, who is Harold West’s niece. Astounded that these two men from the coast knew stories about her uncle’s service that she didn’t know, Phyllis invited the pair to visit Goodooga the following day, and play the song there. 

In the soil on the edge of town, Warren’s music and Bert Beros’s words took root, and an idea grew and flourished: to build a memorial to Harold West and George Leonard, and to all First Nations men and women who had done their bit. 

With the help of the local council, donations from Warren and his friends, and the support of the community, the memorial took shape in Tin Camp Reserve. This was where Warren had played his song. For generations, families – including that of Harold West – had built their homes and lives around the reserve. It now serves as a gathering place, so the memory of Harold and George lies in the heart of the community’s cultural and social life. 

Phyllis proposed that an annual commemorative service, called the Goodooga Kokoda Trail Remembrance Day, be held at the memorial. She and Warren reckoned the service should be held in August, before the heat of summer descended – and so the decision was made. The first service was to be held in 2018. 

Word was spreading about the Goodooga diggers. Warren had been talking about them and their story with JPY. “I was immensely interested in it because I was all too aware of the bad deal Indigenous soldiers got,” John says. “They were happily used by the country, and happily ignored when the war was over.

“These two guys had volunteered to go into the army, even though, according to the law, they didn’t exist. So for these guys to join up and go and fight for their country – it just blew my mind that they would do this with such verve and such determination.”

When Warren asked John if he would sing “The Coloured Digger” at the inaugural service in Goodooga, John grasped the opportunity. “I thought, I really want to do this. I want to go out there, and I want to meet these people, and I want to basically say thank you,” John says. 

So began Warren and John’s annual road trip. 

“I hope I don’t get lost,” JPY says, peering through the windscreen as he passes the Goodooga sign. He scans the spare grid of streets that are sprinkled with houses and a few businesses. 

The town is quiet, almost somnolent, with only a few people walking along the dirt fringes of the road. The vibrancy is to be found on the edge of town, which we reach after a couple of minutes driving. 

To the right are artesian springs, the hot mineral waters a drawcard for grey nomads, and there is a cluster of camping vans within ambling distance of the attraction. We turn left, heading out to Tin Camp Reserve. “I feel a little bit more at home out here now, because I know a lot of people, and it’s going to be good to see them,” John says.

Danny helps the two musicians set up at the foot of the big gum tree. John and Warren stop frequently to greet people arriving for the service. For the pair, this is not only an annual pilgrimage – it’s a reunion with friends. 

Among those embracing the musicians is Doris Shillingsworth, a descendant of Harold West, who’s travelled from Dubbo. “It’s more than worth it,” Doris says, about undertaking the four-hour drive to be here. “It’s very emotional to me. His [Harold West’s] three sisters actually delivered me in a tin shack on the riverbank at Brewarrina. I’ve got a very strong connection to him and his sisters.”

The guttural growl of motorcycles announces the arrival of five veterans, some who’ve ridden from as far as Goulburn in southern NSW. One of the riders, Rod Wicks, from Cessnock in the Hunter Valley, offers a simple explanation as to why has he has come so far. “Recognise a digger, wherever they are,” he says. 

Fellow rider Kate Ponto explains that this is her first time to Goodooga. Having served almost a quarter of a century in the army, she’s come here to honour fellow veterans – but the presence of a rock star is an attraction as well, as it is for many of the grey nomads. “I said, ‘JPY! Really? He’s coming?’” Kate says. 

The service begins with a traditional smoking ceremony. Tendrils of eucalypt-scented smoke drift from the dry earth towards the heavens. Local school students perform welcome dances, and veterans, including Kate, are invited to raise both the Aboriginal and Australian flags at the memorial. “It was nice to raise the Aboriginal flag,” Kate says. “I felt proud to do that.”

John and Warren perform “The Coloured Digger”, with JPY’s voice carrying the lyrics, reverberating in the late-winter air. 

Retired soldier, Bundjalung man and Torres Strait Island descendant Colin Watego tells the gathering about “the warrior spirit”, as embodied by those who have served in the forces.  “It’s all about protection – that’s what warrior spirit’s about – and there’s a big price sometimes that some people pay, like our uncles, and our aunties as well,” he says.

Pam Bellhouse has travelled from Mudgee with husband Chris as representatives of an organisation called Quilts of Valour Australia. The couple provide material recognition, meticulously crafted, of the military service of Harold West and George Leonard by presenting two quilts that have been made, as Pam explains, “with love and gratitude by quilters all over Australia”. 

The quilts are presented to Doris Shillingsworth, representing the descendants of Harold, and a granddaughter of George, Isabelle Orcher. The women wrap themselves in the quilts and hug each other tightly. 

For Isabelle, the quilt is threaded with memories of the stories her grandmother told about ‘Pop’ and his military service. “We used to sit around the fire at night, after having a feed, and we’d ask about Grandfather or any of the other old men who went over to the war, and she’d tell us about them,” she says. 

When asked what this day means to her, Isabelle smiles and replies, “Everything. It makes me so proud, knowing that that was my Pop and his friend who went over and represented all of us, which, through my eyes, is awesome.”

And what does she think her Pop would say about all these people here, recognising him and his best mate? “‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss!’” she says. 

In her speech, Phyllis explains why this day is so important. “When we went to school,” she tells the gathering, “we didn’t know our Aboriginal people went to fight for us. But now we know. And that’s why this day is such an honour for me.” 

After the ceremony, she’s beaming. 

“It makes me feel so proud that people are getting to learn about the part our Aboriginal people played in the country,” Phyllis says. “Making people aware – that’s what I want to do.” 

A lunch is provided by the community  and then John and Warren play a few hits, including, appropriately, “Love Is in the Air”. A group dances, kicking up the dirt, celebrating life. Nearby, a few people stand before the memorial, heads bowed in reverence, reading plaques, honouring lives. 

Phyllis smiles as she listens to the music. “I do appreciate what John and Warren do, especially for our little community,” she says. “To think John’s been everywhere, a big celebrity and all that, and yet he’s down to earth. He’s just one of those people, kind, who want to do things for people. And you appreciate those sorts of people.”

Yet as far as JPY is concerned, he certainly isn’t the main attraction here. It is the ceremony itself, as well as the significance of it, that deserve star billing. “We didn’t start it – Harold and George started it,” he says. 

Just as this August road trip to Goodooga has become part of John and Warren’s ritual, they believe it will become so for more and more Australians. 

“It’s kind of ‘Build it and they will come’,” John says. 

“It’s ‘Have a go, ya mug!’” Warren adds. 

People begin to drift away and the dust settles. As the sun tilts towards the memorial, igniting the granite and the plaques, John and Warren prepare for the long drive home. But they are already dreaming of returning to the Goodooga community.  

“That’s where the real reward is, coming out to these places, getting involved, letting them know they’re not alone, letting them know that their past – some parts of their past, anyway – haven’t been forgotten, and that it’s appreciated,” says John. “That’s what it’s all about. Show people that you care.”

The next Goodooga Kokoda Trail Remembrance Day ceremony is set for 13 August 2024.

Related: Green skin: Australia’s indigenous army

The post Commemorating brothers in arms on Country appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The Flinders University research team, working in collaboration with Njanjma Rangers and Erre Traditional Owners, used aerial and drone surveys, subsurface imaging, and elevation data to model the lagoon’s environmental conditions 28–15,000 years ago, and discovered the floodplain floor was 7–15m lower than it is today. This indicates that environmental changes influenced the accessibility, visibility, and function of the sites over time. 

Related: Pilbara’s Karinji NP: Culture etched in stone

“When archaeologists interpret rock art, they often assume the landscape hasn’t changed since the
art was first inscribed, which certainly isn’t the case at Red Lily Lagoon,” explains Ian Moffat, Associate Professor at Flinders University. “This landscape has changed dramatically from being on the coast, a swamp, woodlands and freshwater.”

“Modelling the changes in environmental conditions over time sheds new light on the locations, where they were in in these landscapes, how they were selected and used, and the roles they held in community and clan life.”

The research also identifies that during the period when the sea level was rising, after the ice age, rock art was preferentially made in areas with long distance views over open woodlands, says Flinders College of Humanities Research Associate Dr Jarrad Kowlessar.

“So we can suggest these views may have helped facilitate hunting, or even to more closely watch areas at a time when many people were being displaced by the rising water,” Dr Kowlessar says.

“Without doubt the research demonstrates rock art site locations were intentionally selected, with nuanced relationships to the local landscape, and there is potential to use our modelling into the future to tell us much more about the rich and significant archaeology of Arnhem Land.”

The research paper, ‘A Changing perspective: the impact of landscape evolution on rock art viewsheds’, has been published in the Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences journal.

Related: GALLERY: Rock art of the Kimberley, WA

The post Indigenous rock-art sites ‘chosen’ for vantage appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Flack was born in London on 5 November 1873 but moved to Melbourne five years later with his family. He attended Melbourne Church of England Grammar School and developed into a talented runner, competing in inter-club events around Victoria. After leaving school in 1892, Flack went to work at his father’s accountancy firm Davey, Flack & Co. 

He won the mile in the Australasian Championship in 1893 and founded the Melbourne Hare and Hounds running club. In the following December he won the Victorian mile and half-mile middle distance races (equivalent to today’s 800m and 1500m events).

Encouraged by his father, Flack went to England in 1895 to gain experience with chartered accountants Price, Waterhouse & Co. (now PwC). There he joined several running clubs and the London Athletic Club nominated him to compete in the 1896 Olympics. Taking six days by train and ship to reach Athens, Flack suffered from seasickness and was weak when he reached Greece on 1 April, five days before the games’ official start.

As well as choosing to run the 800m and 1500m races he also submitted his name for the marathon event of 26 miles, although previously the longest race he’d competed in was the Victoria 10-mile cross-country championship.

Related: On this day: The Melbourne Olympic Games open

On 6 April he won his 800m heat in 2 minutes 10 seconds. The next day was the 1500m event with eight runners competing. The favourites were Flack, Frenchman Albin Lermusiaux and American Arthur Blake. As the race entered the home stretch Flack and Blake were battling for the lead. The Australian took the American at the line winning by less than a second in 4 minutes 33.2 seconds. It was the first athletics race at the games not won by an American and Flack was feted as a hero.

The finals of the 800m race were held two days later. Lermusiaux had withdrawn to concentrate on the prestigious marathon to be run the following day and Flack, now favourite, won easily in 2 minutes 11.9 seconds. On 10 April Flack competed in the marathon. The race began at 2pm, the hottest time of the day. There were 25 competitors; all but four of them Greek. The foreigners were Flack, Lermusiaux, Blake and Kellner, a Hungarian. 

Lermusiaux led early with Flack coming second after six miles. Flack passed the Frenchman after 20 miles and soon after Lermusiaux dropped out. But then Flack hit the ‘runner’s wall’ and lost his energy. The eventual winner, Spyridon Louis, passed him at 22 miles.

Flack continued on, swaying from side to side across the road, but eventually collapsed after 24 miles. He was taken by carriage to the finish line at the Panathenaic Stadium.

Flack was an incredibly popular champion. In a letter to his family he said, “They tell me I have become the ‘Lion of Athens’. I could not go down the street without having a small crowd of people following me on all sides.”

Related: “The best Olympic Games ever”: moments that made the 2000 Sydney Olympics

During the games, Flack also competed in tennis, and, pairing with his English friend and roommate George Robertson, came third in the doubles. After the games, Flack returned to London and continued his accountancy training. He returned to Australia in 1899 and rejoined the family accounting firm, becoming a successful businessman and member of the Australian Olympic Committee.

Flack is considered not only Australia’s first Olympian but our first Olympic champion, even though Australia did not come into existence officially until 1901. At the games, Flack competed for Great Britain, but he ran in his old Melbourne Grammar School shorts and singlet.

‘Australia’s first Olympian’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

Related: Gallery: Wildlife Olympic winners

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Australia’s first Olympian appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The collection of keepsakes stored for decades dates back to the 1870s when his great-grandfather George Anthony captained a whaling boat from the US to Australia and back again to smuggle six Irish political prisoners to freedom.

Anthony died in 1913 before his great-grandson was born, but Ryan’s interest in his forefather’s epic mission continued beyond a childhood curiosity, while in Australia the outlandish escape continues to be remembered.

An extreme escape

In 1875, Anthony was brought in on a secretive plan by his boat-fitter father-in-law who had been approached by men looking for a whaling boat and crew to retrieve a group of Irish prisoners from Australia.

Irish-Americans collected money from far and wide to finance efforts to free the men.

Ryan says people with Irish connections from across the country “gave nickels and dimes and pennies.”

“I don’t think everybody knew what was going to happen but everybody knew something was afoot,” he says.

The ‘Fremantle Six’

James Wilson, Thomas Darragh, Martin Hogan, Michael Harrington, Thomas Hassett, and Robert Cranston had been among Irish political prisoners sent to Australia as convicts.

Margo O’Byrne, a first-generation Irish-Australian, explains how the men had been imprisoned as a result of a political uprising in Ireland.

“The Irish had tried a number of times to get independence… finally they decided the only thing they could do was take up arms,” she says.

An unsuccessful uprising saw many Irish nationalists, referred to as Fenians, imprisoned.

In 1867, 62 Irishmen were put on a ship called the Hougoumont bound for Western Australia.

O’Byrne is a member of the Fremantle Fenians, named for those who arrived in the port city more than 150 years ago.

Along with the rest of the convicts, the Fenians were put to work building the British colony.

O’Byrne explains there was an amnesty movement to have the prisoners released “because it was actually illegal for Britain to send political prisoners to Australia.”

While most were freed, she explains, “those who previously served in the British Army, and then deserted in order to fight for Irish independence” were not.

Bound for Western Australia

As prisoners taken to Australia, they were detained in the Fremantle Prison and used to build public buildings, roads and bridges.

It was a letter smuggled out from Wilson, describing the years he’d spent in “a living tomb” that sparked the rescue plot.

The recipient of that letter spoke with others in the US Irish republican movement and a plan was hatched that eventually led to Anthony, Ryan’s great-grandfather.

While Anthony was not Irish, Ryan (who got his Irish name from his father’s parents who migrated from Ireland to the US) says he believed Anthony took on the task of sailing across the globe to give the Irish political prisoners their freedom as he thought it was the right thing to do.

Anthony had thought his days on the open ocean were over when initially approached.

He had worked on whaling ships from the age of 15, eventually becoming a first mate, before agreeing to his wife’s pleas not to go to sea anymore.

Related: The Patriot convicts

Ryan also reveals how Anthony, having tried several occupations since giving up whaling, had struggled to find something he enjoyed.

“I think he was looking forward to the challenge,” Ryan says.

The ship chosen for the journey to Australia was the Catalpa.

Leaving New Bedford in Massachusetts in 1875, the crew who had been hired as a whaling crew had not initially been told about the bigger mission.

They spent five months whaling in the Atlantic before docking in the Azores, offloading whale oil and replacing crew who had become sick or deserted.

The plan unfolds

It was another five months until the Catalpa reached the western coast of Australia.

Two Irish men had travelled there ahead of time, under aliases, to make arrangements required for the ploy to work.

While pretending to be US businessmen, one was able to inform the prisoners of the details of the plan, while another arranged for telegraph lines to be cut on the day of the escape.

O’Byrne says many of the authority figures in the colony were preoccupied a distance from Fremantle that day.

“They chose Easter Monday, which was Perth Regatta Day, so it was a big social event on the colonial calendar,” she says.

Related: On this day: Australia’s biggest prison breakout

The prisoners’ freedom depended on several situations going their way.

O’Byrne says the six men had to initially abscond from the work they were doing outside of the prison.

“One was painting someone’s house, one was working in a garden somewhere, they were all working around Fremantle on the day of the escape,” she says.

Once away from their duties they travelled on horseback and in the back of a buggy about 30km down the coast to Rockingham.

However, when the prisoners were spotted on the beach about to board a rowboat out to the Catalpa, authorities were alerted.

As the authorities worked on getting a search boat out to find the prisoners, the winds blew the rowboat off course. By the time the search boat came across the Catalpa and the authorities demanded any prisoners be released, the crew were not lying when they said they had no prisoners on board.

“Fortunately the waves were big enough that this little rowboat could be hidden,” O’Byrne says.

By this point, the authorities’ boat was running out of coal so it had to leave to load back up, giving the prisoners on the rowboat the opportunity to get back to the Catalpa.

While the authorities were re-coaling, the governor having finished his day at the regatta and being informed of the situation, boarded the boat and headed back out to find the prisoners.

“They steamed out to them and the governor says, ‘We know you have prisoners on board.’”

O’Byrne says the governor warned if they did not give up the prisoners, they would fire on the ship to destroy its sail.

“So Captain Anthony says, I am in international waters and if you fire on me you’ll be firing on the United States of America.”

“It just happened that the Governor had previously been a governor in Canada and had got into great difficulty when he challenged a boat in international waters.”

The authorities ended up turning around and returning to Fremantle.

A successful mission

After a four-month journey, the Catalpa sailed into New York, where the Irish-American community celebrated.

Even though he was technically considered a ‘pirate’ and was unable to go to sea anymore, Anthony was well-respected in his community for his role in helping the Irishmen escape.

He ended up working in the boat harbour at New Bedford checking the papers of all the boats coming in and out.

In Australia, the story of the Catalpa rescue mission and the spirit of those involved has been revived along the very coastline the Fenian Six escaped from.

After an inaugural event in 2023, the Catalpa Adventure Festival held in Rockingham in April marked 148 years since the prisoner’s escape took place.

Ryan hopes to be part of the event in 2026 when he visits to mark the 150th anniversary.

Related: The story of Australia’s last convicts

The post The whaling captain, a secret plan and one of Australia’s boldest prison escapes appeared first on Australian Geographic.

At first glance these brown birds don’t stand out from the flock, but when they take to the air they impress with their long, narrow wings that span a metre and make them quick gliders. After a day at sea, short-tailed shearwaters return to shore around dusk, hence the nickname “moonbird”.

Short-tailed shearwaters (the name we’ll use from here) also excite birdwatchers and scientists with their annual 30,000km migration, and the fact they return each time to the exact same burrow.

Short-tailed shearwaters and King Island

The migratory short-tailed shearwaters only breed in Australia, nesting in south-eastern Australia, primarily around Tasmania but as far north as Broughton Island in New South Wales. The islands of the often-treacherous Bass Strait are primary nesting grounds for the birds, with the remote, windswept King Island one of their largest breeding sites.

The birds breed between late September to late April, laying a single egg in December and fledging chicks in April. They then travel to the North Pacific Ocean, around Russia and Japan, to feed. When they arrive back in Australia, they return to their burrow to potentially face a number of challenges.

Tasmanian ornithologist Barry Baker estimates there are more than 20 million mature adults in Australia, but King Island Landcare Group conservationist Kate Ravich has major concerns about the species’ future. She says the birds experience predation from feral cats and habitat destruction, while a cultural tradition on King Island means the chicks are harvested by humans for consumption.

After 20 years of visiting and living on King Island, Kate has noticed a decline in the species’ population. “It’s hard to know how much harvesting is done,” she says. “There is a quota but I think there’s a lot of people who take no notice of that, and it’s quite a big quota anyway. The scientists say all is well. I don’t believe it is.”

Short-tailed shearwater challenges

The harvesting of short-tailed shearwater chicks when they’re fat and fluffy – a process known as muttonbirding – has been occurring in Australia for centuries, practised by both Europeans (mainly sealers) and First Nations people. Originally taken for their meat, feathers and oil, Barry says chicks are now killed primarily for food.

While the most recent assessment of the species – conducted in August 2018 – has them listed as “of least concern” on the IUCN Red List, non-commercial harvesting has been restricted to the period of 30 March to 14 April, 2024, for Bass Strait’s King Island, Hunter Islands and the Furneaux Group. There is also a quota of 25 on the number of birds people can take. All hunters must have a licence, and are prohibited from damaging burrows. But Kate says the restrictions don’t go far enough.

“It’s not necessary for us to do this, we’ve got plenty of food,” she says. “We really do have a responsibility for these birds, and I don’t believe that we are doing enough.” Kate would like to see the cessation of harvesting, as well as more research into the destruction of colonies by the island’s feral cats.

Currently, the Department of Natural Resources and Environment Tasmania (NRE Tas) carries out short-tailed shearwater surveys every December and March at a number of harvested colonies to assess trends in breeding bird numbers and breeding success.

“Survey results provide context to decisions regarding open seasons and bag limits for cultural harvest,” a department spokesperson says. “The department is increasing its focus on monitoring and research priorities to ensure sustainability of this important migratory species in Tasmania.” The spokesperson also says this year’s pre-season monitoring of colonies around Tasmania found chick numbers were above the long-term average, including on King Island.

Short-tailed shearwaters connection to King Island celebrated

With harvesting, predation, habitat loss, and the drowning of shearwaters in gillnets in the North Pacific Ocean, the health of the short-tailed shearwater population on King Island – and elsewhere – is worth keeping a close eye on. Helping draw attention to the species is Anthony Albrecht, an organiser of Moonbird Festival.

Moonbird Festival, to be held this year from April 13 to 21, is about connecting community with nature through art. Run by The Bowerbird Collective, of which Anthony is a co-founder, the event celebrates King Island and its wildlife with concerts, art exhibitions and artist talks.

“We think of moonbirds as a symbol of what is precious and easily lost. The Moonbird Festival is about celebrating beautiful things, community, and protecting our threatened species and remaining wilderness, especially on a place like King Island that has multiple critically endangered species and key biodiversity areas,” says Anthony.

The 2023 Moonbird Festival raised $20,000 for King Island Landcare Group, and proceeds will again be donated to help with moonbird conservation and other projects.

Anthony remains hopeful culture and conservation can come together to help short-tailed shearwaters and other troubled island species.

“I think there is a way to maintain cultural traditions while also increasing the community values around these birds as a precious part of our natural systems, that we can’t overharvest, we can’t clear their rookeries, we need to cherish their existence…”

Related: Why are we seeing so many ‘seabird wrecks’?

The post Ever heard of a moonbird? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Like clockwork, countless opinion pieces will emerge in the media. Many will argue that daylight saving is pointless, outdated or even unhealthy, and we need to get rid of it. Others propose ditching the biannual time change for “permanent” daylight saving, which would extend winter evenings in exchange for darker winter mornings.

In sharp contrast to what many sensationalised reports and opinions might suggest, my research results indicate the vast majority of Australians – 80 per cent – support daylight saving.

A representative survey of more than 1,100 people found majority support, even in Queensland and Western Australia. Furthermore, this is true across occupations, states, income levels, household status, employment status and political affiliation.

That said, there were some differences between those who support daylight saving and those who do not.

So who typically supports daylight saving?

Supporters of daylight saving are on average six years younger that its opponents. Supporters of daylight saving are more likely to be female, higher-income, urban and employed full-time. Those against it are more often male, lower-middle-income, rural, retired or employed casually, and born in Australia.

Support for daylight saving is strongest among Australian Greens and Liberal Party voters.

Supporters of daylight saving also tend to live farther south, where the difference between summertime and wintertime daylight hours is greater.

Occupation was also important. Those who work outdoors – such as labourers, tradespeople and technicians – are often less supportive than their white-collar counterparts, who most often work indoors.

Why do we have daylight saving?

A Kiwi entomologist named George Hudson is widely credited with creating daylight saving. His motivation? So he could collect insects later into the evening.

The basic premise for daylight saving is that afternoon daylight is more useful than early morning daylight, so we “borrow” an hour. In the winter, we return the hour to the morning, so we can wake up closer to dawn.

Before the Industrial Revolution, time and time zones were not universally observed, as agrarian work could be adjusted to sunrise and sunset times.

Nowadays, clock time is essential to meet the demands of our busy schedules. We need standardised school hours, shop hours and working hours. The implication of this, though, is that a nine-to-five job gives someone in Brisbane, for example, three hours of daylight before work, but only an hour afterwards.

Could we just wake up earlier? Sure, but shops are closed in the mornings and most workers cannot simply knock off at 2pm to enjoy the rest of their afternoon. In fact, golf clubs are some of the biggest proponents of daylight saving.

So, although daylight saving may seem anachronistic, it appears to be the most palatable solution for adjusting to seasonal changes in day length.

Confusing time zones are a problem

Part of the debate stems from the fact that Australia has a unique time-zone structure. Victoria, New South Wales, Tasmania, South Australia and ACT have observed daylight saving since 1971, but it gets much more complicated than this.

In the winter, Australian states and territories observe three time zones. In the summer, this increases to five. When we include territorial dependencies such as Norfolk and Christmas Islands, Australia observes 10 time zones in the summertime, or 11 if you count Eucla’s local time zone.

To put this into perspective, all of China operates on a single time zone.

For many Australians, the status quo works, because it aligns “social noon” with solar noon. My survey results confirm the middle of respondents’ waking day – referred to as “social noon” – was 2.24pm on weekdays and 3.07pm on weekends. That’s more than three hours after solar noon (when the Sun is at its highest point in the sky) without daylight saving.

The following maps show current time zones in summer and winter, and the proposed alternatives discussed below. Use the slider to reveal the alternatives.

How could daylight saving be improved?

There have been various proposals to reconfigure Australia’s time zone regime.

“Permanent daylight saving” is an idea that would realign Australia’s current time zones so as to obviate the need for the biannual change. This would permanently shift Brisbane, Sydney and Melbourne an hour or half-hour forward.

Many similar proposals have been floated in both the United States and Europe, most notably the US Sunshine Protection Act.

Another idea is to eliminate time zones entirely. As Johns Hopkins’ Steve Hanke and Dick Henry have proposed, the entire world would run on Greenwich Mean Time – or, more precisely, Co-ordinated Universal Time (UTC) – and hours would be locally adjusted. As it stands, there are 38 “UTC offsets” worldwide – a rough proxy for the number of time zones.

Queensland and Western Australia are perhaps the most significant battlegrounds in Australia’s daylight-saving debate. Both states cover vast areas, incorporating tropical and temperate regions. Brisbane, for instance, is closer to Melbourne in Victoria than to Cairns in Far North Queensland.

In both states, there’s a geographic divide, with the majority of daylight-saving supporters in and around the state capitals, Brisbane and Perth, in the south. Though both states have held referendums on the issue, it has been 15 years since Western Australians have had a say and 32 years since Queenslanders have.

If each state held another referendum today, survey responses suggest both would find widespread support. Politicians may need to think carefully, though, about how to address each state’s internal divisions.

Thomas Sigler, Associate Professor of Human Geography, The University of Queensland

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Why (most) Aussies love daylight saving appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Tracing this history shows a different side to how European tastes were imported to Australia beyond the capital cities. It also reminds us big trends can come from small towns, and that multicultural influence can be easily taken for granted in something as basic as your daily cup of coffee.

The Little Italy of Northern Queensland

Popular conceptions of Italian migrants in Australia are often focused on the wave of migration to the capital cities in the 1950s, overlooking the many migrants who were already settled in regional areas.

In 1891, immigration agent and businessman Chiaffredo Venerano Fraire organised a scheme to recruit cane cutters on behalf of the Queensland government. More than 300 Italians came to the region as a result, prompting chain migration and concerns about their ability to assimilate.

North Queensland became an even more popular destination in the 1920s, after the United States introduced quotas for Italian migrants. By 1925, Italians owned 44 per cent of the sugar farms in the Herbert River area.

These Italian communities expanded further after WWII, as did their cultural influence. The Australian Italian festival, established in 1995 by the Italian community in Ingham and Hinchinbrook shire, celebrates and preserves the legacy of Italian culture in the district.

What’s in a name?

There are many claims regarding the origin of the flat white, from England to New Zealand. But the best case for coining the term comes from Sydney cafe owner Alan Preston, who details his reasoning extensively online. While the origin debate rages on, Preston’s argument has the most solid historical evidence to back it.

The exact phrase “flat white” appeared on the coffee menu in Preston’s cafe, Moors Espresso Bar, in 1985 in Sydney’s Chinatown area. Preston claims he was the first to use the term on a menu, and has documented this use through photographs.

He says he brought this style of espresso-based drink to Sydney from Far North Queensland, where he’s originally from. The drink was supposedly popular in cafes in sugar-producing towns as it catered to the tastes of wealthy Italian growers and their families.

According to Preston, these cafes had the best espresso machines available at the time, imported from Italy. There would be five coffee options on offer. The black options were the short black and long black, and the white options were the cappuccino, Vienna and the “flat”. On his own menu, Preston changed the last one to “flat white” as a more efficient moniker.

After Moors Espresso Bar, Preston opened five more cafes with flat whites on the menu, popularising the name and style. In 2015, global coffee giant Starbucks added the flat white to its menu – a testament to its universality. Google is a fan too, and made the flat white its doodle of the day on March 11 2024.

Why is the flat white so popular?

The flat white’s widespread appeal comes down to its balance of textured (steamed) milk and espresso. The sign of a quality espresso is in its “crema”, the caramel-coloured emulsion of hot water and coffee bean oils.

A flat white blends the natural crema of an espresso shot with a thin layer of microfoam at the cup’s surface. Without the thicker foam of a latte or cappuccino, or the distraction of chocolate sprinkled on top, the flat white delivers a stronger coffee flavour with a unified creamy texture.

Preston says a properly prepared flat white should leave “tide marks” on the sides of the cup, showing the level go down with each sip.

Regional varieties

Perth’s unique “long mac topped up” and the enigmatic Melbourne “magic” are two more examples of how regional influences have given rise to different coffee preferences across Australia.

The West Coast’s long mac topped up has a milk to coffee ratio of 1:4 in a 180ml serving. It’s like a strong flat white where the coffee is no longer just “stained” by the milk (but somehow “double-shot flat white in a smaller cup” doesn’t roll off the tongue).

Similarly, the Melbourne magic is made with a double ristretto (a shorter, more robust espresso shot) and textured milk, and served in a 148ml (5 oz) cup. So it’s an even stronger flat white, in a smaller cup. The name “magic” may not reveal anything about the contents, but the proof is in the drinking.

Déjà brew

The presence of coffee in Australia is as old as the First Fleet, wherein plants imported from Rio de Janeiro were grown on Norfolk Island in 1788. Reflecting on its long and nuanced history reminds us of the contributions multiculturalism has made to the nation, and why new iterations of old things ought to be welcomed.

The story of the flat white, along with its regional variations, reflects a dynamic coffee culture that will continues to evolve to cater to new tastes. For now, we can thank the Italian migrants of sugar country.

Garritt C. Van Dyk, Lecturer in History, University of Newcastle

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Who invented the flat white? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The term “desert” usually connotes images of dry, barren landscapes, recalling harsh and desolate wastelands. But so far these clichés don’t relate. The heavily corrugated and intermittently washed-out Anne Beadell leads through surprisingly dense vegetation, contradicting the common wisdom that deserts are characterised by a lack of plants, notably trees.

Andrew Dwyer, owner of the Diamantina Touring Company, with whom I’m travelling, has been roaming Australia’s deserts for 36 years. The GVD, named after Queen Victoria in 1875, is his favourite. “The space, the solitude, the pristine nature, the location, and the fact that it is in between the [ranges of] Central Australia to the north and the Nullarbor to the south” make the GVD a very special place for him. For this experienced desert veteran, however, the GVD does not seem like a typical desert. “It’s an arid region,” he says, adding that dictionaries define deserts as “dry and lifeless” places. “There is nothing dry and lifeless about [this],” he adds.

A desert is typically defined as an area receiving less than 250mm of rain per year. Australia’s deserts sometimes exceed this due to uneven rainfall distribution. In the GVD, the average annual rainfall is low and irregular, ranging from 200 to 250mm. Thunderstorms, mostly in summer, are relatively common with, on average, 15 to 20 per year dumping moisture onto the parched land below.

Surprising vegetation

I had my first experience of the GVD driving the Googs Track from Ceduna, on the SA coast, to the Trans-Australian Railway at Malbooma, near Tarcoola, in outback SA. The Googs Track is bulldozed straight through an undulating expanse of mallee-covered dunes that roll and heave towards the horizon.

It’s a roller-coaster at the very south-eastern extremity of the GVD that’s a popular challenge for four-wheel-drive enthusiasts. What surprises me about it is the extent of vegetation. Often described as a “sea of mallee”, this section of the GVD is densely covered in these multi-stemmed eucalypt species. There is also an abundance of wildflowers. One of the show-off flowering shrubs in the area, the grass-leaf hakea, is in full bloom. Its clusters of bright- pink flower cones distract me from the – at times challenging – track. Carpets of daisies colour the understorey.

The Googs Track brutalises this desert’s rolling dunes by cutting straight through them. In contrast, the Anne Beadell Highway follows valleys between the long rows and rarely crosses them. Both routes reveal the true nature of the GVD. It’s Australia’s largest dune field, with long drifts aligned in a west–east direction. However, in a very real sense, it’s also a green desert, although it has no major watercourses except, perhaps, the saline Ponton Creek, which is located on the GVD’s southern extremity. There’s no permanent surface water, with rock holes and claypans scarce – although soaks do hold water during wet periods.

It’s only in sections cleared by bushfires or cultural burning that this ocean of sand is revealed. Everywhere else, plants, ranging from grasses such as Eragrostis eriopoda – ornamental woollybutt – to spinifex, and from stately trees to shrubs, cover the sand. The lofty perspective of a drone reveals thetree cover, while seemingly dense from a ground perspective, is actually quite sparse, with ample space between each tree.

And yet, the botanical stars here are trees. The rare and aptly named Christmas tree mulga surprises with its tall, conifer-like shape. The desert poplar, with its lush, silvery-green foliage, is a favourite for roaming camels but seems alien among the desert vegetation. The large-fruited Ooldea mallee, with its stunning clusters of yellow flowers, appears overly flamboyant for such a dry area. The western myall, often described as a bonsai on steroids, seduces with its gnarly and photogenic shapes.

Then there is the marble gum, the signature tree of the GVD, with its sometimes stately size and ghostly mottled bark. These magnificent eucalypts often sit on the crests of dunes and become steady companions as you traverse deeper into the desert. As with the spinifex grasses, these beautiful eucalypts begin to appear about four days into our traverse. On the Coober Pedy side of the GVD there are no marble gums.

Australia’s most biodiverse desert

It’s easy to initially dismiss the GVD as monotonous, because its real beauty isn’t immediately obvious…at least to the uninitiated. If your eyes are only set to panoramic views, you might get the impression of endless sameness. To see this desert’s real nature, you need to rid yourself of preconceptions of what a desert should look like. The GVD demands a deeper connection and a closer look before it reveals itself. Far from being uniform, this desert is defined by constant changes in vegetation. For Andrew, “it’s a virtual botanical garden”. “It’s the most biodiverse desert in Australia,” he says. “The extraordinary thing about the Great Victoria Desert is that it has so many different plant colonies. You’ve got the casuarina pauper forests over limestone, you’ve got the dune communities, you’ve got mallee and you’ve got these beautiful flowering eucalypts. It’s just so diverse.”

As if to underscore Andrew’s words, the desert throws in a surprise when we encounter dunes that localised rains have turned into flowering gardens. Contrasting with the deep-red sand, the colourful bouquets on display consist of masses of striking poached-egg daisies, delicate purple parakeelyas and small yellow button daisies. Far from being a barren wasteland, the GVD is a biologically rich bioregion, with a vast array of animals and plants that have adapted to the harsh conditions. While the vegetation is there for all to see, the fauna is much more secretive. Wildlife sightings during the day are sparse. We see the occasional feral camel family group, a brown falcon with a small snake in its talons, a mob of red kangaroos in the distance and, every now and then, a thorny devil.

The real picture of what populates this arid wonderland is revealed in the sand. A multitude of prints divulge the abundance of animal species in the GVD. Visitors with the skills to interpret these animal tracks might find prints made by several species of dunnarts, mice and kangaroos.

The desert’s reptile fauna is especially diverse. The GVD is considered one of the richest areas in the country for reptiles, with approximately 90 species living among the dunes. Snake and lizard tracks are common. Every now and then, beetle tracks and prints made by birds add to the picture. Some of the more common bird species are the brown falcon, crested pigeon, ringneck and mulga parrots, fairy-wrens, and honeyeaters. Bird enthusiasts can also expect to glimpse two of Australia’s most beautiful, yet elusive, bird species here: the scarlet-chested parrot and princess parrot.

A dark history

There is, however, another side to this ecologically largely intact wilderness. Three days into our journey, we deviate from the Anne Beadell Highway and follow a short, dusty track north. It leads through magnificent stands of mature western myall. Some are in full bloom, completely covered in yellow flowers. Then the trees stop and an undulating, sparsely vegetated area opens up, with grasses and bluebush stretching to the horizon. This is Emu Field.

Located about 260km by road west of Coober Pedy, this place has a dark history. In 1953 the British detonated two atomic bombs here, Totem I and II. Two concrete plinths mark ground zero and warn of radiation. Atomic glass – molten sand transformed into glass by the immense heat of the explosion – litters the ground. Barrel-sized concrete foundations that once held up scientific instruments and other items, as well as twisted metal, are some of the very few leftovers of a once extensive infrastructure. Nearby is the large claypan that served as an airport during the test operation. We stop at Observation Point, a lookout from where British scientists observed the two explosions on the horizon.

“The great dichotomy of the GVD is you’ve got this stunning nature, and yet most of the infrastructure was built to blow things up,” Andrew says. Large sections of the GVD are classified as the Woomera Prohibited Area and, to this day, a permit is required to enter it. The Anne Beadell Highway, our pathway through this enormous desert, was in fact constructed in connection with the rocket range projects at Woomera.

Only 180km south of Emu Field, on the southern edge of the GVD and within a few kilometres of the almost treeless plains of the Nullarbor, is Maralinga, the second atomic test site within this extraordinary desert.

Robin Grant Matthews is the site manager and the only permanent occupant of Maralinga Village. “Been coming to this place since 1972,” he says. “It’s my wife’s traditional land. Now that she is sadly passed away, I’m feeling really connected to the land through her.”

Robin’s interest in history drives him to explore the test sites. “The British left so many secrets here and I try to unravel them all,” he says, admitting that many of his questions about the site will remain forever unanswered. “Maralinga always will hold those secrets,” he says. “If you find something, nine out of 10times it opens a Pandora’s box of questions.”

His wife succumbed to cancer a while back, and Robin recently survived Hodgkin’s lymphoma. “It comes from this place,” he says, recalling how for years they’d dig through the dirt here and become covered in dust. Now he always carries a radiation monitor and carefully checks everything he unearths. One of his discoveries is a series of buried steel bunkers close to ground zero, where volunteers huddled during the detonations. Another relic of the test period is the heavy lead casing of a camera used to photograph the detonations.

Related: Maralinga: ‘Field of thunder’

Seven atomic bombs were detonated in Maralinga between 1956 and 1963. Taranaki was one of these test sites and was once considered the most contaminated site on earth. The contamination, however, stemmed not from the fall-out of the bombs but from so-called minor trials, which involved testing the performance of weapon components. Among other extremely toxic substances, plutonium was blown up and spread over a large area.

From the lofty perspective of a drone, the scale of Taranaki’s scarred landscape, where some 330,000 cubic metres of plutonium-contaminated soil was scraped off and buried deep in a massive pit, becomes visible. The effects of the detonations are still visible at the blast sites – the vegetation hasn’t recovered in the intervening 70 years. The sterilised ground is still stunting plant growth.

“I really believe it was necessary in one way, because Britain wanted to get into the nuclear arms race, but they came here and took this place over,” Robin says. “They said it was supposedly an uninhabited desert. But it wasn’t. Anangu people were walking around here. It’s a really bad piece of our history.”

More surprises

After our side-trip to Emu Field, we return to the Anne Beadell Highway and are once again swallowed up by the ever-changing vegetation of the GVD. There is an acute sense of remoteness now. Left and right of the track, untouched bush stretches to the horizon, giving the GVD great ecological integrity. Mark Shephard, author of The Great Victoria Desert – no longer in print – called this desert the “hidden jewel of Australia’s outback”. Apart from the excursion to Emu Field, other attractions are sparse. Two short detours interrupt our journey west – one to the crash site of a Goldfields Air Services plane that came down in 1993, and the other to the Serpentine Lakes, a series of claypans along an ancient river course.

A visit to two waterholes, the Mulga and Djindagara rock holes, and to an area with large stone arrangements, brings the area’s history of human occupation into focus. Despite being one of the most sparsely populated areas in Australia, the GVD has long been occupied by the people of Tjuntjuntjara, known today as the Spinifex People, or Anangu.

“People were always on the move,” Andrew says. “People would journey from the Musgrave Ranges south all the way to Ooldea Soak and other water points.” These water points – rock holes containing water – were vitally important in the otherwise waterless expanse. Scattered throughout the desert, they were linked by travelling routes, especially in the eastern half of the GVD.

On the western side – within the Anangu Tjutaku Indigenous Protected Area, which represents the latest step in the Spinifex People’s articulation of their traditional and cultural connection to, and ownership of, the region – is Ilkurlka roadhouse. This is the first tiny enclave we encounter after leaving Coober Pedy. Ilkurlka is owned by the Tjuntjuntjara community, which is based 130km south of the roadhouse.

Philip Merry, of English descent, is employed by the community as the manager of this lonely post, which some consider the most remote roadhouse in Australia. “I was fortunate to be allowed to work here,” Philip says. He’s used to isolation, having spent most of his working life roaming the vast Australian interior as a mineral explorer.

The roadhouse was built in 2003, funded by money paid as compensation following the nuclear tests. “We are in the centre of culturally very sensitive Country,” Philip says. In summer, when there is less to do at the roadhouse, he gets the chance to experience the beauty of the GVD and the culture of the Spinifex People. He’s been taken around rock holes, told stories about Country and seen bushcraft in action. He considers himself a truly lucky man to be given a glimpse, every now and then, of this ancient culture. For us, just travelling through, it stays a hidden world.

About 300km west of the roadhouse and close to the western extremity of the GVD, the landscape dramatically changes. We’ve now reached breakaway country. The most striking landmark is the rock bastion of Bishop Rileys Pulpit – a freestanding mesa, or flat-topped landform – surrounded by steep rock walls. From the top, the view reveals sparse vegetation. The overgrown dunes have disappeared. So have the marble gums and spinifex grasses. The ground is rocky and barren. Although the landscape is still not entirely devoid of vegetation, some of the terms often associated with deserts now finally apply here; it seems a harsh, bleak, parched and hostile place.

Related: Australia’s 10 deserts

The post Desert delight appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Knowledge of the discovery threatened to grind to a halt Britain’s nuclear testing program, and so for nearly 30 years the story of the Milpuddie family was kept under wraps, cryptically referred to as the “Pom Pom Incident”. It was finally brought to light by the 1984 McClelland Royal Commission into British nuclear tests in Australia. That investigation’s report, delivered in 1985, was scathing: “The affairs of a handful of natives counted little compared to the interests of the British Commonwealth of Nations. The resources allocated for Aboriginal welfare and safety were ludicrous, amounting to nothing more than a token gesture.” 

The British began developing nuclear weapons in 1947 and looked to Australia’s islands and “uninhabited” deserts to test them. In 1951 Prime Minister Robert Menzies authorised British testing on the Montebello Islands, off Western Australia’s west coast, but the public wasn’t informed until February 1952. 

Britain detonated its first atomic bomb on Trimouille Island on 3 October 1952, making it the world’s third nuclear power after the USA and the Soviet Union. Testing continued on the islands, and at Emu Field in SA. In 1954 Britain chose a 3200sq.km parcel of land, west of Woomera Prohibited Area in SA, as its permanent testing site. Authorities named it Maralinga, a word borrowed from Garik, or Garig – a Northern Territory language – that roughly translates to “field of thunder”. Construction began on an air strip and test site called Section 400. 

Maralinga was located on the lands of the Anangu, comprising several First Nations groups. The Traditional Owners, notably the Pitjantjatjara and Yankunytjatjara, were removed from their ancestral homelands and settled 150km south of Maralinga at Yalata, on the Great Australian Bight. Those living on the Ooldea Aboriginal Reserve were also relocated to Yalata. 

Construction at Maralinga was completed by 1956, after which it became the exclusive site for all future nuclear tests. Seven of the 12 atomic detonations by the British occurred at Maralinga, as well as hundreds of “minor trials”, such as air and land missile strikes. These dispersed an estimated 100kg of radioactive and toxic elements onto Anangu lands. 

The Hawke government established the Royal Commission in 1984 to investigate the safety standards observed by the British government during its nuclear testing programs, assess the harmful effects of radiation exposure for both service personnel and Traditional Owners, and make recommendations for the disposal of radioactive and toxic materials. The May 1957 Pom Pom Incident did not deter future tests; three major detonations went ahead as scheduled in September and October that year alone. The Royal Commission revealed there were more sightings of Traditional Owners in the area, with one brigadier reporting a group of about 24 First Nations people living to the north-west of Maralinga. According to the Royal Commission, “patrols were not made more effective, some sightings were disbelieved, and reports of others were discouraged”. Ultimately, about 1200 First Nations people were thought to have been exposed to radiation during the testings. 

Yankunytjatjara Elder Yami Lester was aged 10 when the Totem 1 nuclear test detonated close to his home at Wallatinna station, near the Emu Field test site. He later recalled in an article in the International Humanitarian Law Magazine that, after the explosion, a “strange black smoke” that was “shiny and oily” engulfed the landscape. 

“A few hours later we all got crook, every one of us,” Yami said. “We were all vomiting, we had diarrhoea, skin rashes and sore eyes. Some of the older people, they died.”  Yami was permanently blinded by the radioactive fallout, and spent his adult life campaigning for compensation for the Maralinga Tjarutja people and for the cleaning up of Australia’s uranium-contaminated lands. His advocacy work contributed to the establishment of the Royal Commission. 

The independent inquiry also investigated service personnel who were deliberately exposed to radioactive fallout. On 19 June 1956, the last detonation occurred on the Montebello Islands, under the codename Mosaic G2. The blast had an explosive yield of between 60 and 98 kilotons – more than six times the yield of the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima in 1945. To test the effects of radiation on a ship and its passengers, all 308 crew aboard HMS Diana were ordered to sail through the fallout zone of two nuclear blasts “to obtain scientific data on the fallout and to provide operational experience of conditions that may arise in nuclear warfare”. 

Related: Australia’s nuclear tourist hot spot

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Swimming in rock pools along the cave-strewn coast was second nature to young Karina. So was lighting fires inside the caves for mock smoking ceremonies, far from adult scrutiny. “I didn’t ever want to miss out on the opportunity of throwing myself in the water, so I used to sleep in my swimming costume at night,” she says. “We’d roam around like wild kids, which I don’t think kids get enough of these days. Nothing ever happened to us, and if it did, I guess we’d have learnt a whole lot of lessons from it.”

Encounters with nature were visceral, unmediated by others and encouraged by her parents, whose busy retirement led to roles as NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service park rangers when aged in their 70s. “They imparted courage that, when the wind was blowing and the storm was coming, the rain was pounding and the surf was crashing, you could be in the landscape with its most elemental forces,” Karina says. “You had to respect it but you didn’t have to fear it.” 

It’s an approach she’s carried into her career as one of Australia’s pre-eminent natural-history filmmakers and a winner of multiple Emmy awards. As director, writer, producer and currently Head of Factual at Sydney-based Northern Pictures, Australian Geographic’s sister company, she keeps adding to an impressive body of 100 films from a 20-year career. Her university training in zoology and the history and philosophy of science gives her a different perspective from many arts-educated documentary makers. And that pulse of nature that she tuned into as a child has permeated every remarkable microsecond of footage. 

Having an impact

Karina has made films about storm chasers in Eye of the Storm, and catastrophic bushfires in After the Fires. In Big Weather she worked with television and radio presenter Craig Reucassel, well-known comedian and satirist, to depict real-life climate disasters and how to cope with them. In Meet the Penguins, her stars were the world’s smallest penguins – little penguins – and their quest for love and survival in coastal Victoria. 

But Karina wondered if there were different ways she could bring the experience of nature to audiences. “Natural-history filmmaking can be very traditional, giving the sense that the environment is static; it’s what we know, something you sit and watch with your kids,” she explains. “But how do we get people to be freshly engaged, to feel as much tension as when they watch an unfolding [human] drama? We thought If people watch sport, can we make natural history like sport?” 

This lateral thinking led to a historic broadcasting moment – the ABC’s live coverage of coral spawning on the Great Barrier Reef, as corals released trillions of eggs and sperm. But how to film this extraordinary spectacle? Would the coral be too sensitive to camera lights? Could the cinematographers get the right depth of field? Would underwater audio-recording masks work? 

“There was a lot of technical and scientific knowledge required to make it work,” Karina says. “I had completed a proof of concept test a year earlier when I went out with scientists on the night the spawning was predicted. I was in the water with a dive team and cameras – floating around in the dark was incredibly eerie.” 

In 2020 the team set up an outside broadcast facility across several sites. One was a platform at sea, with lengths of cable running from it to shore sites, enabling them to transmit Reef Live during two nights. The tiny team that had scoped the concept swelled on broadcast night to 100 people working across a 1000km arc. “What was extraordinary was that the rehearsal was cactus – nothing worked properly,” Karina says. “On the Friday night when we went live, it was perfect!” 

The Reef Live documentary has since been seen by audiences worldwide, but Karina measures success by more than a head count. “Impact can be so much bigger than just broadcast viewers,” she says. “The program was a climate-change conversation by stealth. We talked about new technologies required to improve the recruitment of coral on the reef, because we face massive [coral] bleaching events. 

“We involved farmers and First Nations people, other voices in what was a very celebratory program that brought together this idea of giving the reef its best chance to renew.”

Conversation starters

Another of Karina’s award-winning feature documentaries – Blue – charted the decline in health of the world’s oceans. “When we toured Blue through coastal and regional Australia, we’d curate panel discussions about issues raised in the film with local fishers, scientists, politicians, the mayor, local Indigenous people,” Karina says. “I love that model – we make something that goes on TV but we also sprout conversations that may change the protection of a place, or give scientists the evidence they need to show public approval or get funded the next year. There are so many ways that smart factual content can create ripples.” 

And there are also many new tools available to record and depict nature, Karina says. “When I started in film and television, we would have our hands inside a darkroom bag in the field, changing negative on 16mm-film cameras, or we were literally using grease pencils, scissors and tape to edit film on a Steenbeck [editing machine].” 

Digital video and drone technology have since wrought miracles. “We used to have to hire a helicopter to get a landscape shot, so you’d only do it every six months,” Karina says. “Now you can track entire [suites of] animal behaviour and watch it unfold. It’s opened up the underwater world because you can watch something on the surface as it unfolds beneath.” She adds that technology has also allowed filmmakers to witness behaviour never seen before. In Meet the Penguins, for example, low-light cameras allowed Karina’s team to capture intimate penguin moves that took place in the dark, but were able to be seen “as if it was daylight”.

Drawing strength from nature

Her most recent production is Our Country: 360°Cinematic Experience, a multi-sensory production on Australia and its wildlife. Created for Australian Geographic and Tourism Australia, it’s touring the nation. “It’s an immersive film experience projected simultaneously on 40 screens, and it takes you around all the habitats of Australia,” Karina says of the work that’s been some 20 years in the making.

“It’s a personal discovery – nobody tells you what to look at, you discover it for yourself. That for me was a beautiful way for people who don’t spend a lot of time in nature to see things in an intimate way, to stop and look and listen and absorb.”

She says audiences need a rich diet of different genres, from live natural history to documentary series with lashings of humour. She wrote and directed Romeo and Juliet: A Monkey’s Tale, in which two monkeys from the mountains of Thailand are drawn together despite opposition from their respective groups. “It was a wacky adventure to create a Shakespearean film set in a monkey troupe!” she says. “You have to make strong things, hard things, joyful and funny celebratory things. You’ve got to find different ways to speak to the audience. If you only take one tone they’ll start tuning out.”

How does she remain optimistic in a world where nature seems to get low billing at every turn? “It’s getting harder, but it’s action that gets you out of despair,” she responds. “[For some] courage is a word that means ‘rage of the heart’, so every time I start to feel frustrated or burdened, I think, Well, do something about it. I always come back to nature, because it’s all we can come back to. We are here because of nature being successful, and we can’t transcend it. There is nothing more beautiful than spending time making a film about a natural environment, even if it’s one that’s hurting.”

The post Immersed in nature appeared first on Australian Geographic.

As a 24-year-old merchant, Prieur and 57 shipmates were destined for Port Jackson in Sydney, New South Wales. By the time they reached the far-flung penal colony, they’d endured a voyage of almost six months from Quebec City. Although they were prisoners, Prieur and his companions were no common criminals. They were Patriots – Lower Canadian revolutionaries who, in 1837–38, took up arms to fight for democracy against autocratic British colonial rule in Lower Canada (now Quebec) and Upper Canada (now Southern Ontario).

Land of a Thousand Sorrows, the memoir of François-Maurice Lepailleur (pictured in an 1888 portrait), recounts his political exile in Australia’s colonies; A monument dedicated to the Upper Canada Patriots is unveiled by Canadian MP Douglas Harkness at Sandy Bay in Hobart, TAS, on 30 September 1970.
Image credits: courtesy City of Montreal; courtesy Hobart Library Service

Ultimately, 29 Patriots – 12 Lower Canadians and 17 Upper Canadians – were hanged for their participation in the failed 1838 insurrections. To avoid backlash, there were no further executions. Conditional pardons were granted to some prisoners, but 58 captives remained in Lower Canada, while 92 – the majority of whom were Americans who fought for the patriot cause – were incarcerated in Upper Canada. 

Upper Canadian Lieutenant-Governor Sir George Arthur, who’d previously served as lieutenant-governor of the notorious penal colony of Van Diemen’s Land (now Lutruwita/Tasmania), had proposed the Patriots be sent to his former post. At that time the Australian penal colonies were a dumping ground, not only for criminals, but also political prisoners gathered from across the British Empire. On 25 September 1839, Prieur and his 57 fellow Patriots departed Montreal, deported to a lifetime of exile in the penal colony.

Bound for Van Diemen’s Land

After transport to Quebec City, the prisoners from Lower Canada were joined by those from Upper Canada and herded aboard HMS Buffalo – the same ship that brought Governor John Hindmarsh to South Australia in 1836. Constructed in Sulkea in India in 1813, it served as a timber carrier from New Zealand and later transported convicts, then immigrants, to Australia. 

HMS Buffalo, a 37m-long, three-masted wooden sailing ship, left Quebec City and commenced its journey to the South Pacific on 28 September 1839. The prisoners were confined below deck day and night, except for a daily two-hour exercise break. They were lodged in a dark, hot and crowded hold; light penetrated only through the grilles that covered the hatches.

At last, on 13 February 1840, the Buffalo reached Hobart Town in Van Diemen’s Land, where the prisoners from Upper Canada were herded off the ship three days later. According to the memoirs of an American prisoner, Robert Marsh, the island’s Lieutenant-Governor Sir John Franklin, who was Arthur’s replacement, held contempt for the Patriots after hearing that most of the prisoners from Upper Canada were Americans. Given political-prisoner status, they were set to work building roads at Sandy Bay in Hobart Town. Franklin was relieved of his duties there in 1843, and later perished in the Canadian Arctic while leading a doomed expedition in search of the Northwest Passage in 1847.

The Buffalo continued its journey to Sydney, delivering the Lower Canadians there on 25 February. The Patriots were listed as political prisoners, and held on the ship until 11 March 1840. 

Shortly after their arrival, the transportation of convicts to NSW ended, making the Patriots some of the last prisoners to be sent to the colony. As for the Buffalo, the ship met its fate on 28 July 1840, when it ran aground on the shore during a storm at Mercury Bay in New Zealand. The wreck now rests 100m from the high-water mark, with a monument on the shore marking its location. In 1980, in tribute to the founding of SA, a replica of HMS Buffalo was built at the beachside suburb of Glenelg in Adelaide. Used as a restaurant, with a museum located on the top deck, the business closed in 2019 due to staggering costs and the replica was demolished.

The Patriot prisoners were placed at the Longbottom Stockade, established about 1817 and located along what would become Parramatta Road, about halfway between Sydney in the east and the inland town of Parramatta in the west. Patriot Leon ‘Leandre’ Ducharme described the stockade as “a sort of barrack or prison, which formed a square: there were several small, detached buildings, such as a kitchen, a tool-shed, etc.” The Patriots were confined in huts measuring 3 x 5m, each housing 15–18 men. 

Two days after their arrival, the Patriots were ordered to undertake the repair and widening of Parramatta Road. Once this was completed during the first month of their imprisonment, they were given new tasks. François-Maurice Lepailleur, fluent in English, became a sentry at the Longbottom Stockade. He recorded in his secret journal the comings and goings of everyday life in the colony, such as the passage of people between Parramatta and Sydney Town. Opposite the stockade stood the Bath Arms Hotel, run by Emanuel Neich, one of NSW’s first Italian immigrants. Neich often supplied newspapers to Lepailleur while on duty, and the two became friends. Neich’s legacy would continue via his great-grandson, cricketer Don Bradman. 

The Bath Arms Hotel is still trading today. 

This map of the village of Longbottom shows the stockade where the Patriots lived in 1840–42. It’s now the site of Concord Oval in Sydney; Loyalist Katherine Jane Ellice, a British diarist and artist who was held prisoner by Patriot François Xavier Prieur, painted this scene of Lower Canada Patriots in the November 1838 Battle of Beauharnois.
Image credits: courtesy City of Canada Bay Heritage Society; supplied

The first step towards freedom came to the Patriots between 1841 and 1842, as, one by one, they were issued tickets of leave by the colonial government. Finally, after strong international condemnation for keeping political prisoners as convicts, Governor-General Charles Metcalfe of the Province of Canada issued a special pardon for the exiled rebels. Departing in 1844, Lepailleur wrote in his diary: “By God’s grace we are leaving our land of exile. Adieu a thousand and a thousand times, land of exile! Land of slavery! Land of a thousand sorrows.” 

Lepailleur arrived in Canada in January 1845, whereupon he was reunited with his beloved wife. His diary was published posthumously under the title Land of a Thousand Sorrows. The English edition was published in Australia in 1980. It is much revered by Australian historians as an important piece of literature describing convict life in NSW. In 1845 Léandre Ducharme’s memoir, Journal of a Political Exile in Australia, was published, followed in 1869 by François Xavier Prieur’s Notes of a Convict of 1838. Both were also published in English in Australia.

The ongoing Patriot Legacy

Two Lower Canadians, Louis Dumouchel and Ignace Gabriel Chevrefils, died in 1840 and 1841 respectively while working at the Longbottom Stockade, and 10 prisoners from Upper Canada died in captivity in Van Diemen’s Land. A few of the Americans and one Lower Canadian, Joseph Marceau, chose to stay in Australia. Marceau, who had been a personal assistant to the superintendent at the Longbottom Stockade, married Australian woman Mary Barrett, the daughter of convicts. They settled in the town of Dapto – near Wollongong, 95km south of Sydney – where they grew vegetables, owned a grocery store and had 11 children. Today, their descendants live across Australia and New Zealand. In 1987 Kevin Marceau published All But One Went Home: The Marceau Story, a volume of family history. 

The Patriots were, and still are, widely revered as heroes in their homeland. Although they didn’t gain the same recognition elsewhere, their actions had consequences that extended far beyond Canada. In 1848 the Province of Canada gradually achieved responsible government and it was not long until, in the mid-1850s, the colonies of NSW, Tasmania and New Zealand received responsible government without a shot having been fired – another testament to the legacy of the Patriots. 

On 18 May 1970 Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau visited Cabarita Park in Sydney to unveil Australia’s first memorial dedicated to the 58 French-Canadian exiles, with some of Joseph Marceau’s descendants in attendance. The memorial has since been moved to Bayview Park, Canada Bay, near where the Patriots disembarked before marching to Longbottom Stockade. Another memorial was erected at Victoria Barracks in Paddington, Sydney, on 6 July 1988. In Nipaluna/Hobart, two monuments are dedicated to the Upper Canadian exiles. The first was unveiled at Sandy Bay Beach Reserve on 30 September 1970, with a second erected in 1995 at Princes Park in Battery Point, not far from where the Patriots landed in 1840.

In tribute to Joseph Marceau, a boulevard bears his surname in the borough conveniently called the City of Canada Bay, located about halfway between Parramatta and Sydney. A street sign in Wollongong, where many of his descendants live, also bears his name. Today, Concord Oval stands on the former grounds of the Longbottom Stockade, next to the ever-busy Parramatta Road that the Patriots once worked on. Not far from the present Canadian exile monument is a pathway called Chateauguay Walk, facing the Parramatta River, in memory of the seven Lower Canadian political prisoners from Châteauguay in Quebec, including François-Maurice Lepailleur. 

Since 2022, two more monuments, funded by private Quebec organisations, were inaugurated in NSW. One was erected at the Eastern Suburbs Memorial Park in Sydney’s Matraville, dedicated to the memory of the two Lower Canadian Patriots who died in captivity, while a plaque honouring Joseph Marceau is located in West Dapto Catholic Cemetery, where he is buried. In 2023 three wooden crosses were made from timber of the wreck of HMS Buffalo, a reminder of François Xavier Prieur’s journey on that vessel. Two of the crosses were sent to his home town in Quebec, fulfilling his wish 183 years after it was made. These events, landmarks and the descendants forge the Canadian exile legacy in Australia and ensures they will not be forgotten.

Related: The New Zealand convicts sent to Australia

The post The Patriot convicts appeared first on Australian Geographic.

She travelled to the island and met her subject, Terry Martin, at Stony Point Ferry. He greeted her “with equal parts warmth and gruffness, a combination of traits I didn’t know could play so well together until I met him. As he’d already told me on the phone, Terry was confused about why anyone, let alone Australian Geographic, would be interested in photographing his life. I reassured him we’d figure it out together, which is exactly what we did.”

Related: French Island: Life in trees, surrounded by water

Observing Terry interact with the tiny cast of characters who’d also chosen social isolation on French Island, it occurred to Rowena that this was a man who’d found a way of life that spoke to his desire for togetherness without social fatigue, and aloneness without loneliness. “His conversations on the ferry, at the local cafe, the Landcare meeting and in the home of friends showed me how island small talk was loaded with a different, more grounded kind of care and connection than you’d find on the mainland,” Rowena said. 

Terry has nineteen display albums full of his own animal photography; Terry and friend Neil Le Serve at the French Island General Store.

Terry’s extensive collection of vintage cameras.

Image credits: Rowena Meadows

When she spent an afternoon with Terry at his property, she saw a man who was passionate about the local animal population. He had dozens of display books proudly filled with his own photos of animals and was tirelessly willing Rowena to find a koala to photograph. This quest ended with Rowena climbing the neighbour’s roof – despite Terry’s obvious dismay and well-voiced concerns for her safety.

“My day with Terry was a reminder of how some people are simply built to thrive in a pared-back existence, carried by a oneness with nature and a handful of sparse, but meaningful, social interactions. That night, as he drove me to the end of the jetty, it had become bitterly cold, and, knowing I’d completely worn him out, I told him he didn’t need to wait with me. He stood under the single jetty light, wearing a bright red coat and his gruff – but warm – smile and said, ‘But I have to make sure you’re really leaving.’

We laughed together and I told him he looked like a strange but beautiful Santa Claus. As the boat pulled away, I recognised this last exchange of thinly veiled fondness as one of the most unexpectedly touching moments of my photographic career,” she recalled. “I’ll remain forever grateful for my day on French Island with Terry.”

Related: Notes from the field: Obsessed with Big Things

The post Notes from the field: Simple pleasures appeared first on Australian Geographic.

When the gold rush careened into what we now call the Bathurst region in 1851, people came from near and far to try and find gold and make their fortune. With the miners came the need for pubs, shops, banks and general infrastructure. Several small villages sprang up in the region to support the growing population of miners and their families, including Hill End, Sofala, Rockley and Perthville. When the gold ran out, the population of these communities dropped, but the legacy of the gold rush is still very much evident in the region. Go back in time by visiting historical sites, museums and participating in cultural events that commemorate this important period in Australian history – events like the 2024 Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail.

Strike it rich in Hill End

Located 75 minutes north of the Bathurst city centre, Hill End has the honour of being the site of the largest single mass of gold ever found. Once the news was out that the precious metal had been found, thousands upon thousands of miners came here to try their luck around the Turon River, north of Bathurst. During the quartz reef boom in 1872, on another normal night at the Star of Hope mine, rock was cleared by a dynamite blast. What it revealed was the Holtermann-Beyers Nugget, the single-largest specimen of gold ever found. There would have been exuberant celebrations at one of the hotels – there were 28 on them at Hill End at one time. Perhaps it was the Royal Hotel, which opened in 1872 and is still operating.

Hill End, New South Wales Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

Hill End is now a Heritage-listed historic site and is managed by National Parks NSW. When you visit Bathurst for the 2024 Heritage Trades Trail, consider staying an extra few days to explore Hill End. Accommodation is available in settlers cottages that have been lovingly restored, and there is plenty to do. Visit the History Hill Museum with its gold rush artefacts, check out the original diggings, or try your hand at gold panning. If you haven’t tried before, take a tour with Jhob Drinkwater, a local gold and town history tour guide. He’ll take you to the Tambaroora Fossicking Field and show you how it’s done and how to identify gold. You can even visit a mine to see what it would have been like for the miners, with Son of Hope and Bald Hill both excellent options. The Great Western Store, the General Store and Northeys Store are all worth a visit, as is the new Heritage Centre, next to the General Store Cafe. Check each place for opening hours before you go. Do the walk around the town – there is an audio tour available at the Bathurst Step Beyond app.

Panning for gold in Hill End, New South Wales. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

The rise and fall of Sofala

Sofala is a sleepy village adjacent to the gurgling Turon River. Around 200 people live here, but turn back the clock to the 1850s and it was a happening place. Sofala was built in 1851 after gold was discovered. It is the oldest surviving gold rush town in Australia, and has quite the story to tell.

About 40 minutes’ drive from Bathurst, Sofala grew from nothing once the news about Edward Hargraves finding gold in 1851 spread like wildfire. The population grew to 26,000 people that same year, with miners panning the waters of the river for the rich alluvial gold. According to local historical sources, an experienced panner in the early days of the Turon River Gold Rush could bring in around 1.4kg of gold a day, garnering around $100,000 in more recent markets.”

Sofala, New South Wales. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

The success of commercial mining in the area peaked and waned over the decades, finally grinding to a halt in 1948. Revisit the mining days by doing the historic walking tour around these pretty streets flanked by gold rush-era buildings. Artist Russell Drysdale liked the town’s streetscape so much he painted it in 1947, in his work simply called Sofala, which is hanging in the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Stroll by the Royal Hotel, across the Sofala Footbridge, walk along the Turon River and find remnants from the mining days, including gravestones, diggings and remains of a Chinese miner settlement.

You can pan for gold on a tour, or try to find something else in the Turon – fish. Nearby Wattle Flat, another small mining community, offers the Buurree Walking Trail, a 4.9km trail which boasts scenic views of Sofala as well as birdwatching opportunities.

For a fun weekend, the Rebellion on the Turon is a reenactment of the 1853 Turon Rebellion and is a weekend that comes with cannons, shootings and duels, floggings, market stalls, exhibitions, Cobb and Co coach rides and more. Keep your wallet hidden, as ‘bushrangers’ might hold you up for your gold (coins).

Sofala, New South Wales. Image credit: David Roma

Other gold rush gems

A National Trust Historic Village, Rockley is 30 minutes from Bathurst and has 21 Heritage-listed buildings deemed to be of national significance. A land grant was awarded to William Lawson (of Blaxland, Lawson and Wentworth fame) in 1818, but it was named Rockley by a Captain Steel who received a grant here in 1829. Copper was discovered in the region in 1847, then gold blew onto the scene. In the following decade, thousands of gold miners moved to Rockley as they worked the Isabella, Abercrombie and Campbells Rivers in the hopes of funding their futures.

Now with a population of around 180, Rockley is an undiscovered gem and is well worth a visit with many fascinating places. The Rockley Mill and Stables Museum is one. Built as the Stangers Flour Mill in 1862, you can learn about the rich history of the area in this three-storey building. Browse around Georgian and Victorian era mill machinery, read old police records and marvel at the period clothing of the day. The former post office, the Stables and Coachhouse, the police station and the Club House Hotel are just some of the interesting buildings in town. After you have explored the town, enjoy a drink or lunch at the Rockley Pub which has undergone a renaissance under renowned chef Matt Moran. The two-storey building now offers a new Moran-style pub menu and drink list in what is a classic country hotel.

Rockley Mill & Stables Museum, Rockley. Image credits: Bathurst Tourism

Rockley is host to several cultural events throughout the year including artisans markets, the Rockley rodeo and the Rockley Gardens and Art Festival, which raises money to maintain the historic School of Art building.

Around 15 minutes from Bathurst, Perthville, known for its autumn colours, has one extremely notable place to visit. St Joseph’s Convent was established here in 1872 and The St Joseph’s Heritage and Conference Centre tells the story of the convent and its famous founders – Saint Mary MacKillop and Father Julian Tenison Woods. Learn about the Sisters of Saint Joseph and their ongoing work through storyboards and displays showcasing a collection of Josephite memorabilia, Saint Mary MacKillop artefacts, costumes and books. You can listen to an audio tour as you stroll around, available through the Bathurst Step Beyond app.

The 2024 Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail

Join in the celebration honouring the vibrant history of Bathurst, paying tribute to the trades and traditions that have shaped the region. Held at Bathurst Showground, this event shines the spotlight on rare and forgotten crafts from Australia’s oldest inland European settlement.

Step inside the pavilions to marvel at exquisite craftwork and venture outdoors to explore the agricultural and heavy industry trades that define the region’s heritage. From traditional Indigenous tool making to the artistry of blacksmithing, saddlery, and whip cracking, there’s a wealth of skills on display. Delve into the world of glass artistry, lace making, carpentry, and more, including the fascinating crafts of cigar box guitar and violin making.

Experience the nostalgia of a ride aboard an authentic Cobb & Co Coach, and embark on a journey through Bathurst’s rich heritage with a complimentary hop-on, hop-off bus tour, visiting the city’s most significant museums and historic houses.

Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

With an abundance of activities to enjoy, from demonstrations to interactive experiences, you’ll want to spend both days immersing yourself in the Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail to uncover the places and stories behind this burgeoning region.

The Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail is on 16-17 March at the Bathurst Showground. Visit the website here for all of the details.

This article is brought to you by Bathurst Regional Council.

The post Golden days in Bathurst appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Erupting volcanoes can have devastating consequences for human settlements, as we know from Pompeii in Italy, which was buried by ash when Mount Vesuvius erupted in 79 CE. But ash falls and lava flows can also entomb entire forests, or at least many of the plants within them.

Related: The world’s 10 most devastating volcanic eruptions

Our studies of these rare and unique plant time capsules are revealing exquisitely preserved fossil floras and new insights into Australia’s botanical history. This new work is published in the journal Gondwana Research.

Remarkable preservation

The most common volcanic rocks are basalts. The rich red soils derived from them are among the most fertile in Australia.

But the rocks in which fossils occur are buried under basalts or other volcanic rock, and are called silcretes – the name indicates their origins are from silica-rich groundwaters. Silica is the major constituent of sand, and familiar to most of us as quartz.

What makes the silcrete plant fossils so fascinating is the superfine preservation of plant material. This includes fine roots and root nodules, uncurling fern fronds and their underground stems, the soft outer bark of wood, feeding traces and frass (powdery droppings) of insects, and even the delicate tissues and anatomy of fruits and seeds.

For this fine preservation to occur, first there needs to be a rapid burial, like that from a volcanic eruption. Then, there has to be an abundant source of silica — a condition met when the volcanic rocks began to weather.

The process where silica infills and preserves plant structures is referred to as “silicification” or “permineralisation”. When plant material is buried, it provides acidic conditions that are ideal for this to happen.

And the process need not take millions of years. Overseas studies of plants in hot springs or undertaken in the laboratory have shown that some types of silica will quickly infiltrate wood and plant tissues.

Why are these plant fossils significant?

Because of their rapid entombment by the volcanoes, we can be sure the plants were in situ (that is, their original location) and were actively growing. This means we can gain detailed information about the make-up of these past plant communities.

In other areas where plant fossils might accumulate – such as river deltas – we can never be sure how far the bits of plants were carried, and whether they were from different types of vegetation.

Silicification not only preserves plants, but also leaf litter on the forest floor and even the underlying soil containing roots and root nodules. The fossil plants that are preserved at different sites varies, indicating the presence of distinct plant communities.

The abundance of seeds and fruits at one site near Capella, in central Queensland, even indicated to us that the local volcanic eruptions are likely to have occurred in summer or early autumn during the fruiting season.

The extraordinary preservation of these fossils allows us to compare them with modern plants. In turn, this means we can accurately identify them.

The ferns include fronds and underground stems (rhizomes) of the familiar bracken fern (Pteridium). We have also found the distinctive seeds and lianas of the grape family (Vitaceae), along with evidence of insect damage in the wood. Two sites also had evidence of palms.

While there have been few previous studies on silcrete plants, we have revealed new insights into the history of the modern Australian flora.

Volcanoes shaped plant communities

Volcanic activity both destroys and modifies existing plant communities. It also provides new substrates for plants to colonise.

Several sites contained ferns – this may be because they are among the first living plants to colonise new volcanic terrains via their tiny wind-borne spores. For instance, it has been documented that bracken ferns were pioneer plants of the barren cone of the famous Krakatoa volcano after its eruption in 1883.

But the diversity of seeds and fruits at another site suggests that an existing forest was buried by volcanic activity.

Researchers have suggested that the key factors responsible for the evolution of the Australian fauna and flora during the Cenozoic period (the last 66 million years) were predominantly climate and environmental change. It happened, in part, due to the movement of the Australian continental plate northwards.

But the broad-scale volcano activity that occurred in eastern Australia during the Cenozoic has rarely been invoked as a key driver of such changes.

So remarkably preserved, the silcrete plant fossils are now providing startling new insights into the history of some groups of Australian plants and the vegetation types in which they grew.

Related: Time capsules: Australia’s remarkable native seeds have an ancient and intriguing legacy

The author would like to acknowledge co-author Raymond Carpenter from the University of Adelaide who contributed to this article.

Andrew Rozefelds, Adjunct Assoc Professor Central Queensland University and Principal Curator Geosciences Queensland Museum, CQUniversity Australia

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post Discovering a botanical Pompeii appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Once one of the world’s richest goldmining towns, Walhalla’s fortunes have been boom-and-bust since a prospector named Ned Stringer discovered gold in this valley on 26 December 1862. The new settlement that arose, as miners flocked to share in the riches, was first called Stringers Creek. It was renamed Walhalla after an earlier mine, which itself took the name – meaning ‘valley of the gods’ – from Norse mythology.

Now, more than a quarter of a century after electricity finally reached the town, Walhalla is part of a bid by a group of Victorian goldrush-era towns to be granted UNESCO World Heritage status, in recognition of their important place in Australia’s history.

Every night Walhalla’s landmark brass band rotunda is illuminated.

By the late 1800s, Walhalla had a population of about 3500 people, along with 10 hotels, three breweries and seven churches. Over a 52-year period, more than 70t of gold was extracted from the valley, with most of the wealth destined for Melbourne where the mine shareholders lived.

“If you want to see where the money went, stand on the corner of Spring Street and Collins Street in Melbourne,” says Michael Leaney, who rebuilt Walhalla’s Star Hotel in 1999, providing the catalyst for the town’s connection to mains power and its resurgence of fortunes – albeit on a lesser scale than in its early days.

The original Star Hotel was the terminus for the Cobb & Co coach that serviced Walhalla until 1910, when the railway finally came to town. However, the railway arrived somewhat too late for Walhalla because, by 1915, the gold had become difficult to extract and the mines closed. Ironically, the rail line provided an easy way to remove most of the mining machinery and many of the town’s buildings. Walhalla was virtually abandoned, leaving only remnants of its glory days. Today it is home to fewer than 20 people.

When Michael bought a ‘weekender’ house in Walhalla in 1991, the land on which his hotel now stands was a parking lot, the original Star having burned down in 1951. “My friends in Melbourne thought I was crazy,” he says. “There was no electricity, nowhere to eat, no heating – in winter, icicles formed on everything and it wasn’t pleasant. It was like glorified camping. Day visitors would arrive and wander around for a few hours, but there was nowhere to stay.”

With a background in tourism and hospitality management, he saw the opportunity to “get in on the ground floor” and build a hotel. “I also had a strong interest in history; my mother was the president of the Doncaster & Templestowe Historical Society for many years and as a child, at the weekends we wouldn’t go to the football, we’d go to visit historic houses,” he says with a laugh.

Walhalla was once one of the world’s richest goldmining towns.

Electricity was essential, of course, and Walhalla became the last town in Australia to be switched on to a reticulated electricity supply, on 21 December 1998. The rebuilt Star Hotel was the first building in Walhalla to be connected, opening its doors for business on 11 March 1999. Other buildings in the town were connected over the next two years, as the supply was gradually extended.

The facade of the hotel is a replica of the original, recreated with the help of a trove of historic photographs – including a collection of about 1000 glass plate negatives from the studio of the Lee brothers, who documented life in the once bustling town.

“There were lots of photos of the hotel which we were able to use to count the weatherboards and the bricks to recreate it,” says Michael. “It was simple and plain; Walhalla never progressed beyond a frontier town because the shareholders didn’t live here and they didn’t invest in grand Victorian mansions here. The only grand element of the hotel was the iron lacework on the verandas – we took the old photographs to the Anderson & Ritchie foundry in Melbourne, they looked in the catalogue, went out the back and pulled out the mould. It was amazing.”

The Star Hotel – then and now.

Walhalla hasn’t looked back. Located in the Great Dividing Range, about 4km upstream from Stringers Creek’s junction with the Thomson River, it is a popular stopover on the Sydney–Melbourne coastal drive. The Australian Alps Walking Track, which runs 650km between Walhalla and Canberra, is popular with walkers. In summer, says Michael, about 2000 visitors a day, mostly day-trippers and weekenders from Melbourne, 180km away, arrive to explore its attractions.

One of the best places to start in understanding the Walhalla story is on a tour of the Long Tunnel Extended Gold Mine, one of the valley’s richest, yielding 13.7t of gold. I walk from the hotel to the mine, just 200m from the centre of the village, taking time to admire the leafy single street lined with timber cottages.

As we walk between the rail tracks inside the mine, ducking our heads to avoid beams, our guide Hayley explains that the miners were, on average, less than 165cm tall. Two hundred men worked this mine, in shifts of 50, labouring for eight hours a day, six days a week, using pickaxes, hammers and gunpowder to extract the gold. “They were digging 1.5m of rock per week, with horses carting out the rock, working by candlelight,” Hayley tells our small group. “The candles were made of animal fat, so you can imagine the smell.”

The Long Tunnel Extended Gold Mine was one of the valley’s richest.

From the mine, I take the old Tramline Walkway along the ridge above the village, which joins the start of the Australian Alpine Walking Track. On the other side of the valley, steep steps lead to the top of ‘Recreation Hill’. There wasn’t much flat ground in Walhalla, so the enterprising miners flattened the top of the mountain to create a sports field that famously hosted the 1907 cricket match between the Melbourne Cricket Club, captained by Warwick Armstrong, and a local team. Armstrong went on to captain the Australian cricket team that beat England 5:0 in the Ashes in 1921, and his visit to Walhalla has never been forgotten.

For walkers with limited time, it’s possible to undertake short sections of the alpine track either from Walhalla or from the Mt Erica Carpark entrance to Baw Baw National Park. One of the most popular walks is to the aptly named Mushroom Rocks, 3km walk to a maze of giant granite tors that takes about two hours, or further on to Mt Erica, through stands of mountain ash, silver wattle and snowgums.

Back on the main street, a heritage trail marks 30 places of interest, including the historic cemetery clinging to the hillside, the Walhalla Chronicle newspaper office and the Fire Station Museum, which straddles Stringers Creek. Walhalla’s recent history has included major threats from bushfires, although the village itself has escaped significant damage. A new Country Fire Authority fire station opened in Walhalla a decade ago, in recognition of the danger. One impact of the 2006/07 fires was the destruction of a rail bridge that served the Walhalla Goldfields Railway, but this was quickly rebuilt. The narrow-gauge train is a popular attraction that has been running down Stringers Creek Gorge since 1993.

Today, Walhalla retains some of its gold-rush era buildings. Many are now shops and cafes.

The UNESCO World Heritage listing bid for Australia’s Victorian Goldfields is a collaboration between 15 shire and city councils throughout the state, Michael says. He was elected to Baw Baw Shire Council in 2016 and in 2021–22, he served as the shire’s first mayor from Walhalla since 1918.

He says achieving World Heritage status would recognise the social and economic impact that the 19th-century Victorian goldfields had, not only on Victoria, but on Australia and the world.

“Around the world, the goldrushes of the 1840s and ’50s led to massive migration, industrialisation and economic development and Victoria’s goldrush was the biggest in the world,” he says. “And if it wasn’t for Walhalla, the colony of Victoria would have gone bankrupt in the early 1890s. There was a land boom, then a collapse and Victoria was on the verge of bankruptcy but the yields from the Long Tunnel and Long Tunnel Extension Gold Mine were at their height at the time and saved the colony. During the late 19th century, this was a hugely important place.”

Although the bid process is in its infancy, still to be endorsed by the Victorian and federal governments before being presented to UNESCO – a process that may take five or more years – Michael is hopeful it will ensure the future of towns like Walhalla.

At the end of the day, I witness the golden floodlights illuminate the Mountaineer Brass Band rotunda – built in 1896 – before retiring to my room. All the Star Hotel rooms are named for the mines that still pock the surrounding hillsides: Kitty Darling, Fear Not, Black Diamond, Grey Horse, Happy Go Lucky, Worlds Fair, Rising Sun, Lady Brassey, Wild Cat, Homeward Bound, Tubal Cain and Wealth of Nations. Each name evokes the spirit of the times that gave birth to this small piece of Victoria’s history.

All photographs supplied by Walhalla & Mountain Rivers Tourism.

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All the colour and characters from Bathurst’s Heritage Trades Trail in 2023. 

Bathurst is one of several regional inland cities, including Bendigo and Toowoomba, to hold historic-trades fairs during recent years. The fairs celebrate a growing enthusiasm for a slower, more sustainable way of living, whereby goods, including saddles, buttons or chairs, are made by hand. They’re conspicuous in a mass-produced world underpinned by cheap manufacturing and consumerism.

As well as the showground and other significant landmarks, Bathurst’s heritage trail takes in the preserved cottage of former prime minister Ben Chifley and the privately owned heritage icon Abercrombie House. During the fair, the showground hosts dozens of artisans skilled in rare crafts who, throughout a bustling weekend, sell and showcase their creations via demonstrations such as whip cracking and drystone-wall building.

While some heritage tools for sale may have had their day – like the 200-year-old bunion reliever I picked up at one stall during the 2023 fair – many of the old trades are finding new purpose in a modern world. Handcrafted lacework, for example, is back in favour in the mercurial world of fashion, and if a runway extended from Paris to Bathurst, dedicated fashionistas would find exquisite berets, bowls and even entire gowns made by lacemakers who’ve spent lifetimes perfecting their skills in the craft.

We also met a young fletcher, Pete Storey, who subverts the traditional craft of making bows and arrows by using new materials such as PVC and foam, raising eyebrows along the way among bushy-bearded elders. Pete has tapped into the appetite of cosplay fans for expensive costumes, and transforms traditional bows by embellishing them with fantastic decorations as props for television and films.

Pete felt he was walking a “solitary path” and was hopeful that, by taking part in his first Bathurst heritage fair, he’d find a supportive community who shared his passion for fine craftmanship with a modern twist.

The ear-splitting sounds of Brad Harper cracking two whips in spectacular unison drew queues of aspiring young cowboys and cowgirls to try their hand. But the most popular master craftspeople were charismatic Wailwan/Yuin singers Laurance and Fleur Magick Dennis. The pair are senior cultural educators sharing knowledge of Indigenous tools that are still used on Country as part of everyday life.

Just as the Heritage Trades weekend is revitalising old crafts and traditions for contemporary life, Bathurst is transforming into an exciting, progressive city that trades on its grand past as the nation’s oldest inland European settlement, all the time firmly looking to the future, with the local council investing heavily in new sustainable technologies and contemporary arts and culture.

Electric car–charging stations sit incongruously outside heritage venues, once-derelict laneways and car parks have been repurposed into event spaces with light projections and outdoor art, and a state-of-the-art high-tech collections facility has been built to safely house museums and gallery collections.

Yes, it seems that everything old is new again in Bathurst.

The 2024 Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail is taking place at Bathurst Showground on the weekend of 16–17 March, 10am–4pm. A free shuttle bus transports visitors to other heritage sites on the trail.

The post Back for the future appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Despite rapidly rising from railway-engine cleaner to prime minister, Joseph Benedict (Ben) Chifley never strayed far from his working-class roots. Born in Bathurst in 1885, his formative years were shaped by the economic depression of the 1890s and his entry into the railway labour force at the age of 17. In 1914 Chifley married local girl Elizabeth (Lizzie) McKenzie and they were given tenancy in Carnwath as a wedding gift by Lizzie’s father, who had bought the home in 1903 as a rental property and named it after his home town in Scotland. The single-storey Victorian-Italianate house had a symmetrical facade, bullnose verandah framed by cast-iron columns, and a central front door accessed by a brick staircase. It had two bedrooms, a dining room, parlour, kitchen and pantry, with an outside bathroom and laundry. 

By the age of 24, Chifley had become NSW’s youngest first-class locomotive driver, but his participation in a 1917 railway strike led to his demotion to engine cleaner. It was Chifley’s involvement in the Locomotive Engine Drivers’, Firemen’s and Cleaners’ Association that sparked his interested in politics. He studied economics, and in 1928 he was elected as Labor member for Macquarie, a seat he lost in 1931 but regained in 1940. The following year, he became treasurer of the Curtin Labor government. 

Despite developing into a “man of some means”, Chifley never upsized to a larger property, nor made substantial changes to Carnwath. “The furniture in the house was relatively cheap and mass-produced; the kitchen retained its one cold tap in the small sink; and the bathroom, laundry and toilet all remained outside the house,” recorded his biographer, David Day. “On a frosty winter’s morning, [the Chifleys] had to face the daunting prospect of going outside to reach both the toilet and the bathroom.” 

Carnwath aligned neatly with Chifley’s public image as a humble, unpretentious leader with frugal spending habits that allowed for the occasional indulgence, such as his American Buick motor car. He spent his ministerial career residing in Room 181 at Hotel Kurrajong in Canberra, which he left at 8.30am sharp every morning to walk to work at Parliament House. When he became prime minister, Chifley refused to move into The Lodge, preferring to stay in the same hotel room where he’d lived as treasurer. He returned to Carnwath regularly, driving back to Bathurst at least every second weekend. 

In the mid-1940s, Isabel Clark, the widow of a railway friend and a long-time companion of Lizzie, moved into Carnwath. Isabel outlived both Ben and Lizzie, who died in 1951 and 1962 respectively. After Isabel’s 1969 death, Bathurst City Council bought Carnwath and its contents. It was opened as a museum on 24 March 1973 by Gough Whitlam, prime minister at the time. 

Related: Back for the future

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‘World’s first feature film produced in Victoria’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

Related: On this day: Ned Kelly is hanged

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History lives in the Bathurst region. The Wiradjuri people, the Traditional Owners of the land, shaped the landscape of the plains over thousands of years through their use of fire, hunting and agriculture. The pioneers ventured over the Blue Mountains to the Bathurst Plains from 1815, when the first road over the mountains was completed at the behest of Governor Macquarie. This laid the foundation for the town, officially named Bathurst on 7 May 1815.

The town grew steadily, but in 1851 gold was discovered and the town of Bathurst boomed, becoming Australia’s first gold centre. Along with this treasure came bushrangers, keen to try their luck at robbing the carriages carrying the gold down the mountain to Sydney. And miners, who worked hard in their search for fame and fortune, could drink at their favourite watering hole – with 61 hotels to choose from.

You won’t find that many hotels in the Bathurst of today, but you will find a modern city with one foot firmly planted in the past. The town embraces its history, warts and all, with the 2024 Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail set to take place in March at the Bathurst Showground to celebrate the history, trades and traditions that shaped this region. To further add to the celebrations, spend a few days exploring some of the historic buildings that have played a role in the Bathurst of today.

Abercrombie House

This historic mansion, built by the pioneering Stewart family in the1870s, has been lovingly restored by the Morgan family over the past 50 years. Its elegant stone walls contain reception rooms, a grand staircase, ballroom, bedrooms and corridors, with tours inside the house, the outbuildings and the magnificent grounds available all year round. To elevate your experience, book in for a High Tea in the beautiful ballroom, or attend one of the special Scottish events held throughout the year.

The 1870’s historic mansion, Abercrombie House in Bathurst. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

Machattie Park

An important example of a late 19^th century Victorian country town park, Machattie Park was formally opened in December 1890 on the site of the Old Bathurst Gaol, which was demolished to make way for the park. Along with its mature and majestic trees, including the stunning avenues of Huntingdon Elms that border the park, Bunya Pine, Atlas Cedar, Red Beech, English Oak, Wellingtonia and Chinese Elm, the park features a bandstand, Caretakers Cottage, Crago Fountain, the Fernery, Lake Spencer and the Munro Drinking Fountain.

Crago Fountain in Machattie Park, Bathurst. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

Bathurst War Memorial Carillon

This carillon is one of only three in Australia, the others being in Canberra and Sydney. It opened on Armistice Day in 1933, having been chosen by the locals as the best way to honour the men and women who served in World War I. The locals fundraised to build this Carillon, which boasts 35 bells and used 212,000 local bricks. The Carillon chimes every 15 minutes, and plays a tune each day at noon and 1pm.

Bathurst War Memorial Carillon. Image credits: Bathurst Tourism

Bathurst Courthouse

Opened in 1880, this grand Victorian era courthouse in the heart of the city is still being used as a courthouse today with sittings for the court of petty sessions, district and supreme courts. The building, designed by James Barnet, is listed by the National Trust, with the east wing housing the Bathurst and District Historical Society Museum.

Bathurst Flagstaff

This site is of importance as it was where the original proclamation was made to declare Bathurst as a settlement back in 1815. It features the original plaque that was a part of the original flagstaff at the Proclamation Cairn. A viewing platform with etched glass panels features handprints of local Aboriginal children, Elders and Wiradjuri designs of Girawu (the Tree Goanna) and Biladurang (Platypus) dreaming.

Bathurst Courthouse at sunset; Bathurst Flagstaff. Image credits: David Roma, Bathurst Tourism

Chifley Home and Education Centre

Ben Chifley was Australia’s 16^th prime minister and he lived in Bathurst with his wife, Elizabeth, during his term. His house has been preserved and is a persisting time capsule of life in the 1940s. The Chifleys moved into the house in 1914, and it still features the original collection of household furnishings, kitchenware and personal effects. An adjacent house is now an informative museum about Chifley’s life and Australian politics back in the day.

Chifley Home and Education Centre. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

Bathurst Grange Gin Distillery

The Grange was a homestead established on the Macquarie Plains in 1823, making it one of the earliest surviving colonial farmhouses built in inland Australia. Constructed by convicts, the building has a wrap-around verandah, the first of its kind in Australia, and is also known for its symmetrical Georgian façade. Charles Darwin visited The Grange during his visit to Bathurst in 1836, meeting the owners – the West Family. He might have preferred to visit today, since it is now a Distillery, producing impressive gins and whiskies.

The entrance of Bathurst Grange Gin Distillery; the Barrell Room in Bathurst Grange Gin Distillery. Image credits: Bathurst Tourism

Miss Traill’s House

Managed by the National Trust, this charming Victorian-era bungalow built in 1845 tells the story of Miss Ida Traill and her family during their life in the Bathurst of old. Miss Traill amassed an impressive collection of furniture, ceramics, horse racing memorabilia and art, all of which she bequeathed along with the house to the National Trust in 1976. The grounds of the house are a great spot for a picnic, and there are tours of the property on Sundays.

The front view of Miss Traill’s House; the drawing room of Miss Traill’s House, Bathurst. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

Old Government Cottage

The Old Government Cottage is an excellent example of an original settlers’ cottage, located at 16 Stanley Street on the western side of the Macquarie River. It first became a museum in 1965, and underwent a major repair in 2012, the first major work on the building since the mid-1960s. Its origins are a mystery, with most people believing it was built around 1850 as a school for young ladies. An interpretive display of Bathurst’s earliest history is located within the building.

Old Government Cottage and garden, Bathurst. Image credit: Bathurst Tourism

The 2024 Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail

This wonderful event is held to celebrate the rich history of Bathurst, paying homage to the trades and traditions that have helped shape the region. Held at the iconic Bathurst Showground, the event will showcase rare and lost trades and crafts from Australia’s oldest inland European settlement. Explore fine and rare craftwork inside the pavilions and agricultural and heavy industry heritage trades outdoors. You’ll also witness traditional Indigenous tool and weapon making, blacksmithing, see a saddlery, dry stone walling, whip cracking and making, glass artistry, lace making, tapestry, embroidery, carpentry and joinery, cigar box guitar making and violin making.

Ride on an authentic Cobb & Co Coach, and visit some of Bathurst’s most important museums and heritage houses on a free hop-on, hop-off bus. With so many things to see and do, you’ll need all of the two days to take it all in.

The Bathurst Heritage Trades Tail will uncover the places and stories behind the city of Bathurst.

The Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail is on 16-17 March at the Bathurst Showground. Visit the website here for all of the details.

This article is brought to you by Bathurst Heritage Trades Trail.

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He’s not being negative in the way he downplays the island’s assets, but he does consider himself a “cynic”. It’s a far cry from other islanders around Australia who speak effusively about sun-dappled beaches and taking restorative swims in the buff. I wonder if Terry’s approach is part of a local pact to retain French Island’s peace and quiet. Or maybe he doesn’t want to oversell it. Although artistic or creative people have felt inspired by other small island communities around Australia, French Island is different. With its rugged coastline, tangled mangroves and undeveloped rural properties, it isn’t the typical picture of island paradise. “It’s paradise if you want privacy,” Terry says.

With its small human population spread across 17,000ha, the island is almost silent, except for the odd car whizzing by, or when the heavens open up. The island’s barge only accommodates two cars or one truck, making cars a rarity. “If I hear one up the road, I get a bit annoyed,” Terry says. But nothing cuts through the silence like rain. And Terry tells me he is due for a whole weekend of it. “At French Island, we have a rule: it rains at night. On metal roofs, it’s loud. You forget what that sounds like after years of living under tiled roofs,” he says. “You need to put your headphones in to listen to the TV.”

Terry insists French is “just a flat island with a lot of trees”. But an environment doesn’t have to be a visual knockout to sustain a thriving ecosystem. French Island has been described by park authorities as having “very high natural values” due to its diverse flora and fauna being left to flourish in isolation. The eastern barred bandicoot, which was classified as extinct in the wild in Victoria in 1989, was successfully brought back to sustainable numbers when it was introduced to French Island in 2019, making it the first species in Victoria to be re-established after being so classified.

Although it’s only 61km from Melbourne’s CBD, French Island remains a place to experience wildlife thriving outside of Australia’s more developed regions. “I’m not trying to run French Island down, but it is different,” Terry says. “There are some beaches, but they’re not surf beaches, they have tidal mud. The lack of sandy beaches does tend to disappoint some people.” About two-thirds of the island has been declared a national park. The mudflats are habitat for crabs, worms, shellfish, and migratory birds such as the eastern curlew and red-necked stint that fly here from the Northern Hemisphere. There are a number of marked island tracks that will take bushwalkers and cyclists along the shoreline, through mangroves and salt marshes – home to more than 200 species of bird – and up to the Pinnacles Lookout for views of Phillip Island and Western Port. Those wanting a weekend away can spend the night at Fairhaven Campground, 5km from the jetty.

Being a close neighbour of Phillip Island, comparisons are often drawn. Terry thinks French Island is similar to Phillip in its hinterland, but otherwise the two are vastly different. “The island is not like a country town,” he says. “French is twice the size of Phillip, with people spread across the island. Some people live on the eastern side of the island, where I live, and some live on the western side, which is 12–14km away.” Where Phillip Island has towns and suburbs, French Island has rural properties. In addition, tourism on Phillip Island brings in about $522 million a year with its annual festivals, motorsport championships and thousands of little penguins – not to mention the convenience of a bridge from the mainland. While French Island checks the box of idiosyncratic animals, it doesn’t have the same level of infrastructure. The boat-access-only island has no pubs or restaurants, just a cafe attached to the small general store.

Before retirement, Terry was a photographer with the Monash School of Medicine. In his free time, he participated in yacht races in Western Port, which is how he first spotted French Island. He was immediately drawn to its isolation, the way it was so close to Melbourne yet seemed like another world. “Not sure it really intrigued my wife, though,” Terry says. As he approached retirement, he knew the city of Frankston, south-east of Melbourne, wasn’t going to keep him occupied. So he and his wife, Margo – who has since passed away – packed up and moved to the island. “I was 62 and wanted another life, so we came over here. We started out like other people, thinking we’ll have some fruit trees, a garden, a couple of acres,” Terry says. “But we ended up with 80 acres [32ha]. So I decided to breed cattle for a little while, which was hard work. I got tired of chasing them around, so I stopped when I was 75,” he adds. The couple’s daughter followed them over and enrolled her children in the island’s school, an annex of the nearby Crib Point Primary School. With five students in attendance, they received what Terry calls an “almost private education.” His grandchildren, who are now approaching their 30s, reside further across the water these days, in Scotland and Sweden.

Terry has now lived on French Island for a quarter of a century. After giving up the cattle, he keeps busy volunteering with Landcare, monitoring water quality in the creeks and dams, protecting native vegetation and improving pasture management. He also volunteers with the local fire brigade. These community groups provide important opportunities to mingle with other island locals. And then there’s the weekly shop. Because the general store has limited supplies, most locals buy their provisions on the mainland. “People here live isolated lives. Unless you run into someone at the shop, where we do more talking is when we’re on the ferry or waiting for it. It’s a 15-minute ride, so we’ll have a natter,” Terry says. “Then on the other side, we disperse and get our shopping done. On the way back, we’ll talk about what we picked up!”

Around the world, small island communities have inadvertently become pioneers in off-grid renewable energy, turning to this as a necessity due to their isolation, lack of resources, and high energy prices, and to help safeguard their vulnerable island homes from the consequences of climate change. And French Island is certainly heading in that direction. There are no medical services, mains water or power, so many locals use renewable energy sources, including wind and solar. Because carting rubbish off the island is expensive, locals use a glass-recycling machine to crush waste glass into sand, which can be used in landscaping, construction, and roadworks.

“A lot of people move here and think it will be island paradise, but they forget that you need to make sure your water tank is full, you have to generate your own electricity – the novelty wears off,” Terry says. The lack of social opportunities and hallmarks of the modern world means the island suits those who appreciate their own space and can navigate rural life with confidence. Plus the island’s size and low population density means it offers what many other small island communities around Australia don’t: privacy.

While French Island might not aesthetically align with the traditional perception of an island paradise, it does align with the notion that islands can be a hideaway for those in search of solitude.

ISLAND LIFE

Less than 1 per cent of Australia’s population lives on the small islands dotted around our continent. This number is growing as more people head across the water after the onset of COVID, rejecting costly city living and office-based work. But is “island paradise” a myth, fuelled by a desperate search for escapism? Or have these far-flung residents truly found the key to happiness? This is the
second instalment in a series exploring the realities of island life.

Also in this series:

Related: Rottnest Island: More than quokkas

Related: Coochiemudlo Island: Beyond the emerald fringe

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Since at least 1700, the Arnhem Land coast had been visited by fleets of Makassan traders (from modern-day Indonesia), who sourced trepang (sea cucumber) from its waters and sold it to China, where it was prized as a delicacy and aphrodisiac. Sensing an opportunity, the British dropped anchor. They boldly envisaged Victoria Settlement would one day become a “second Singapore”, but the modest surviving ruins tell a different story – crumbling walls and Cornish-style chimneys, foundations marred by weeds and scattered bricks, a handful of weathered tombs keeping vigil among unmarked graves.

Victoria Settlement was preceded by Melville Island’s Fort Dundas (1824–28) and Raffles Bay’s Fort Wellington (1827–29), two military settlements thwarted by disease, scurvy, sweltering climate, isolation and violent clashes with the Tiwi people on Melville Island. Undeterred, the British Royal Navy dispatched HMS Alligator and HMS Britomart to the Australian continent, captained by Sir J. Gordon Bremer and John McArthur. They set sail from Plymouth, England, on 19 February 1838, carrying some 50 Royal Marines, a handful of civilians, marine wives and their children. In Sydney they were joined by the barque Orontes, laden with prefabricated buildings (including Government House, two barrack rooms, a storehouse, hospital and church), food and other provisions. The three ships reached Port Essington on 27 October and dropped anchor.

Victoria Settlement’s history is a typical colonial story – remote military outpost struggles with limited resources, poor crop yields and rampant boredom. It was plagued by malaria, dysentery, scurvy and influenza. The Royal Marines toiled in the heat in thick British uniforms, and the garrison’s isolation took a mental toll. On 25 November 1839 a cyclone swept through the settlement, killing 12.

But Victoria Settlement is notable for the amicable relationship that developed between the British and the Iwaidja First Nations people, perhaps because the settlement was so small it didn’t threaten to impinge on Aboriginal territory. The Iwaidja showed the newcomers where fresh water was located, and soon began trading with the British, exchanging food – turtles, shellfish and the edible hearts of cabbage tree palms – for metal implements, tobacco, clothing and bottles. Settlers’ diaries and sketches reveal the two groups were deeply curious about each other, which soon matured into mutual respect. When the settlers abandoned the site 11 years later, the Iwaidja wept at their departure.

The garrison is also famous for its association with Ludwig Leichhardt, who stumbled into it on 17 December 1845 after travelling nearly 5000km from the Darling Downs in Queensland. The settlers nursed him back to health but the German explorer disappeared three years later, on his attempted east–west crossing of Australia.

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Until as recently as the early 1900s, those traditional tide drifters were navigating the whirlpools here, riding over giant bubble-pop boils and whooshing past hamster-wheel waves kicked up by submerged rocks. They harnessed those monstrous currents to travel, trade and forage in one of the most remote places on earth. Yet their saltwater story is only just being told to a modern audience – over the sound of twin-propeller engines labouring against those same powerful currents like a four-wheel-drive churning through sand. Dressed in a bright turquoise shirt that matches the colour of the water, Rosanna retraces the aquatic journeys of her ancestors and invites the curious onto Sunday Island. She knows it as Ewuny, a boulder-stacked place where three clans once lived – a place that can now only be accessed with a Traditional Owner (TO). En route, Rosanna hands me a binder folder bloated with plastic slips. I leaf through black-and-white photographs of people wearing hair belts threaded with riji (carved pearl shells), of rectangular, round-edged grass huts, and of the mission established after first contact in 1899. Nature and storytelling act as a bridge across time.

Access to such other-worldly stories is not what Broome and its surrounding baked red lands are known for. The bustling holiday town’s image is one of lustrous pearls, “flop-and-drop” poolside escapes and camel trains on Cable Beach. Yet more than 40,000 years’ worth of history is in Broome’s palm and at its ochre fingertips. Although hordes of jetsetters and cruise travellers swoop in on Kimberley bucket-list sites, comparatively few venture beyond the town’s sandy perimeter and even fewer onto traditional lands. Visitors might notice the town’s visibly multicultural mix, which is a legacy of frontier fortune-hunters and indentured workers. But there’s little recognition that some 84 First Nations communities are in the sweeping net thrown by the Shire of Broome. That’s despite the latest visitor research showing more than 80 per cent of people coming to WA want an experience with the world’s oldest continuing culture. Desire hasn’t translated to success, with less than 17 per cent of visitors managing to have that experience. 

But those giant Kimberley tides are turning. A record 10 Aboriginal tourism businesses are now operating in Broome, and another 22 speckle its northern reaches, making genuine First Nations interactions more accessible than ever before. The WA Indigenous Tourism Operators Council (WAITOC), in step with the WA state government, has an ambitious goal for the state to become the nation’s leading destination for authentic Aboriginal tourism. Called the Jina Plan, which broadly translates to “discoveries”, it will allow more TOs to share their stories and stay on Country. And that means a different picture is being painted that’s changing the face of Rubibi, the destination otherwise known as Broome.

Before the town’s establishment was even dreamt of, Aboriginal clans lived seasonally along Roebuck Bay, where Broome’s resorts, pubs and pearl boutiques now stand. The region’s pearl shell had sacred status and, astonishingly, has been found right across Australia, including in the desert. There’s evidence it was carved, worn and traded, and used for ritual, ceremony and law, for more than 22,000 years. This makes it one of the world’s earliest forms of currency. Disruption of Aboriginal occupation began in the mid-1800s. There were bloody frontier conflicts with explorers and pastoralists, but it was the ‘discovery’ by Europeans here of the world’s largest mother-of-pearl shell species that changed the First Nations story forever. From the 1860s onwards, many Indigenous people were used as slave labour to dive deeper and for longer than what, in many cases, was humanly (or humanely) possible. After the turn of the century, 80 per cent of the world’s mother-of-pearl shell – fashioned into buttons – came from about 400 luggers working out of Broome. The impact on the landscape and its people was dramatic.

“The pearling fleet used the site where the Mangrove Hotel is now as their landmark; it was a beacon when coming in from the sea,” says Yawuru man Bart Pigram as he leads a gang of adventurers in neoprene booties to places they’d never otherwise go. We walk along a red sandy stretch below a row of pool-fronted hotels. The 2km route Bart traces several times a week runs through the low-tide ecosystem edging Roebuck Bay, where the luggers once crowded. “From here you can look back to a dune that’s a protected site. Cockle and pipi shells are strewn everywhere there, showing evidence of Aboriginal activity over millennia,” he says. “You’re looking at the first contact site right there.”

Turning into a wide swathe of mangroves glowing in hues of chartreuse, we’re met with limbs that stretch above our heads and roots that loop from our ankles to our knees, and we connect with the time before Broome was Broome. We squelch through mudflats, listening to Dreaming stories explaining the placement of freshwater springs and how a lone rock island came to be. We happen across a rare baler shell, a snail-like sea creature the size of a child’s head. It was so called by Europeans who saw Aboriginal people bailing water out of canoes with them. “I’ve only seen three of those in the past 20 years here; they’re very, very rare,” Bart says, as he snaps a photo. “They used to be everywhere.”

Bart is the first of a new breed of younger operators testing Broome’s tourism waters. In 2015 the 41-year-old co-curated a podcast project designed to act as a free, self-guided walk for visitors. It sparked something in him he hadn’t expected. “Hearing the stories of 27 Elders of Broome – of all different races – made me feel like we needed to do more on this area,” he says. “A lot of the focus was on Cable Beach.” Hearing people still wanted live commentary, he began running cultural walking tours – Narlijia Experiences Broome – that same year. “There was a massive gap and a huge demand,” he says. “The market was crying out for Aboriginal experiences. It just hasn’t been accessible.” 

In the past five years, Bart says the number of cultural businesses has jumped significantly. Once COVID restrictions lifted, word began to spread. He’s hopeful it’s the dawning of a new age. “I’ve always had the vision of – instead of having camels on Cable Beach – Aboriginal tourism being just as iconic to the Kimberley and Broome as camels or pearls,” he says. “I think we’ll get close in the next five years.”

Bart is well placed to realise his vision. In 2023 he became the first Aboriginal person to be appointed to Australia’s North West Tourism Board. He sees his role as a cultural go-between, connecting Indigenous and non-Indigenous tourism players so the two can build mutual understandings and prosper together. “The Kimberley is 98 per cent native title land,” he says. “Now we are stakeholders. A lot of Broome’s big businesses want to work with Aboriginal communities and operators.”

The town’s first Indigenous co-owned craft brewery is a prime example. Spinifex Brewing Co. is no backyard operation, with the business entering the export market this year. Their products are stocked in 60 IGA stores in WA, and the company aspires for them to be served on national flights. The CEO, Adam Barnard, says its focus on developing Indigenous employment is as strong as its love for making low-alcohol beers infused with native produce. Launched in 2019, Spinifex Brewing has engaged some 200 First Nations people to collect gubinge (Kakadu plum), a fruit used in its non-alcoholic ginger beer, and partners with an Aboriginal family-owned farm growing lemon myrtle, Geraldton wax and wattle. When it swapped its pop-up premises for a 4500sq.m dedicated space a block from Cable Beach in December 2023 (supported by a WA state government grant of almost $2 million), the brewery planted a food forest of Indigenous botanicals that will soon be harvested and used as an education resource. Fittingly, the spent grain will be fed to the Red Sun camel trains that pass the location each day. 

Perhaps most significantly, Spinifex Brewing is working with Broome’s North Regional TAFE to provide apprenticeships and employment for Aboriginal hospitality students. As I sip a Cable Beach Sunset Ale in Broome’s balmy air, Adam says the brewery aims to create supply chains that will fuel First Nations enterprise. “The bigger picture is that we’re trying to create change,” he says. “We want to support the formation of new Aboriginal businesses, and empower them to separate from the business so that we can then subcontract them.” 

Crocodile wrangler Johani Mamid is another driver of Broome’s new identity, where business smarts and social enterprise combine with the poetry of culture. The Yawuru, Karajarri, Nyul Nyul and Bardi man, who was born and raised in the town, started Rubibi’s only public maru (corroboree) experience in 2022. The dancing ground is found on Broome’s outskirts, fringing the Malcolm Douglas Crocodile Park where Johani works. 

A small sign for Mabu Buru Tours winks from the highway, catching my eye as I overshoot the entrance. I relatch the gate after entering and follow a dirt track through the bush to a clearing, where damper cooks on coals and water boils for billy tea. 

Traditional maru is rarely shared beyond language groups; unveiling it, Johani says, is part of a gentle reconciliation. “What we share is what we do when we’re catching up with family,” he says. “We’re actually practising our culture; it’s not put together for the sake of tourism. We invite you to be part of our family for the afternoon.” The performance is true to form: as Johani recounts Dreaming stories, Karajarri Elder Uncle Mervyn Mulardy interjects, ironing out creases in the tale. “Our mob never had a library; it’s up here,” Johani says as he taps his head. “So we’ve got to pass on the knowledge of that library.”

The duo tell their lighthearted stories in stages, interspersed with song and dance. It’s slow paced, almost meditative; a sense of calm falls over us as the sting of the dry-season sun softens. Two Pintirri dancers emerge, holding white-painted spears adorned with feathers. White body paint frames their faces and torsos, with white cloths doubled over at the knees and tied at the waist. They sing and stamp their feet, using boomerangs as clapsticks. Each role, from damper to dancing, is designed with empowering outcomes in mind. “Adding the cooking element brings in more family,” Johani says. “With the dancing, the younger fellas do it better than the older men. They’re practising their culture at the same time and that builds pride.” 

It goes further. Mabu Buru has been set up as a foundation, with 50 per cent of its earnings going towards ceremonial practices and the community. Families have been brought out on Country for the first time in decades. “The legacy of Mabu Buru Tours has been to become a social enterprise with self-determination, finding solutions for ourselves,” Johani says. “We’ve found a potential solution to living in these two worlds.” 

A minute or two by car from Mabu Buru’s base camp  lies the start of the long, outback road into Ardi, the great north-eastern slab of cinnamon-stained land commonly known as the Dampier Peninsula. For decades, the main arterial route linking Broome with First Nations communities, remote coastal camps and a pioneering pearl farm was etched with deeply corrugated red dirt – the kind that makes your teeth jar. The decision to lay some $65 million-worth of bitumen on the 200km stretch was a big deal, and took two years to complete. The sealed Broome–Cape Leveque Road was finished in November 2020, only for COVID to prolong its widespread use until WA’s hard border reopened in March 2022. Its significance can’t be overstated. It opens up access to First Nations culture like never before. 

For Bardi woman Pat Channing and her husband, Dave, the newly sealed road has halved her travel time to her ancestral land. “It’s an enormous difference with the road being sealed,” she says. “The number of people visiting now has increased three or four times. The other day I even saw a motorbike!” 

Indeed, the Cape Leveque Road can now be tackled in a 2WD, so long as dry seasonal conditions prevail. A 4WD is still recommended for destinations along its longer, sandy side routes. The Channings’ Mercedes Cove Exclusive Coastal Retreat is one such spot, found 33km off the bitumen. The couple cleared a bush site to build their home more than two decades ago. “The road was terrible when we first came up,” Pat says, remembering blown tyres. “It would take three hours if I was driving – four if someone else was,” Dave chimes in. The couple opened their headland perch to camping in 2007 and added cabins soon after. Their maximum capacity is 18. “I wanted to share Country with people and teach them a little about bush foods, or who I am and where I came from,” Pat says. “I wanted to show wider society that, as Aboriginal people, we can achieve what we want to achieve, using the land as a tool to get where we want to go.”

Bardi woman Pat Channing (left) has run Mercedes Cove Exclusive Coastal Retreat with her husband, Dave, for 16 years; Master hunter Bolo Angus (right) is a Bardi Jawi man whose warm, inclusive nature makes those on his foraging tours feel at ease. His 4WD adventures finish with a feast of treacle-laden damper and hot-to-touch crab claws, all cooked over a crackling fire.

Pat’s story is typical of many families who grew up in pre-1967 racially segregated Broome. Her Malaysian father, who arrived with the pearling fleet, was often torn away at night by police, whose torchlight flashed around the family home as they searched for him. Pat’s Aboriginal mum could only marry Pat’s father with the approval of a white Australian. 

It wasn’t until Pat was born, the third of 10 kids, that the two gained permission – until then, her dad was regularly thrown in jail for spending nights with her mum. “I got upset by that for maybe a couple of years, then I decided to use it as a tool to go forward,” says Pat, who is comfortable recounting her personal history, including her grandmother’s Stolen Generation experience, to guests. “I don’t open up and talk about it, but if they ask, I will,” she says. Pat says her mother, Mercedes, pushed her kids to learn and ensured they spoke English. “She’d say, ‘Education is your key: you’ve got to do better than, or equal to, a white person.’”

Pat’s strong work ethic has seen her recently invited to be a tourism mentor. It’s something “Mum Pat” has long been doing informally with Rosanna Angus, of the tide drifters, who was named Australia’s best tour guide at the Top Tourism Towns Awards in September 2023. Pat also encourages Rosanna’s equally enigmatic brother, Bolo, who is teaching the next generation – his daughters, Makah, Malati and Maureen – how to lead his popular tag-along 4WD tours, spearing mud crabs in mangroves, digging up edible tuber roots and racing hermit crabs. As an experienced business owner, Pat understands the importance of reliability – something Aboriginal tourism in the region has often grappled with. “You’ve got to be 110 per cent committed,” she says. “You can’t just decide you don’t feel like it one day.” 

With traffic increasing along the Cape Leveque Road, consistency will undoubtedly be tested. Further north, Lombadina Aboriginal Community is expecting tourism numbers to rise dramatically once its new camping ground, part of WA’s Camping with Custodians initiative, opens in May this year – the second on the peninsula in as many years. It’s only 3km off the bitumen. 

“A lot more people have come already – a lot more caravans and campers – because with the sealed road, they can,” says Garry Sibosado, a pearl shell carver who carries on the Bardi people’s unbroken riji tradition from a tin shed with his brother, Darrell. The two are widely exhibited artists and plan to incorporate large-scale public art into the new camping ground, creating a trail leading guests into the community. “It’s educating people,” Darrell says. “People assume Aboriginal art is dots – that’s what they know. People also don’t realise they’ve travelled through five different nations to get here.” 

If anyone straddles two worlds, it’s Terry Hunter and James Brown. Best friends since childhood, the barefoot pair went to school in a corrugated tin hut on James’s family pearl farm, a 20-minute drive from Lombadina. Terry’s Bardi Jawi family showed James how to spear, fed him hot damper with tinned jam, and taught him the sentiment of liyarn, which he says is “making a decision so the feeling inside you is right”. 

The Brown family, who began pearling in 1946, have a long history of positive collaboration with Aboriginal people – so much so that they were shunned by the white community. “The Brown family did something that no other European had done in that era: go out and look for Aboriginal families and hold them close,” Terry explains. 

James, who is Cygnet Bay Pearl Farm’s managing director, is quietly continuing that legacy. “The plan was that the next generation would always have somewhere they could work,” he says. Terry is the fourth generation of his family involved with the property. “Terry’s the first to have started his own business, a tourism business,” says James, whose team supports Terry, Rosanna Angus and other Traditional Owners with booking systems, boat access, staffing, locations, venues and marketing, helping ensure their product is reliable, accessible, and possible. “I see it as a natural evolution of the relationship that’s been there for a long time,” James says.

Terry delivers lively pearl-farm tours and, for the past three years, has been leading his own experience, Borrgoron Coast to Creek Tours, seeking out traditional food while sharing bush magic. 

“This out here is my school,” he says, sweeping his hands around the ribbed tidal flats revealed by receding sea water that has also uncovered rocks made gritty and sharp with oyster shells. “People think the oysters are dead when the rocks are dry. But they’re all alive and good to eat.” At first, Terry employs modern harvesting methods. “I’ve got good traditional tools here – a hammer and chisel from Bunnings,” he deadpans, while tapping a rock-bound shell until the lid lifts off. 

Next, he demonstrates the traditional way. Gathering a swag-sized bundle of spinifex, he lays the needle-tipped grass over an oyster-smothered rock and sets it alight. “You’re told never to play with fire, right? As kids, one of the first things we learn is how to use fire. It’s very important,” he says, stepping back from the intense heat as oysters whistle and fizz. “At every camp along the coast you won’t find any rock oyster shells,” he says. Lids pop while shells remain in place; I scoop the hot oyster flesh, sweet, salty and infused with smoke – it’s staggeringly good. “I don’t see this as work,” Terry says. “I’m just home.”

As with every operator I speak to, Terry senses that the growth in First Nations tourism is changing the way people see Broome and its environs. “I’ve seen a difference in the way travellers interact now with Broome. People are looking for culture and history,” he says, happy that access to it is growing. “Personally, it makes me feel so proud. I get to express myself and share my knowledge that has been handed down to me, so if someone walks away with that better understanding, it makes my day.” With that, Terry says, his liyarn blooms. “I want you to come with it, and leave with the liyarn, the good gut feeling,” he says. “It’s all about sharing.”

Australian Geographic Travel is proud to be partnering with Rosanna Angus on a Women-Only Exclusive Oolin Sunday Island Tour. Read more about this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

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Ryan was born in the Melbourne suburb of Carlton in 1925 to alcoholic, abusive parents. At 11, he was sent to a school for wayward and neglected boys after stealing a watch, but escaped three years later and began working as a labourer in regional New South Wales. He returned to Melbourne when he was 23 and married Dorothy George, with whom he had three daughters.

By his mid-30s, Ryan was a gambling addict and leader of a gang that broke into shops and factories. He was arrested in 1960 and sentenced to eight and a half years jail, but was released on parole in 1963. He soon returned to crime, and was sentenced to eight years jail for robbery in November 1964. Shortly after, his wife divorced him.

Ryan escaped from Pentridge Prison on 19 December 1965, alongside fellow inmate Peter Walker. A prison warden, George Hodson, was shot dead during the escape, either by Ryan or Walker – or possibly by one of the two guards who were shooting at the escapees. Both men were at large for 17 days, causing widespread alarm, especially after they robbed a bank and Walker later killed a tow-truck driver who recognised him. Following a tip-off, they were arrested outside Concord Hospital in Sydney on 5 January 1966.

At the trial, Ryan and Walker pleaded not guilty to murdering Hodson. The jury deliberated for 12 days,
and on 30 March 1966 convicted Walker of man-slaughter and Ryan of murder. The judge, Justice John Starke, was firmly against capital punishment, but was bound by mandatory sentencing legislation to sentence Ryan to death. Walker was given 12 years. Ryan’s barrister, Philip Opas QC, unsuccessfully appealed the decision in the Victorian Supreme Court and the High Court of Australia.

Although Ryan received a death sentence, it was the convention for the Victorian Cabinet to commute it to life imprisonment. No-one had been legally executed in Victoria since 1951, so it came as a shock when, on 12 December, long-serving Liberal premier Sir Henry Bolte and his cabinet declared Ryan would hang.

There has been a lot of speculation about Bolte’s motives. With a state election approaching, perhaps Bolte wanted to appear a firm leader who could maintain law and order. Or perhaps he was incensed by the embarrassment Ryan’s escape had caused his government. In any case, Bolte was determined to have his way, refusing to listen to the opposing views that were voiced by church leaders, lawyers, university students, the federal opposition, Liberal MPs, the union movement, social welfare organisations and the media.

Seven members of the jury that had convicted Ryan wrote to Bolte asking for clemency. Barry Jones, leader of the Victorian Anti-Hanging Committee, later observed, “I doubt that Ryan had any intention to kill, but I am certain that Bolte did…ultimately, all executions are political.”

Ryan’s barrister took the case to the Privy Council in London (then Australia’s highest court of appeal), but was unsuccessful. As Ryan’s legal options diminished, thousands of people signed petitions and university students mounted a round-the-clock vigil on the steps of Parliament House. Nearly every newspaper in the country editorialised against the sentence. Nationwide opinion polls showed support for capital punishment was at a historic low.

On the eve of the execution, hundreds of people gathered outside Pentridge Prison. When Ryan was hanged at 8am the following morning – 3 February 1967 – official witnesses reported that he went to his death calmly. He was buried in an unmarked grave on the prison grounds, and his family was not permitted to visit his gravesite. Only in 2007 did the Victorian government give permission for his body to be exhumed and buried next to his ex-wife.

The public opposition to Ryan’s hanging significantly contributed to Victoria’s 1975 decision to abolish capital punishment. Queensland had abolished the death penalty in 1922, Tasmania in 1968, the Australian Capital Territory and Northern Territory in 1973, South Australia in 1976 and Western Australia in 1984. NSW abolished it in two stages, in 1955 and 1985.

‘Last man hanged’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

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The cultural conversation has arrived in Australia where dozens of species are named after people. Some Australian scientists and birdwatchers (including one from the peak ornithological body Birdlife Australia) have proposed a review, particularly of names with colonial associations.

One Australian species has already been renamed. Birdlife Australia now prefers pink cockatoo to Major Mitchell’s cockatoo as the common name.

Thomas Mitchell led a massacre of Aboriginal people in western New South Wales in 1836, condemned for its senselessness even at the time. Birdlife Australia provides a clear argument why the bird should not bear his name. The change has sparked a conversation in online birding communities.

The Albert’s lyrebird, the topic of my PhD research, also bears a name with colonial overtones, though without the direct violent connotations of Mitchell. Should it, and other Australian species named after people, be renamed? I’m not sure, but I do know this reclusive rainforest bird has a fascinating and surprisingly complex etymology.

Why is a lyrebird named after Prince Albert?

When English ornithologist John Gould suggested the lyrebird as Australia’s bird emblem, he was recommending the superb lyrebird (Menura novaehollandiae) found throughout south-east Australia. Fewer people know of the Albert’s lyrebird (Menura alberti), restricted to a tiny area on the Queensland-New South Wales border.

Fewer still know the story behind its naming. The Albert’s lyrebird bears the moniker of Prince Albert, both in its scientific (Latin) name and current common (English) name, bestowed by Gould himself.

This species was still unknown to colonial scientists when Gould’s landmark Birds of Australia was first published in 1848. This was in part due to its remote, humid forest habitat.

Under taxonomic convention – the rules for classifying species – the credit for describing the species and assigning its scientific name would normally have gone to Gould when his 1850 supplement introduced the new species. Every listing of a species provides a scientific name, the name of the person who first described it and the date they did so. So we might have expected to see the Albert’s lyrebird listed as Menura alberti, Gould, 1850.

Instead, next to Menura alberti we see a different surname – Bonaparte. Not Napoleon, but his nephew Charles, a naturalist who referred to Gould’s description of the new species. However, Bonaparte’s reference predated Gould’s actual publication, a technicality that means Bonaparte is listed as the scientific describer.

This quirk of taxonomy has tied this bird to two names deeply associated with empires.

How do birds get their names?

Scientific names change only when species are reclassified. The naming is more akin to record keeping – though honouring people can be a secondary purpose. In the lyrebird’s case, Gould cited the prince’s “liberal support” and “personal virtues”.

Birdlife Australia has an English Names Committee, which deals with such changes. Prince Albert is not directly linked to historical violence in Australia, but he was Queen Victoria’s spouse during its colonisation.

If Menura alberti requires the pink cockatoo treatment, some other common names have been used in the past.

“Northern lyrebird” is used in G. Matthews’ Birds of Australia. The volume is of the same name as Gould’s, by a self-funded author, who was controversial for his own taxonomic renaming.

More informally, “small lyrebird” has been used in relation to A.A. Leycester, the naturalist who shot the first specimen in 1844.

These are both obscure, albeit more descriptive, alternatives. “Albert’s” is much more common. Leycester himself added an even more royal connotation with “Prince Albert’s lyrebird”, but sometimes also “Richmond River lyrebird”.

The bird had earlier names

As for the bird being “discovered”, naturally earlier Indigenous names survive.

The bird has recently been described as a bird of the Bunjalung language area. This is true but it is also a Yugambeh and Githabul bird. Its habitat on the Great Dividing Range might include Jagera Country too.

Archibald Meston inexplicably recorded a Kabi Kabi language name from the “head of the Mary River” – no lyrebird is known to occur this far north.

The Yugambeh Museum has provided “kalbun” for national park signage in my home town, Tamborine Mountain. One Bundjalung dictionary provides “galbuny” or “galwuny” with an outlying possibility of “wonglepong”, “kalwun” or “kulwin” in the Tweed as meanings for “lyrebird” (with no clarification between the two species). Indigenous health service Kalwun uses the name in reference to the “rainforest lyrebird” but uses an image of a superb lyrebird as its logo.

The male Albert’s lyrebird (left) lacks the distinctive barring on the lyre-shaped feathers of the male superb lyrebird (right). Image credits: Felix Cehak; KimEdoll/Flickr, CC BY-NC-ND

The superb lyrebird is also found within Bundjalung Country, such as in Washpool National Park. This variance and confusion between lyrebird species and language groups is before we even consider the Githabul area to the west, a sometimes contested distinction.

The Yugambeh Museum allows for the variance by providing a different language resource for each location. You will find, for example, a different Indigenous name on the national park sign at Tamborine to the one at Lamington.

As many language groups give the bird many names (only some of which are listed here), there isn’t one obvious Indigenous option if the bird were to be renamed. Beyond these names, the cultural significance of the bird, which lives in rarely visited wet and leech-infested places, seems to have been lost.

If a new name is needed, who decides it?

Over many hours of conversation about this species, I have found the link to Prince Albert is always known. I have rarely heard anything more about why the lyrebird bears his name. Besides his irrelevance to Australian ornithology, I cannot gauge a specific reason the Prince Albert moniker is inappropriate, unlike Thomas Mitchell.

If a change is required to a bird’s name, the decision must be made with the relevant communities. If they wish to counter a history of imperial naming by renaming, the new name should not spring from a similar desire for ownership.

It would also be wise to maintain broadness in this conversation. In the Albert’s lyrebird case, that includes the birdwatchers, ecologists and conservationists who have contributed to our understanding of this little-known species.

We are about to see what happens in the United States. It would be wise to watch carefully what happens next.

Felix Cehak is a PhD Candidate at UNSW Sydney.

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

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“For me, the stop was more about the opportunity to temporarily separate my bum cheeks from hot vinyl seats and get some respite from my nagging sister, rather than to gawk at an oversized something.

“Coffs Harbour’s Big Banana was a glorious sight. That garish piece of bendy fruit screamed we were half way to Surfers Paradise. And of course, [we bought] banana-flavoured ice cream, which invariably ended up a puddle on the floor of the back seat.”

Photographer Trent Mitchell also feels deeply nostalgic for these larger-than-life structures, and the regional communities they belong to.

“During the school holidays when I was a kid we’d leave Sydney’s comfortable and predictable suburbia, venture north to the Central Coast and set up camp for weeks at a time in a caravan park,” he says.

“This is where my eyes were opened to coastal regional Australia, which I grew to love more than Sydney’s comforts. I felt more at home in a small coastal Aussie town than in the Big Smoke. The rawness spoke to me and informed everything I love about Australia today.”

The Giant Koala delivered a hit of serendipity to photographer Trent Mitchell. Image credit: Trent Mitchell

Trent has spent years travelling regional Australia and documenting the idiosyncratic attractions sprinkled en route. “Indirectly, I ended up creating an archive of roadside oddities along the way, just being curious with my dry sense of humour,” he says.

“All these big things kept recurring in my snapshots – the Big Things, the DIY regional tourist traps, the roadside eye candy, the signage, the shops, the advertising.”

He describes his Big Things commission as “a dream assignment” – but one that was not without challenges. Take the Big Banana, for example: “After all these years I’d never photographed it. The banana scares me: it’s so iconic and commercial; it’s given me creative blocks in the past. Rethinking my approach helped to make some successful images of that extra-large old piece of fruit.”

Photographing other Big Things was easier. “Within minutes of me turning up at the Giant Koala, a Windsor caravan pulled up right in front of it with a big sun-bleached sticker slapped on the back that read, ‘Home among the Gumtrees’. I couldn’t believe my eyes – road-trip serendipity at its finest.”

Related: The bigger they come

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The culturally significant Long Plain is one of the vast, naturally treeless plains in northern Kosciuszko NP. Formed by the frost-hollow effect (see “Frost Hollows”, page 40), the plains are surrounded by timbered hills. Long Plain is the traditional home of the Walgalu people, but many language groups converged there for the summer bogong moth harvests, ceremony, intermarriage, and trade. It also has a rich and varied European history.

The diggings at Yorkies were worked again in the 1930s by locals Tom Taylor, Bill Harris and Billy Jemmett. They used water races (trenches) to bring water from a local creek to the site, fed by gravity through pipes and a nozzle to hydraulically sluice the paydirt. Photos of the men’s huts in 1932 show primitive structures of timber and calico. In the 1940s Billy Jemmett moved on to isolated fire-tower duties – a solitary lifestyle – in the Brindabellas; apparently, he was happy with his own company. 

I led a tour to the area in 1989 that visited the ruin of Jemmetts Hut. The site offered up corrugated iron, boards, flattened kerosene tins and dozens of rusty food cans. 

Although buildings have disappeared from the diggings, Long Plain Hut still stands on the western side of the plain and is relevant to the major theme of the area’s history – summer grazing. It was built in 1916 for grazier and physician Dr Alfred Campbell, of Ellerslie Station near Adelong in NSW. Built from timber processed at Jack Dunn’s Cumberland Mountain sawmill, the commodious hut originally had a shingle roof, which was clad with iron in the late 1920s. 

One of Dr Campbell’s children, David, was born at Ellerslie in 1915. Later famous as a Canberra-region poet, David was a grazier, sportsman and outdoorsman, and saw active service as a pilot in World War II. His 1943 poem “Winter Stock Route”, first published in The Bulletin magazine, beautifully conjures both the winter and summer landscape and seasonal change in activity. It’s easy to assume Long Plain played a significant part in the period of his life spent on skis and horseback that inspired the poem.

The grazing lease was held by others after the Campbells; stockwork continued until the termination of high-country grazing in the late 1960s when the area was declared a national park. One place of colour and action was the Rules Point Hotel. Located near the southern end of the plain, the hotel began in 1910 as a guesthouse run by George and Ida Harris. They were joined by Mrs Zillah F. Cooke, and a publican’s licence was obtained in 1915. Buildings were of weatherboard and iron and the hotel interior was lined with pressed tin. Zillah’s sister, Mrs M. Bruce, eventually replaced the Harrises, after which Gordon McDonald then ran the place. The hotel licence was lost in 1936 and the business reverted to a guesthouse. Harry and Edna Prosser operated it until the 1960s. Acting as the area’s social hub, the greatest claim to fame of the Rules Point guesthouse was as the setting for the annual sports day. That was when the horse culture expressed itself, especially among the summer stockmen. There were races, jumps and rodeos, with proceeds going to the Tumut Hospital. Duncan Prosser told me how men would come “from all over the mountains” for the big event, which lasted several days. (The hangovers lasted longer.) Dances were held in the large garage adjacent to the pub, with local Bert Russell and his band providing the music for many of them. Rules Point was demolished in the 1960s and only few foundations remain.

Grazing, which was vital for the area’s economy, began in the 1830s and further up the plain a large slab building had been built by the 1860s. This was extended with a weatherboard hut before 1908. Sheep magnate A.B. Triggs sold the lease in 1912 to Frederick Campbell of Yarralumla, a major shareholder of the Riverina property Cooinbil who also owned nearby Coolamine in the mountains. Frederick was looking for extra summer grazing in the mountains, and the hut became known as Cooinbil. Many of the leases were held by big western NSW properties until the 1940s, when they were split up and redistributed to smaller local graziers. This happened at Cooinbil too, and grazing continued until its termination in the late 1960s. Today, Cooinbil is a significant hut at Long Plain, visited by bushwalkers and horseriders, as well as skiers in a good year. 

In 1987 an adjacent black sallee tree fell onto the hut causing considerable damage. Volunteers now care for the building, and for many other historic huts. Falling trees are not the only risk for the high-country huts; bushfires are a constant threat and, sadly, those close to roads are often vandalised. Long Plain Hut has certainly suffered its share of deliberate damage. Much repair and continuing maintenance work at Long Plain and elsewhere is carried out by the dedicated volunteer caretakers connected with the Kosciuszko Huts Association, and by the National Parks and Wildlife Service.

It is near the northern end of Long Plain that the Murrumbidgee River has its birthplace. The river starts its convoluted path near Peppercorn Hill, which is about twice as high as Canberra’s Black Mountain. Quite close to that birthplace was another of the area’s old huts, Pethers. Built in the late 1800s for Arthur Pether of Goobarragandra station, the hut was built of logs, a rare building material in the region. Located on the western edge of the plain and marking the alignment of the original track, there are a few remains today. A grave nearby has been marked by local historians.

Whispers of a long history make Long Plain an important place in Kosciuszko NP.

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A century later, perhaps one of the most difficult things to understand about the man who came to be Sir Hubert Wilkins, is his place in Australian history. He defies categorisation: he was an outstanding polar explorer, pioneer aviator, war photographer and environmentalist, as well as a mystic – and a champion for the rights of First Australians. 

Left to right: Wilkins sits for a portrait in Sydney, c.1911. Wilkins taught himself photography and worked in Australia’s early cinema history; Wilkins poses for a portrait before competing in the 1919 England–Australia Air Race. Mechanical problems forced his plane down in Crete. Image credits: courtesy Ohio State University; Private Collection

As an explorer, Wilkins went to Antarctica nine times and was responsible for revealing more unknown areas of the most southern continent than all the explorers of the Heroic Age combined. To Earth’s north, he was the first to fly an airplane across the top of the world, and he revolutionised Arctic travel in 1931 when he mounted a submarine expedition to the North Pole. 

In his role as war photographer, Wilkins was assigned to work with Australia’s official war correspondent, Charles Bean, at the Western Front in 1917, capturing the photographic record of the Anzacs that Bean wanted. Despite refusing to carry a gun, Wilkins was a war hero who was twice mentioned in dispatches, received the Military Cross for bringing wounded men back from No Man’s Land, and received a bar to the Military Cross for leading American soldiers in an attack against a German machine-gun nest – the incident that earned Monash’s praise. When Monash wanted to nominate him for the Victoria Cross, Wilkins asked him not to, earning Monash’s description as “aggressively modest”. 

As an aviator, Wilkins became world-famous for his pioneering flights in both airplanes and airships. As a humanitarian he argued that First Nations people of Australia and the Arctic were, in many ways, more civilised than so-called advanced nations that constantly went to war. He proposed that humanity could raise itself to what he described as “a higher state of civilisation” by better understanding and caring for the environment, a judgement based on his years spent living in remote areas of Australia and the Arctic. 

Normally, any number of Sir Hubert Wilkins’s exploits would ensure his place in Australian history, but, remarkably, many people have still not heard of him. And despite Wilkins spending a lifetime in the public eye, even today biographers and historians are confronted with conflicting information, seemingly fanciful tales, and occasions when Wilkins appears determined to keep his activities secret. To understand why, it’s necessary to have a brief knowledge of the life of Sir Hubert Wilkins, and what happened to his enormous legacy of photographs, films, artefacts and written records.

George Hubert Wilkins was born on the edge of the Australian outback at Mount Bryan East, South Australia, on 31 October 1888. He was the youngest of 12 – or possibly 13 – children (records are incomplete), born to ageing parents who struggled to eke out a living from land with insufficient rainfall. As a teenager, Wilkins’s parents took him to Adelaide, where he began an apprenticeship as an electrical engineer. He travelled to Sydney in 1909, where he bought his first cameras (both moving and still) and worked in Australia’s early cinema industry. He travelled to England in 1912, then filmed the war in the Balkans from the Turkish side before sailing on his first Arctic expedition in 1913. After the expedition ship sank, Wilkins spent three years exploring the region north of Canada and learning to survive on the ice. 

In 1916, after hearing about the war in Europe, he returned to Australia and enlisted as a pilot in the Australian Flying Corps. He was dispatched to France, where, for the next two years, he was one of Australia’s official war photographers. At the end of the war he competed in the England–Australia Air Race, sailed on the Quest with Sir Ernest Shackleton, then spent two years in remote areas of Australia recording Indigenous Australian life. In 1925 Wilkins went north again to explore the Arctic, and in 1928 was knighted for the first airplane flight across the top of the world. 

Left to right: Wilkins at his home in Pennsylvania, surrounded by taxidermied penguins. The adventurer was a self-taught taxidermist; Wilkins doffs his hat as he departs on a diplomatic tour of Southeast Asia in 1940. Image credits: courtesy Ohio State University; Bob Mayer

A year after he was knighted – and for reasons still unknown – Wilkins began asking people to refer to him as Sir Hubert, rather than Sir George. The change coincided with his marriage to Suzanne Bennett, an Australian actress working on Broadway in New York. The pair never lived together permanently and the marriage produced no children.

In 1928 and 1929 Wilkins explored Antarctica from the air and flew around the world in the Graf Zeppelin – a German hydrogen-filled airship. He then mounted an audacious plan to travel in a submarine, under the Arctic ice, to the North Pole. While he succeeded in getting under the ice, the decrepit WWI submarine, combined with a mutinous crew, prevented him from reaching the Pole. 

Having spent all his money on that expedition, and with the world in the grip of the Great Depression, Wilkins pursued work for wealthy American explorer Lincoln Ellsworth. Managing his expeditions took Wilkins to Antarctica a further four times. He also spent a year looking for lost Soviet aviators in the Arctic, and was personally rewarded for his efforts by Joseph Stalin. During this period, he conducted experiments in mental telepathy and explored the powers of the subconscious mind. Wilkins returned to Australia in 1939, hoping to set up an Antarctic research program. At the urging of the famed Australian geologist and Antarctic explorer Sir Douglas Mawson, the Australian government refused to support the plan, so Wilkins returned to the USA, where he bought a small farm outside Montrose, Pennsylvania. Wilkins’s wife, Suzanne, lived at the farm, along with his personal assistant, Winston Ross. Wilkins, however, continued his restless wandering, working as a spy for the US Office of Strategic Service during World War II. After the war he continued as a consultant to the US Armed Forces, training soldiers in polar survival. 

Wilkins died alone in a hotel room in Massachusetts on 30 November 1958. He was held in such high regard by the Americans that the US Navy carried his ashes in a nuclear submarine to the North Pole, where they were scattered on 17 March 1959. 

At the time of his death, Wilkins’s personal lifetime of memorabilia was stored at his Pennsylvania farm. The collection included tens of thousands of photographs, thousands of letters and many personal journals and artefacts, along with the gifts, medals, certificates and awards that world leaders, dignitaries and learned societies had showered upon him. The collection also held souvenirs of almost every aspect of Wilkins’s remarkable life, from his boarding pass when he flew on the Hindenburg to Inuit bows and hunting gear; from his primary school records from SA, to cutlery carried on his Arctic submarine. The size and scope of the Wilkins collection at the time of his death is impossible to comprehend. Unfortunately, it was stored haphazardly in cardboard boxes, stacked floor to ceiling, in a barn, the roof of which leaked, so that by 1958 much of the collection was beginning to rot. 

(clockwise top to bottom) The contents of a box of Wilkins’s material, discovered by Jeff Maynard in a private collection in 2014; Wilkins married actress Suzanne Bennett in 1929, although they never lived together permanently; The Wilkins Homestead at Mount Bryan East, in SA, was restored and opened to the public in 2001. Image credits: Jeff Maynard; Private Collection; Jeff Maynard

Following his death, the fate of the material worsened. First, Suzanne went through it, destroying all references to other women in his life. Wilkins enjoyed female company, and was engaged to be married at least once before he finally married Suzanne. It is difficult to estimate how much material she destroyed, but it must have been substantial. In the 1940s, Wilkins had written a semi-fictitious account of his life, intended to be serialised for radio. He called it True Adventure Thrills and it included accounts of fighting duels, narrow escapes from firing squads, being captured by slave traders, finding beautiful female stowaways on his expeditions, and many other exciting adventures. After Wilkins’s death, when author Lowell Thomas wanted to write his biography, Suzanne gave him a copy of True Adventure Thrills. Not knowing any better, Thomas published the unproduced radio serial as an account of Wilkins’s life (titled Sir Hubert Wilkins – His World of Adventure), which has remained a standard reference on the subject since. Even recent books about Wilkins struggle to distinguish between fact and fiction. 

Having partially destroyed Wilkins’s legacy, then misled the world by authorising a fanciful account of his life, Suzanne died in 1974 and bequeathed the farm in Pennsylvania to Winston Ross, Wilkins’s former assistant. Shortly after, Ross married Marley Shofner, a yoga teacher from California, who already had two sons to two previous husbands. Marley and Winston Ross decided to set up a museum to the Australian explorer, but when few people seemed interested in travelling to a remote area of Pennsylvania to see it, they funded their lifestyle by selling material. Two large collections of Wilkins’s polar correspondence were sold to two polar philatelists, who were amateur postal historians. Following a lengthy and costly dispute with the philatelists, the Rosses paid their legal bills by selling some 80 boxes of material to the Ohio State University for its polar archive. 

The Rosses also gave material away. For example, Dick Smith, who has always been an admirer of Sir Hubert, visited the Pennsylvanian farm in 1982 and brought Wilkins’s car, a 1939 Chevrolet, and a polar sledge back to Australia. Other material was simply sold through antique shops in Pennsylvania, or to private collectors around the world. When Winston Ross died, Marley inherited the farm and its contents. She died in 1998 and a dispute between her two sons meant one took some material back to his home in Michigan, while the other took the remainder to his home in Arizona.

Today, various collections of material have been successfully preserved. Some have been added to the Wilkins Collection at Ohio State University, where it’s held in a purpose-built archive and available to researchers. Records relevant to Wilkins’s time on the Western Front and Gallipoli have been brought back to Australia for eventual preservation at the Australian War Memorial. Other material has been donated to the South Australian Museum. Dick Smith, with support from the Australian Geographic Society, had Wilkins’s birthplace at Mount Bryan East restored. It was opened to the public in 2001. More recently, Dick donated the car he brought back from the USA to the National Motor Museum at Birdwood in SA, and the polar sledge to the South Australian Museum. 

Much, however, is still in private hands and many of Wilkins’s papers and journals remain unread. The work to understand this remarkable character is continuing, and hopefully in the future, as more is revealed, Sir Hubert Wilkins will enjoy a more prominent place in Australia’s story.

Jeff Maynard has researched and written about Sir Hubert Wilkins for 25 years, locating Wilkins’s material in museums and private collections around the world and working to have it preserved and catalogued. Jeff’s latest book is The Illustrated Sir Hubert Wilkins (Netfield Publishing, 2022). Learn more about Jeff’s ongoing work at jeffmaynard.net

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The post Australia’s unsung hero appeared first on Australian Geographic.

However, where the colourful rainbow trout – which has welcomed shivering visitors to the village’s main street for the past four decades – should be, there is instead a metal tower, draped in blue plastic, which is billowing in the stiff southerly. It’s also ringed by metal fencing. But for a lack of police tape, you could be excused for thinking it was a crime scene.

Has Adaminaby’s pride and joy been trout-napped? Surely not. 

Where would you hide a fish that big? Maybe she just got sick of camera-toting tourists jumping on her tail and she wriggled her way to one of the nearby streams laden with her (much smaller) namesakes? 

“Perhaps you should have checked out the Big Banana [in northern New South Wales] instead,” quips my wife, still in the passenger seat. “It sure would have been warmer,” she adds, before hastily closing the window.

Suddenly, a movement near the top of the scaffolding catches my eye. A man peeks out, clad in overalls, beanie pulled low over his ears and paintbrush in hand. “Can I help you?” he asks, while trying to remove a safety mask from his face. It’s Mark Burns from Cooma Crash Repairs, who, along with workmate Chris McCullough, is undertaking “urgent repairs” to Adaminaby’s fabled big fish. Stopping for an early smoko, the pair generously invite me inside for a peek. 

“If we didn’t start work on her, she probably would have collapsed,” Chris says guiding me through the trout’s more delicate regions, then up a rickety ladder to her snout. “She had a pretty bad diagnosis,” Mark adds. “If you think she looks bad now, you should’ve seen her when we started work on her six weeks ago. She had everything from fin rot to gangrene.” Oh dear. The panelbeaters/trout whisperers show me where they’ve filled cracks and fixed fractures with a special poly-compound made for extreme weather conditions. It’s meticulous work. And yes, they let me take a photo. It’s not the iconic exterior shot I was after, but even better: a close-up of her freshly reconstructed eyeball, ready for repainting. Before this intimate encounter 10 years ago, the Big Trout was just another 3D billboard erected to lure travellers off the highway and spend a few dollars in fledgling businesses. Becoming entangled in her entrails, and seeing dedicated locals risking frostbite to maintain her, changed all that. I was…hooked. 

My wife still laments, “You don’t even like fishing!” when, on each trip to the snowfields, we make a lengthy detour to make “yet another pilgrimage” to the Big Trout. It’s funny how you can get attached to an oversized fibreglass fish.

As with many other BTs, Australia has multiple Big Trouts. One is in Oberon, 340km north of Adaminaby, where, while recently at the front bar of The Royal Hotel, I suggested to a barfly that his town’s Big Trout didn’t stack up to the one in Adaminaby. 

It was a genuine attempt at friendly chit-chat but I may as well have maligned his mother’s character on national television. To my wife’s disdain, it almost ended in fisticuffs, and even shouting a round of drinks didn’t placate him. It turns out I’m not the only victim of a spirited tirade from a parochial local sticking up for their town’s claim to fame. “People can get really protective and territorial about their BTs,” says Dr Amy Clarke, a senior lecturer in history at the University of the Sunshine Coast. And if anyone should know, it’s Amy. She specialises in built heritage and material cultures and has earned the enviable moniker of Australia’s “BT expert”.

“A few years ago, during a talkback segment on ABC Radio, I was labelled “un-Australian” because I refused to call the Big Uluru [which burnt down in 2018], at Leyland Brothers World at North Arm Cove near Newcastle, a BT,” Amy explains. “Because it wasn’t bigger than the rock it was imitating, actually only 1/40th the size, it clearly couldn’t be classified as a Big Thing.

“I thought my statement was uncontentious, but it received an irate response from some listeners who promptly called the station, including one furious local who roared ‘How dare you!’ down the phone line.”  Unlike my piscatorial face-off in Oberon, which compared two similar BTs, in Amy’s case it was about definition.

If there was a competition for the Big Things that most closely resemble their real-life namesakes, the koala at Dadswells Bridge, in western VIC, would be a top contender. 

To her, the object must satisfy four key criteria: “It must be human-made, three-dimensional, located outdoors and be obviously bigger than the real-world thing it is imitating.” Surely it also needs to be beside a highway as well. “No. Roads move, so I don’t include that as a criterion,” she says. 

So, how many BTs are dotted around our country? According to Amy’s broad definition, “At last count, there were 1075.” Yes, that many, but that number includes commissioned works of public art, which Amy says inflates the total by about 25 per cent.

“People interested in BTs reflect the full spectrum of society, not just art historians and academics, so debating what is and isn’t a BT is a great way for people to have conversations about heritage,” she says, adding, “Many of them may be ‘lowbrow’, but they also hold a deeply personal resonance with the people who have lived near them, and visited them.”

Although many artists and builders have dabbled in the creation of BTs, there are a handful of entrepreneurs who can boast multiple BTs on their resume. These include brothers Attila and Louis Mokany, who were responsible for three of arguably our nation’s most eye-catching roadside sculptures. First up, in 1985, to encourage motorists to stop at their Goulburn service station and restaurant, and as a less than subtle nod to the area’s fine-wool industry, the Mokanys cobbled together the 15.2 x 18m Big Merino. That’s seriously big – no-one could argue it’s not bigger than the animal it’s imitating! Buoyed by the success of Rambo, as the anatomically correct (and well-endowed) ram was soon named, next off the production line was the Big Prawn at Ballina in 1989, then the Big Oyster at Taree the following year. Much to their disappointment, the Mokanys’ subsequent proposal in Albury for a Big Murray Grey, a breed of cattle, didn’t get the green light.

Although the Big Oyster has seen better days (it’s now part of a new car dealership), Rambo and the oddly nickname-less Big Prawn continue to entice travellers for that must-have selfie, even though they’re no longer bolted to their original locations.

In 2006, 14 years after the Hume Highway bypassed Goulburn, Rambo got itchy feet. Under police escort, and the watchful gaze of an entire town, the 100t (yes, a leading contender for our heaviest BT) ram was hauled to its current home on the new highway. Rambo’s owners, who’d lost more than 40 busloads of tourists a day after the bypass opened, weren’t the only winners in the move. A handful of residents who were often the, er, butt of many jokes, having lived with uninterrupted views of the concrete ram’s huge backside for many years, were also cheering. 

Standing more than 17m tall, Kingston SE’s Larry the Big Lobster, in SA, is one of Australia’s biggest and most conspicuously kitsch Big Things.

While Rambo was a hit with Goulburnites from day one, the much more conspicuous prawn, resplendent in bright orange paint, was viewed by its many critics as nothing more than a bad smell. The fact it was minus a critical part of its anatomy – its tail – probably didn’t help. “When it was first erected, lots of locals opposed it, but in 2010, after the service station it was attached to was approved for demolition, supporters came out of the woodwork,” Amy says. “Residents essentially stormed the council chambers, pleading for their prawn to be saved.” Eventually Ballina’s Bunnings came to the rescue, and the previously condemned crustacean now stands sentinel over the hardware store’s fundraising barbecues, no doubt hoping no-one hollers, “Throw another shrimp on the barbie!” Oh, and yes, they even added a tail.

The gong for the most-moved BT is safely stashed in the pouch of Matilda, the 13m-tall kangaroo who, after her stint as the 1982 Brisbane Commonwealth Games mascot, retired to a Gold Coast water theme park.  When that site was redeveloped, she hopped 200km up the M1 to a truck stop in Kybong, near Gympie. Today, she stands outside another petrol station, at neighbouring Traveston. Even though Matilda can no longer wink or wiggle her ears with the grace she once did on the big stage, there’s no mistaking she’s a giant kangaroo. The same cannot be said for all BTs.

Taking up a whole block in the main street of the sleepy NSW Southern Highlands village of Robertson, where farmers have been growing famous red-soil potatoes for years, is – you guessed it – a big spud. Unless you’ve seen it yourself, you’d wonder why the terrific tater is so maligned. 

Here’s a clue. Since it was unveiled in 1977, not one single highlander has referred to the 10m-long, 4m-high tuber by its official name, preferring instead to call it the, ahem, Big Poo-tato. I’m sure you get my drift.

Amy is sorry for the spud: “I like things people have genuinely set out to do and unfortunately in this case it didn’t quite translate into reality. I actually think it’s quite beautiful. There’s even been talk of it being heritage-listed, like Queensland’s Big Pineapple.” 

When her parents bought the much-mocked giant vegetable in 2014, “to stop developers moving in and turning it into a supermarket”, celebrated Sydney playwright Melanie Tait enthusiastically and bravely adopted the title of the “Big Potato Heiress”. Despite having to endure eight years of unwanted puns directed her way, when Melanie discovered in late 2022 that her family was selling up, she felt obliged to pen an article for The Guardian. 

“Generations have grown up with it as a landmark and sign of stability in a place that’s forever changing,” she reflected, before expressing hope that “the new owners realise how special this construction of cement and soil is”. Aww.

At the opposite end in the popularity stakes is Larry the Big Lobster, in Kingston SE, South Australia. Persistent rumours suggest Paul Kelly, the artist who built the 17m-tall spiny lobster, misunderstood the plans and laid out Larry in metres instead of feet – hence his leviathan size. Paul dismisses the claims as scurrilous. The gigantic steel-and-fibreglass lobster regularly wins polls as Australia’s favourite BT, so if Larry’s measurements were an oversight, it was probably a blessing in disguise. “No-one wants a small Big Thing,” Amy jokes. 

As one of the biggest BTs, if you wanted to pilfer Larry, you’d need an army of angle grinder–wielding assailants and a semitrailer fleet. There’s a parade of other, easier to transport BTs that have mysteriously gone missing in the night. These include Bowen’s much-loved Big Mango, which disappeared from its pedestal on the side of the busy Bruce Highway on a hot summer night in February 2014. Search parties led by miffed mango munchers scouted all roads in and out of the north Queensland town. But they needn’t have worried. The 10m-tall missing mango was soon located, partially hidden under a tarpaulin in nearby bushland. A chicken restaurant chain had temporarily fruit-napped it as a publicity stunt for a new menu item. Really.

Then there’s the case of the oversized fibreglass bull that stood for many years outside a butcher’s shop in Bangalow in northern NSW before vanishing – but not without trace. After it was filched, owner John Herne received reports from eyewitnesses who spotted the big bull at numerous locations, including a beach at Port Macquarie and grazing outside a service station near Newcastle. It was also spotted at the Big Prawn in Ballina, prompting speculation of a BT meet-up. When John received a photograph in the mail of the missing bull alone in a paddock at an unknown location and plastered in psychedelic-coloured dots, it almost sent him over the edge.

The broken-hearted butcher was only reunited with his prized bull when, after an anonymous tip-off, he enlisted the help of a vigilante bunch of Bangalow tradies who tracked down the bull in a paddock between Casino and Tenterfield.

“When he went missing, he weighed 682kg, but on his return he was less than 600kg,” John says. “He was sporting a large gash on his side and was minus his ears – he must have put up a good fight.”

About 800km north, in Rockhampton, half-a-dozen big bullocks celebrate that city’s status as Australia’s beef capital and perhaps wouldn’t mind having an ear nicked, instead of their testes, which have been an irresistible target for pranksters. A cabinet-maker by trade, Chris Murphy worked as a slasher driver and an artificial insemination technician for cattle, before the mid-1990s, when he joined the Rockhampton Regional Council and volunteered to look after the bulls. Since then, he’s carefully crafted dozens of replacement testes – each weighing about 5kg – using a special concrete mould. “I’ve even invented a new way to attach them to the bulls using a metal rod that makes them harder to steal,” he proclaims. Tony Williams, Rockhampton Region mayor, is just as proud: “Our bull statues are iconic. Often if there’s one thing a person knows about Rockhampton, it’s the pride of place our bull statues hold at the entry points to our city.” 

While the heritage-listed Big Pineapple at Woombye in QLD (left) grabs all the headlines, there are several spiky spin-offs, including the much more modestly proportioned fruit at Ballina, NSW (right).

There must be something in the water in Queensland because,  no matter how you define a BT, the Sunshine State is indisputably “Australia’s BT capital”. It has all manner of oversized fruit, vegetables and animals, and the Bruce Highway is littered with quirky BTs, including Tully’s 7.9m-tall Big Gumboot (officially the Golden Gumboot). Tully, the state’s wettest town, receives an average annual rainfall of more than 4m, and it holds the national record for the most rain in a year – 7933mm, in 1950. Lucky the concrete gumboot has drains in the bottom or it would fill up.

Meanwhile, Western Australia fails to pull its weight in the BTs stakes. Among its best-known BTs are the Big Western Rock Lobster at Dongara, a Big Prawn in Exmouth that’s small fry compared with Ballina’s colossal crustacean, and a somewhat incongruous Big Lollipop at Ravensthorpe. Apparently, it’s the world’s biggest free-standing lollipop. Sure, it’s propped up outside a sweet shop, but sugar on a stick is hardly synonymous with this far-flung town. But the 8m-tall aluminium-and-steel lollipop is nowhere near as out of place as the Big Ned Kelly in Maryborough, Queensland, where it blatantly promotes a hotel. Ned, who never ventured within cooee of Queensland, would be turning in his grave.  If you must eyeball a more appropriately positioned Big Ned, then beat a path to Kelly heartland in Glenrowan, Victoria, the location of the infamous bushranger’s last stand, where a 6m-tall Ned, clad in iconic armour fashioned from old farm ploughs, bails up visitors to town. 

Back in WA, and hardly worth a detour to see, you can pour acid on the Big Periodic Table plastered on a wall of a science faculty building at Edith Cowan University. The same goes for the World’s Tallest Bin in Kalgoorlie. What rubbish. It’s a pity there’s not a bigger bin to toss it into. WA is also home to one of the strangest BTs – the Big Camera, built into the facade of a former service station/camera museum at Meckering, 135km east of Perth. Of course, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and as more BTs pop up along our highways, there will always be debate as to how they compare with the existing stock of BTs.

Amy Clarke reports, during the past decade or so, we’ve been enjoying a renaissance in BTs. “New ones are being unveiled at a much faster rate than those being demolished,” she says. This is good news for BT afficionados because it means there are even more to visit, even for Amy (who has seen more than most). 

“When my brother recently got married, I drove past the Big Apple in Stanthorpe for the first time, as well as some other new BTs in northern NSW,” Amy says. “I confessed to my brother, I was way more excited taking photos of all of them than attending his wedding… He was none too impressed.” 

I’ll bet. A feeling I’m sure my wife can relate to. 

Mint recognition

The Big Oyster at Taree didn’t make the cut, nor did Robertson’s Big Potato – possibly for obvious reasons – but Swan Hill’s Giant Murray Cod did, twice. So did the Big Lobster at Kingston SE in SA.

If you’re a stamp or coin collector and a fan of Australian Big Things, then your passion has been catered for three times since 2007. That was when Australia Post issued its first collection of BTs, five 50c stamps with distinctive illustrations by renowned artist Reg Mombassa. A further set of five, of $1.20 denomination, was issued in September 2023, illustrated this time by Nigel Buchanan. 

A set of $1 uncirculated coins was released earlier in 2023 by the Royal Australian Mint. Uncirculated coins are created just for collectors, as the name suggests, so you aren’t likely to get a Wak Wak Big Jumping Crocodile in your change at the servo, more’s the pity.

According to Australia Post, stamp designs must appeal to more than a narrow section of the community – in fact, they must be of “outstanding national or international interest” and not be likely to cause “public divisiveness”. So don’t be drawn into an argument over whether Canberra’s Big Swoop magpie is more likely to have a nip than Muswellbrook’s Blue Heeler, or you might cop the rough end of a Big Pineapple.

Photographer Trent Mitchell‘s book Australian Lustre will be launched later this year.

RELATED STORY: Australia is littered with aging super-sized statues

The post The bigger they come appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Way above the shimmering skyscrapers, 13 small planes launch into a spectacular sky-high, synchronised dance. For more than 10 long minutes, the single-propeller aircraft leap and twirl in perfect unison, trailing long ribbons of smoke behind them. With sleek bodies glistening, their wingtips are no more than a few metres apart. 

“Here comes the pass!”Two planes hurtle towards each other, head-on. From my sandy seat, I can barely watch. My stomach churns, convinced I will bear witness to some devastating air disaster. At the last second, the planes each deftly flip onto a wing, their bellies streaking past each other and missing by a whisker.

This is the Freedom Formation Display Team, an Australian troupe of daredevils who present just one of the acts on the sky-high stage of the Pacific Airshow on the Gold Coast. Astoundingly, these pilots are amateurs. Most of their planes were built in garages and sheds across the country, by the pilots themselves.

The Pacific Airshow was established in 2016 at Huntington Beach in California. For the first time, its organiser, Kevin Elliott, has spread his wings to bring the show to Australia’s Gold Coast. The Glitter Strip’s beating heart, Surfers Paradise, is the dramatic backdrop – shining skyscrapers stand shoulder to tall shoulder along the beach and the crystal-clear waters of the Coral Sea. For three days, more than 300,000 eager spectators take over the sand, and the many balconies above, to watch displays by the world’s best stunt pilots, military aircraft fly-pasts and formation flying. It’s Australia’s largest airshow and it won’t be the last – the organisers have locked in the next four years to temporarily take over the Surfers Paradise skies.

The soul of the Freedom Formation team is the lead, Jeremy Miller, who taught all of the pilots in the group how to fly formation and is responsible for their safety. It’s his choreography they perform in the 1.5km “performance box”.

Six years ago, Jeremy was flying for the Royal Flying Doctor Service in Broken Hill in New South Wales when a mate called to see if he would teach four keen amateurs in Sydney how to fly in formation. “One of the wives said they were ‘stooging around on the weekend’, so those four pilots became the Stooge Formation,” Jeremy says, laughing. “They became friends and brought other pilots in. Then, when the Pacific Airshow was announced, one of the pilots, Eddie, said, ‘Do you reckon the Stooges could do the Pacific Airshow?’ and I thought, That’s a good idea.”

The group expanded to 13 planes – with Jeremy in the lead – and the rigorous training began. More than 200 hours of preparation would go into pulling off a 13-minute show almost 12 months later. There were multiple, three-day-long training camps, where they would be fully briefed, walk through the routine on the ground and then take off for an airborne rehearsal.

“Formation flying seems really dangerous, but it’s actually quite a safe activity,” Jeremy says. I laugh – on the ground it looks as though one small error could spell death at each turn. But he doesn’t falter. “A lot of briefing and a lot of training goes into getting them up to that standard of performance,” he says. “There are no surprises, and once you’re on the same page, it’s actually quite easy. I liken it to a stage show – everyone knows their part.” 

Jeremy says it wasn’t difficult to convince the Pacific Airshow organisers to let a bunch of amateurs in homemade aircraft be on the bill. “From [the Airshow at] Huntington Beach, they know that crowds love formations, where there’s lots of aircraft in the air at once – and they bloody loved it.”

When crafting the choreography, Jeremy says his objective was to “fill the Gold Coast with smoke”. “Which we did,” he says with a smile. “Second, I wanted to design a display where people didn’t know where to look, where there were lots of different elements going on.” The final piece includes a Balbo formation – where all 13 planes fly together, within metres of each other, and then split off to perform solo acrobatics. The team pulls off tail chases, rolls and loops. From the beach, the crowd collectively “aaahs” as a pair of planes etch a huge heart shape that lingers in the blue sky before the breeze gently pulls it apart.

It’s not all grace and beauty – the whole show is carefully balanced, and it’s all up to Jeremy. “As the formation lead, my job is to run the whole show,” he says. “I tell the guys what’s happening next and when they need to break out of formation, but my biggest role is to keep everyone safe. The guys are trusting me to fly at the right speed and height, and they just follow me.  I’m like the conductor of an orchestra. One small mistake from me can create major issues for them, so I have to fly exactly the same as I did in practices, which is difficult to do – to have that consistency of flying. But that’s the challenge of leading.”

On the beach, it’s not just the so-called av nerds that have travelled far and wide to take in the spectacle. It’s a true family affair and an event where harassed parents don’t have to corral kids to sit still – they run, splash and dig, stopping in awe to gaze skywards to take in the roaring planes overhead. Territory is marked by camp chairs, umbrellas and towels, while others dig out impromptu “sand sofas”, complete with backrests. 

Where the sand turns to esplanade, a temporary tower has been set up where the voice of the airshow, MC Matt Jolley (imported from the Californian edition) is located. A ritzy cabana with rows of bright white seats has been erected so VIPs can enjoy refreshments in the shade, while still being front and centre to all the action.

Among them is 99-year-old Adelaide man Henry Young. For Henry, watching the fighter jets and listening to the comms between the flight deck and the MC sends him spiralling through time, back to when he was a starry-eyed teenager signing up to fly in World War II. He was born in Australia but was in New Zealand when war was declared. He enlisted in the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm when he was just 18 years old. “I think everybody at that age wants to be a pilot,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “New Zealand was the only empire country that provided pilots to the Royal Navy. I jumped through all the hoops before I was ready to go, and I shipped straight to England.” From there, he was put on another ship to the USA, where he earned his stripes. 

During his time in service, Lieutenant Young flew aircraft ranging from the Boeing Stearman to the Navy’s version of the Supermarine Spitfire, the Seafire and the Hawker Sea Fury.Despite the dangers, Henry says his time as a WWII pilot was a “wonderful experience”. “I loved it,” he enthuses. “Most people who fly get it in their blood.” Henry’s niece invited him to the airshow and word got out that a WWII pilot was in the crowd.  Henry was astounded by the star treatment he then received. Dapper in a grey suit and perfectly pressed blue-and-white collared shirt, he is loving every minute, a smile never leaving his face.

So, how do the planes compare with the ones he flew nearly 80 years ago? “It’s tremendous. I can’t get over the increase in power,” he says. “It takes me back because I was in the aerobatic team and I could see the skill that was there at the show. There have been so many advances in aviation since I was a boy. To an old pilot, it’s wonderful to see.”

“You can play in the clouds – it’s wonderful when you’re diving down into the chasm of a cloud and doing twists and turns…it’s exhilarating.” 

Spectator, Henry Young

Henry says the best part of being a pilot is that “You get to paddle your own canoe. You’re in charge and you can do all these things that earth-bound people can’t do. 

“You can play in the clouds – it’s wonderful when you’re diving down into the chasm of a cloud and doing twists and turns and you can’t hurt yourself. You can’t see and it’s exhilarating. I just miss it so much…as does anyone who hasn’t flown for any length of time,” he says wistfully.

Henry’s flying career came to an end when he fell in love. “I met my good wife, and when I proposed I said, ‘You can have me as an airline pilot, or as a farmer.’ She said, ‘I think I’ll have you as a farmer – if I have you as a farmer I’ll see more of you.’”

It’s the brotherhood Henry misses most about service. “In the Navy you live and eat and play together; you’re all in one group. It’s the camaraderie that you never forget. I’m the last of my squadron still alive. Nevertheless, it’s nice to be here,” he says. 

The heavy bass and frantic guitar riffs of Guns N’ Roses’s “Welcome to the Jungle” blare from the towering stack of speakers, but it’s nothing compared with the deep rumble approaching from the north. Gliding through the air is the
MV-22B Osprey, a tiltrotor aircraft. The Osprey has propellers on each wing and can physically rotate mid-flight, enabling it to hover like a helicopter or fly like a jet. 

Matt Jolley radios in to the Osprey’s flight deck as it hovers over the water, the propellers churning up a circle of swirling mist. The aircraft neatly pivots in a slow, tight turn.

MC: “I can feel you today, Smeagol, I can feel the wind.”

Smeagol: [crackle] “It’s gale force out here.” [crackle]

MC: “There goes a beach umbrella, sorry about that. There ya go. All part of the fun out here at the Pacific Airshow. I tell you what, ladies and gentlemen, we’re having a good time and I hope you are too. Smeagol is going to crank it up here for you, ladies and gentlemen, and show you just how he can dance.” 

The dancing, it turns out, comes from stage left, to the tune of Roy Orbison’s rockabilly classic, “Oh, Pretty Woman”. The Osprey twirls in a series of perfect pirouettes.

The sun has dipped behind the skyscrapers. The shade creeping across the sand brings relief from the heat. After four hours of non-stop action, it’s time for the headline act: the F/A-18F Super Hornet. Its sleek grey body can reach speeds of almost 2000km/h. It can attack – and be gone – within seconds. And it’s deadly, loaded with missiles, bombs and nose-mounted guns (none of which are present at the airshow). But today, the crowds marvel at its speed – and ear-splitting noise. The jet streaks past, the deafening roar chasing it seconds later. 

For the armed forces, the Pacific Airshow is part spectacle and part recruitment drive. Tents are set up along the heaving esplanade with dashing pilots in flight suits, complete with ready smiles, to answer any questions from starstruck hopefuls whose pulses have been set racing by the sheer power and might they’ve just witnessed.

It was the sight of a such an Air Force pilot in a flying suit that caught the eye of a young Aarron Deliu. At the time, Aarron was a teenager with little interest in school. But a serendipitous meeting at a careers day changed the course of his life. Now, resplendent in a flight suit himself and with all the confidence and charm of Top Gun’s ‘Maverick’, Aarron says talking to the pilot propelled him to knuckle down and catch up on six months’ worth of schoolwork so he could start earning his pilot’s licence. His first solo flight was in a glider, when he was just 14. 

“We landed and my instructor opens the canopy, but tells me to keep my seatbelt on,” he says. “He hops out and he goes, ‘Have a good flight.’ I just remember it felt like home. I was 14, I hadn’t driven a car, and now I’m in an aeroplane by myself, flying around, thermalling. I just got goosebumps remembering it.” Aarron rubs his arms and grins at me. “It was amazing. Suddenly you realise how capable you are. Because up until that point, I think I was very reliant on everyone. It was a big maturing moment for me and I grew up quite rapidly.” And the landing? “Nailed it,” he says with a grin. “As we say in the industry: ‘butter’.” Meaning, perfectly smooth. 

But his dream of becoming a fighter pilot soon changed – his sights became set on thrills of a different kind. “The idea of being a fighter pilot gave me focus – but this is the cool part. I got called up to get sponsored to do aerobatics. I was in the right place at the right time, having someone wanting to pay me to be an airshow pilot and I was like, ‘Yes, let’s do it’. And the rest is history.” 

Alongside his airshow and aerobatics, Aarron is an aircraft instructor and business jet pilot. He has type ratings in multiple aircraft types including fighter jets, helicopters, race and aerobatic aircraft and seaplanes. He has travelled the world as an aerobatics and airshow pilot, earning accolades along the way, including the Sky Grand Prix Champion and the Australian Unlimited Aerobatic and Freestyle Champion.

In the Pacific Airshow, the former Perth local hopes his 10-minute solo stops people in their tracks. “I just want them looking and thinking, ‘How the hell?’ and having their jaws drop. I hope I’m giving that to an Australian audience.” What does he love about performing in airshows? “I hope that I could inspire one person, one kid, who’s just figuring out life, who then starts doing lessons,” he says. “I met a pilot and aviation changed my life so much. To know that possibly for just a brief moment, a millisecond, you can change someone’s trajectory in life…to me, that’s really special because that’s what happened to me.”

Cruising into the display box in a straight flypast, the Yak 110 looks like a normal plane. With a deft flip, it peels away – and then shows its true colours. Nicknamed the ‘Frankenplane’, the Yak 110’s creator is American pilot Jeff Boerboon, who came up with the idea of “sewing” two Yak 55 acrobatic planes together and dropping in a spare GE J85 jet engine to give it life. The two planes share a fabricated centre to join the two fuselages, as well as the pairing of the horizontal stabilisers and trimmed outboard horizontal tails. While both single-seat cockpits are fully operational, the twin-prop plane needs just one pilot to get it airborne from its four wheels.

The mutant plane, its wings emblazoned with the Star-Spangled Banner, is a crowd favourite. To the beating bass of “The Greatest Show”, Jeff Boerboon – the great aerobatic showman himself – sends the Yak 110 into a spiral, twin plumes of blue smoke trailing in its wake over the rolling waves below.

“Here comes the second hammerhead,” booms Matt Jolley’s voice over the speaker. “Jeff Boerboon doing the impossible today with the Yak 110. He’s gonna have a little fun.” A hammerhead begins with a loop into vertical climb until the plane runs out of speed. It hangs in the air for a moment before pivoting 180 degrees into a nosedive. It finishes with a flourish, with another half-loop.

For almost four years, the cars at Eddie Seve’s house were parked outside as his garage became a mechanic’s workshop. He had ordered a kit plane from Vans Aircraft in the USA, and would come home from work to spend a couple of hours each night assembling his aircraft. Kit planes cost upwards of US$28,000 and arrive flat-packed, in boxes upon boxes. “There are thousands of components,” Eddie says. 

However, he reckons building a plane is something anyone can learn to do. The Freedom Formation pilot has now built three and is one of the so-called tech counsellors, for the Sport Aircraft Association of Australia, who are called to inspect workmanship before a Civil Aviation Safety Authority Approved Person decrees the project airworthy.

Eddie spent his childhood watching planes take off near his Schofields home in NSW. He’d always dreamt of flying, but couldn’t afford to do so until he was 33. He began with microlights before accelerating through other challenges, from fixed-wing flying to acrobatics, and at 56, he decided to give formation flying a go.

“Most people learn to fly and then become quite solitary,” he says. “You go out to the airport, practise circuits, put your plane back in the hangar and then go home again. Formation allows you to do something with the aeroplane that includes other people, and other aeroplanes.” 

Eddie says learning the formation ropes was the “most challenging and humbling thing I’ve ever done”, requiring near endless hours of briefings, walk-throughs, training flights and debriefings. At first, it was incredibly nerve-racking. “The entire time you’ve been learning to fly, one of the primary considerations is to avoid other aeroplanes and suddenly you’re purposely flying next to each other. Initially, that’s very confronting.” 

“We’re sitting out there at 2000ft in formation…[and] catch glimpses of all the people on the beach. You get this anticipation, that what is about to happen
is incredible.” 

Freedom Formation pilot, Eddie Seve

And there’s nothing more confronting than when two new students take off together for the first time. “The first flight together is scary. You’re so close to another aeroplane and you’re constantly thinking, ‘What the hell is going to happen if we hit?’ But you also have to keep in mind that there are two highly experienced instructors in each plane and those guys don’t want to die, so they will do everything they can to keep you safe.” As a pilot, formation flying is an exhilarating way to keep flight hours up and continuously improve skills. “It’s the most fun you can have with your pants on,” Eddie says with a chortle.

The first day of the 2023 Pacific Airshow the weather wasn’t fine enough, so the Freedom Formation team did a flypast. Then, day two dawns bright and clear. Showtime. 

“It’s a surreal experience,” Eddie says. “We launch in groups of four and then form up into a giant 13-ship formation called a Balbo. We’d be in the holding point for the airshow behind the highrises and we’re sitting out there at 2000ft in formation with 13 other guys and you can catch glimpses of all the people on the beach. You get this anticipation, that what is about to happen is incredible.” Touching down his red, black and white Vans RV-7 after 13 adrenaline-filled minutes, Eddie says everyone was “bouncing off the walls”.

The team, still in their flight suits, drive back to Surfers Paradise for an hour-long meet-and-greet with fans. “Kids were coming up to us asking questions and saying how much they loved the show,” Eddie says. “I never thought I would be signing autographs. Anyone with the motivation and the commitment can do what we’re doing,” he says. “We’re nothing special.”

The Freedom Formation team will be back in 2024, bigger than ever. Another three pilots have thrown their caps into the ring, all complete newbies that will be put through their paces by maestro Jeremy Miller. And Eddie wouldn’t miss it for the world. “Running into the display box, the view is just spectacular,” he says. “The contrast of water, the beach, the people, the highrises…it blows your mind. You couldn’t pick a more stunning location to host an airshow.”

IN MEMORIAM. The Pacific Airshow family was devastated by the loss of friends Major Tobin ‘Smeagol’ Lewis, 37, Captain Eleanor LeBeau, 29, and Corporal Spencer Collart, 21. Thoughts, prayers and deepest condolences go out to their families, loved ones and fellow Marines following their passing one week after the Pacific Airshow Gold Coast. Blue skies and tailwinds.

Related: Lores Bonney: the forgotten aviatrix

The post Up and away appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Franklin was pretty sure the skeleton was here because, in the 1960s, archaeologists had found a skull covered in heavy fractures in the same place. At the time, the rest of the individual – everything from the neck down – was trapped under the concrete floor of a fisherman’s hut. But by 2014, construction workers were clearing the island and, as they took the fisherman’s hut apart, Franklin had a chance to search for the absent skeleton. Despite toiling in the sand for days, he found nothing.

Then, on his last day on Beacon Island, just before he flew out, Franklin decided to have one more look; a final chance to uncover the long-lost remains of a person who, four centuries ago, had traveled from one side of the world to the other. A soldier, a member of the crew, or a passenger seeking a better life. Whoever they were, they had only found a gruesome death.

Franklin grabbed a trowel and started digging.

Related: On this day: The Batavia is fatefully wrecked

At one time, long before it became a name inextricably associated with catastrophe and terror, the Batavia was a brand-new ship of the Dutch East India Company (VOC). With 341 people on board, she departed the Netherlands in October 1628 on her maiden voyage, bound for what is now Jakarta, Indonesia. But after sailing for thousands of kilometers, she smashed into a reef near Beacon Island in June 1629. Dozens of passengers died attempting to swim ashore. Finding the island bereft of fresh water, the Batavia’s captain, Francisco Pelsaert, set out to sea in a small boat to seek help.

During the captain’s absence, Jeronimus Cornelisz, the ship’s junior merchant, seized his moment. Historians have theorized that Cornelisz sought to take the ship’s treasure and become a pirate. Whatever his exact motives, he and a contingent of men mutinied, killing many of the ship’s passengers and crew in an attempt to control the island. It was a bloodbath. Of the Batavia’s 341 original voyagers, only 122 survived the ordeal.

Traces of the dead were left scattered here and there in the sand. But the island has not given up its secrets easily. Since the mid-20th century, archaeologists have been slowly unearthing artifacts associated with the mutiny, and in May, researchers published two new papers detailing a swath of fresh discoveries (The Unlucky Voyage: Batavia’s (1629) Landscape of Survival on the Houtman Abrolhos Islands in Western Australia, and Bioarchaeological analysis of a murder victim associated with the “Batavia” mutiny of 1629: The case of the ‘missing’ body.

Among them was the skeleton that had been missing for half a century. In his last-ditch search for it back in 2014, Franklin had dug deeper and deeper below the former fisherman’s hut. Slowly and gingerly, he shifted the sand aside. Then, to his relief, about 40 centimeters down, he found it: the bones of a human leg. After all that poking around in the wrong place, he had picked the right spot at last.

“It was probably a little bit more luck than anything else, but let’s call it a smart archaeological deduction,” says Franklin.

Analyzing the skeleton, he knew, might offer key new insight into who the victim was. The next year, 2015, Franklin and his colleagues returned to fully excavate the remains. They uncovered an extremely well-preserved skeleton and, crucially, a small teardrop-shaped piece of skull. Like a gruesome puzzle piece, the fragment slotted perfectly into a hole that mars the right side of the cranium excavated 51 years earlier, more or less proving they had found the right bones.

The teardrop bone fragment, say Franklin and his colleagues in a paper about the discovery, suggests this person died from a heavy blow to the head, likely with a bladed weapon. Large fractures elsewhere around the cranium hint they suffered two or perhaps three other forceful injuries. He was probably murdered.

“Whoever killed this person, they did a very thorough job,” says Franklin. “It was a very violent end.”

Based on the proportions of the bones, Franklin and his colleagues say, this was most likely a man in his 20s or early 30s. He was 1.7 meters tall and apparently reasonably healthy.

It is difficult to overstate the horror of what happened to the passengers of the Batavia. Cornelisz and the other mutineers ruled the island for three and a half months. Nearly 200 men, women, and children died or were murdered under Cornelisz’s command, while some of the younger women were raped and kept as sex slaves.

A separate paper by multiple authors including Franklin describes previously undetected mass graves on Beacon Island, including one with seven individuals positioned neatly on their backs and with their arms folded. In contrast with the apparent murder victim, who was found with one arm above his head—as though he had been dragged into a shallow grave—these people seem to have been buried with some dignity. Perhaps they were among the Batavia passengers who died of drowning, illness, or starvation before, as Franklin puts it, “all hell broke loose.”

When Captain Pelsaert finally returned to Beacon Island with rescuers, he arrived in the middle of a battle between the mutineers and a band of resisters. Cornelisz and several of his co-conspirators were captured, tried, found guilty, and hanged.

On nearby Long Island, about a kilometer from Beacon Island, Franklin and his colleagues found possible evidence of this final chapter: a tonne of heavily corroded iron fastenings typical of the sort used by the VOC in the 17th century. These are likely the remains of the gallows built to hang Cornelisz and his fellow mutineers.

This is a new discovery, says Mike Dash, a historian and author of Batavia’s Graveyard, a book about the mutiny.

“The general depiction of a hideous, tumultuous, confusing, and terrifying series of events—which is what’s laid out in the written record—the archaeological evidence not just confirms that but enriches it,” says Dash.” To wit, he suggests it might now be possible to try and identify the victim whose skeleton was unearthed by Franklin.

Franklin says that Beacon Island has been mined so thoroughly for historical material there is little reason to carry out further excavations. But Dash hopes more archaeological or written artifacts linked to the Batavia could yet emerge. “We haven’t seen the end of this story,” he says.

This article first appeared in Hakai Magazine, and is republished here with permission.

Related: 21 historic shipwrecks around Australia

The post The Batavia’s story of mutiny and murder gets a new chapter appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Australia had a history of innovation around social and political rights, which included compulsory primary schooling, emergence of a strong labour movement that helped to gain shorter working hours, and the extension of universal voting rights. So, although it was certainly welcomed, it wasn’t surprising when Australia’s new Commonwealth Parliament passed The Invalid and Old-age Pensions Act 1908 on 10 June of that year.

“It is…gratifying to know that those who have grown old, and often helpless, in the industrial service of their country, will be able to pass their declining days in a fair amount of comfort,” reported Queensland’s Warwick Examiner and Times on 5 October 1908.

Before then, the quality and availability of accommodation for the elderly and infirm varied widely across the colonies. In some areas, a shortage of facilities meant the homeless were often sheltered in what were then called lunatic asylums, and the mentally ill were housed in institutions for the destitute. 

Proponents of an aged pension argued that a person had a right to live out their old age free from poverty, due to their lifetime’s contribution to the community. It was also argued the pension had to be free from the stigma of charity, and that a universal government scheme funded from general revenue was the best policy. 

Several colonies debated about providing an old-age pension, in line with similar international developments in, for example, New Zealand, Denmark and Britain.

The national importance of the subject was exemplified by the fact that the Constitution included provisions for monetary allowances. During debates at the Melbourne Constitutional Convention, no delegates disagreed with the idea of a pension, but they argued over whether the states or Commonwealth should administer it. 

However, section 51 of the Constitution gave Federal Parliament the power to legislate for invalid and old-age pensions, as well as the provision of maternity allowances, widows’ pensions, child endowment, unemployment, pharmaceutical, sickness and hospital benefits, medical and dental services, benefits to students and family allowances.

New South Wales introduced legislation in 1900. Every unmarried person in the community (unless “aboriginal, alien or Asiatic”) who was older than 60 years of age, who’d resided in NSW for a minimum of 15 years and whose income did not exceed £50 a year, was entitled to a pension of 10 shillings a week. Married couples received 15 shillings a week. Similar legislation was enacted in Victoria in 1900 and Queensland in 1908. NSW introduced an invalid pension scheme in 1908. 

And so the federal government had a rich legacy of experience to draw on when setting out a national scheme. A 1906 royal commission recommended a scheme largely based on the NSW model, recommending men over 65 and women over 60 be eligible. Their income had to be less than £52 a year and assets, such as a home, could be worth no more than £310. Residence in Australia of at least 25 years was also required. Pensioners also had to be of “good character”, which was mostly undefined, although those who’d deserted their spouse and children in the previous five years weren’t eligible. 

When the Australian Parliament passed the Invalid and Old-age Pensions Act 1908, it incorporated the royal commission’s recommendations. The delay was due to debate about funding the scheme. Negotiations led
to legislation that would allow the federal government to fund the scheme by withholding some money distributed to the states from customs and excise.

It’s important to remember the difference in life expectancy between then and now. At Federation, only four per cent of the population was older than 65.2 years. Men could expect to live 55 years, and women 59 years. The financial cost of such a scheme was small in comparison to today, when 16 per cent of the population is over 65 and both sexes can expect to live into their 80s

‘Age pension introduced’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

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Related: ‘We’ll come back from this’: spirit of Kangaroo Island residents unbroken

On 3 January 2020, Tracey was on assignment courtside, covering a tennis tournament in Brisbane. She was asked to get to Nowra quickly to photograph the pyrocumulonimbus near the town. She arrived the following day as the ominous storm cloud loomed, generating peals of thunder and turning the sky blood red. On Nowra’s outskirts she came across a barefoot Nancy Allen and her husband, Brian, dressed in a singlet, shorts and thongs, trying to defend their home with a garden hose. Their neighbours had already left, as had the police (who’d urged them to evacuate). “Nancy asked me if I thought she should stay or go, and I said to her, ‘I think you should go’,” Tracey recalls. “Nancy’s expression in this photograph summed up the shock and disbelief many Australians felt at the ferocity and enormity of these fires…the overwhelming fear of not knowing where, or which way, she should go, or what she should do.”

The approaching fire front – the Currowan fire – had menaced the area since November, and already nearly obliterated Mogo and Cobargo, south of Batemans Bay. It would burn for 74 days across nearly 5000sq.km and destroy 312 homes. Remarkably, the Allens’ house was spared and Tracey’s photo was published worldwide.

This year Nancy and Brian have the water tanks and drums full, the gutters cleared in preparation.

Related: The story behind the photo: ‘My Country Burns’ by Samuel Markham

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As an independent researcher and writer with a science and museum-sector background, the two albums grabbed my attention. What exactly was I looking at? So began wide research that points to the fascinating botanist Wilhelm Bäuerlen as the maker of both albums and to the possibility of more like them existing.

A dig into Australian botanical history via the Australasian Virtual Herbarium (AVH) turned up the detail that in the 1880s botanist Wilhelm Bäuerlen had collected every recorded specimen in a 5km radius circle around Berry, Stewart’s hometown, then named Broughton Creek. The last specimens were dated June and July 1886, intriguingly close to Stewart’s inscription. Then, a hunt through newspapers of the time on TROVE revealed high praise for albums of pressed ferns that Bäuerlen had created for sale.

My search for a copy of Bäuerlen’s fern albums across a wide range of Australian collecting institutions and historical societies was to no avail, except to confirm them as a rare piece of Australian botanical history, and for an invaluable recommendation from Tamara Hynd, curator of the Shellharbour City Museum, to contact local botanist Dr Kevin Mills.

My joint research with Kevin began. His determinations about the specimens and scientific naming in the two mystery albums fast-tracked my plans to examine material written by Bäuerlen that is held at the Royal Botanic Gardens and the Powerhouse Museum, both in Sydney. Further evidence became apparent, including the strong resemblance between Bäuerlen’s handwriting and that of the scientific naming in the albums. Distinctive decorative flourishes on the capital letters are especially telling. Meanwhile, the handwriting of Stewart, as seen in his inscription, is vastly different.

So, yes – handwriting and other observable features of the albums point compellingly to Stewart’s albums as being made by Bäuerlen. That includes the near-perfect level of success with naming species, by the names in use at the time. Details of the history of Australian botany, Stewart, Bäuerlen and the Shoalhaven region are also indicative.

But of course, like every classic mystery, a piece of evidence is missing – the signature or initials of Bäuerlen on the albums.

A tale of two botanists

Dr Kevin Mills and Wilhelm Bäuerlen (1840-1917) are linked across time by their extensive botanical knowledge of some of the same Australian geography, and an affinity for NSW South Coast ferns. Kevin is an Illawarra-based botanist and ecologist who has recently launched his latest book, South Coast Ferns: A complete guide to the ferns and fern allies of the NSW South Coast.

The research topic for Kevin’s PhD was the rainforest flora of the Illawarra, and over a career exploring rainforests and other habitats, Kevin has often consulted Bäuerlen’s specimens. That’s to be expected – Bäuerlen still counts as one of Australia’s most prolific botanical collectors.

Wilhelm Bäuerlen – anglicised as William Baeuerlen and spelt variously – was a German-born scientist, based in the Shoalhaven region of NSW for a time in the 1880s. By 1883, he had arrived there and been contracted to collect specimens for the Government Botanist of Victoria, Baron Ferdinand von Mueller. In mid-1886, Bäuerlen was also contracted to collect for Joseph Maiden at the Technological Museum, Sydney, now the Powerhouse Museum, where he later became an assistant curator.

Bäuerlen was also the botanical collector on the Geographical Society of Australasia’s 1885 expedition to Papua New Guinea. In April 1886, at Nowra, Bäuerlen delivered a well-received lecture – later published – on the PNG expedition to The Shoalhaven Agricultural Society. While he was Shoalhaven-based, he was occupied by botanical collecting, delivering lectures, and selling his albums of pressed ferns.

Wanted: Bäuerlen’s albums

Several copies of Bäuerlen’s fern albums may exist, and his authorship of them may not be obvious. Some may be held privately. But what does a Bäuerlen fern album look like? An 1883 description from The Shoalhaven Telegraph is reproduced here:

And in the fern album labelled at the Museum as having being created by John Stewart, there is a decorative frontispiece made with fern pinnules and borders of red and blue ink.

This frontispiece is followed by 31 pages of ferns. There are fronds from one to four species per page, with the cut ends of the fronds typically tidied beneath a rounded clump of pressed moss, lichen or both. The compositions are decorative and instructive, showing a breadth of botanical features. For instance, species are frequently presented as a frond pair, one fertile, one infertile, side by side for comparison. Scientific names for each species, with associated numbering, are handwritten in red and blue ink.

Do you have an album match?

If there is a strong similarity between the Stewart albums and a historic album that you possess or have seen somewhere – your gran’s garage, an op shop, a regional museum – add to this story of rediscovery. Contact us.

Comparing newspaper accounts shows some difference between copies in the number of pages and the number of represented species, meaning that Bäuerlen may have purchased different kinds of blank albums over time.

Still, the blanks used for the Stewart albums merit description; they have green and black leather covers, and a black spine with gold stripes. Inside at the back, a small sticker names the manufacturer – M.W.&CO London. The fern album dimensions are 28cm in height x 37cm in width – making it wider than it is tall. The other album is the opposite. 

As Bäuerlen was renowned for fern albums, most other surviving albums would probably contain ferns. But contact us if you own or see one that looks similar to those featured here, whatever the plant type. Stewart’s album of flowering plants may or may not have been a ‘one of a kind’ made by Bäuerlen for Stewart, the then new president of the Broughton Creek Horticultural and Agricultural Society.

Such mysteries may well be resolved if other albums by Bäuerlen could be located and studied. If only Dr Mills and I could meet with him across time, there’d be plenty to discuss. Would we be able to tell him that some of his albums were rediscovered with the help of Australian Geographic?

To send news of any possible historic Bäuerlen albums, please email SeekingWB@gmail.com

Related: 17 incredible Australian women in botany

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The exhibition’s namesake, Ramses II, was a pharaoh typical of the New Kingdom, a golden age characterised by military expansion, lucrative trade and spectacular art and architecture. Ramses ascended the throne in 1279BCE, when he was about 25, and quickly proved his ability as a ruler and warrior. A few years later, his victory against the Hittites at the Battle of Kadesh resulted in the world’s first peace treaty. Egypt prospered during his nearly 67-year reign – the second longest in Egyptian history – owing to his aptitude for law-making, diplomacy and military strategy. Ramses II was also a shrewd propagandist, constructing large monuments and public buildings that reinforced his divine status and power over his subjects. He lived to a ripe age, about 91, and fathered more than 100 children along the way. 

But the 181 artefacts displayed at Ramses & the Gold of the Pharaohs were not taken from his tomb, which was robbed in ancient times. The exhibition brings together archaeological artefacts from the Ramses II era, supplemented with treasures from other royal tombs and objects from other periods. 

Fran Dorey, AM’s Head of Exhibitions, has spent her career handling priceless artefacts. In the Ramses II exhibition, it’s the ‘commonplace’ items associated with the Egyptian laity that most excite her. “There’s some really nice everyday items there, cool stuff that doesn’t typically get mentioned because it’s small or it’s mundane, [such as] sketches from the workers in the Valley of the Kings,” she says. “I connect more with that.” 

Many species of animal feature prominently in Egypt’s archaeological record and offer insight into the complex religious beliefs of the ancients. A number of deities in the Egyptian pantheon are portrayed in human-animal form. Among the most recognisable are Horus, Anubis and Thoth, who are all depicted with a man’s body and, respectively, the head of a falcon, jackal and ibis (or baboon). “[There’s] the occasional god with a human face, but most are represented in animal form,” says Fran. On display at the Ramses II exhibition are three gold amulets of Bastet, a cat-headed goddess associated with domesticity, fertility and childbirth. There are also two wooden statues of a cobra-headed goddess, thought to be Renenutet, a deity associated with the harvest, and the protection of newborns. 

The ancient Egyptians certainly venerated animals – but it’s misleading to say they worshipped them. Animals were sacred because they were associated with a particular deity. “Basically, there’s the belief that the gods would manifest themselves in animal forms,” says Fran. “So you respected these animals, because you didn’t know if it was the god in animal form.” 

Many animals shared traits with their associated deity, such as Sekhmet, the woman-lioness goddess of war and healing. There’s also Khepri, the god of the rising sun, who, in one of his many forms, is depicted as a scarab beetle with a man’s body. “Dung beetles (a type of scarab) rolling dung were seen as being similar to the sun rolling across the sky. From the dung ball would hatch thousands of baby scarabs,” says Fran. “So scarabs were very important to the concept of resurrection and regeneration, and were associated with the sun god.” Two unusual artefacts in the Ramses II exhibition are the limestone sarcophagi for scarab beetles, which were discovered inside a Ptolemaic-period tomb in 2018. One sarcophagus holds two large, mummified scarabs individually wrapped in linen. The other contains hundreds of tiny mummified scarabs. 

The ancient Egyptians mummified nearly every type of animal, but scarabs are certainly outliers. Cats are one of the most common animal mummies in the archaeological record – so common, in fact, that they were ground up and sold as fertiliser in London in the 19th century. The Ramses II exhibition includes two mummified cats that were sewn into linen shrouds and wrapped, both vertically and horizontally, in bandages. Stitching indicates their facial features. These mummies were discovered at the Bubasteion temple in Saqqara – the sprawling necropolis of ancient Memphis – stashed in tombs hewn from rock. The tombs were originally intended for humans. X-rays show one cat died from a crushed skull, indicating it was a votive offering for the goddess Bastet.

Archaeologists categorise animal mummies into four groups, the largest of which are votive offerings. Votive offerings were a physical form of prayer, as ancient Egyptians likely believed that animals were messengers between humans and the gods. These animals were specifically bred to be sacrificed to their associated deity (such as crocodiles for Sobek, or ibis for Thoth), killed by priests, mummified and then sold to pilgrims visiting the temple. The votive offerings were then buried in catacombs or underground galleries. Archaeologists continue to discover these ‘pet cemeteries’ across Egypt. One site discovered in 2015 in Saqqara holds an estimated eight million mummified puppies dedicated to the jackal-headed god Anubis. 

By the New Kingdom period, votive offerings developed into a profitable industry, and animals were reared in their millions. Mass production made votive offerings more affordable – but also of varying quality. Archaeologists use X-rays and CT scans to peek inside wrappings and often discover a single bone in place of the skeleton. Some votive offerings are mud, shaped to look like an animal. 

“[It’s unknown] whether people were fraudulent, selling rubbish, or if it didn’t matter what was inside…if it was the shape or the gesture of making an offering that was more important,” Fran says. 

But according to Fran, the mummified votive offerings in this exhibition represent the ‘higher end’ of the spectrum. The two mummified crocodiles – offerings to the god Sobek – are even contained in their own bespoke coffins. At just 48cm and 92cm long, their size suggests the crocodiles were specifically farmed to become votive offerings. Fran says adult crocodile mummies are common in the earlier periods, but as mass production geared up, it became more practical to harvest juveniles.

Cult animals represent the second category of mummified animals. These were the species resident at temples, such as the Khnum ram of Elephantine and the Mnevis bull at Heliopolis. They were believed to be the physical manifestation of a god because they had specific markings. 

Only one temple animal was alive at a time, and its death prompted a period of mourning. Arguably the most revered temple animal was the Apis bull in Memphis, which was associated with the creator god Ptah. “Apis bulls were a representation of a god on earth,” says Fran. “The Apis bull was treated as a god, lived as a god and was preserved and buried as a god.”

The Apis bull was found during a nationwide search. According to the Roman author Aelian, the divine bull needed to match a list of 29 attributes, reflecting the 29 days of the lunar cycle. Herodotus provides more detail: the candidate had to have a white diamond on its forehead, the likeness of eagle wings on its back, and the sign of the scarab under its tongue. It also had to be the fruit of miraculous conception, the mother impregnated by a flash of light from heaven. 

Once found, the Apis bull was taken to Memphis and treated to a life of luxury; it was perfumed, received hot baths and massages from attendants, and even had exclusive access to a ‘harem’ of hand-picked cows. Priests and pilgrims consulted the divine bull as an oracle, asking it questions and interpreting its steps and movements as signs from the gods. Its birthday was celebrated during the seven-day Apis Festival, where the divine bull was adorned in jewellery and paraded through the streets. 

When it died, the Apis bull was elaborately mummified in a process befitting its divine status. Priests removed its organs and stored them in canopic jars, before covering the body with natron salt to mummify it. Roughly 70 days later, priests wrapped the dried remains in bandages and interred the beast in a granite sarcophagus. From the New Kingdom period, Apis bulls were buried in an underground burial chamber called the Serapeum. Some were laid to rest with shawabtis, figurines of servants that would serve them in the afterlife. 

Cult animals such as the Apis bulls represent the extreme end of the spectrum of animal mummification. At the opposite end are victual mummies, which represent the third category of mummified animal. These were food items – typically fowl or fish – stored in tombs to provide nourishment for the deceased in the afterlife. These animals (or cuts of meat) were preserved and stored in boxes made from the wood of sycamore trees, or in reed baskets. Among the more than 5000 items stashed inside Tutankhamun’s tomb – one of the most intact pharaoh tombs as yet discovered – were 48 wooden cases of beef and poultry cuts. The teenage pharaoh also ruled during the New Kingdom period, dying about 50 years before Ramses II ascended the throne. 

Pets, the fourth type of animal mummies, were also found inside tombs. These beloved animals of the Egyptian elite – cats, dogs, falcons, monkeys, gazelles, baboons, mongooses or more – did not receive the same pomp and ceremony as sacred animals, but were mummified with great care, often receiving burial rites so they could reunite with their owners in the afterlife. Many were elaborately decorated with painted wrappings and interred in their own sarcophagus. One of the best-known examples is the KV50 tomb of mummified domestic animals, believed to have once belonged to Amenhotep II. 

Ramses II’s tomb was looted in antiquity, so we don’t know if he mummified his pets – or even kept animals in his royal residences. However, a mural at Abu Simbel depicts Ramses riding his chariot into battle with a lion running at his side. This tamed lion might have been an exotic pet – or just propaganda reinforcing his reputation as a strong and fearsome warrior. The scene depicts Ramses’s victory against the Hittites at the Battle of Kadesh (c.1274BCE), which was fought on the Orontes River in modern-day Syria. It was probably the biggest chariot battle in history, and the two horses that drew Ramses’s chariot (Victory-in-Thebes and Mut-is-satisfied) are mentioned by name in the battle narrative.

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Aaron Treve Woodcock Jr, known professionally as Tommy, was born in 1905 in Uralgurra, near Kempsey in northern New South Wales, where he spent his early years surrounded by horses. At 14, he moved to Randwick in Sydney’s east after attending school in Port Macquarie and was apprenticed as a jockey under Barney Quinn. When Tommy outgrew that job, he found employment as a trackwork rider and exercising racehorses for Randwick trainers. Among them was Harry Telford, at that stage leaser (and later part-owner) of the legendary Phar Lap. 

In 1929, Telford hired Tommy to become Phar Lap’s full-time stable foreman and strapper. The champion thoroughbred – known to Tommy as ‘Bobby Boy’ – became the most decorated racehorse in Australian history, winning 37 races from 51 starts. It was said that Phar Lap only accepted food from Tommy, who’d often sleep beside him. “No one can speak with the same intimacy of the great horse as Woodcock,” reported Brisbane newspaper The Courier-Mail in 1936. “Phar Lap…demanded by intelligent actions, looks and sounds that Woodcock spend his waking and sleeping hours within reach of his nostrils. They were inseparable.” 

But success made the champion gelding a target. In November 1930, three days before claiming the Melbourne Cup, Tommy shielded Phar Lap during a drive-by shooting. Two years later, Phar Lap collapsed in America and died in Tommy’s arms. The racehorse’s untimely death prompted sensationalist media coverage and rumours of suspected arsenic poisoning. “…this goliath of equines, massive and mighty of speed, was the plaything of schemers, gangsters and murderers,” lamented The Courier-Mail. 

Heartbroken Tommy spent the next 40 years training horses, running stables and apprenticing jockeys. But in 1977, Reckless thrust him back into the limelight. The stallion had failed to win his first 33 starts but then became the first horse in history to win the Sydney, Adelaide and Brisbane cups in a single season. 

Tommy was widely admired for his gentle demeanour and kindness. In 1978, he was awarded an MBE, and his biography, written by Margaret Benson, was published. Tommy’s special relationship with Phar Lap was later the subject of the 1983 feature film Phar Lap: Heart of a Nation. Tommy died in 1985.

Related: Is the Melbourne Cup still the race that stops the nation?

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This was not the first diffusion of rabbits on the continent. Andrew Miller, commissary for the First Fleet, listed five rabbits on the initial transport. They were probably silver greys – then a popular breed for hutch rearing in England – but they were never released into the wild.

The impact of rabbits at Winchelsea was quickly apparent after their release. By 1866 hunters had bagged 14,000 on the Barwon Park estate. Abundant food sources, good ground cover and a lack of predators supported the spread of rabbits across the landscape. By 1880 they’d crossed the Murray River into New South Wales and had reached Queensland by 1886. In 1894 they’d traversed the Nullarbor and populated Western Australia.

To put this dissemination into context, it took 700 years for rabbits, which are native to the Iberian Peninsula, to spread across Great Britain. The species’ colonisation of two-thirds of Australia, an area 25 times the size of Britain, took just 50 years – the fastest rate of spread of a colonising mammal anywhere in the world.

Different methods of rabbit control were tried throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. These included trapping, rabbit-warren ripping, fumigation, bounty systems and fencing, the most visible control method. Fences became an integral component of what late 19th-century settlers began to see as a war against rabbits. The first extensive fences were built in central NSW and the initial success of private fencing encouraged state governments to construct even longer ones. Between 1885 and 1890, demand for wire netting increased from 1600km to 9600km per year. It’s estimated that by the height of the fence construction boom there were 320,000km of rabbit-proof fences across Australia. The most iconic is the State Barrier Fence – made up of three fences built between 1901 and 1907 – that extended 3256km north to south across WA. This fence, like almost all the very long government-sponsored fences, was unsuccessful for several reasons. It was completed after the rabbits had already crossed into the state, and the constant deterioration of the fence meant there was usually somewhere rabbits could cross.

By the late 1940s the rabbit population had risen rapidly to 600 million, due to a number of high rainfall years with subsequent good harvests, as well as World War II, which had led to a reduced labour force for trapping and fence maintenance. Although rabbits were a scourge, they were also free food. During the Great Depression of the 1930s, many people shot or trapped them for meat. 

Initial tests in 1943 on the rabbit virus myxomatosis had been inconclusive. But in the post-war years, when farmers were being eaten off their land by rabbits, public pressure increased to find a solution and in 1950 trials restarted on myxomatosis. Initially these trials, which were conducted in the Murray Valley west of Albury by the newly formed CSIRO, seemed a failure. But rains in December 1950 produced more mosquitoes, the vector that carries the virus, and the disease spread with incredible speed. 

Scientists were shocked. The renowned microbiologist Frank Fenner commented that “for scale and speed [the myxomatosis epidemic] must be without parallel in the history of infections”. Ironically, the animal that thrived better than any other introduced mammal was now dying at record speed. Rabbits, however, began developing a resistance to myxomatosis, just as they later did to the calicivirus, officially released in 1996. Rabbit numbers are now on the rise again in Australia. 

The effect of rabbits on the environment has been catastrophic. Rabbits can survive on almost any type of plant matter. The long-term result of rapidly reproducing rabbits is overgrazing by an extremely large population, which can lead to a collapse of native plant species and the native animals that eat them. Excessive grazing also leads to soil erosion, which affects pasture yields and water quality. It’s estimated that rabbits cost the Australian economy more than $200 million per year.

Australia’s native species adapted to life on an isolated continent over millions of years. But since European colonisation they’ve had to compete with a range of new animals for habitat, food and shelter. These introduced species have had a major impact on Australia’s soil and waterways and native plant and animal diversity. Rabbits are one of the most visible and destructive of these introduced species.

‘A scourge begins’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

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The Trans-Australian Railway was the first major work of a federated Australia. Before Federation in 1901, WA
had made the construction of a railway linking the nation’s eastern and western colonies a condition for joining the Commonwealth. At that time, the west was linked to the eastern cities only by a rough sea voyage and a single telegraph line. This inhibited commerce between the colonies and made it difficult to quickly move troops to defend Australia’s southern and western shores.

In 1907 surveyors and engineers began to mark a route across the Nullarbor Plain and four years later the Australian government authorised construction of the railway. Commonwealth Railways (CR) was established in 1912 to oversee the planning and implementation of the Trans-Australian Railway. And on 14 September 1912 governor-general Lord Thomas Denman turned the first sod at a ceremony in Port Augusta to officially begin construction of the railway from the eastern end.

Tracks were built simultaneously in both directions, west from Port Augusta and east from Kalgoorlie. The outbreak of war in 1914 made it difficult for CR to source labour and materials, but by 1916 more than 3400 workers were employed on the project. Maintenance crews lived along the line at intervals and were supplied by the weekly Tea and Sugar train, which later serviced railway workers and their families.

It took five years for teams of rail workers to lay the 2.5 million hardwood sleepers and 140,000 tonnes of rail
needed to finish the 1693km job. The last railway spike was hammered into place outside the tiny settlement of
Ooldea in remote SA on 17 October 1917. Five days later the first passenger train set off from Port Augusta, arriving at Kalgoorlie 42 hours and 48 minutes later.

The new line dramatically shortened travel and communication time. Mail delivery from Adelaide to Perth was cut by two days, and eastbound travellers who took the train arrived in Melbourne three days earlier than those making the journey by ship. Passengers enjoyed the first hot showers ever installed in a rail carriage, ate meals in the dining cars, sang along to the piano or had a quiet drink in the lounge car before resting in comfort in first-class sleeping cars.

But the railway was not only for wealthy travellers. It provided all Australians with greater opportunities for recreational travel and helped WA become a tourist destination. In 1969 the rail line was extended east from Port Augusta as far as Sydney, and west of Kalgoorlie all the way to Perth, making it possible to catch a train from the Pacific Ocean across the continent to the Indian Ocean. This led to the naming of the Indian Pacific, the famous passenger train that now runs along the route.

Ooldea, on the eastern edge of the Nullarbor, was the centre of a vast, ancient Aboriginal trade network and the
site of a permanent water source. It provided the steam locomotives with water for their boilers. During the line’s
construction, Aboriginal people using the soak began interacting with the rail workers and by 1917 a semi-permanent settlement had formed.

Aboriginal people would trade traditional handmade goods with passengers for food and money. By 1926 servicing of the trains had drained the soak dry, and today Ooldea no longer supports a permanent population.

Daisy Bates, a self-taught anthropologist, linguist, journalist and author, lived at Ooldea from 1917 to 1934, providing food, clothing and medical attention to the local Aboriginal community. She entertained many Trans-Australian Railway visitors to Ooldea.

During the 1920s J.C. Williamson’s theatre company travelled to and from Perth on the railway. Tenor Herbert
Browne formed a friendship with Daisy, photographing and filming Aboriginal community members, and collecting boomerangs, shields, spears and spear-throwers.

‘The Trans-Australian Railway’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

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Regarded as an engineering triumph, its flamboyant cluster of white-tile sails soar cathedral-like on Sydney Harbour, surrounded by water on three sides in a landscape of yachts with flapping sails, and behind it, a city with salt water at its heart.

It’s now hard to imagine a better place to lure great international and local performers, where Australians can gather to celebrate culture, creative arts and conversation.

But this landmark building almost never saw the light of day.

Jørn Utzon was a young Danish architect in 1957 when he won the international competition to design a national opera house for Australia. His concept for a sculptural curved form was a radical departure from the modernist tradition popular at the time that featured straight-lined rectangular shapes.

The brilliance of what he proposed brought the building international fame even before construction began. And yet his entry wasn’t selected among the original six finalists. It was resurrected from the reject pile by international judge Eero Saarinen, the renowned Finnish-American modernist architect who’d missed the first days of judging.

Utzon’s daring design, featuring giant concrete shells supported by rib structures, presented major engineering challenges and its complicated build was beset by delays and controversy. Construction fell 10 years behind schedule and costs jumped from an initial budget of $7 million to $102 million, which was paid for by a state lottery.

Construction began in 1959, with Utzon travelling frequently to Sydney before moving his family here. But the young architect’s relationship with the New South Wales government soured and he left Australia in 1966 amid a huge media scrum. The bones and shells of the exterior were largely finished but the interior fit out hadn’t yet begun.

Related: Gallery: The Sydney Opera House

Young Australian architect Peter Hall was eventually – and reluctantly – brought in by the state government to complete the project after three other architects refused to take it on.

The shoes of the genius Utzon were hard to fill and Hall was faced with completing the interior with no clear plans.

Despite being a modern masterpiece, the Sydney Opera House brought tragedy for its key players. Hall was vilified as an incompetent fool by the press and architectural fraternity. The pressure destroyed him and he died a destitute alcoholic, aged 64.

Utzon never returned to see his building complete, and spent his last decades as a recluse.

The Opera House celebrates its five decades of culture and creativity with a month-long festival.

Related: The ‘world-famous’ cats that once lived in the Sydney Harbour Bridge

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But for how long can stories be passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth? A few hundred years? Maybe a thousand?

Try 12,000 years! A new study, led by Dr Duane Hamacher from the University of Melbourne, shows that in Lutruwita/Tasmania, Palawa have a rich oral tradition that tells of geological events and astronomical conditions that stretch back more than 10 millennia. 

The findings of the study, published in the Journal of Archaeological Science, place these oral traditions among the oldest in the world.

The power of oral tradition

First Nations people have lived in Australia for more than 65,000 years. During this time, they have relied mainly on oral tradition to pass on their knowledge to subsequent generations. However, there has been no real understanding by non-Indigenous people of how long traditions can survive. 

To better understand the process, Duane studied oral traditions from Lutruwita that were recorded by early colonisers in the 1830s. The team focused on oral traditions that described natural events that could be dated scientifically. Their thinking was that, if they could date a natural event that occurred millennia ago that was described in a surviving oral tradition, they could estimate a minimum timeline for how long that oral tradition has existed.

Ancient floods

Palawa oral traditions speak about an ancient flood that submerged the land connecting Lutruwita to mainland Australia eons ago. 

According to George Augustus Robinson, a government-appointed ‘conciliator’ from the 1800s, Palawa people claimed that their ancestors came to Lutruwita by land from the far north, after which the sea (Bass Strait) formed, flooding the land. Another recorded oral tradition described how:

“…long ago there was land to the south of Gippsland [Victoria] where there is now sea, and that at that time some children of the Kurnai, who inhabited the land, in playing about found a turndun [bull-roarer or musical instrument], which they took home to the camp and showed to the women [which was forbidden]. ‘Immediately,’ it is said, ‘the earth crumbled away, and it was all water, and the Kurnai were drowned.”

With this information at hand, Duane and his team analysed bathymetric and topographic data of the land and sea floor in Bass Strait. They found that the land was flooded around 12,000 years ago.

Star stories

Some Palawa stories also talk about the presence of a ‘Great South Star’, which one Elder said never moved. Another Elder explained how:

“The suns [sic] had their first-born, Moinee, a big strong boy whom they placed south of Trowenna [Lutruwita], over the ice cap. He was the Great South Star. Next day a second son was born, gentle Dromerdene, and they placed him halfway between themselves and Moinee.”

The team then analysed astronomical data to determine the positions of these stars in the ancient past, which the team identified as Canopus (Moinee) and Sirius (Dromerdene). These are the two brightest stars in the night sky. 

Their analyses showed that the orientation of the Earth’s axis placed the star Canopus (Moinee) close to the South Celestial Pole sometime around 14,000 years ago. According to their study, at that time, Canopus would have hardly moved over the course of a given night, backing the oral traditions.

Challenging ideas

Overall, the results of this study show that Lutruwita’s oral traditions involving a ‘Great South Star’ and a submerged land bridge could be confidently dated to a timeframe 12,000–14,000 years ago.

“Initially, I was quite surprised,” says Duane. I was sceptical that oral traditions could be passed down for that long. But that is what the evidence showed. Plus, recent research on orality and memory provides a solid theoretical foundation for how and why this is done.”

“Our work uses two lines of evidence to show that oral traditions can be passed down while maintaining vitality for periods exceeding 10,000 years. It is a great example of how natural events and conditions described in oral tradition can be used to provide a minimum age for these stories and help us better understand the nature of orality and deep time memory,” he adds.

Duane says his team will continue working on this path, collaborating with Elders to better understand the Palawa cultural traditions involving astronomy and natural events.

“There is so much to learn if we take the traditions seriously, rather than dismiss them as ‘myth and legend’ as so many have done before,” Duane says.

Related: How Tasmania’s Aboriginal people reclaimed a language

The post Stories told by Aboriginal Tasmanians could be oldest recorded in the world appeared first on Australian Geographic.

There are significant plantings in many botanic, public and university gardens across Australia. Jacaranda mimosifolia (the most common species in Australia) doesn’t generally flower in Darwin, and Hobart is a little cold for it.

So showy and ubiquitous, jacarandas can be mistaken for natives, but they originate in South America. The imperial plant-exchange networks of the 19th century introduced them to Australia.

But how did these purple trees find their stronghold in our suburbs?

Propagating the trees

Botanist Alan Cunningham sent the first jacaranda specimens from Rio to Britain’s Kew gardens around 1818.

Possibly, jacaranda trees arrived from Kew in colonial Australia. Alternately, Cunningham may have disseminated the tree in his later postings in Australia or through plant and seed exchanges.

Jacarandas are a widespread imperial introduction and are now a feature of many temperate former colonies. The jacaranda was exported by the British from Kew, by other colonial powers (Portugal for example) and directly from South America to various colonies.

Jacarandas grow from seed quite readily, but the often preferred mode of plant propagation in the 19th century was through cuttings because of sometimes unreliable seed and volume of results.

Cuttings are less feasible for the jacaranda, so the tree was admired but rare in Australia until either nurseryman Michael Guilfoyle or gardener George Mortimer succeeded in propagating the tree in 1868.

Once the trees could be easily propagated, jacarandas became more widely available and they began their spread through Australian suburbs.

A colonial import

Brisbane claims the earliest jacaranda tree in Australia, planted in 1864, but the Sydney Botanic Garden jacaranda is dated at “around” 1850, and jacarandas were listed for sale in Sydney in 1861.

These early park and garden plantings were eye-catching – but the real impact and popularity of jacarandas is a result of later street plantings.

Jacaranda avenues, in Australia and around the world, usually indicate wealthier suburbs like Dunkeld in Johannesberg and Kilimani in Nairobi.

In Australia, these extravagant displays appear in older, genteel suburbs like Subiaco and Applecross in Perth; Kirribilli, Paddington and Lavender Bay in Sydney; Parkville and the Edinburgh Gardens in North Fitzroy in Melbourne; Mitcham, Frewville and Westbourne Park in Adelaide; and St Lucia in Brisbane.

The trend toward urban street avenue plantings expanded internationally in the mid 19th century. It was particularly popular in growing colonial towns and cities. It followed trends in imperial centres, but new colonial cities offered scope for concerted planning of avenues in new streets.

Early Australian streets were often host to a mix of native plants and exotic imported trees. Joseph Maiden, director of the Sydney Botanic Gardens from 1896, drove the move from mixed street plantings towards avenues of single-species trees in the early 20th century.

Maiden selected trees suitable to their proposed area, but he was also driven by contemporary aesthetic ideas of uniformity and display.

By the end of the 19th century, deciduous trees were becoming more popular as tree plantings for their variety and, in southern areas, for the openness to winter sunshine.

It takes around ten years for jacaranda trees to become established. Newly planted jacarandas take between two and 14 years to produce their first flowers, so there was foresight in planning to achieve the streets we have today.

In Melbourne, jacarandas were popular in post-first world war plantings. They were displaced by a move to native trees after the second world war. Despite localised popularity in certain suburbs, the jacaranda does not make the list of top 50 tree plantings for Melbourne.

In Queensland, 19th-century street tree planting was particularly ad hoc – the Eagle Street fig trees are an example – and offset by enthusiastic forest clearance. It wasn’t until the early 20th century street beautification became more organised and jacaranda avenues were planted in areas like New Farm in Brisbane.

The popular plantings on the St Lucia campus of the University of Queensland occurred later, in the 1930s.

A flower for luck

In Australia, as elsewhere, there can be too much of a good thing. Jacarandas are an invasive species in parts of Australia (they seed readily in the warm dry climates to which they have been introduced).

Parts of South Africa have limited or banned the planting of jacarandas because of their water demands and invasive tendencies. Ironically, eucalypts have a similar status in South Africa.

Writer Carey Baraka argues that, however beloved and iconic now, significant plantings of jacarandas in Kenya indicate areas of past and present white population and colonial domination.

Despite these drawbacks, spectacular jacaranda plantings remain popular where they have been introduced. There are even myths about them that cross international boundaries.

In the southern hemisphere – in Pretoria or Sydney – they bloom on university campuses during examination time: the first blooms mark the time to study; the fall of blooms suggests it is too late; and the fall of a blossom on a student bestows good luck.

Susan K Martin, Emeritus Professor in English, La Trobe University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Jacarandas: icons or pests?

The post How the South American jacaranda became a symbol of Australian spring appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In this referendum, Australians were asked to vote on whether to establish an Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice to Parliament. The Voice was proposed as a means of recognising Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples as the First Peoples of Australia in the Constitution.

The Voice proposal was a modest one. It was to be an advisory body for the national parliament and government. Had the referendum succeeded, Australia’s Constitution would have been amended with a new section 129:

In recognition of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples as the First Peoples of Australia:

i. there shall be a body, to be called the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice

ii. the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice may make representations to the Parliament and the Executive Government of the Commonwealth on matters relating to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples

iii. the Parliament shall, subject to this Constitution, have power to make laws with respect to matters relating to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Voice, including its composition, functions, powers and procedures.

This proposal was drawn from the Uluru Statement from the Heart from 250 Indigenous leaders, which called for three phases of reform – Voice, followed by Treaty and Truth -telling about Australia’s colonial history. The proposal was for constitutional change to ensure the Voice would not be abolished by government in future, as previous Indigenous bodies have been.

Related: The Uluru Statement from the Heart: Voice, Treaty, Truth

How did Australians vote?

Voting is compulsory in Australia. Every eligible Australian citizen over 18 years of age is obliged to vote in elections and referendums. Australia has one of the highest rates of voter turn out in the world – over 90% of those eligible have voted in every national election since compulsory voting was introduced in 1924.

Australia has a written Constitution. A successful referendum vote is required to change the Constitution in any way.

To succeed, a referendum proposition requires a double majority. This means it must be agreed to by a majority of voters, and a majority of states. Australia has six states, so at least four must have a majority of voters in favour for a referendum to succeed.

Australia also has two territories – individuals in the territories contribute to the overall vote, but the territories do not count towards the majority of states.

It’s very difficult to achieve constitutional change in Australia. Since federation in 1901, 45 questions have been put to Australian voters in referendums. Only eight of those have succeeded.

In the Voice referendum, only the Australian Capital Territory voted “yes” by majority. A clear majority of the national electorate voted “no”. All states returned majority “no” results.

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people constitute 3.8% of Australia’s population. Government members claimed on ABC TV in the referendum coverage that polling booths including high proportions of Indigenous voters, for example Palm Island in Queensland, returned high “yes” votes. However, in a majoritarian democracy like Australia, such a small proportion of the national population cannot dictate the outcome of a national poll.

Importantly, the Voice referendum did not have unanimous support across the two main political parties in Australia. The Labor government announced and has campaigned for “yes”. The leader of the opposition, Liberal Queensland MP Peter Dutton, campaigned strongly against the referendum proposal.

Related: An invitation to listen

What happens now?

The government is bound to abide by the referendum result. Prime Minister Anthony Albanese has confirmed that his government will not seek to legislate a Voice as an alternative to the constitutional model.

Albanese, conceding the failure of the referendum, said: “Tomorrow we must seek a new way forward”. He called for a renewed focus on doing better for First Peoples in Australia:

<blockquote class=”twitter-tweet”><p lang=”en” dir=”ltr”>Together we must take our country beyond this debate – without forgetting why we had it in the first place. Because a great nation like ours can and must do better for the First Australians.<br><br>Our government will continue to listen to people and to communities. <a href=”https://t.co/3IMTkkTlG1″>pic.twitter.com/3IMTkkTlG1</a></p>&mdash; Anthony Albanese (@AlboMP) <a href=”https://twitter.com/AlboMP/status/1713157119686652125?ref_src=twsrc%5Etfw”>October 14, 2023</a></blockquote> <script async src=”https://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js” charset=”utf-8″></script>

The referendum outcome represents a major loss for the government. But much more important than that will be the negative impacts of the campaign and loss on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

On ABC TV, Arrernte/Luritja woman Catherine Liddle called for a renewed focus on truth-telling and building understanding of Australia’s history across the population. She said the failure of the referendum reflected a lack of understanding about the lives and experiences of Indigenous people in Australia.

“Yes” campaign advocates reported devastation at the outcome. Sana Nakata, writing here, said: “now we are where we have always been, left to build our better futures on our own”.

Some First Nations advocates, including Victorian independent Senator Lidia Thorpe – a Gunnai, Gunditjmara and Djab Wurrung woman – argued the Voice proposal lacked substance and that the referendum should not have been held. Advocates of a “progressive no” vote (who felt the Voice didn’t go far enough) will continue to call for recognition of continuing First Nations sovereignty and self-determination through processes of treaty and truth-telling.

The information landscape for Australian voters leading up to this referendum was murky and difficult to navigate. The Australian Electoral Commission published a disinformation register. Misinformation and lies, many circulated through social media, have influenced the decision-making of a proportion of voters.

It’s open to question whether constitutional change of any kind can be achieved while voters remain so exposed to multiple versions of “truth”.

For many First Nations people, the proliferation of lies and misinformation driven by racism throughout the Voice debate have been traumatising and brutal.

Indigenous Australians’ Minister, Wiradjuri woman Linda Burney, spoke to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people after the result: “Be proud of your identity. Be proud of the 65,000 years of history and culture that you are part of”. Her pain was patently obvious as she responded to the referendum outcome.

Amy Maguire, Associate Professor in Human Rights and International Law, University of Newcastle

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Listening to the voices

The post Explainer: Australia has voted against an Indigenous Voice to Parliament. Here’s what happened, and what happens next appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In September 1928 Scottish bacteriologist Alexander Fleming returned to St Mary’s Hospital Medical School in London after a holiday. Before leaving, he’d left some petri dishes containing staphylococcus bacteria to soak in detergent. When Fleming returned he noticed that one dish that had not been covered by detergent had become contaminated with mould. The particular mould, Penicillium notatum, seemed to produce a substance that killed the bacteria around it. Further tests confirmed the antibacterial properties of the substance, which Fleming called “penicillin”. 

Because he was unable to extract and purify the active component in penicillin, Fleming couldn’t produce anything medically useful from what he observed. He published an article about his discovery and its potential in The British Journal of Experimental Pathology before pursuing other research interests. 

Related: 20 Australian inventions that changed the world

Ten years later, Howard Florey, an Australian scientist working in England, brought together a team of research scientists (including Ernst Chain) at Oxford University’s Sir William Dunn School of Pathology. The team was looking for a new project, and, after reading Fleming’s article, Chain suggested penicillin. Assisted by biochemist Norman Heatley, the Oxford team tried to separate and purify the active components of the mould.

Extraction was difficult and initially only tiny amounts of penicillin were harvested. The team worked continuously on developing processes to grow and harvest penicillin more effectively, even using bedpans as vessels to hold a protein mix that grew the mould spores. After a while there were rooms in the school full of penicillin-producing mould; however, the output was not high enough to complete widespread trials of penicillin. 

Eventually, after successful tests in mice, the team began treating patients at John Radcliffe Hospital. Initial results were mixed, but with time the trial process was refined and penicillin proved to be extremely effective at treating bacterial diseases and infections that had once been fatal. 

With the onset of World War II, Florey and his team were driven by a single goal – to ramp up penicillin production for widespread use. But despite the potential of its “wonder drug”, the Oxford team was unable to get enough support by 1939 to begin large-scale manufacturing and testing in Britain. But in 1941 the US government agreed to begin producing penicillin at a laboratory in Peoria, Illinois. 

Further research discovered new strains of penicillin that would provide higher outputs and make enough quantities of the drug for all Allied troops. The best strain was found growing on a rockmelon at a farmers market. US pharmaceutical companies, including Pfizer, soon began producing penicillin, and by the latter half of 1944 the drug was in common use. 

Penicillin saved thousands of lives during WWII and is widely considered a contributing factor to Allied victory. After the war, the drug became available to the public and was used to treat a variety of common infections and illnesses. The development of penicillin led to the discovery of various antibiotics that are still used today. Penicillin also made possible many innovative advances in modern surgery, such as skin grafts and organ transplants. 

In 1945 Fleming, Florey and Chain jointly received the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. Howard Florey has also been recognised many ways in Australia. A Canberra suburb is named after him, and between 1973 and 1995 he featured on the $50 note. There are also a number of university research schools and fellowships named in his honour.

‘Penicillin breakthrough’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

Related: Australia’s Nobel Prize winners

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Penicillin breakthrough appeared first on Australian Geographic.

There are very few places in Australia that feel as far away, rugged, and ancient as the McIlwraith Range. Covering about 3000sq.km, this part of Cape York Peninsula lies roughly 15km east of Coen and 550km north of Cairns. The landscape here is punctuated by peaks – the highest of which reaches 824m – that form part of the Great Dividing Range. These support rainforests that cascade down escarpments and into valleys where rich river systems flow, separating vast open areas of bushland. The rainforests here are the wettest and most elevated on the Cape, offering refuge to a number of endemic species. They have close ties to the tropical rainforests of New Guinea and represent the southernmost limit for some of the plants and animals found there. Among the best known of these are the spotted cuscus, the green tree python and the palm cockatoo, with its distinctive black plumage, red cheek patches and a shrieking call that cuts through the forest.

I was lucky to be traversing this landscape under the guidance of Traditional Owners Dion Creek and Amos Hobson, brothers from Southern Kaantju and Uutaanlanu countries, and this area can’t be accessed in any other way. It was pitch dark when we arrived at the coast and set up camp, exhausted after a long day of riding. It wasn’t until morning that I could take in the full spectacle of this pristine natural landscape, when the dawn light revealed a sprawling beach lapped by the sparkling turquoise waters of the Coral Sea, and to the north, a wide river mouth teeming with fish. I felt privileged to be there and humbled that Dion and Amos had shared their connection to Country and coast with me throughout the journey. 

“Our Kaantju Country straddles all the high country of the McIlwraith Range. It’s healthy and pristine because it still has our presence; for thousands of generations we have been here, looking after our Country,” Dion explained months earlier, as we sat together perusing maps, planning our expedition. 

Our mission was simple: to see and experience as much of KULLA (McIlwraith Range) National Park (Cape York Peninsula Aboriginal Land) as we could in seven days and to document what we saw. Jointly managed by the KULLA Land Trust and the Queensland government, the park is made up of country belonging to the Kaantju, Umpila, Lama Lama, and Ayapathu peoples – the name KULLA is an acronym for these groups’ names. 

Our plan was to explore the highland areas of the park first, before undertaking a 200km round trip to the coast along the northern foothills of the range. Given the park’s remoteness, the extreme nature of its landscapes, and the rough condition of its tracks, we’d need the ATVs. These lightweight four-wheel-drives can go places most conventional 4WDs simply can’t. But because they’re small, they have limited range and capacity for carrying supplies. Our fuel, water, food, spare tyres, first aid equipment, tools and camping gear would need to be spread out among our team members. The team comprised Leon Kyle – logistics coordinator and mechanic; Darrock McMonnies – lead rider and videographer; and me – expedition leader, drone pilot and photographer. Jameel Kaderbhai also joined us as an additional photographer and drone pilot for part of the expedition. 

After months of preparation, including test riding and scenario planning for potential helicopter evacuation, we finally met up with Dion, Amos and their crew in Coen in August 2022 to set off on our expedition. Their side-by-side vehicles, slightly larger ATVs than ours, were packed with supplies and gear, and the brothers were accompanied by a group of young enthusiastic rangers who were keen to explore and show us the mighty McIlwraith.

Our first forays into the highlands were slow-going. Overgrown tracks, fallen trees and hot conditions limited how far we could venture during daytrips. As we climbed and descended through the undulating terrain, we passed through dry sclerophyll forest and dense rainforest, reaching very few vantage points. This made it difficult to gain a perspective on just how impressive the McIlwraith Range truly is. Dion, who has guided many research teams through the range over the years, explained that the only real way to appreciate the scale and uniqueness of the area is by helicopter. Our drone offered us a means of capturing the occasional bird’s-eye view, and we snatched glimpses when the canopy allowed. 

During our last day in the highlands, we reached a stunningly beautiful rainforest creek. Dion instantly lit a fire in anticipation of the haul of black bream the rangers would catch with their handlines. It didn’t take long before we were all feasting on the delicious fat fish, a wonderful end to the first phase of our expedition. 

After three days in the highlands, we set off for the coast. As the landscape opened up, I felt an instant sense of awe. Under a big blue sky lined with wispy clouds, eucalypts studded the landscape, and flocks of birds flew towards the distant horizon. The landscape, covered in sparse bushland, gave way to patches of lush rainforest vegetation as we dropped into valleys or climbed mountain slopes. Wide sandy riverbeds and deep creek crossings provided challenges aplenty for us with our ATVs as we plotted a course through the foothills. Dion and Amos navigated Country intuitively, without the need for maps or GPS guidance. Aware of even the most minor vegetation changes and geological landmarks, they connected to Country through stories, and weaved a seamless track across hundreds of kilometres. 

“Kaantju people have maintained an unbroken connection to Country for thousands of years and my grandfather handed down the knowledge of how to look after his Kaantju Country,” Dion said. “We believe Country can only be healthy if we, the First Nations Traditional Owners, are on it, visiting the special places at the right time each year and looking after it as best we can. This keeps our culture alive, keeps us healthy and keeps Country alive.”

The landscape was unforgiving and conditions were hot. We had limited access to fresh water – at times, water sources were 30–40km apart, but Dion and Amos were always confident in finding them. The going was tough on both ATVs and riders – there were no smooth sections of track. There were fallen trees aplenty, as well as sticks and spiky vines to avoid. We navigated through muddy entries and exits to water crossings, over steep and loose riverbanks, and across soft sandy beaches. The terrain was uneven, and we encountered countless stinging insects and plants. Despite how well prepared we were, we experienced punctures, engine overheating problems, impaled radiator hoses and instances when bolts rattled themselves loose or were lost completely. Thankfully, Leon was a skilled bush mechanic who kept the ATVs going with minimal tools. 

Dion and Amos stopped regularly to interpret the landscape for us, pointing out medicinal plants and bush food species. They recognised that after years of not being accessed, the grasslands and forest understoreys were very overgrown, and the land was out of balance. Therefore, as we went, they ignited small spot fires to reduce the vegetation. They had been taught these important landscape burning skills by their forebears. Looking behind us, I often saw plumes of grey smoke rising skywards. In a few days time, on our way back, I would get to see the benefits of these fires. 

Our campsite that night was in a wide sandy riverbed at Attack Creek, named for an Aboriginal attack on explorer and state geologist Robert Logan Jack in 1879 as he and his team searched for new goldfields throughout Cape York Peninsula. We were now officially entering the brothers’ grandfather’s Country, Ngaachi Kaantju. Dion conducted a ceremony to let the spirits and ancestors of the land know we were travelling here, that we were friends and not foe, and to ask for protection during our journey. During the ceremony, Dion passed his smell – a smell that was passed to him from his ancestors, through the generations along his lineage – to us by rubbing his hands under his arms and then onto our hair and bodies. In doing so, he signified that we were of him, and welcomed us to his people’s Country. Each one of us underwent this ancient practice in silence under the gaze of the tall rainforest trees that lined the riverbanks. Being welcomed in such an intimate way was truly humbling. 

The river here was merely a trickle, but it was clear from the width of the riverbed and the presence of a big fallen tree near our campsite that would have been deposited by a previous torrent, that this would be a major river during the wet season. The trees were enormous, and the vegetation was completely different from what we’d seen during the day as we traversed vast swathes of sparse arid zone. 

After setting up camp, we headed off with Dion and Amos in the hope of finding a cuscus, palm cockatoo or green tree python, with no luck. We recorded multiple frog calls to submit to the Australian Museum FrogID app and revelled in the beauty of the place. 

As we returned to camp we came across four dingoes in the riverbed. The two smaller ones turned and ran as soon
as we locked eyes, but the two larger ones stood long enough for us to take a picture. As the sun set and we bathed our weary bodies in the warm light of the campfire, a universe of stars began to emerge between the outstretched limbs of the canopy above. A night of storytelling and camaraderie unfolded. 

Attack Creek proved a challenge for our ATVs. Mine developed a potentially serious oil leak and Darrock’s starter motor misbehaved. Leon was able to keep the vehicles going using skill, a few random items we had at hand, and some luck. We were confident enough to continue our push to the coast, so broke camp and hit the track for another full day of riding, with about 60km to cover. 

The landscape pattern from the day before repeated. Large expanses of open bushland were interspersed with low-lying rivers or creeks, and steep rainforest climbs and descents. It all made for adventurous riding, and as we moved closer to the coast, we felt more and more isolated. 

About 20km in, Dion and the rangers bid us farewell to return to business back in Coen. We wouldn’t have made it this far without them. From here on in, it would be just us and Amos. 

Amos’s excitement grew as he reminisced about his last trip to his favourite spot on the beach we were headed to. He told us of a pristine coastline with an endless bounty of huge mud crabs and blacklip rock oysters, where crocodiles as long as mini-vans patrol estuaries teeming with fish. 

We finally hit the soft sands of the beach in darkness after 11 hard hours on the track. We would have to wait until morning to see its full glory. Amos selected a camp away from the water’s edge and lit one last spot fire in the coastal scrub to thin out the undergrowth, scare away snakes and deter curious crocodiles. Exhausted, we clumsily made camp, ate a simple meal, fell into our tents, and drifted off to sleep. 

Dawn revealed a sprawling, deserted, windswept beach that stretched as far as the eye could see in either direction. Amos suggested we fish the river mouth just to the north where, when the tide is at its lowest, you can harvest oysters the size of your hand and spear mud crabs. 

Upstream, both banks of the river were lined with thick mangroves. Amos ventured straight into the knee-deep water, spear and fishing lines in hand, unconcerned by the sight of freshly made crocodile slides along the muddy banks. In no time at all, we caught a barramundi and a mangrove jack, no surprise given we could see so many in the water. Amos lit a fire and cooked the fish atop the embers. They were delicious, probably even more so because of the setting. We were on Country, with a Traditional Owner, eating fish straight off the fire, just as Amos’s ancestors had done in that exact spot for thousands of years. 

Next, Amos pointed his spear to a low rocky outcrop about 100m off the shoreline. “Careful of stonefish,” he warned as we followed him through the ankle-deep water. The outcrop glistened with hundreds of blacklip rock oysters. Using the blunt side of an axe, we shucked them and ate our fill right there.

We felt decadent consuming such fresh and sought-after seafood in this beautiful place, but it didn’t stop there. Amos soon took off into knee-deep water, yelling “mud crabs!” Using his spear, he harpooned three in as many minutes and put them in his bag. Back to the fire we went, and before we knew it, the green mud crabs had turned a glowing red and were ready to eat.

The rest of our day was spent exploring the remote beach. It was about 6km long, with an impassable river mouth at its northern end and a rocky headland at its southern end. Offshore was the far northern section of the Great Barrier Reef, and to the west was the mighty McIlwraith Range. 

Amos knows this beach like the back of his hand. During our time here, we visited several of his favourite fishing spots. He also took us to permanent freshwater springs of great cultural significance, and to some of his grandfather’s old campsites, where he fondly reminisced about being a young boy playing with his brother, Dion. The beach quickly gained a special place in our hearts too, for many reasons but none more than being here with Amos. 

On our last night there, sitting by a crackling fire with bellies full of fresh seafood, we got to experience, for a short while anyway, life in rhythm and harmony with nature – living off, and with, the land. It’s a way of life that First Nations people have always known. It was through the generosity of Amos and Dion, and their willingness to share their Country with us, that we got to enjoy this life-changing, unique immersion in the mighty McIlwraith.

Dean Miller and his team thank Can-Am, Anchorline, Macpac, Pelican, Uniden, Aussie Powersports, Warn Winches, Duncan Powersports, FATMAP, Kimberley2Cape, Tyrepower Cairns, Tackle World Cairns, River Bend Canvas and Urban Wheelz for products and support to make this expedition possible. 

The post The mighty McIlwraith appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The Yorta Yorta people had inhabited the area for thousands of years but following European settlement were dispossessed of their traditional lands. Their population soon fell by 85 per cent due to disease and violence.

The Yorta Yorta, including Cooper, eked out an existence on the edges of white settlement and in 1874 were relocated to the Maloga Mission on the NSW side of the Murray River. The Maloga community clashed with the mission’s founder over his authoritarian administration and in 1889 the Yorta Yorta moved 5km upstream to the new Cummeragunja Mission.

Cooper spent most of the next 44 years there working as a shearer and handyman for pastoralists. He’d had a few months formal schooling as a child but attended adult literacy classes and became a member of the Australian Workers’ Union.

Being politically active, Cooper represented northern Victoria and western NSW First Nations communities who were ineligible for government aid during the 1920s drought and Great Depression of the 1930s. Through family connections and political acumen he became a spokesman for the Yorta Yorta in battles for land justice with the NSW government.

Because his residency on the reserve made him ineligible for an age pension, Cooper moved in 1933, aged 72, to Melbourne. He made his home in Footscray, which became a centre for other Cummeragunja exiles such as Margaret Tucker, Shadrach James and Cooper’s grandnephew, Doug Nicholls. This group formed the nucleus of the Australian Aborigines’ League (AAL), created to lobby state and federal governments on behalf of First Nations people.

Although the AAL was constituted in 1936, Cooper had made representations to government on behalf of an informal group of the same name some years before. Notably, Cooper had been gathering signatures from September 1933 for a petition to King George V seeking Aboriginal representation in federal Parliament.

“It was not only a moral duty, but also a strict injunction included in the commission issued to those who came to people Australia, that the original occupants and we, their heirs and successors, should be adequately caredfor. Instead, our lands have been expropriated,” Cooper’s petition argued.

However, despite nearly 2000 signatures, the Commonwealth formally refused in February 1938 to forward the petition to King George VI, who had ascended the throne by then.

That year, celebrations were planned across Australia to mark the sesquicentenary of the arrival of the British. In response Cooper, as part of the AAL – along with Bill Ferguson and the newly-formed NSW based Aborigine’s Progressive Association (APA) he’d helped found – organised a Day of Mourning for 26 January to draw attention to the decimation of Indigenous populations since the arrival of Europeans.

A few days later, AAL and APA members led a delegation to Prime Minister Joseph Lyons calling for federal control of Aboriginal affairs. Their entreaties were not acted on. But the powerful symbolic gesture of the Day of Mourning, the petition to the King, and formation of the AAL have inspired generations of activists working for justice for First Nations peoples.

Cooper was concerned not only with the plight of his own people, but discrimination faced by other oppressed populations. In 1938 after Kristallnacht, when Jewish people had been targeted in widespread rioting and looting across Germany, Cooper led a march to the German consulate in Melbourne to condemn the “cruel persecution of the Jewish people by the Nazi government in Germany”. German officials refused to take the written condemnation offered, but the protest is widely regarded as unique internationally.

Cooper’s sort of political activism continued among the Yorta Yorta. Settlement of the 1992 Mabo case ultimately led to the Native Title Act, and in 1994 the Yorta Yorta became one of the first Indigenous groups to make a native title claim.

Although eventually dismissed by the High Court, the case created key precedents on how the court system would interpret evidence required to prove native title. In 2004 the Victorian government entered into a cooperative management agreement with the Yorta Yorta over public lands that formed part of their original native title claim area.

‘William Cooper advocates for First Nations rights’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: William Cooper advocates for First Nations rights appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Beautifully produced, ‘China Adorned’ focuses on fashion, adornment and rituals of Chinese ethnic minority groups, examining ways of life that are rapidly changing or – sadly – no longer exist at all.

The book is the result of three decades of research of the cultural traditions of China’s ethnic groups by Professor Deng Qiyao, Director and Guest Professor of the Visual Culture Research Center of the Guangzhou Academy of Fine Arts. Written in an engaging and thought-provoking way, care has been taken to explain the customs of over thirty minorities giving you greater insight and understanding into the deep connection between people, place, ritual and adornment.

Image credits: Cat Vinton

Qiyao’s words are amplified by the accompanying imagery, which includes incredible photographs by Cat Vinton, an adventure and ethnographic photographer. Vinton’s photographs capture the vibrant colours and textures of the clothing and accessories of Chinese ethnic groups while also showcasing their everyday lives and the landscapes that surround them. In addition, the book also features black and white images from Qiyao’s own archives, spanning his three decades of research. These never-before-published photographs, as well as Vinton’s vivid imagery, are photographs you’ll stop to pore over before turning back to the engaging text.

Image credit: Cat Vinton

Organised into a life cycle, starting with ‘Blessed Beginnings’ and concluding with ‘Falling Leaves Return to Their Roots’, it is just as enjoyable reading this book from cover to cover as it is dipping in and out whenever you have a quiet moment. In addition to learning something new, ‘China Adorned’ offers you the chance to reflect on how ancient cultures are faring in the modern world.

Image credits: Cat Vinton

To further enhance this, the book features essays from notable contributors, such as Suvi Rautio, an anthropologist who spent thirteen months studying heritage initiatives and rural development in a Dong village in Guizhou. In her elegantly worded essay, Rautio shines a light on the traditional art of indigo dyeing and its significance to the people who both make and wear it. She explains how ‘In the Dong cultural framework, being able to produce dazzling fabric that warrants display is a measure of value and reputation for both wearers and their families.’ This fabric is just as important in life as it is in death, with Rautio writing that ‘So valued are textiles that they serve as currency at the gates of the underworld to pay back one’s life debts.’

Image credits: Cat Vinton

In sharing these insights, ‘China Adorned’ is an important time capsule of the traditions and cultures of China’s ethnic minorities that are fading by the minute. A highly recommended read for anyone interested in preserving ancient cultures before they’re lost forever.

‘China Adorned’ by Professor Deng Qiyao and Cat Vinton with contributions from Suvi Rautio, Xue Xinran, Wu Fan and Will Spence is published by Thames & Hudson and is available now.

This article is brought to you by Thames & Hudson.

The post Celebrating the ritual and custom of ancient cultures: a book review of China Adorned appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The race took place off the coast of the US state of Rhode Island, so the live broadcast of the final race in the best-of-seven event wrapped up about 5.30am (AWST) in Australia. Among its viewers was Prime Minister Bob Hawke at Royal Perth Yacht Club in Western Australia. Just six months into his first term in office, he couldn’t have predicted that a booze-infused, throwaway comment to ABC News – “Any boss who sacks anyone for not turning up today is a bum” – would become one of the most memorable moments of his career. Bursting with laughter and wearing a gaudy jacket (borrowed from a university student also attending the event) over his suit, Hawke’s personable charm and cool informality won over the Australian public. 

The races began on 15 September 1983, Australian time. Australia II, skippered by John Bertrand, had a rocky start, losing the first two races to the American defender Liberty, which was skippered by Dennis Conner. The third race was abandoned halfway through because of poor weather. Australia won the rescheduled race, America the one after. The score was now 3–1. Australia could not afford to lose another race – and then the tide began to turn. Australia II won the next two races, bringing the two competitors neck and neck with a score of 3–3. Everything rested on the seventh and final race, which Australia II won by a margin of 41 seconds. 

The victory was not without controversy. Australia II had a speed advantage due to a unique winged keel, designed by industrial engineer Ben Lexcen. Before each race, the keel was cloaked by “modesty skirts”, hiding the unique design from the prying eyes of the competitors. But after losing the Cup, the New York Yacht Club was up in arms, protesting that the measurement and certification of Australia II were not legal and had given the Australians an unfair advantage. Rubbing more salt into the wound, in 2009 a Dutch naval architect, Peter van Oossanen, alleged that he and Dutch aerodynamicist Joop Sloof had invented the winged keel and that Ben Lexcen had had only a minor role in its design. According to the rules of the America’s Cup, all yachts must be entirely designed by nationals of the country that they represent. However, the claim was impossible to prove. 

Related: Looking back: The 1983 America’s Cup win

The post ‘Any boss who sacks anyone for not turning up today is a bum!’: It’s been 40 years since Bob Hawke proclaimed these famous words appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The penal settlement was established by Lieutenant-Governor William Sorell and its early years were plagued by poor planning that resulted in food shortages, malnutrition and shoddy conditions. “Many prisoners occasionally die from the scurvy, owing to their having nothing but salted provisions, being unable to get vegetables, and without fish of any description,” reported the Colonial Times, and Tasmanian Advertiser in 1827. “The treatment is most severe – one prisoner, known by the name of Scrummy Williams… received 500 lashes at different times.” Barracks were so crowded, convicts had to sleep on their sides rather than on their backs. Punishment included solitary confinement and flogging, with 9100 lashes recorded in 1823 alone. 

Sarah Island was chosen as a penal colony site for its isolation and resources such as Huon pine forests, which could be exploited by convict labour. The impenetrable wilderness surrounding the harbour made survival near impossible for convicts attempting escape. Despite this, some were successful. Notable examples include James Goodwin, whose survival so impressed Surveyor General George Frankland that he was pardoned and employed to chart the Western Wilderness; Matthew Brady, who became the “gentleman” bushranger on account of his polite manners while robbing his victims; and Alexander Pearce, a double-escapee who ate some of his accomplices. The gruesome story of the “Tasmanian Cannibal” caused ripples across the Australian colonies; he was hanged in Hobart, and later immortalised in novels, songs, plays and films. His skull was sold to American physician, natural scientist and writer Samuel George Morton, who added it to his cranial collection. It was later donated to the University of Pennsylvania, where it remains. 

Such characters have formed the lore of Sarah Island. The buildings have long since fallen into ruins, but its macabre reputation has been kept alive by writers throughout the decades. Journalists and historians described it as “a place with a thrilling and bloodcurdling reputation” and “the stamping ground of the most vicious and desperate men ever to come here”.

Despite this bleak imagery, the island was a productive hub that became Australia’s largest shipyard at the time. Its population fluctuated between 100 and 350 people, including military personnel, a doctor, a chaplain, spouses, children and assigned female servants. Women convicts were separated from the men, however, and lived on nearby Grummet Island. Sarah Island also housed skilled male convicts not under sentence, including shipwrights, blacksmiths, carpenters and clerks. Its buildings included a tannery, brickyard, bakehouse and hospital. In 1832 and 1833 the Toogee people were forcibly interred on the island before being sent to the Wybalenna Aboriginal settlement on Flinders Island which opened in 1834. 

Sarah Island’s penal station operated for just 11 years, until the much larger Port Arthur settlement opened south of Hobart Town and ultimately replaced it. It was briefly reoccupied in 1846–47 as a probation station for pass-holders seeking work. About 200 men were sent to Sarah Island then to harvest timber from the Huon pine forests, but the site was soon abandoned because of poor provisions and planning. 

Related: The little-known story of Australia’s convict women

The post ‘Earthly hell’: Before Port Arthur there was Sarah Island appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The art of body adornment is referred to as Bilas in Papua New Guinea. From the pidgin language Tok Pisin, Bilas celebrates the connection of peoples to place and to all living things. Adornments, going back centuries, also fulfil social, spiritual and physical needs, in different ways. Made from various natural resources including shells, feathers and plant fibres, some represent power or position, while others are for cultural celebrations and ceremonies.

The Australian Museum’s newest exhibition, Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea, showcases the beauty and diversity of body adornment and decoration from Papua New Guinea with a stunning collection of photographs by Wylda Bayrón, and objects from the world-renowned Pacific cultural collections of the Australian Museum. The exhibition will look at the many interpretations and meanings of Bilas as a culturally diverse practice, illustrating PNG people’s close relationship with their natural environment.

A photographer’s passion

Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea is brought to vibrant life by 60 exquisite photographs by US-based Puerto Rican photographer, Wylda Bayrón. This multi-talented photographer is known for her work behind the cameras on TV series such as Orange is the New Black, Billions, Madam Secretary, and more recently, And Just Like That. But for Bayrón, her passion is as far from a TV set as you can get, into communities where culture and traditions remain strong. Papua New Guinea is such a place.

Bayrón has been to Papua New Guinea several times, with her first trip (in 2013) evolving from a two-month journey to an 18-month odyssey in which she wanted to photograph each of the communities from the 22 provinces. She even learned pidgin so she could communicate. Bayrón has been back several times since. The photographs that feature in this exhibition at the Australian Museum are a result of her journey into the heart of a country whose communities welcomed her and shared their culture.

“The peoples of Papua New Guinea are the curators of these images, and it is their cultures, traditions and customs that are being shared. These photographs document what I could not have when I was growing up – a photographic history of identity,” Bayrón said.

Through Bayrón’s lens, pictures really can tell a story, a story of cultural continuity, resilience, adaptation and revival.

The exhibition

Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea allows visitors to the Australian Museum to witness the intricate beauty and diversity of cultural decoration and body adornment from the varied peoples in Papua New Guinea.

The exhibition, developed and curated by the Museum’s Pasifika team, who collaborated with local communities as well as experts from the region, features Bayrón’s arresting photographs as well as rare, never-before-displayed cultural objects from the Museum’s collection – rated as one of the most significant in the world with over 60,000 objects from across the region – natural history specimens and more than 30 pieces of newly-acquired body adornment from three cultural groups in Papua New Guinea: Koki, in the Laiagam District Enga Province; Yalu, Kagua District in the Southern Highlands Province; and Meingik, in Koinambe, Jimi District in the Jiwaka Province.

Acquired through a grant from the Australian Museum Foundation, the new pieces include the first examples of Maring / Kalam ‘Glong’ headdresses, Enga wigs (made of human hair) and Kagua district wicker helmets and body masks. It is the first time these adornments have been commissioned for an Australian institution.

One of the co-curators of Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea, Dr Michael Mel, a proud member of the Kilipika Village, Mt. Hagen, Western Highlands, said: “In our culture, the body has long served as a ‘canvas’ for self-expression and to convey a multitude of messages to the outside world. Beyond being a vehicle for social communication and living art, there are also spiritual domains and meanings to the body adornment,”.

There are many standout photographs from Bayrón to illustrate Bilas. In ‘Chimbu Roi’, a Chimbu tribe chief’s face is painted with charcoal and crushed seashells. Bird of paradise feathers adorn his headdress and nose piercing.

And in the image named ‘Tumbuna’, Bayrón explains: “At daybreak, this boy is going to put on the bilas for the very first time. His grandfather, the chief of the village, feared (he would) die before attending this moment, carefully unpacks the feathers, inherited from ancestors, and unrolls a small tapa (cloth in bark) that he made himself for the occasion. The child rejoices. He grasps the significance of these gestures: transmitting centuries of traditions to a new generation.”

And that, is what bilas is all about.

Through the lens

Australian Geographic also had the opportunity to speak with Wylda Bayrón, whose photos form the bases of the exhibition at the Australian Museum. We asked Wylda some questions about her passion for PNG, and its bilas.

What sparked your interest in photography?

“When I was a focus puller in 2004, I worked on a film in Singapore. I asked production to delay my return for a week as I wanted to visit Malaysia. The week turned into a year and a half travelling through Southeast Asia where I realised my passion for photography and tribal cultures.”

You have worked as a photographer/cinematographer on countless shows and movies. How do you juggle your passion for photography with the demands of film work?

“It’s a tricky balance because I love both parts of my work life and how distinct and different they are. They inform each other so in that sense it’s very rewarding. I try to work on shows that tell stories I love and think are important because each show is an all-consuming affair that can take up to six months of my life. With that money I buy my freedom to travel and invest in my passion for preservation of tribal culture. The cinematography and the photography are each a wing of a bird for me.” 

What piqued your interest about Papua New Guinea?

“I’ve always had PNG in mind but the time had not come because I knew I had to go alone and I was in a relationship. I had seen pictures of the huli and a few other highland tribes and I was hooked. Little did I know I’d be spending a decade working with the people there.”

What happened on the first trip that sparked the passion for photographing and learning about the people of PNG?

“Pretty much immediately I was taken in by a family who were able to support me in my desire to capture as many tribes and Bilas as possible. My first “mum” travelled with me to some places initially and introduced me to her Motu family members and friends and that way I was able to use the wankot system to traverse and travel the entire island always having new families take me in and keep me safe. The project was born organically, fuelled by community desire for their own preservation.”

What resonates most about the peoples of PNG in your heart?

“What resonates most is that belonging to a place is not rooted in where you were born. PNG is my home and the people there are my family no matter what tribe or province they are from. Somehow, we always managed to connect and laugh and do the culture preservation work no matter where I was originally from. Once I learned the language and they knew that I understood them, the life and culture, I was one of them and they didn’t hesitate to accept me. It was always a homecoming even if it was new place. That’s pretty magical and you can’t fake that. PNG and I were written in the stars.” 

What does the word bilas mean to you?

“Bilas is identity, community, ancestral knowledge and a core aspect of how we celebrate ourselves and the culture in PNG. The people and I have forged a beautiful bond. Their deep sense of identity and kindness is one of the parts that keep me coming back. It’s the immediate sense of family and community that made the journey so beautiful and I’m forever bonded with the people and the land.” 

What is your favourite photo from your beautiful collection now on show at the Australian Museum as part of Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea? What is the story behind it (the photo)?

“It’s so hard to identify a sole image as they are each representing a very special place and people. I do love my first photo shoot in the middle Sepik which yielded the image of the three men with a live crocodile around the main man. The first day we tried to shoot it rained and we had to cancel, but the men decided they would get dressed all over again the next day and then take me by canoe several hours north so that I would not miss my flight out as my visa was expiring.” 

See more of Wylda Bayrón’s work at WyldaBayron.com, and follow her here @wyldabayron.

Bilas: Body Adornment from Papua New Guinea will be at the Australian Museum until 2 October, 2023 and entry is free.

Presented by the Australian Museum, this exhibition was generously supported by the Australian Museum Foundation and Supporting Partner, BSP.

Learn more here.

The post The art of body adornment in Papua New Guinea appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Advance Australia Fair

One of the first official tasks tackled by Prime Minister Scott Morrison was to change one word in our national anthem: “young and free” became “one and free”. Other prime ministers also made updates. Bob Hawke changed “Australia’s sons” to “Australians all” after “Advance Australia Fair” replaced “God Save the Queen” in 1984, following a plebiscite conducted in 1977 by Malcolm Fraser. There was no great public outcry on those occasions, because although Aussies feel very proud of our landscape and nation, we don’t demonstrate it in a noisy, flag-waving way. This relaxed character comes to the fore when a sensible change is suggested to the national anthem. Meanwhile, we should be delighted we have the only national anthem to contain the rare old word “girt”. Look it up!

Art Union

An Art Union is like a lottery, except that it is run to raise money for a charity, and the prize is usually not money but a house on the Gold Coast or a car or both. But art union? It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with any union, and art rarely comes into it. Well, the story is this. Art unions were formed in Britain and Europe in the 19th century as associations to promote the purchasing of paintings and other works of art and dispensing these things among their members by lottery. Over time, things changed in Australia and New Zealand – and only here. All kinds of prizes, not just paintings and other works of art, came to be offered. Consequently, the name art union came to be applied to any lottery offering in-kind prizes rather than cash.

As full as a …

When Aussies are full of either food (“I couldn’t eat another bite, love”) or grog (“I think I’ve got me wobbly boots on”), they have a number of ways of saying just how full they are: “as full as a goog” (where “goog” means egg – an item that is always completely full, packed to the shell); “as full as a state school”; “as full as a school hat rack”; “as full as a boot”; “as full as a fat lady’s sock”; “as full as a stripper’s dance card”; “as full as a stuffed pig”; “as full as the family dunny”; “as full as Santa’s sack on Christmas Eve”; “as full as the family album”; “as full as the last bus (or last tram)”; and “as full as a cattle tick” (picture a cattle tick swollen with blood). That’s how Aussie English works: as the most creative, inventive and colourful dialect of English on the planet – or am I biased?

Aunty arms

As we get older, our upper arms (triceps) can lose muscle tone. This phenomenon is often called Aunty arms. Other names include nanna’s arms; bingo wings; goodbye muscles, or piano arms, because this is the bit that moves when someone is belting out a tune on the piano. Or – and this is my favourite – they can be called reverse biceps, because instead of standing up, as biceps normally do, they hang down. It’s all, of course, a salute to Aussie verbal inventiveness… and to how much we love our aunties.

Australianist

This seems to have been coined in January 1941 by a Sydney Morning Herald sub-editor in a headline for an article about Australia’s so-called Jindyworobak Movement poets, which included Ian Mudie and Rex Ingamells. The Australian National Dictionary defines an Australianist as a “person who espouses Australian attitudes or values; an expert in…some aspect of Australia” especially “its history or literature, or its Indigenous languages”. Lexicographer Bill Ramson used the word in his description in The Australian National Dictionary of Sidney J. Baker, who researched and wrote on the Australian language. The related word Australianism, which goes back to 1842, is defined as “pride in, or loyalty to, Australian nationalism; a character distinctively Australian”. Australian Geographic is distinctly Australianist!

Bag rage

When you get to the supermarket checkout and discover you’ve left all your re-usable bags in the boot of your car, that’s when you experience bag rage!

Bangers

We think of “bangers and mash” as a quintessential English expression. But there’s evidence it was coined by Aussies. When tracking down such things, linguists look for citations – written quotations using the expression. For banger meaning “sausage”, the earliest record is in W.H. Downing’s book Digger Dialects, published in 1919 as a record of slang by Aussie diggers in World War I. There was a shortage of meat, so butchers filled sausages with odds and ends – ground lips and ears from slaughtered animals, fat, cereals and water. When cooked on an open fire they often exploded – hence bangers. The diggers were, of course, surrounded by things going bang. So it’s likely Aussies coined the expression and shared it with the Tommies in nearby trenches, thereby creating the name for a classic of English cuisine.

Barrack

According to the Wisden Dictionary of Cricket, by Michael Rundell, to “barrack” means “to shout sarcastic or abusive comments about the performance of a team or player”. But this word can also be an “autoantonym” – having the opposite intent – meaning to “shout support or encouragement”. There are a few theories about its origins. It might be a pidgin term from the Aboriginal word “borak”, meaning “to poke fun at”. But The Australian National Dictionary disputes this, suggesting that “barrack” is more likely an English dialect word meaning “to brag or boast”. Could both be correct? What if barracking as shouting encouragement comes from an old word for bragging, while barracking as shouting abuse comes from borak? It is possible, and would explain the opposing meanings.

Related: The health of Australian slang

Bewdy, bottler, ripper

Three words with the same meaning: terrific! They’re sometimes strung together, sometimes used individually. ‘Bewdy’ is the slack Aussie way of saying beauty, as in “You little bewdy!”. ‘Bottler’ is also straightforward. It means “Your blood’s worth bottling” and was coined by Aussie diggers in WW1, after the development of blood transfusions. But ‘ripper’ remains a mystery. So far, every linguist and lexicographer I’ve asked about this has responded with a shrug: why should something terrific be “a little ripper”? You’d think ripping would be bad not good!

Bludger

Beginning as London criminal slang from ‘bludgeoner’ (recorded from 1856), bludger meant a pimp who bludgeons (beats with a stick) prostitutes’ clients to rob them. Bludger faded from use in London, but made its way to the Australian colony, where it’s recorded from 1882. By 1900 it had become a general term of abuse, especially for a lazy loafer. About the same time, the back formation ‘bludge’ arose, meaning ‘to evade one’s own responsibilities and impose on others’ and which is now also a blue-collar worker’s term for anyone who sits comfortably behind a desk. The Americans and others have since borrowed it— but this is our word.

Brown sandwich

Most people will have heard of a “brown sandwich” – it’s a bottle of beer.

Bushfire

Bushfire is a distinctively Australian word. What we call a bushfire is called a “wildfire” everywhere else in the world. The name we’ve adopted comes from the Aussie habit of constructing expressions using the word “bush” or tacking on other words to “bush” (as in a “bush so-and-so”). There was a phenomenal explosion of “bush” words that now fills no fewer than 36 pages of the second edition of the Australian National Dictionary. As for bushfire itself, this was first recorded in 1832. It turns up in the Sydney Monitor that year, the following year in the Perth Gazette, in 1841 in the Launceston Courier, and so on through the decades and around the country. It seems poet Dorothea Mackellar could have added “land of bushfires” to her “land of droughts and flooding rains”.

Canberra bubble

Australian National Dictionary Centre’s 2018 Word of the Year, “Canberra bubble” is that strange, isolated dreamland occupied by politicians, their media advisers and the Canberra press gallery.

Cane Toad Politics

This is a new expression that sits beside “barbecue stopper” and “pub test” as a distinctively Aussie contribution to political discourse. “Cane toad politics” describes those policies proposed by intelligent, benevolent and well-intentioned people that aim at a worthwhile goal, but end up producing the opposite. The term stems from the introduction into Australia in the 1930s of the cane toad to control the sugarcane beetle. This was proposed by the prime minister at the time (Joseph Lyons), the Queensland government and two leading scientists. The result? There are now 200 million cane toads in Australia damaging local flora and fauna. They meant well, but…even the best and brightest can sometimes get it horribly wrong. Hence, the new expression.

Cask wine

Cask wine (a plastic bag in a cardboard box) is an Australian invention from the 1960s. This in turn inspired Australians to great verbal invention. Aussie slang very quickly came up with a string of names for cask wine starting with “Chateau Cardboard” and going on to call it a “handbag” or a “briefcase” often tied to a local place name. This gave us the Balga (Perth) or Belambi (Wollongong) or Boradmeadow (Newcastle) or Dubbo (central NSW) handbag. Less inventive were names such as “boxie” or “box monster”. And rather grimmer was the nickname “bag of death”. Then it became a “goon” or “goon bag” or “goon sack” or just a “goonie”. One type of moselle was nicknamed “lady in the boat” because of the picture on the box. And then there’s my favourite: “vino collapso” (Aussie verbal invention at its best!)

Dunny

One room in the home is almost always referred to with a euphemism – often the loo or WC. To Americans it’s “the bathroom”, “john” or “rest room”. Even “lavatory” is a euphemism, from the Latin for “washing”. “Toilet”, itself, is from a French term for a small washcloth. In fact, the Aussie word “dunny” is perhaps the room’s most honest name! It seems to have descended from the 18th-century English word “dunnekin”. The last syllable, “kin”, is probably from a source meaning “house”; the first may relate to “dung”. In Aussie English a dunny can be any toilet. But the older, free-standing, outdoor version is preserved in expressions such as “I hope your chooks turn into emus and kick your dunny down” or “as lonely as a country dunny”. And don’t forget those giant blowflies, known as “dunny budgies”.

Fossick

I was watching an episode of the BBC’s Antiques Roadshow filmed in Australia. An Aussie guest said, “Here’s something I found fossicking in the junk room.” The British antiques expert looked a little bit puzzled. After some explanation they said, “Ah, yes, you mean rummaging.” The verb “to fossick” was first used in the Australian Gold Diggers Monthly Magazine and Colonial Visitor in 1852. Now you can fossick for anything, but originally it was looking for surface gold in dirt around the diggings. “Fossick” was an English dialect word that died in the UK but survived here. A fossicker may have originally been a troublesome person. At the gold diggings, someone who pottered around your dirt heaps to pick up what you missed would certainly be looked upon as troublesome.

Grass castles

Australian author and historian Mary Durack (1913–1994) was a daughter of the legendary Durack family of cattle kingdom fame. She grew up on the remote cattle stations of Argyle Downs and Ivanhoe in the Kimberley region of Western Australia. She and her sister Elizabeth managed Ivanhoe in the 1920s and ’30s. In her 1959 book Kings in Grass Castles, Mary coined the expression ‘grass castles’ to describe the fragility – the dependence on unpredictable weather to grow stock feed – of these “cattle kingdoms”. The book told the story of the many ups and downs of her family’s pioneering work as overlanders and pastoralists. Then from the 1980s journalists gave a clever twist to the expression grass castles. They began calling sprawling western suburbs ‘McMansions’ owned by drug syndicate bosses grass castles, meaning palaces built on an entirely different kind of ‘grass’ – marijuana!

Happy as Larry

This charming term simply means “very happy”. The original source is not certain, but here’s what we do know. In the first place, this is definitely an Australian term. It has spread around much of the world, but it began here. Sidney J. Baker, in his classic book The Australian Language says that, while we can’t know for sure, it’s possible that it was originally associated with an Australian boxer named Larry Foley (1847–1907). The reason why he was regarded as a happy pugilist is lost in the mists of time, but apparently, he was. “Happy as Larry” was first documented in 1905, but was probably part of the spoken language well before that. There was an older expression – a “Larry Dooley” or a “Larry Foley”– meaning a fight. And, I guess, if you liked a fight that would make you as “Happy as Larry”.

Hoon

The Oxford English Dictionary records “hoon” as Australian (and New Zealand) slang for a show-off with limited intelligence, adding “origin unknown”. Hoon is most often applied to young male drivers who are more interested in attracting attention to themselves than being cautious. Sid Baker, in The Australian Language, suggests hoon might be a contraction from the houyhnhnms (the talking horses in Gulliver’s Travels). The problem is that the horses are civilised – it’s their human slaves, the yahoos, who are the dills. Alternatively, hoon might be a contraction of “hooligan” or, perhaps, a combination of “hooligan” and “goon”. Another proposal is that it’s rhyming slang for “baboon”; while yet another suggestion is that it’s based on “buffoon”. All are possibilities, and none are certainties!

Hooroo

Well, there is quite a story behind this. It seems to have begun as a sailor’s term – huzza. One 1740 mention says it was “derived from the shouts seamen make when friends come aboard or go off ”. Over time this changed to hurrah and hooray. Possibly, the experts say, the change was influenced by a battle-cry of Prussian soldiers in the War of Liberation (1812–13). Then Aussie verbal inventiveness changed it again from hooray to hooroo – first documented in The Bulletin in 1906.

I wouldn’t know him from a bar of soap

The saying “I wouldn’t know him from a bar of soap” seems to have first appeared in print, uncovered by my research, in a 1938 cartoon by the legendary Stan Cross in Smith’s Weekly. It shows two grubby tramps. One says, “I wouldn’t know you from a bar of soap” and the other replies, “You wouldn’t know either of us – me or the soap!” Cross might’ve coined the expression, or be quoting a well-established Aussie phrase (based on the blandness of soap). Until I am shown otherwise, I am claiming this one for us – one of more than 10,000 expressions that Aussies have contributed to the English language!

Related: Slang: What Aussies call other Aussies

Kwaussie 

The Australian National Dictionary Centre (ANDC) decided their Australian Word of the Year in 2017 was ‘Kwaussie’: a contraction of ‘Kiwi’ and ‘Aussie’ and meaning someone who is part Australian and part New Zealander – such as poor old Barnaby Joyce, who thought he was Aussie through and through, but found he’d acquired New Zealand citizenship without knowing it. While I understand the topicality of the word in 2017, is it really a word? I admire the ANDC and its brilliant head, Dr Amanda Laugesen, but kwaussie? Was it really part of our national conversation? Did it appeared in print all that often that year? Is it a word that rolls off the tongue of talkback callers on radio? Until the ANDC chose it, I hadn’t heard of it. Had you?

Loose unit

During the 2022 federal election, the expression “loose unit” was bandied about by political enemies. To my delight this turns out to be an Australian coinage – first recorded in 2009 (and applied that year to Pauline Hanson). It’s clearly from the earlier “loose cannon”, meaning “an unpredictable or uncontrollable person or thing”. This seems to come from the days of sailing ships, when having a cannon sliding across a deck in a storm would be unpredictably dangerous. Yet it only becomes common long after the era of sail; despite mentions in 1889 and 1946, it only seems to catch on from the 1970s. How was “cannon” replaced by “unit”? I suspect legendary Sydney radio announcer Ward ‘Pally’ Austin sparked the use of “unit” for “human being”: one of his favourite expressions being “It’s too much for the human unit, pally!”

Lucky Country

The Lucky Country is the description of Australia coined by Aussie journalist Donald Horne (1921–2005) in his book of that name (published in 1964). The book was a critique of Australian society in the 1960s, but its title, although widely used, was often misunderstood. Horne defined Australia at the time as “a lucky country run mainly by second-rate people who share its luck”. His point was that Australia was living on its luck rather than on its creativity or energy. He even said that one of Australia’s great national festivals, the Melbourne Cup, was mainly a celebration of luck. I’ve wondered what Donald would have made of Australia during COVID? I suspect he would have doubled down on his description and described Australia as “lucky” to be surrounded by water and protected by a vast oceanic moat in a way many countries are not.

Related: Aussie lingo: Togs or swimmers?

Mrs Kafoops

This is a quaint old Aussie expression that is dying out – but our parents and grandparents knew it well. The Australian National Dictionary says Mrs Kafoops (or Kerfoops) is a ‘jocular name’. So, it was always a bit tongue-in-cheek. When I was a small boy, it applied to two types of people. Mrs Kafoops might be a woman whose name the speaker doesn’t know – “Mrs Kafoops down at the shops said…” – or it might be applied to a known person who was a bit pompous and self-important – “Mrs Kafoops across the road thinks she’s too good to come to afternoon tea…”
It was first recorded in print in 1924 (in Lismore’s now-defunct Northern Star newspaper) and remained common until at least the 1960s. Sadly, Mrs Kafoops now seems to be slowly fading into the sunset.

Migaloo

This year it was feared eastern Australia’s legendary white whale, Migaloo, had died. But it turned out to be another (smaller) white whale that had washed up on a Tassie beach. The name Migaloo comes from the Mayi-Kutuna Aboriginal language of north-western Queensland’s Leichhardt River area. Originally migaloo referred to people – a migaloo was a whitefella. In The Other Side of the Frontier, historian Henry Reynolds wrote, “She looked at me not as an individual, or as a male, or as a well meaning academic, but as a white man, a ‘migaloo’.” The rare albino humpback –first seen in 1991 off  Byron Bay, then yearly as it migrated along the Aussie coastline – was given the name Migaloo, a creative use of an Indigenous word.

Nark

A “nark” is an annoying person, as in “that bloke’s a real nark”. It can also be used as a verb: for example, that something, or someone, is “narking” you. The word originated in England with a narrower meaning. But here in Australia, and only in Australia, it took wings and spread to describe that irritating workmate or old Uncle Harry who gets drunk every year at Christmas. “Nark” comes from a Gypsy (Romany) word meaning “nose”, and is still used in the UK for an informer being a “copper’s nark” because he sticks his nose into your (slightly illegal) business. But here it became a wider, more general label for someone who’s irritating you. “Nark” is recorded in The Bulletin from 1898 to mean an informer and from 1905 it appeared in Steele Rudd’s Magazine in the general irritation sense it still has today.

Neenish tart

A neenish tart is a mock cream-filled pastry iced in white and brown or pink and brown. Is it Australian? If so, where does the name come from? One well-known story from the Sydney Morning Herald in 1988 goes that a Mrs Evans claimed the tarts were first made in her NSW home town of Grong Grong: the originator was her mother’s friend Mrs Ruby Neenish, who in 1913, running out of cocoa, used half-chocolate and half-white icing to create the first neenish tarts. However, a 2016 article in the same newspaper claimed the story began as a joke. The earliest reference to neenish is for ‘neenish cakes’ and appears in a 1929 cookbook published at Glenferrie, Victoria. But the citizens of Orange, in NSW, claim the first true neenish tart recipe was in the Orange Recipe Gift Book – from where it was reproduced in many other cookbooks (especially by the Country Women’s Association). Those who think the alternative spelling of ‘nienish’ or ‘nienich’ was the original spelling claim this sweet treat was originally of Austrian or German origin. But I’ll stick with Mrs Ruby Neenish.

No worries

When Lake Superior State University announced its 2022 Banished Words List, number two was “no worries”, which the Americans complained was being misused to mean “you’re welcome”. But “you’re welcome” means exactly that and “no worries” is an Australian coinage! It’s been recorded here from 1965 and the earliest citation dug up by experts at The Australian National Dictionary is from Jack Hibberd’s play White with Wire Wheels, although my guess is “no worries” was part of our spoken language long before it appeared in print. The thing about “no worries” is it captures the relaxed Aussie attitude of helping a mate. Its inclusion in the Banished Words List shows there is a two-way trade in words between us and the Americans – but that they don’t always understand the bits of Aussie English they borrow.

Offsider

Not all Aussie terms are slang. ‘Above-ground pool’, for instance, is regular non-slang language unique to Australia. So too is the word ‘offsider’ (in the sense of an assistant, friend or mate), another expression coined here. Most overseas dictionaries describe an offsider as a player in the wrong place on a football field. The Australian meaning arose from a bullock-driver’s assistant being called an offsider. He was so called because he walked on the off side of the bullock team, while the bullocky himself walked on the on side beside the team’s leader and cracked the whip. From this, offsider was extended to anyone who was an assistant in any occupation or enterprise. The earliest citation for this distinctively Australian use of offsider is from 1879. It’s nice to know that when you refer to your mate as your offsider you’re recalling the role the bullockies played in building Australia.

Related: Knowing the Aussie accent

Public servant

What picture does the title “public servant” paint for you? Is it of a pen-pusher inside the ‘Canberra bubble’ living off taxpayer dollars? Well, the next time you’re caught in a web of red tape, and feel like cursing all public servants, it might give you some comfort to know that in Australia the term public servant originally meant a convict! In her book Convict Words, Amanda Laugesen explains that a public servant was “a convict assigned to public labour or work for the government”. When “public servant” was first coined in 1797 it was a euphemism for convict. Even in those early years, everyone hated to be called a convict, so all kinds of other expressions were coined to soften this harsh word, such as “government man”, “prisoner”, or “assigned servant”. And at the top of the list of ways to not call a convict a convict was “public servant”.

Rat coffin / maggot bag 

“Rat coffin” and “maggot bag” are two delightful expressions for a meat pie in Aussie English.

Running writing

After decades of neglect, there’s a worldwide revival in teaching “cursive” writing to schoolchildren. Beginning in 1784, cursive was used to label a style of penmanship in ancient manuscripts, especially Greek. From this it was extended to mean any writing, in any language, that could be written without lifting pen from paper (i.e. writing that curved or flowed).

Of course, as schoolchildren, we never called it cursive. When we first began, we called it “joined-up writing”, then “running writing”. As far as I can tell, that term is uniquely Aussie – it doesn’t appear in the world’s major dictionaries. It’s absent from the Oxford, Merriam- Webster Unabridged, Cambridge, Collins, Longman and so on. But it’s included in our own Macquarie Dictionary. So I’m claiming “running writing” as distinctly Australian – aren’t we clever?

Said Hanrahan

Aussies sometimes like to wallow in misery. “This drought’ll never end.” “Record floods coming, I reckon.” “Looks like another bad bushfire season.” The expression ‘said Hanrahan’ is from a bush ballad and identifies a doom-monger. The ballad, called Said Hanrahan, was written by bush priest Patrick Hartigan (1878–1952) under the pen-name of John O’Brien. It tells of cockies who gather on Sunday to squat on their heels, chew bark and talk about farming. Hanrahan is the gloom merchant: “‘We’ll all be rooned,’ said Hanrahan, ‘before the year is out.’”  He’s convinced disaster will strike from too little (or too much) rain at just the wrong time, the river being too high or low, or the summer’s heat – or lack of it. Whatever happens, Hanrahan is certain it will bring drought, flood, bushfire, bankruptcy and the collapse of commodity prices, or all of the above. To the Hanrahans of this world, the glass is always half empty…and rapidly draining away.

Related: Aussie slang: why we shorten words

Salad dodger

Aussie English has a nice description of someone who is a little too fond of their tucker: a fatty is called a “salad dodger”.

Seven-course meal

A “seven-course meal” – that’s a six-pack of beer and a meat pie.

Single-use / Bag rage

“Single-use” was the Collins English Dictionary’s 2018 Word of the Year – and the Macquarie’s People’s Choice Word of the Year, which makes sense because single-use was so prominent in headlines and conversations here in Oz that year. We’ve seen the furore over the decision of the major supermarkets to remove single-use plastic bags, and make customers bring their own re-usable bags instead. The dust has died down now, but I think single-use deserves a gong as one of the top Words of the Year Down Under.

Snot block / phlegm sandwich

With exquisite good taste Aussie English has nicknamed the vanilla slice either a “snot block” or a “phlegm sandwich”. 

Stonkered

The way I’ve heard this used, “to stonker” means “to put out of action, to render useless”. As such it derives from an earlier word, “stonk”, which meant “a concentrated artillery bombardment”. It began as military slang coined by our World War I diggers and was probably onomatopoeic in origin, “stonk” echoing the dull thud of artillery. Now, anything pounded by artillery has been “put out of action, or rendered useless”, hence the broader (metaphorical) use of stonkered. An extension of that is the Australian and New Zealand use of stonkered to mean drunk. Anyone who’s pounded their brain with enough booze to put it out of action is as stonkered as if they were a military target pounded by heavy artillery. But my readers also tell me this can mean “to have eaten an elegant sufficiency”.

Related: Aussie slang hasn’t carked it, but we do want to know more about it

Troppo

When a mate goes bananas, an Aussie often says “he’s gone troppo”.That word is short for “tropical” and began as a bit of World War II digger dialect. The earliest citation is from 1941. The Australian National Dictionary defines “troppo” as “mentally disturbed, allegedly as a result of spending too much time (originally on war service) in the tropics”. In WWII, Aussie soldiers were posted to the Northern Territory, then to Papua New Guinea and other tropical places. Those who began acting strangely were said to have been affected by the heat – “gone troppo”. The great John O’Grady even wrote a comic novel called Gone Troppo, in 1968. And you’ve just thought of exactly the right mate to label “slightly troppo”, haven’t you!

Versing

Australian sporting journalism appears to have birthed the word “versing”. It turns up on programs where blokes named Jacko and Cruncher preview weekend sport. They seem to have trouble referring to the Sharks versus the Bears because “versus” comes from Latin…and has two syllables. So they say, “the Sharks verse the Bears” – when they’re not saying “the Sharks vee the Bears”. This shortened form of versus – verse – has been adopted like school slang and turned into a verb – “Who are we versing this week?” In other words, versing is not writing poetry, but playing another team. One schoolteacher discovered how far this had gone when she marked an assignment about the battle of Marathon, which, the student said, was a case of “the Persians versing the Greeks”.

Related: COVID-19 puts new zing in Aussie lingo

Whalers and Walers

Two creatures in Aussie English are pronounced identically but spelt differently. The first is a fish and the second a horse. The fish is the Murray cod, which is known colloquially as a “whale” because of its size. Murray cod have been nicknamed “whales” since the 1870s. A large specimen can weigh as much as a human (and live as long!). There was a certain type of swaggie called a “whaler” because he followed the banks of the Murray, Darling, Lachlan or Murrumbidgee rivers, living on the cod he could catch. The horse was called a “waler” (short for “New South Waler”) and was noted for its strength and toughness. In World War I, Australian Light Horse troops were mounted mainly on walers – often rounded up from brumby herds and broken to harness by a team of rough riders under the command of Major ‘Banjo’ Paterson.

Yakka

Good solid work – strenuous labour – is called “hard yakka” in Aussie English, and it’s an expression you’ll find nowhere else on earth. It’s hard to know how long it’s been around, because it tends to be part of the spoken, rather than written, language. The earliest citation is from 1888, but people might have been talking about “hard yakka” long before that. Yakka came from the Yagara language (spoken in south-eastern Queensland) and spread rapidly across the country. The word is so well known that it’s been adopted as the brand name for a company making overalls and work clothes. While some of the old Aussie expressions might be fading away, yakka seems to be as strong as ever. These days it might be used in a half‑joking fashion, but at least it’s still in use!

Kel Richards is a veteran Australian author, journalist and broadcaster, who has been reporting on the Australian language for more than 30 years.

The post The A–Z of Aussie slang appeared first on Australian Geographic.

It is day three of our eight-day walk with purpose. This is the Aussie Camino, a pilgrimage that begins in Portland, Victoria, and will eventually bring the group to Penola in South Australia. I’m pilgrim #2021222 and the Aussie Camino symbol, a white shell adorned with a stylised “Ave Maria” monogram, not unlike the ABC logo, is dangling off my backpack.

Leanne joined the pilgrimage, organised by the Melbourne-based company Getaway Trekking, for a reason. “My husband died two years ago,” she says. “He took his own life, so I’ve really struggled for the whole time.” She hopes the pilgrimage will help her make sense of what happened and cope better with her loss. The timing of the walk is significant for Leanne. “Yesterday would have been our 42nd wedding anniversary,” she tells me, “and I had quite a few tears in that first part of the walk when I was out in front. Then I saw a butterfly!”

Butterflies have come to hold deep meaning for Leanne. After her husband’s death, she painted the fence around her house, trying “to clear my head”. Once she’d finished, she recalls, “One of those monarch butterflies came and fluttered all around the fence. Over the next few months, when I was out walking or running, I’d see a butterfly. Sometimes it would flutter along beside me for a while, then go away.” 

The Aussie Camino came into existence in 2014 when Melbourne high-school teacher Luke Mills walked the route for the first time. Grappling with the traumatic death of his wife, Luke developed a deep yearning for the great caminos in Europe, but couldn’t go due to financial constraints and family commitments. But when Mary MacKillop was canonised in 2010, becoming Australia’s first saint, he found his inspiration for a personal pilgrimage right here in Australia. He developed a route inspired by the life of Mary MacKillop, connecting two significant locations in her life: Portland and Penola.

A Camino is a recognised pilgrimage route. Some caminos, like the Camino de Santiago de Compostela in Spain, the oldest in Europe, have been walked for centuries. Guide Jonathan, a veteran of eight European camino routes with a total of about 6000km under his feet, has his own reasons for embarking on a camino. “I’m doing it for my holistic health. I’m not doing it based solely on religious reasons. At the simplest level, the rhythm of walking, my limbs moving, my breathing being in sync with my whole movement, helps calm my mind. My mental health is probably best affected by it all.” He likes the minimalism of a pilgrimage along a camino route. “A camino experience is a very big dose of simplicity. I eat when I’m hungry, drink when I’m thirsty, rest when I’m tired.” For Jonathon, a camino experience is an opportunity to “meet other people who are open to conversations that you do not have in any other context. I do think that’s a real, special element to a pilgrimage experience.”

Apart from Jonathan, we are all first-time pilgrims. “It pleases me,” he says, “to be in the position to facilitate other people accessing a camino experience for the first time in their life.” 

The first three days of the Aussie Camino follow the Great South West Walk: the lighthouse-crowned Cape Nelson and its dramatic cliffs, the sweeping Bridgewater Bay, the volcanic bastion of Cape Bridgewater, the bird-rich Bridgewater Lakes and the windswept, sheer endless beach of Discovery Bay with its massive middens form the dramatic first stage for the pilgrims. High winds, towering waves and panoramic views over spectacular, salt-hazy coastal landscapes make these first three days memorable ones. It also challenges the physical and mental resilience of the pilgrims, with many kilometres walking along soft beaches, often into a stiff headwind and threatened by heavy showers. The unison of the Aussie Camino and the Great South West Walk ends in Nelson. Just past the town, the pilgrims enter SA.

As we walk, the multitude of reasons my fellow pilgrims joined the Aussie Camino become apparent. Although a pilgrimage is generally defined as a journey to a sacred or holy place, religion is not the driving motivation for most of these walkers. For Leanne, it is to make sense of a personal tragedy. For Wayne and his son, Jasper, it’s entirely different. “There are two aspects of this walk that I’m really liking,” Wayne says. “The first is, I have this beautiful 15-year-old son and this is an opportunity to spend eight days together walking and getting to know each other. And there is a spiritual dimension to my life and I like the chance to reflect.”

From Port MacDonnell onwards, the Aussie Camino leaves the wild coast behind, turning inland to a benign rural landscape with unsealed farm roads and fenced-in stock routes. The landscape is flat and in the far distance, the dark-green shape of Mt Schank, one of the youngest volcanoes in Australia, marks today’s lunch destination. Then on to Mount Gambier for the night. 

Walking now becomes the sole purpose, as little distractions assault the mind. As usual, Leanne is out front. “I don’t think about anything. I concentrate on my breathing and my steps,” she says later. The therapeutic and healing effects of walking are well documented, with tests revealing cognitive improvements; enhanced mood and life-satisfaction; and lower risks of heart disease, obesity and diabetes. 

During the day, the group spreads out and long stretches are walked alone. “Something like this gives you plenty of time to think about what you’re doing with your life, where you want to go, whether you’ve made a difference in the world,” Wayne says. Walking alone allows the mind to reach a higher meditative state. It becomes easy to switch off and let the mind freely wander – or to “grow trees of thoughts”, as famous Italian mountaineer Reinhold Messner once told me, referring to his solo traverse of the Greenland ice shield. 

The calling of Mary MacKillop

Mary MacKillop was born in Melbourne on
15 January 1842.

 Driven by a desire to educate children in the bush, she worked alongside parish priest Father Julian Tenison Woods to open her first school on 19 March 1866. It was housed in a converted stable in Penola.  

 In 1867 Mary founded Australia’s first order of nuns, the Sisters of St Joseph of the Sacred Heart. Father Woods wrote a “Rule” to direct their lives, emphasising poverty, simplicity and independence, so the Sisters would be free to move across dioceses. On 15 August Mary took her first vows and adopted the name “Mary of the Cross”. Her final vows were taken in 1869.

 Mary’s radical vision for the order, particularly her desire to be independent of directions by bishops, brought her into conflict with the Church’s authorities and led to her excommunication on 22 September 1871. The excommunication was technically removed on 23 February 1872.

 In 1873, after an audience with Pope Pius IX in Rome, she received approval for her order’s constitution by the Vatican authorities. 

 In 1885 Mary was deposed as Superior General on technical grounds but was re-elected by the Sisters of the order in 1899.

 Mary died in Sydney on 8 August 1909. At the time of her death the order had established 117 schools throughout Australia with more than 12,400 pupils overall.

 Mary was beatified by Pope John Paul II on
19 January 1995.

 On 17 October 2010 Mary MacKillop was canonised. She is the first Australian to be recognised as a saint by the Catholic Church.

Jan, the oldest pilgrim on this walk, is being challenged by the physical side of the Aussie Camino. She develops some nasty blisters and opts out of some of the more challenging sections of the walk, notably a few beach sections and the 6km-long track along the overgrown train line between Kalangadoo and Penola. “I think it is very challenging physically, but I knew it would be. I’m surprised I managed to get through three-quarters of a day’s walk.” Before the walk she was apprehensive about her abilities. “The most I’ve ever walked was about 13km,” she admits. Having some religious leanings, though not an active church-goer, she has long been inspired by the concept of a camino and was planning to go on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela before COVID threw a spanner in the works. Then her daughter pointed her towards the Aussie Camino. 

Like so many who choose to become pilgrims, Jan’s decision to go on a camino was motivated by more than just a fascination for these religious routes. “My husband died two and a half years ago, and I find what helps with the grief is walking.” She is one of three widows on this walk. And like the others, Jan is struggling. “Most mornings I feel weepy and I say to myself, ‘Just get over yourself, because you know when you walk out of the door that walking will help.’ I think that it is probably twofold – physical and mental. You are not in your head so much; you look wider.” 

Luke Mill’s Aussie Camino covers a distance of roughly 230km. Getaway Trekking’s version is shorter: we walk a total of 153km. The reason lies in a major difference between the European and Australian caminos. Along the caminos in Spain, Portugal and France, towns and villages provide accommodation and food for the pilgrims at regular distances. The Aussie Camino, however, covers large tracts without such infrastructure. To walk the entire distance would require pilgrims to be self-sufficient and carry heavy packs and camping gear. This would exclude many potential aspirants from the Aussie Camino. Getaway Trekking offers pilgrims a more sedate and comfortable version, where walking in urban areas such as Mount Gambier, for example, is avoided. Accommodation is organised and bulky luggage is transported. On key points along the way, pilgrims can opt to hop on the accompanying bus if issues such as blisters make further walking impossible. In the spirit of the great caminos, some of the accommodation is modest, ranging from heritage-listed B&Bs to pub rooms with shared facilities. 

From Mount Gambier, the walk leads through contrasting landscapes of extensive pine plantations and native bushland to the Dismal Swamp wetland. The night is spent in modest cabins surrounded by generous gardens. From there, rural roads guide pilgrims through open and flat country with few visual highlights, but plenty of time for contemplation and reflection. That changes on the outskirts of Kalangadoo. Here, a straight stretch of sealed road leads through a magnificent tree tunnel of mature gum trees to the small town, crowning the day with a glorious finish. Upon reaching Kalangadoo, the Camino enters an area of great beauty. Paddocks and pastures with large river red gums create a park-like landscape and make this last 29km section of the Camino a delight. On this leg, a 6km-long interlude along a disused railway track adds spice and a challenge for some pilgrims.

The Aussie Camino begins with a visit to the Mary MacKillop Heritage Centre in Melbourne, the first opportunity to learn about the saint. Her legacy at the other end, in Portland, is represented by the grand Bayview College and the All Saints Catholic Church, both overlooking Portland Harbour. At the end of the Camino, St Joseph’s Catholic Church in Penola awaits, with the Mary MacKillop Shrine and, right next to it, the Mary MacKillop Penola Centre. For deeply religious Kathleen, the highlight of the whole pilgrimage was arriving at the church, taking part in the ritual of mass, and then being blessed. “For the priest to bless us with the holy water, that’s the moment when you are feeling the rain of God all around you and on you physically.” 

Kathleen is a fit and strong walker. “I really love walking, I love being out in nature, so that was a really big impulse, but because I’m a woman of faith, that was an extra attraction,” she says. In her understanding, to go on pilgrimage is to walk towards the holy. “My inner voice was calling me to go on a pilgrimage, not just go on a hike or a trek. It’s got to have meaning for me, always. I don’t want to be a tourist.”

Walking a Camino and going on a pilgrimage differs from simply tackling a trekking route. Following a particular path with religious, spiritual or historic significance adds an extra dimension. Luke Mills writes in his Aussie Camino Guidebook, “Perhaps the one binding characteristic of a pilgrimage is that it must be a transformative experience – a life-changing experience.” Being religious is not a prerequisite. “I think religion and spirituality are two completely different things,” Wayne says. “Spirituality is about your personal journey and getting to know yourself, what gives your life meaning and what you think is important, where you think you fit in into the universe and into the world. You can only walk a spiritual journey if you spend time reflecting.”

“As far as spirituality goes,” Jan says, “being on a camino, I suppose, you are looking for those clues. I formulated the belief that being on a camino is like life. The thing that gets us through, apart from eating and drinking and a good night’s sleep, is friends. That’s my mantra for life, and the Camino mimics that, because we all become fairly friendly.” And then she adds: “If I’m not better by the time I’m back, I have to see the counsellor again. I have to. But I feel much better now!” 

For Leanne the last day of the Camino is another difficult day. It is the second anniversary of her husband’s suicide. She is withdrawn at first but during the day she comes around. When the group finally reaches the town sign of Penola she is happy. “Today,” she says, “I saw heaps of butterflies.”

Australian Geographic and Don Fuchs would like to thank Deb Manders and Getaway Trekking. 

The post A journey of faith appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Tom is joined by Alan Stuart, a fellow life member of the Hunter Bird Observers Club (HBOC), and New South Wales National Parks and Wildlife Service (NPWS) ranger Susanne Callaghan. Together, they are inspecting six nest boxes under a copse on the north‑east edge of Broughton Island. The trees cling to a steep slope, just before the land tumbles into the Tasman Sea, and they offer some protection from the elements for the boxes and their contents, which are treasure chests in the eyes of this trio. Alan and Tom have been lifting the lid on each of the boxes and peering hopefully inside, while Susanne has been documenting what they find. 

“Number two is empty,” Alan called out just moments earlier, followed by Tom’s declaration of “number one empty”. Then Tom had headed to box number three and carefully prised off the lid, leading to his exultant cry. “Looks like a Gould’s petrel,” he whispers as he tenderly lifts a chick from the nest box. “Still got a little bit of fluff, but you’re getting ready to fly, aren’t you.”

More than grasping a petrel, Tom is holding the hope of an endangered seabird species that’s becoming established on this spectacularly sculpted 132ha island, just off the coast from Port Stephens in northern NSW. Although it may feel gloriously distant from the cares of the world, Broughton Island has been within easy reach of the desires and ambitions of wave after wave of humans that have arrived at its shores, from professional fishers and scientists to tourists seeking to get away from it all. Through the years that impact has profoundly shaped – and threatened – life on the island. 

But dedicated teams have been working to not just conserve what is on Broughton, but retrieve what’s been lost.

As a destination, Broughton may be alluring, but the journey to the island is – on a calm day, at least – also a joy. The twin-hulled Envision bringing us here slices across the water from the tourist hub of Nelson Bay, then threads between the dramatic headlands of Tomaree and Yacaaba that guard the entrance to Port Stephens before embracing the sea. 

The distance from the port’s entrance north‑east to the island is only about 14km. So it’s not far, but the prospect of Broughton holds a sense of adventure among those on board, particularly for Susanne.

Broughton is the largest in a small group of islands sprinkled in this part of the sea, and is administered as part of Myall Lakes National Park. Being the NPWS ranger who looks after Broughton, Susanne has been visiting the island regularly since 2007. 

“I still get goosebumps,” she says, as she squints at the sapphire sea sparkling in the morning light. “Every trip offers something new, and it offers a new piece of the puzzle. There are always discoveries. It’s almost like the island reveals a little bit of itself every time.”

Also on board Envision are others who help find the pieces of the Broughton puzzle, including community members of the island’s Traditional Owners (TO), the Worimi, and a team from HBOC. At the vessel’s helm is Stephen Murray, who’s usually transporting daytrippers out here. They come to see whales migrating just beyond the island, to snorkel, or to while away a few hours walking on Broughton. “They love it. It’s just 40 minutes up the coast from the [Nelson] bay and they never want to go back,” Stephen says. “It’s like a deserted island – it has that feel to it.”

As we approach from the south, Broughton Island rises from the sea. It looks dramatically beautiful, wearing its jagged crown of Pinkatop Head, but forbidding, guarded by the waves breaking along its rocky edges. 

Then the island relents and invites Envision into the more sedate waters of Esmeralda Cove. At the head of the cove, sprinkled along the shore are eight huts. Most belong to families who have tenaciously held on to these buildings for generations, through tempests, both meteorological and political, that have threatened to sweep the shacks off the island.

The settlement is the most obvious sign of a human presence on the island, but there are others to be found. As we step off the boat and onto the sand, the water embraces our legs. We unload the supplies and trudge up the beach towards the huts, impressing our arrival into the sand with each step. 

Worimi women, twins Auntie Sheryl Hendry and Auntie Beryl Cowan, point out that our arrival has already been noted. “Mother [Earth] is hearing the footsteps, the vibrations of us being here,” Sheryl explains. The sisters use a stick to trace a drawing in the sand to inform Mother Earth about who we are and what we are doing here. 

These women, who’ve spent all their lives in the Port Stephens area, have only recently stepped onto Broughton for the first time – Sheryl just a few weeks earlier at a Worimi community day, and Beryl in 2022. Yet they have always felt a connection to this place just across the sea. “Our belonging place,” says Beryl, of what she feels stepping onto the island. Growing up, the sisters heard stories of women in the mid‑1800s paddling bark canoes 3km or so from Dark Point, the closest spot on the mainland, to the island to fish and collect other food. 

TO Jamie Tarrant, chair of the Worimi Conservation Lands Board of Management and also a NPWS officer, listens to the sisters talk of those ancestors paddling to the island. He has no doubt what enticed them across the water. “There’s an abundance of every resource you could ever desire here,” Jamie says. “The fish resources, the birds, the plants; it’s a place of abundance. We know this place is special. You can see it. You can feel it.”

With the Worimi community members is Laura Dafter, a PhD student in archaeology at The University of Sydney. Since 2019, she’s been studying the cultural heritage and archaeology of Broughton Island, working closely with the Worimi community. Her work has underpinned what’s called the Broughton Island Cultural Heritage Research Project. 

“To me, Broughton Island is special because it has so many layers of significance,” Laura says, explaining the thickest and most profound layer is the continuing Worimi connection. She says the Worimi would have been coming here for millennia, most likely walking this land before it was even an island. Then the rising seas 9000–6000 years ago formed the island that would be named by the British, apparently in honour of the naval officer who surveyed these waters, Commander William Broughton. Meanwhile the Worimi kept coming to this land.

“I was fascinated about people making that treacherous journey to the island in a bark canoe,” Laura says. “It captured my interest as an archaeologist of how people engaged with the island, and why they wanted to make that journey.”

Laura believes the island has the potential to contribute new information to develop our understanding of Australia’s natural and cultural history. “One of the things that make Broughton stand out is that it has a high density of cultural and archaeological sites,” she says. 

The community members and the archaeologist lead me to one of these sites that indicate Broughton Island has been not only a place of abundance, but of industry.

The swishing sound hangs softly in the air as we traipse over a hill cloaked with waist‑high blady grass and lomandra. We’re walking through the heart of the island to its south‑western corner. We reach the rock shelf girding the island’s edge and follow Jamie as he sets a course across the surf-shaped shoreline, stopping at a shelf pocked with dozens of grooves.

“Each of these grooves holding water is where an axe or spear was born,” Jamie says. He believes it was most likely men who would have sat here, shaping and sharpening the pieces for their tools and weapons. “It’s a factory,” he says. “If you look at the rock here, the quality of the stone, it would have been like a supermarket for stone back in the day. This wasn’t just a stopover or a camp, this was an industry of manufacturing stone tools.” Laura says the site holds at least 60 grooves. Jamie adds he isn’t aware of any other site of this scale in Worimi Country. 

Wordlessly, the sisters slowly walk between the grooves, peering into the water they hold. Sheryl, who is seeing the site for the first time, sits beside one groove and strokes the stone, feeling its smoothness. “It’s blown my mind to see it,” she says, all the while touching the stone. “You put your hand in there and know our ancestors have been here, doing the same thing.”

Sheryl and her sister look up and gaze across the water to Dark Point on the mainland, from where their ancestors paddled to reach the island. “When you’re at Dark Point, it looks shorter,” Beryl murmurs. 

Long after Worimi people began paddling across the water to the island, other fishers turned up at this place of abundance seeking to catch a living. According to John Clarke, local historian and author of the book Broughton Islanders, Chinese fishers worked the island’s waters from the mid-1800s, followed by fishers originally from Italy. 

In the early years of the 20th century, Greek-Australian fishers established a settlement known as Little Salonika at the island’s northern end.

Just over the island’s sandy hills and sparsely wooded forests, professional fishers of various nationalities set up camp around what would become known as Esmeralda Cove. Rough huts built from whatever could be boated in – or carried in by the sea – took shape along the shore. Equally rough, it seems, was the atmosphere. 

“When the commercial fishermen were there it was putrid, because they had all their bait out to dry, and they used everything for bait,” John says. “It was wild, it was rough as guts.” 

In time, the professional fishermen around Esmeralda Cove were joined by those looking for somewhere to fish and holiday beyond the mainland, leaving behind the rules and cares of life back there. 

“It was very much a rough, male-dominated domain,” adds John, who’s been visiting the island since the mid‑1970s. Back then, he would see blokes rolling a keg of beer from their boat up to the huts. The hut occupants’ playground was about to become a battleground. After the island was gazetted as part of Myall Lakes National Park in 1972, the huts were effectively on public land. In the 1980s, NPWS looked at options for removing them. Mother Nature had washed away a couple in big storms, but the occupants were not so easily moved by a plan of management. 

The hut owners and users formed a group that would eventually be known as the Broughton Island Conservation Society Incorporated (BICSI). The group lobbied politicians and appealed to parliament that the huts should be conserved, for they were not just a place of recreation and part of the island’s tradition, but a shelter for mariners in strife. 

Eventually, it was decided the huts could stay. BICSI reached an agreement with NPWS. The conservation society owns the buildings and has a licence to use the sites. As part of the licence, BICSI members pay a quarterly fee to NPWS for each hut. 

The fight to keep the huts is etched in metal. On the side of one hut are plaques for three men who were instrumental in “the struggle to retain Broughton Island and its huts for those interested in fishing, recreational activities and camping”. That “struggle” is also imprinted in the minds of families who have been coming to the island for decades. 

Sitting under a shelter outside the hut his family has been coming to for five generations is Mitchell Ward, the president of BICSI, along with long-time friend and sometime-neighbour from two doors down, Robert ‘Dick’ Dyer. Both have been holidaying on the island for about half a century, since they were kids. 

Mitch gazes at the line of huts. Each has their own architectural style and name, telling something of the building’s history or occupants. The hut that’s a part of Mitch is called Westy-Brook, acknowledging the Hunter Valley hometowns of the two families who have occupied it – West Wallsend and Muswellbrook. I ask Mitch what makes this place special to him. “Memories, just memories, mate,” the retired coalminer replies.

Among those memories is the time when the occupants faced the prospect of losing their huts. Dick’s father, Bob Dyer, was one of the campaign leaders to retain them. If they had gone, Dick says, more than a holiday haven would have disappeared: lives would have been lost at sea. He proudly shows off the emergency radio mounted on the wall next to the plaques honouring those involved in “the struggle”. That radio has brought help to stricken mariners. 

“We’ve had quite a few rescues,” Dick says. Other boaters have sought refuge in the huts, when the weather has turned foul. 

No-one lives on the island. However, the huts’ occupants also act as de facto managers for the island, because no ranger is based here full-time. The occupants have carried out restoration work on the huts and shoreline, and they keep an eye on visitors. Without them, Dick believes the island would’ve become a littered mess. “I don’t think it would be the same,” he says. 

Susanne Callaghan agrees. “The group does a really good job of looking after this place when we’re not here and when we are here, and that’s been for a very long time,” she says. “I don’t see that changing. And I feel like our relationship is at a really good place. We’re working together a lot more than we used to.” 

A lot has changed with the huts. The buildings are rudimentary, with bunks in common areas and few conveniences. Broughton’s allure has little to do with convenience, after all. Most people come here to connect with themselves by switching off from contemporary gadgets and comforts. However, some of those gadgets and comforts have been brought onto the island. The huts have solar and battery power, there is a sewerage system (and flushing toilets) and mobile phone boosters have been installed. In Westy-Brook there’s even a television. 

“This has got all the mod cons. It’s the fancy one,” Dick says of Westy-Brook. His family’s hut, Broughton Hall, is more modest, but with the same priceless water view. 

What has also changed here is the atmosphere. “Beforehand, it was all blokes,” Mitch says. “They’d just come up here to go fishing, have a few drinks. Now it’s also the women and kids.” Mitch’s wife, Shari, joins us. “I call it our Broughton family,” she says. “We know all the families. The kids, they’ve all come here year after year. It’s a beautiful little community.”

The community is not as enclosed as it once was. Broughton Island is increasingly on the tourist map. Cruise boats with up to 80 passengers on board bring people for a few hours relaxation and exploration on the island. 

Recreational boaters also make their way into Esmeralda Cove. Some stay overnight, camping on the platforms provided by NPWS, overlooking a strip of sand with views that defy its name, Little Poverty Beach, and surrounded by the cries of shearwaters that nest in their tens of thousands on the island. “It’s the only place in NSW where you can camp in an active seabird colony,” Susanne says.

Setting up their swag on a platform are Chris Gameren and Tonya Pou. The Sydney couple have just arrived from Port Stephens on their speedboat. It’s Tonya’s first time here, and she’s astounded by how quiet it is (at least, by day, before the shearwater chicks come out of their burrows). “It gives me a bit of a Mallorca vibe,” says Tonya, who’s originally from that Spanish island. Chris is returning to his past, having visited Broughton on family holidays when he was younger. To preserve the island’s atmosphere, he says, “the obvious one is restricting the numbers of people”.

Broughton Island has up to 5000 visitors a year. NPWS has a cap of 30 campers at any one time. But Susanne concedes with improvements in boating technology and the growing desire for people to “discover” convenient getaways, the pressure on Broughton Island will grow. “We’re going to have to watch this space very closely over the next 5–10 years to make sure we are still keeping that balance between conservation and visitation,” she says. “I really hope they [visitors] leave with some high level of understanding about the island, because we’ve got to conserve it and have a level of access so that people will understand how important it is.”

More than a century ago, scientists set up on the island in a bid to save Australia’s agricultural land from the scourge of rabbits, but ended up setting off a trail of destruction on Broughton. In 1906 a team of biologists built a laboratory and living quarters on a knoll overlooking Esmeralda Cove and carried out experiments on rabbits brought to the island. The program was abolished after about a year. The scientists left Broughton – but the rabbits didn’t. The introduced species wreaked havoc across the island, chewing away the vegetation until vast tracts were left bare. 

Jumping ashore from visiting boats came another marauder, the black rat. For humans, rats were a nuisance. “You used to stay in a hut and have rats jumping over you all night long,” recalls Mitchell Ward, who has been coming here since his childhood. But the rats had a more profound impact on the island’s bird population, eating eggs and chicks. 

Although shearwaters continued nesting on the island, another seabird species, the white‑faced storm petrel, soon disappeared. For there to have been any hope of that species returning, both rabbits and rats had to be removed from the island. Susanne and her NPWS colleagues planned an eradication program, involving the controlled release of a calicivirus and the use of baits. 

John Clarke recalls Susanne telling him of the plan to deal with the century‑old problem: “I said, ‘Susanne, you’re not going to be able to do it. You’re dreaming. It’s not going to work.’”

In 2009 the service implemented the program – and it worked. “No‑one’s seen a rabbit since,” John says. “Since the rabbits have gone, it’s obvious the vegetation has returned.”

“The island looks nothing like what it looked like 10 years ago,” Susanne says. “It makes me wonder what it will look like in another 10 years. The vegetation has changed, and that’s driving a lot of other changes that we need to investigate.” 

To study these changes, teams from HBOC have been travelling to Broughton Island on survey excursions four times a year since 2012. They also introduced a banding program in 2017, to identify individual birds and better understand their movements.

On this occasion, seven club members have made the journey. The bird observers fan out across the island, erecting nets that range from 6m to 18m in length. They regularly check the nets. “You never know what you’re going to get in the net,” observes Judy Little, who’s a lawyer during the week. 

In just one day, they catch 79 birds. These are brought to a “banding station”, which is a space between two containers that serve as storage sheds. In the station is a line of wriggling white bags, each containing a bird. Each will be examined, measured and weighed, and if it hasn’t been previously caught and identified, it will be banded before being released. Most of the birds being examined are silvereyes, but there is also a juvenile golden whistler that protests being handled. “Don’t bite me,” Judy says, placing a band on its leg, while it grabs her finger with its beak. 

The team members talk as they call out details of each bird. “We’re getting new birds coming all the time (‘this is a 46 tail’) so we check them,” Judy says. 

This visit has the team excited about netting a new discovery, a Lewin’s rail. “It’s the first time we’ve caught one on the island in our study,” Alan Stuart says. “We hear them because the call is distinctive, but they’re so secretive. I’ve actually tried many times to catch [one].” 

Inspecting the bird’s dense plumage, long-time club member Rob Kyte notes that it’s a juvenile. Before it’s released, the Lewin’s rail is banded to determine if this individual is staying on the island or coming and going. It all adds to the store of knowledge and the growing hopes of a rejuvenating environment. 

“We’re seeing species that are increasing in population,” Alan says of the changing survey results since 2012. “We are also seeing species arriving on the island to live here.”

Two species that have needed more enticement are Gould’s petrel and the white-faced storm petrel. The latter once thrived on the island. Susanne tells how historic journals noted there were thousands of petrels here. When asked why they disappeared, she replies with one word: “Rats.”

Alan says that although there have been small colonies of Gould’s petrel on nearby islands, there are no records of the species on Broughton before the pests arrived. But after the rats were eradicated, a faint cry that held echoes of huge encouragement was heard. From the base of the cliff on the northern side of Pinkatop Head, the island’s highest point, came the sound of a petrel. An investigation using a remote camera revealed a Gould’s petrel incubating an egg.

In a bid to attract more breeding pairs to the island, HBOC and NPWS installed nest boxes at the top of the cliff in 2017. There were six for Gould’s petrels and, a little further up the hill, nine for white-faced storm petrels. To put the call out, the team also installed a couple of loudspeakers that emitted a recording of the petrels’ mournful cries. 

In 2018 the first breeding pair of Gould’s petrel was spotted in a box. Then the following year, an egg. In all, there have been eight Gould’s petrel fledglings from the nest boxes on the island. 

“It’s just fantastic,” Alan says of the program. “It’s the greatest excitement when you see an adult with an egg, then a chick, then it’s fledged. It’s, ‘Hey! This is working!’”

If the journey to attract the petrels has been a slog, so too is the walk to inspect the nest boxes. The trek from Esmeralda Cove to Pinkatop Head is not far as the crow flies – about 1.3km – but it’s an odyssey on the ground. We clamber through thick vegetation that’s sprouted since rabbits were eradicated. 

By way of pain relief, the route offers spectacular views over the island and down the coastline of the mainland, and of the sea. 

After 45 minutes hiking, we reach the trees sheltering the nest boxes for the Gould’s petrels. Before opening them, Alan mentions that a couple of months ago there were two chicks. 

Tom has his moment of joy when he opens box number three. “There you go, darling,” he says quietly as he puts the bird back into the nest box, then turns to continue speaking to me. “I admire them,” Tom says. “They’re gorgeous-looking things. And their lifestyle. This bird is going to leave this island, fly around the ocean for maybe up to five years, before it gets the signal to breed, so it might come [back] here.”

“Chances are when they do decide to breed, they’ll come back here because it’s imprinted on their memory,” Alan says. The lid‑lifting continues. In box six, there is a shearwater chick. Box four is empty, just as numbers one and two were. That leaves just box five. 

“This one must be a winner,” Alan predicts, as Tom lifts the lid. “It’s empty!” Tom says. “It’s gone, it’s fledged,” Susanne adds. “From fluffy ball to seabird,” Tom murmurs.

The storm petrel nest boxes are also checked. They’re empty. So far, there’s been no sign of a white-faced storm petrel having bred in the boxes. But Alan is optimistic. “I hope to see the Gould’s petrel colony grow in size and using natural nesting cavities as well as boxes, and that we find the storm petrels.” 

“We’re having some wins,” Susanne says of the petrel project. “While it’s still a small colony, it’s a very important small colony. It’s important because, one, it’s a very rare seabird, it’s a threatened species. And, two, [it shows] that management actions can have real outcomes.” 

As poet John Donne wrote, “No man is an island entire of itself”. The Worimi community members who are with us today emphasise that the island needs humans to work together. To demonstrate the point, they produce a mat that Laura is weaving from strands of fibre. “Laura makes up one of these threads, the birdos make one of these threads and Suse makes a thread,” Jamie explains. “So the day we’re all working together as a community, this mat will grow.”

“We’re all on this mat now,” Sheryl adds. 

“And if everyone doesn’t work together, there is just a pile of separate strands,” Jamie says. “And no mat. As a result, the island would suffer.” 

“I think this place means so much to everybody – the huttos, the community, National Parks,” he continues. “We’ve got too much to risk and we all have to work together for the best outcome for everybody.”

Yet, for an island that’s not even 3km long and is less than 2km at its widest, and cradling a fragile environment, Broughton is expected to carry a lot of human hopes and expectations. So is the island big enough to hold all of that? As she gazes at the waters in Esmeralda Cove, Susanne laughs and replies, “I think the island is bigger than Ben-Hur! It’s 132ha, that’s its physical size, but in people’s minds and people’s hearts, it’s a lot bigger. It is a little island, but it is a big island.”

Related: Discovering Broughton Island

The post Broughton’s inconvenient allure appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Most state, territory and federal government services for Indigenous Australians have been very expensive, based on inappropriate data, and ignorant of vital Aboriginal knowledge. 

Programs that are initiated and implemented by Aboriginal experts, or in close collaboration with them, are trusted and used, are based on local personal/geographic/social circumstances about which Aboriginal experts are fully informed, and enhance the self-esteem and mental health of the community. Examples include: the First Nations COVID response, Aboriginal birthing, and the Youth Justice System. These show that when services are developed with Indigenous knowledge, they are extremely effective.

COVID response: All colonised, Indigenous populations internationally are at very high risk from pandemics such as COVID. They are more likely to: have chronic disease; live in overcrowded housing; have limited understanding of viral infections; live in cities with potential exposures being high. We, therefore, expected very high infection, hospitalisations and death rates from COVID in Aboriginal populations. And yet, nationwide, Aboriginal populations had six times fewer cases than non-Indigenous groups. A complete reversal of the gap! 

In 2020 and 2021, there were low rates of hospitalisation, no deaths, no cases in remote communities and no cases after the Black Lives Matter marches. This extraordinary, and unexpected, outcome was due to the Aboriginal leadership taking control of all activities for prevention, diagnosis and treatment, as well as housing, social and medical support. From the National Aboriginal Community Controlled Health Organisation (NACCHO) down to state/territory, regional and remote areas, Aboriginal services demanded and received all the resources they needed to implement this success. They had a Voice that was acted upon. 

The 2009 H1N1 flu pandemic was disastrous in Aboriginal populations nationally. Then, Aboriginal people did not have a seat at the table, but in 2020 they did. However, when that Voice was ignored in 2021–22, in addition to a poor vaccine rollout and premature opening of communities, there were cases and deaths. Still, overall, the results were extraordinary and should be lauded.

Aboriginal birthing: All the essential prerequisites for a healthy, productive life are laid down during pregnancy and the early childhood years. When Aboriginal people run their own culturally strong birthing services, outcomes are improved throughout life. It is perhaps in these early programs that mainstream services have let Aboriginal families down more than in any other area, because of the power of this vital time to overcome the inter-generational trauma left from colonisation. 

There are two major examples of success: 

1. Studies from around the world and in Australia show that having Indigenous doulas improves all birth outcomes for babies and their mothers, due to attendance for antenatal care and good preventive and cultural activities.

2. Aboriginal community-controlled early years centres (ACCEYC) around Australia (there were about 75 in 2015) provided culturally safe wrap-around services for parents and children. They adapted all the evidence-based principles of early care to local Aboriginal settings, and resulted in: more children being ready for and attending school; more Aboriginal youth completing Year 12; and fewer children with poor mental health (see AIHW closing the gap reports aihw.gov.au). 

The Coalition government stopped funding these 75 centres in 2015–16 with disastrous results, one of which is an increase in frightening youth behaviours and incarceration seen today in Alice Springs, Darwin, Queensland and Western Australia.

What is the gap?

The gap refers to the difference in years in the health and life expectancy between Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. The Close the Gap Campaign aims to close that gap, currently estimated at 8.6 years for men and 7.8 years for women, within a generation. The campaign, launched in 2006 by the Australian Human Rights Commission, is based on evidence that displays significant improvements in the health status of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders can be achieved by 2030.

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Image credit: shutterstock

Youth justice: The developmental pathways that result in more Aboriginal children being detained in Australia begin in pregnancy and early life. All children and youth in detention have had a harmful developmental pathway due, for example, to fetal alcohol spectrum disorder, ADHD, intellectual disability or early life trauma. None would have had a normal nurturing early life. 

Indigenous children can be detained as young as 10 – the age of criminal responsibility in Australia – in some states. The response of state governments to lock up these damaged children and not provide therapeutic programs results in more leaving detention with very serious behavioural issues. They are much more likely to reoffend and commit more-serious crimes. In addition to the ACCEYC already mentioned, there are several successful Aboriginal diversionary programs that manage these children to avoid them being locked up. Such programs use strong cultural environments and respected leaders; all of them succeed in most of their children avoiding incarceration. Many put these damaged children on a pathway to successful societal participation, surrounding them with the strong nurturing and therapeutic services they need. They are much more cost-effective than youth detention centres, which cost $500,000 per year, per child. 

Even under-funded, the diversionary programs have succeeded in averting catastrophic outcomes for Aboriginal children. An outstanding example, which also demonstrates the power of Indigenous data sovereignty (see: healthinfonet.ecu.edu.au/learn/cultural-ways/data-sovereignty), is the Justice Reinvestment Project in Bourke. Based on its own data collection and analysis, which described pathways into crime, the community partnered with all the relevant mainstream services, such as health, police, child protection, housing and substance abuse. See Maranguka community (seerdata.ai/maranguka-community-hub) for results that have been transformative.

Data from Canada have shown that the First Nations pop-ulations that run their own services not only have better services but rates of youth suicide are much lower. This is due to high self-esteem in the community, proud of culture and knowledge. Aboriginal birthing services in the Nunavut community in Northern Ontario showed reduced alcohol use, domestic violence and suicide. The evidence is clear. Having a Voice will make a huge difference to improving First Nations outcomes.

To find out more about how the Voice could help close the gap: yes23.com.au

Professor Fiona Stanley is an Australian epidemiologist who was named Australian of the Year in 2003. She is the UNICEF Australian Ambassador for Early Childhood Development.

Professor Marcia Langton, a descendant of the Yiman and Bidjara nations, is an academic, anthropologist and geographer. She is the first associate provost at the University of Melbourne.

The Voice to Parliament Handbook by Thomas Mayo and Kerry O’Brien, published by Hardie Grant Explore, May 2023, RRP $16.99

Related: Listening to the voices

The post Why the Voice to Parliament will help close the gap appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The family patriarch, Alexander Walker Davidson, emigrated from Scotland to the NSW colony in 1841 with his wife and seven children. After stints as a carpenter and publican, and then trying his hand in the gold rush, in 1861 Alexander eventually settled on the Kiah Inlet on the southern shores of Twofold Bay. 

Twofold Bay already had a long association with whaling, first through its Traditional Owners and then with Boydtown, a whaling town created and funded by Benjamin Boyd in the early 1840s. This Scottish-born entrepreneur envisaged the town as a thriving port and whaling centre but abandoned the ambitious project in 1849 after declaring bankruptcy. Boyd fled the colony and his town fell to ruin. 

The whaling season typically ran between June and November when whales head north to breed in the warmer oceans and then return to Antarctica. Inshore whaling was a spectacle that attracted large crowds who cheered as the boats set off to sea. “All is hurry and scurry to man the boats, and away go the crews to do battle with the monster,” reported Australian Town and Country Journal in 1906. “It little troubles the whaling crew where the battleground be – their one object is to make the whale fast – and with nerves and teeth set the crew launches the attack.”

Alexander and his sons likely witnessed such an event before pursuing whaling as a family business. During the next seven decades Alexander, his son John and grandson George dominated the local whaling scene. Historians speculate the key to the Davidsons’ success lay in their close relationship with the local Thaua people whom they hired for their boat crew. The Traditional Owners had lived in the area for more than 5000 years and enjoyed a special relationship with killer whales (orcas). Cultivated through generations, this unusual bond saw orcas herd passing whales into the bay to be harpooned. 

“The killers [orcas] were deadly enemies of the whales, and about June 1 each year, as regularly as clockwork, they came from the Antarctic and took up their posts, like soldiers on guard,” reported The Sydney Morning Herald in 1942. “They were all well known and each had his own name. The killers remained for about six months, patrolling the ocean… When a whale had been harpooned they ‘assisted’ in doing it to death.” 

According to local legend, orcas would only collaborate with the Davidsons. In payment for their services, they were given the lips and tongues of the butchered whales. This sacrosanct deal between humans and orcas was called “the law of the tongue”. The most famous orca was Old Tom – identified by his unusually tall dorsal fin – who assisted the family for four decades. Today, Old Tom’s preserved skeleton is on display at the Eden Killer Whale Museum. 

Harpooned whales were drawn up onto the beach and then processed at the tryworks, where blubber was boiled down into oil. The work was gruelling and laborious, made worse by the stench that clung to skin, clothes and hair. The oil and other whale by-products, including bones, were taken to the nearby town of Eden and shipped to Sydney and beyond. The Davidsons typically processed 10–15 whales per season, but sometimes caught up to 22. By 1925 this annual number had dwindled to two. 

Kiah House – the original Davidson homestead – was destroyed by bushfires in 1928, and the following year George caught his last whale. At the time, George lived in the Loch Garra cottage, which he’d built in 1896. The Davidson family left Twofold Bay in the 1940s, and today the historic cottage is managed by NSW National Parks and Wildlife.

Related: Return of the killer whales of Eden, NSW

The post ‘The law of the tongue’: Humans and orcas once worked together to hunt whales appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Australia is home to 20 of them.

“Australia’s collection of 20 UNESCO World Heritage sites are some of the most extraordinary natural and cultural treasures on the planet – after all, a place has to be truly remarkable to make it onto UNESCO’s list,” boasts Tourism Australia.

“Our World Heritage wonders range from prehistoric rainforest wilderness and ancient Aboriginal settlements to unique landscapes and natural attractions, as well as convict heritage and iconic 20th century buildings. Some are listed for their heritage values, others for their natural or cultural values. Many achieved their special status thanks to the passion and commitment of conservationists, ensuring that these special places will always be treasured. Here’s a taste of some of them.

Related: Will this be Australia’s next World Heritage Area?

The post World Heritage sites of Australia appeared first on Australian Geographic.

To our modern eyes the paintings lack the vitality and strength of the animals we are familiar with in Australia. The kangaroo more closely resembles a rodent than a bipedal marsupial. The dingo’s glassy-eyed stare lacks any animation.

Stubbs was renowned for how well he captured horses and dogs. Even today, those paintings of his capture the lifelike individual essence of his subject. So why did his paintings of the dingo and kangaroo – some of the earliest European representations of Australian animals – look so strange?

‘To compare it would be impossible’

Stubbs had not travelled with the 1768 Endeavour expedition to the South Seas. Instead, Banks commissioned him to paint from skins collected during the voyage.

While the journey was officially to chart the transit of Venus across the Sun from the vantage point of Tahiti, King George III also secretly instructed James Cook to search for the fabled Terra Australis Incognito and

with the consent of the Natives […] to take possession of a Continent or Land of great extent […]in the Name of the King of Great Britain.

Banks collected the skins of a “large dog” and a “kongouro” (thought to be a misinterpretation of the Guugu Yimidhirr word gangurru, which refers to the Grey Kangaroo) when the Endeavour pulled into safe harbour for repairs after striking the Great Barrier Reef in June 1770.

Banks recorded his first impressions of this very unfamiliar animal in his journal entry dated July 14 1770.

To compare it to any European animal would be impossible as it had not the least resemblance of any one I have seen. Its fore legs are extremely short and of no use to it in walking, its hind again as disproportionately long; with these it hops 7 or 8 feet at each hop in the same manner as the Gerbua, to which animal indeed it bears much resemblance, except in size […]

Sydney Parkinson, one of the artists who accompanied Banks, made five sketches of the dead animal after it was shot by one of the ship’s gamekeepers.

These sketches, the flayed (and possibly inflated) skins, Banks’ journal entry and his personal memories were the material that informed Stubbs as he made his preparations to paint these very unfamiliar animals.

The semantic memory

Stubbs was lauded for his anatomically correct forms of horses and dogs. On occasion, Stubbs also painted exotic animals like the lions housed in the Royal Menagerie.

But his paintings of the dingo and kangaroo were the first time he painted animals he had never studied from life.

Stubbs capitalised on the swell of interest in the return of the Endeavour by exhibiting the paintings at the Society of Artists in London 1773.

This brought the dingo and the kangaroo to the scientific community and public’s attention. The animals became the two most associated with the new world of Australia – adding greatly to Great Britain’s sense of national pride as the conqueror of new worlds.

Stubbs’ kangaroo painting set the standard for future representations of the animal until well into the 19th century, serving as a model for engravings and illustrations used in scientific and popular publications.

But Stubbs’ kangaroo more closely resembles the rat-like Gerbua of Banks’ description than the creature we know today. This can perhaps be explained by Stubbs’s unfamiliarity with the animals.

As an artist who had made a lifelong study of the anatomy and movement of animals, he would normally have relied on what psychologists refer to as “implicit memory” when painting his subject in the studio. That is, the unconscious memory he would instinctively rely on from years of painting animals he was familiar with.

It’s a bit like riding a bicycle: once learned, it’s never forgotten.

In this case, Stubbs primarily relied on “semantic memory”, or general knowledge of his experiences in the world, to paint the unfamiliar by utilising the knowledge, written material and personal recollections Banks had given to him.

Having been told a kangaroo was a giant rat-like gerbua by Banks, it is understandable that Stubbs also relied on his implicit memory of rats and gerbuas to depict the kangaroo.

Rendering the unfamiliar

As an artist, I can relate to this. My paintings of unfamiliar landscapes in Scotland and Ireland always seem to depict trees that look like eucalypts.

Despite using the same brand of watercolours I have used my whole artistic life, the way I paint the interplay of light, shadow and hue on mountain passes, birch groves and fields of heather and gorse usually seems more gaudy than the dull blue-grey colours of the Australian bush.

Unconsciously, I overlay the hues of the Australian landscape onto my paintings of the British landscape in order to tone the gaudiness down – much like the English painters who conversely depicted the Australian bush as English landscapes.

Rendering the unfamiliar familiar.

Janelle Evans, Senior Lecturer, Critical and Theoretical Studies, Victorian College of the Arts, Faculty of Fine Arts and Music, The University of Melbourne

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: This 17,500-year-old kangaroo has been recognised as Australia’s oldest Aboriginal rock painting

The post Painting the unfamiliar appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Biting down on a flickering torch, with a dust-encrusted clay tobacco pipe in one hand and his camera in the other, Thomas Wielecki hauls himself up through a trapdoor at the historic Berrima Vault House. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when you told me we were going to drive the old Hume from Sydney to Melbourne,” the photographer says, as he plucks cobwebs from his hair.

After leaving Sydney this morning, the first couple of hours of our road trip unfolded like clockwork. We stopped to admire the exquisite workmanship of the heritage-listed Lansdowne Bridge near Fairfield, in south-western Sydney. Opened in 1836, the bridge features a sandstone arch with the largest span of any surviving masonry bridge in Australia. We then checked out the white concrete mileposts in the main street of Camden – relics from the time when the Hume Highway ran through the centre of town – and successfully negotiated the tortuous climb over the Razorback Range, near Picton.

But after arriving in the historic hamlet of Berrima, we discover that when travelling the old Hume you need to expect the unexpected. Unlike the monotonous drive along the modern Hume Highway – which, since 2013, incorporates the Hume Freeway and Hume Motorway, and bypasses every town between Australia’s two largest cities, Sydney and Melbourne – exploring the old Hume is like launching into a choose-your-own-adventure story, especially if you’re willing to scratch the surface.

That’s exactly what we do at the Berrima Vault House. Built in 1844 as the Taylor’s Crown Inn, the landmark was recently transformed into an elegantly appointed country club. It’s open to the public from Thursday to Sunday, and event manager Gabby Hopping gives us a tour.

The underground spirit bar, cosy den and series of dining rooms – one of which is home to one of the biggest open fireplaces in the country – are all impressive. But it’s a small door enticingly labelled “Tunnel” that catches our attention.

“Dating back to the mid-1800s, there are stories of contraband being trafficked through a tunnel across to the jail on the other side of the road,” Gabby says. “During recent excavation works we discovered what might be its entrance – hardly anyone has been down there yet.”

That’s all the encouragement Thomas needs. He lowers himself into the tunnel entrance. “In the direction of the jail, it’s closed off with stone that looks like it’s been there a long time,” he says, showing us the photos he’s just captured.

Thomas’s chance discovery of a partially buried 19th-century clay tobacco pipe adds to our intrigue about what this space would have been used for, and who might have left the pipe here. There’s so much to discover along the old Hume.

The old Hume Highway has had several monikers over the years. It was once known as the Great South Road in parts of New South Wales, and Sydney Road in Victoria. Indeed, it was only in 1928 that both state governments agreed to rename the entire inland route between Sydney and Melbourne the Hume Highway after NSW-born explorer Hamilton Hume. In 1824 Hume and William Hovell, an Englishman, were the first Europeans to travel the route. It wasn’t fully sealed until 1940. Later, in 1954, the road was signed National Route 31.

Sections that meander through now-bypassed towns such as Berrima are signposted and well maintained. But for the curious motorist who wants to follow as much of the original route as possible, finding it is often a case of hit or miss. Heading south, we soon discover stretches of the historic route that disappear without warning into paddocks or end abruptly at fences, grids or piles of blue metal, some with and others without “Road Closed” signs. 

At one of these dead ends is Black Horse Farm. Despite the fact that the farm stands only 15m from today’s Hume Highway, not many modern-day travellers know about this former pub. Even fewer have visited. But it hasn’t always been like that. 

Strategically built in 1835 at the junction of several roads, the famed watering hole – originally called the Black Horse Inn – was heavily frequented by passers-by, including many who harboured nefarious motives. 

In fact, the Black Horse Inn was robbed so many times during the mid-1800s by bushrangers, including the notorious Ben Hall Gang, that police would hide in the bushes nearby waiting for the next robbery. 

These days it’s a private home, where Christopher Dalton lives with a menagerie of horses and peacocks. “They arrested the bushranger Jackey Jackey [William Westwood] after a fight here in 1841,” Christopher says, leading us inside to where 19th-century travellers quenched their thirst. “His great-grandson even made a pilgrimage here recently to see where he was captured.” 

Despite living here for much of his life, Christopher knows the building still holds secrets he has yet to uncover. Apparently, a cellar lies somewhere beneath the creaking floorboards. “But I’ve never found the entrance,” he says. 

However, it’s another original building – carefully crafted stone stables – behind the house that is the real treasure. Now overgrown by Boston ivy, the stables feature open slit windows that were designed to be used to defend attacks by marauding bushrangers and other thieving criminals. 

Christopher shows us around the stable buildings, which have fresh straw on the floor and feature rustic timber beams. “If only the walls could talk. Think of all the animals – and probably some people – who’ve sheltered here over the years,” Christopher says, shouting over the constant whir of traffic zooming along the Hume Highway.

Just south of Black Horse Farm is Hanging Rock Road, a rare stretch of very old Hume, where between 1864 and 1874 travellers paid a fee towards road maintenance at a toll bar. Bushrangers regularly fleeced the toll collector of his daily takings. Today, on the upgraded Hume Highway near here, there is a service centre.

Such modern mega service centres and their adjoining fast-food outlets have sucked the life out of many small towns, including Marulan, with a population of about 1200, just south of here. Its main street contains almost as many boarded-up shops as those with their doors open. 

Even some of the bigger towns have fallen victim. Although many locals in Goulburn, which is one of the largest inland population centres in NSW, celebrated the opening of the bypass in 1992, the owners of the town’s Big Merino tourist attraction were less than impressed. 

After missing out on the potential business of at least 40 busloads of tourists a day for 12 years, the iconic 15.2m-high, 97-tonne concrete ram was moved about 800m down the road in 2007 to the service centre on the town’s bypass. 

Between Goulburn and Yass, we climb up the Cullarin Range, a notorious stretch of highway where, in the 18 months before it was bypassed in 1993, 29 people lost their lives in road accidents. Even today, old truckies talk of this horror stretch of the old Hume in hushed tones. 

The Towrang Stockade 

Behind the Derrick VC Rest Area, between Marulan and Goulburn, is an 1839 convict-built sandstone bridge, one of the most impressive remnants of the Great South Road, the forerunner to the Hume Highway. It’s best accessed via a two-minute walk from the signboard at the rest area. Like many bridges in this era, it’s thought to have been designed by master stonemason David Lennox.

However, the Towrang Stockade across the road is the real treasure here. From 1833 to 1843, the stockade was home to chain gangs of convicts who built the sandstone bridge by hand as well as many kilometres of the original road both north and south of it.

Life on the chain gang at the Towrang Stockade was tough. Convicts were subjected to rigid daily routines and harsh punishments. They earned up to 100 lashes for absconding and between 25 and 30 lashes for trivial offences such as talking to passing travellers.

Convicts wore leg irons, were chained together at night and forced to sleep in cramped transportable convict boxes with just one blanket each. Some desperate souls attempted to kill their fellow convicts in the hope they’d be sent back to jail in Sydney, where the food was purportedly much better, and the nights not as cold.

This heritage-listed site is recognised as one of the best remaining relics of penal road gangs in Australia. Visitors are welcome to visit several historic locations here, including:

The powder magazine

Built into the banks of the Wollondilly River, the blasting powder used for road cuttings and splitting building stone was stored here. 

Gravesite

Although the graves of convicts who were killed in accidents during road construction or died of natural causes are unmarked, there are three headstones at this roadside cemetery, including one of a trooper and another of a trooper’s four-year-old daughter.

Troopers’ quarters

A fenced-off area marks the original site of the wooden and rubble quarters of the troopers, who guarded 100–250 convicts. 

Breadalbane (population about 100) is the first town on the range. Opposite the pub, the only business in town, we notice a highway shield for Route 66 nailed to the brick wall of what appears to be a long-abandoned Shell service station. The 66 has been painted over with a 31.

“Sorry, there hasn’t been any fuel sold here for over 40 years,” Les Davies says as he emerges from the old workshop, now his storage shed. He points to the “No Petrol in town” sign flapping in the wind on the padlocked gate. 

We’re driving an electric vehicle (EV), so aren’t in need of fuel, but we tell Les we’re following the old Hume and would love to take a photo of his Route 31 shield. “I love the old Hume; I can’t get enough of it,” he says, his frown transforming into a smile. He promptly unlocks the gate and invites us in for a tour of the former servo, which he and his partner Julie Chalmers have called home for 18 years.

“Although I’ve never been to the USA, it’s a shame our Route 31 isn’t promoted in the same way as their Route 66,” Les says. “I’ve ridden my Yami XT 600 along many stretches of the old Hume and often think how tough it must have been for Hume and Hovell when they came through in 1824.”

The old restaurant is now the couple’s lounge room where instead of dining booths there is a cinema-sized TV, wrap-around lounge, and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with thousands of DVDs, including more than a few about the legendary Route 66.

In their bedroom, taking pride of place on the wall, is the old fuse box that once controlled the bowsers and lighting on the forecourt. In another room, squirrelled away among even more Route 66 memorabilia, is a rare Spider beach buggy that Les has converted into a gaming console. Out the back, you can still see the big pit where they grew vegies for the former servo’s restaurant. “We came out here [from Sydney] to escape the rat race,” Les says. “The fact we found an old servo was just a bonus. We love it here; it’s so quiet.”

From Breadalbane, there are two possible routes into Gunning: the sealed old Hume, which was the main highway here between 1940 and 1993, and its predecessor, the old old Hume, or unsealed Sydney Road. At times they run parallel to each other, only metres apart, and at other points on the long climb up the range they criss-cross over the tracks of the Main Southern Railway. We choose the bitumen. 

It’s the right choice. This is the old Hume I’d dreamt about: a narrow sliver of silver snaking through paddocks dotted with bleating sheep, overgrown verges, moody skies, and no other cars within cooee.

Thomas opens the sunroof and puts his foot down, but not for long. Here, the bridges aren’t named after dignitaries but rather after the loads lost by trucks that toppled over on the road’s very tight corners. First, there’s Biscuit Bridge. Next is Champagne Corner. 

It’s a bit further along the windswept plateau at the top of the Cullarin Range that, on 17 October 1824, Hume and Hovell set out from Wooloowandella, a property Hume had bought several years earlier. Their journey to Melbourne had begun on 3 October 1824, when the men left Hume’s farm at Appin, on the outskirts of Sydney. There’s also a commemorative cairn at Appin, but it wasn’t until the explorers left this very spot at the top of the Cullarin Range that their adventure truly began. From here, they headed into country that for European settlers was regarded as “beyond the limits of civilisation”.

Part of Hume’s far-flung outpost was later purchased by his brother John Kennedy Hume, who changed its name to Collingwood, apparently because of his admiration for Admiral Collingwood of the Royal Navy. During the 20th century, the sign at the property’s entrance was often pilfered by supporters of the Collingwood AFL team. Replacements were subsequently made smaller and smaller and today the lettering on the sign is so faint you almost need a magnifying glass to read it.

The quarrelling explorers

It’s no secret that Australian-born Hamilton Hume and Captain William Hovell, a former British sea captain, weren’t the best of mates. They saw themselves as rivals and quarrelled for much of their 1824 journey from Appin to Port Phillip Bay (now Port Phillip). 

At the Goodradigbee River near the Snowy Mountains, Hume and Hovell temporarily split up their party after arguing about their route. They divided all their provisions. Robert Macklin writes in his 2017 book, Hamilton Hume: Our Greatest Explorer, that, “as both lay claim to the single tent, they were on the point of cutting it in half when Hume realised the futility of the act and let Hovell have it”. Apparently, the pair even fought over the frying pan, which broke apart in their hands. Hovell, realising his navigation error, eventually rejoined Hume for the journey south.

In the years after the expedition, their spat became public. Hume was especially miffed that Hovell would jump at opportunities to take sole credit for discovering the overland route to Melbourne. In fact, during a trip to Geelong in 1853, Hovell was lauded as “the man who discovered” that route. Hume responded angrily by publishing his Brief Statement of Facts, which Macklin describes as “a broad-brush account of the expedition” that “detailed Hovell’s recalcitrance and backed it with damning detail from other members of the [expedition] party”. 

The two continued to trade barbs publicly until Hume’s death in 1873. Not only did Hume design his own tombstone in the Anglican Section of the Yass Cemetery, but in the last months of his life he also penned his own epitaph.  

His main concerns were the preservation of his family’s name and the regard in which history would hold him. He wrote: “For the sake of those who bear my name, I should wish it to be held in remembrance as that of one who, with small opportunities but limited resources, did what he could for his native land.” 

After a long day behind the wheel, we arrive in Gunning and are tempted to bunk down in the renovated London House, built c.1881. It’s an elegant brick building with an arched coach entrance dating back to the days of Cobb & Co. However, enticed by a sign boasting push button telephones, a TV and a pool, we check in to Motel Gunning instead. 

What a masterstroke. This place is retro without trying to be. The clock radios look as though they were plucked straight from a 1978 Tandy Electronics catalogue, and the air conditioner thumps and whirrs all night like a worn wheel bearing on a B-double. No chance of hearing any road traffic over that. As for the phone and pool, both are long gone. The latter is now just a partially filled depression in the ground. But we wouldn’t have it any other way. Our digs are everything the old Hume is – a delightfully dated reminder of a bygone era.

The next morning, not far along the main street of Gunning, we unexpectedly find an EV charging point outside Bailey’s Garage, an old-school service station complete with a wonderfully cluttered workshop. Owner and mechanic Craig Southwell spots us admiring the historic facade. “We get lots of people stopping here for photos,” he says, pointing to a mural featuring old Holden cars that extends along the entire length of the building. “To think horse and carts used to pull up here,” Craig says, looking at our EV.

Craig is softly spoken, articulate and on the weekends doubles as the town’s lay preacher. Although his family bought the garage during the 1940s, they decided to keep the Bailey’s name as a nod to the first owner. “Back in the 1970s, I repainted the name of the garage in an old-style font,” he says. “It just felt right.” 

Born and bred in Gunning, Craig clearly remembers the first night the town was bypassed in 1993. “I heard a train come through and it completely freaked me out. I’d never heard a train before because the trucks grumbling through town 24/7 were so noisy,” he says.

The hidden treasure

Just south of Berrima is the Mackey VC Rest Area. At first glance it looks like any other roadside stop along the Hume Highway, with a toilet best avoided unless absolutely necessary and the ground strewn with fast-food wrappers.

However, if you walk behind the parking area, there is a section of the paved old Hume that runs back towards Sydney. About 200m along and traversing a modest-sized rocky gorge is one of the highway’s oldest – and arguably most impressive – bridges.

Designed by master stonemason David Lennox, the bridge was first built in 1836 as a timber beam structure supported by sandstone abutments. It was replaced in 1860 and then again in 1896 by a concrete arch, supported by the original sandstone abutments and retaining walls that have well and truly stood the test of time.

If you look closely, you can even see a flight of hand-carved steps that lead down to a waterhole on Black Bobs Creek. In the 1800s this would have been a reliable water source for thirsty horses and later for overheating car engines. Today, it’s a tranquil spot to sit and reflect on all those who’ve made the journey down the old Hume in different modes of transport across many generations. Do take care though; the stairs can be slippery and the parapets are in urgent need of repair.

About halfway to Yass the road passes over Hovells Creek Bridge, one of few places along the entire route named after William Hovell. Most are named after Hume. In fact, about 30km down the road, in Yass, almost everything has Hume in its name, from the drycleaner to the tennis courts. Ironically, one of the few places in Yass not carrying Hume’s name is Cooma Cottage, where he moved with his wife, Elizabeth, in 1840, having apparently camped there with Hovell on 18 October 1824, the day after they left Wooloowandella. 

Not only did Hume live out his final days on this riverside property, but the very highway later named after him ran by his front door…and later, by his back door. When the cottage was first built in 1835, the main track south traversed the paddock fronting the Yass River, so the dwelling was designed with its front door facing the road. However, soon after Hume moved in, the road was re-routed to the other side of the property, prompting him to engage in extensive renovations, including adding a classical Greek-revival portico facing the passing traffic. Today, Cooma Cottage is a museum managed by the National Trust.

South of Yass is Bookham, which, in 1839, poet Banjo Paterson mentioned in his memoir in The Sydney Morning Herald. He described it as a town with a pub at each end and not much in between. Paterson’s statement remains accurate, except that both pubs are now long closed. The town was bypassed in 1998. 

The upgraded Hume Highway split what was left of the town in two, and today locals have to brave a walk through a tunnel under the busy freeway to access the recreation ground. Unlike in Berrima, you won’t find any antique pipes on the ground here – just cigarette butts and more of those omnipresent fast-food wrappers.

Although some smaller towns along the old Hume have struggled to find their feet since being bypassed, one place that is booming is Jugiong. But it wasn’t always that way. After it was bypassed in 1995, the town suffered. However, in 2016, mother–daughter duo Liz Prater and Kate Hufton purchased the Sir George, a dilapidated country pub, and breathed life back into Jugiong. In just five years, the pair transformed the pub, which was originally built in 1852, into something you’d expect to see in Sydney’s Double Bay or Melbourne’s Toorak. It now features an upmarket restaurant, artisan bakery and chic heritage overnight accommodation in the restored original stables.

Across from the Sir George is a lonely statue of Sergeant Edmund Parry, who was killed near here by bushranger Johnny Gilbert in 1864. A shiny new interpretive sign details the mid-1800s tussle, describing it as “The Battle for the Roads”. Today, the only battle here is a nightly one, fought among grey nomads who flock to the adjoining showground to score a spot at the free camping ground, the perfect place to recuperate before heading further south, along the road to Gundagai. 

PART TWO – Gundagai to Melbourne and beyond

I grip my seatbelt tighter and exclaim “Whoa!” Looming large ahead are several feed bins strewn across the bitumen. It’s not that I needed to worry, because my travelling companion, 76-year-old Jim Morton, expertly manoeuvres his turquoise 1964 EH Holden around the unexpected obstacles on the old Hume Highway. Thankfully, there are no semi-trailers hurtling towards us. In fact, the only other traffic we need to watch out for is a mob of sheep playing follow the leader around the next bend. Oh, and there are also a couple of fat cows that briefly raise their heads as we motor past. 

But it wasn’t always as quiet here on this stretch of the old Hume, just south of Gundagai, which is now on private land. It was once bumper to bumper with trucks chortling and snorting their way along the most dangerous few miles between Australia’s two largest cities. 

Jim suddenly stops. Around the next bend a tree branch has fallen right across the faded double yellow lines. I jump out and, as if I’m pulling a kangaroo carcass off the road by the tail, drag it clear. On the verge is one of those yellow 44-gallon rubbish drums, once common at highway rest areas. The paint is peeling off in sheets and it’s pockmarked with bullet holes. It swings in the howling southerly, squealing on rusted hinges like a B-double engine in urgent need of a tune-up. I peek inside: there’s a stash of sun-bleached 40-year-old soft drink cans. Talk about a time capsule. It’s a future archaeologist’s delight. 

“I doubt anyone has stopped here since ‘the Gap’ was bypassed in 1983,” says Jim, who has access to this historic route and is treating me and Thomas to the ultimate drive back in time. The Gap is Sylvia’s Gap, a terrifying two-lane crumbling bitumen track flanked by sheer rock walls that for almost 50 years carried all the traffic between Sydney and Melbourne. No-one knows the off-camber blind bends on this highway better than Jim, who, as a fresh faced 18-year-old, first negotiated Sylvia’s Gap in a 1952 Chevrolet. “Back when it was a seven-hour drive to Sydney,” he says. “Now it takes half that.”

That was during the 1970s and ’80s when, as part of his construction business, Jim regularly undertook road maintenance for the New South Wales Department of Main Roads, which included helping to clear accident scenes at the Gap. “The truckies could have shaken hands with each other as they passed through here,” he says as he steers his beloved EH through the infamous cutting. 

Suddenly he hits the brakes again. This time he remains silent. As he scratches his chin, deep in thought, I swear I can almost hear the ghostly echoes of airbrakes and downshifting gears. Or is it just the wind? 

“Sadly, not all of them made it through,” Jim eventually says with a sigh. “Just beyond here is the 40-foot gap – a graveyard for big rigs. I’d get calls at all times of the day and night…there was a lot of death and heartache here.” 

He’s not half wrong. During a terrible two-week period in 1981, seven fatal accidents occurred at Sylvia’s Gap. There are still rusting wrecks in the gullies below. 

A few hundred metres short of where the old road meets up with the double-lane modern Hume, we reach another locked gate. It’s time to bid farewell to Jim and his vintage EH and continue our journey south in our much quieter electric vehicle. Even the cows don’t notice us this time as we snake our way back out of Sylvia’s Gap.

If you’re attempting to follow the old Hume south of Gundagai, you need to be prepared for a series of abrupt dead-ends – either piles of dirt blocking the way ahead or padlocked gates with signs, almost always misspelt, and screaming “Trespassers will be prosecuted!” You’ve also got to have your wits about you, because over time some towns have changed their name. When we step inside a historic hotel with Adelong Crossing plastered (albeit in faded paint) across its brick facade, the bartender takes a while to convince us we are at Tumblong. “The name changed in 1913 due to increasing confusion with the town of Adelong, which had sprung up in the goldfields [25km away from the Snowies],” he explains.

There’s no mistake, however, about where we are when we drive into Tarcutta – regarded as the halfway point between Sydney and Melbourne. It was here, in 1838, long before the route was called the Hume (in the 1920s) where the first mounted postie from Sydney met his Melbourne counterpart to exchange mailbags before retracing his steps back along Great South Road. 

As the track became busier, Tarcutta prospered as a convenient halfway stop for weary travellers. So when it was bypassed in 2011, many locals were worried their town of 400 (on a good day) might die a slow death. Greeted by a dust-encrusted tumbleweed blowing past a row of boarded-up shops, it seems at first glance their fears were warranted. Eventually another vehicle pulls up behind us. It’s long-time local builder Bill Plum, checking his tools are properly tied down in his ute before hitting the freeway. 

After finishing a short stint working on Queensland’s Sunshine Coast, Bill tells us, he was quick to return to Tarcutta. “I like the pace of life here; it’s much slower,” he says, adding, “And houses are much more affordable.” I bet they are. Bill says the abandoned cafe behind us was once the thriving centre of town: “Back in the 1950s and ’60s, customers were often five deep waiting for a feed, and the main street here was lined with trucks for as far as the eye can see.”

Bill encourages us to wander across the road to the Australian Truck Drivers Memorial. “It’s dedicated to the memory of truck drivers who have been killed on Australian roads while performing their duties in the transport industry”, he says, clearly proud of the recognition his home town has afforded these poor souls who met such untimely ends.

“Check out the hundreds of names dating back to last century,” says my travelling companion, Thomas, as he circles the memorial. Hot on the heels of Sylvia’s Gap, it’s another reminder that although touring down the old Hume might be more romantic than zooming along the modern dual carriageway, it was, in its heyday – like many single-lane highways – a death trap. 

South of Tarcutta, Holbrook, the last town on the Hume to be bypassed (in 2013), is thriving, thanks mainly to a seemingly out-of-place submarine plonked here in a park. Holbrook ditched its former name of Germanton during World War I to honour local Victoria Cross winner Lieutenant Norman Holbrook. He piloted his submarine on a daring raid through the Dardanelles’ minefields and torpedoed a Turkish battleship. Recognising the town’s submariner link, the Royal Australian Navy donated the decommissioned HMAS Otway to Holbrook in 1995.

Colin Bickley, who has a workshop in an old flour mill that “gets internal combustion vehicles back on the road”, says things in Holbrook have changed for the better since the bypass, despite there being less breakdown business. “You no longer have to dodge a constant stream of traffic when crossing the road,” he says, as we stop to photograph an oversized Route 31 shield outside his workshop. Colin offers us a parting word of warning for our journey further south. “If you want to follow [the old road] towards the border, I hope your EV has a submersible feature,” he says, laughing. “The old road runs along the bottom of Lake Hume.”

This historic route is sadly not sign-posted, but following Colin’s mud map we eventually pick up remnants of the old Sydney Road on approach to the sunken old town of Bowna. The only clue this was once the main artery linking Australia’s largest two cities is a shallow depression in a paddock…and a dilapidated, barely legible, black-and-yellow Lane Closed sign loosely tied to a gate. Classic old Hume: hard to find and unassuming.

Peering across a near-full lake, I can’t help but wonder how explorers Hamilton Hume and William Hovell, who, two centuries ago, carved out the route from Sydney to Port Phillip, would have reacted if they knew this valley would one day be drowned for irrigation, hydropower and flood mitigation. I’m sure Hume, who until his death sought constant recognition for his “leading role” in the expedition, would be overjoyed the lake was named in his honour. But he’d be turning in his grave for a couple of reasons at Hovell Tree Park in nearby Albury. First, taking pride of place in the popular park on the banks of the Murray River is a senescent river red gum known as Hovell’s Tree. Although both men carved their names on trees here when heading south on 17 November 1824, Hume’s was unfortunately burnt in the 1840s. 

Second, there’s the river, which Hume initially named Hume River after his father, although several years later Captain Charles Sturt, not realising it was the same river, named it after Sir George Murray, secretary of state for war and the colonies. The new name stuck and washed away recognition of Hume’s father.

The ongoing tension between the two explorers was highlighted earlier in Part 1 of this two-part story. At one point during their expedition near the Snowy Mountains, the pair temporarily separated and attempted to split their belongings in half, including (absurdly) the last frying pan.

Ironically, the old Hume section across the border (most Victorians call it Old Hume Highway 31, or simply old Highway 31), which connects Barnawartha to Chiltern and now features shiny new replica mile posts, begins near Fryingpan Creek, a nod to the common cookware carried by gold diggers, not the explorers’ feud.

Hidden among gum trees at the 172-mile post (measured from Melbourne) is the unpretentious entrance to a motor museum. At the end of its driveway there’s shed after shed crammed with road and motoring memorabilia. One shed alone has more than 70 hand-operated petrol pumps, signs, bottles and racks, oil engines, tins, and even an incomplete set of Sidchrome spanners. It must be worth a fortune.

Curiously, there are also several mummified rats on display, “Oh, I found them on the floor,” says owner Gordon Stephens. When asked if any of his thousands of exhibits (including the rats) are for sale, he responds curtly: “No, never.” Hoarder, or sage collector? You decide. Just call ahead because he’s only open by appointment.

Chiltern is one of those heritage towns you might whisk your partner to for a weekend away, emerging only from a quaint B&B to admire antiques and quaff fine wine. It’s home to the Chiltern Bakery and its famous pies, and what road trip is complete without at least one serve of such a highway staple? 

While queuing for our beef and mushroom pies, we spot several framed photos of now-gone old Hume landmarks in their heyday hanging on the wall, including the Prince Alfred Bridge at Gundagai and Hillas Creek Bridge, near Tarcutta. Forget the tomato sauce; accept instead the generous dollop of motoring nostalgia that comes with your pie. 

The building’s owner, Adrian Gray, is an old Hume tragic. His family ran a mechanical workshop and petrol station in Chiltern from 1932 until it was sold in 1980. “We were also the RACV service depot, operated the local taxi [a Morris Oxford, only recently sold] and wedding/funeral car [a Plymouth Custom 6, still running smoothly], as well as tow-truck service,” Adrian reveals.

Look who knocked on the door at midnight

The clock had just ticked past 12 on a cold August evening in 1942 during the depths of World War II when, according to Gundagai folklore, Jack Castrission, co-owner of the town’s Niagara Cafe, received an unexpected knock on the door.

“He’d just closed up the cafe and was in the kitchen cleaning up,” recalls his son, Peter. When Jack opened the door, a well-dressed chauffeur announced, “I’ve got four hungry men in the car. I know it’s late, but can we please get a meal?” The men were Prime Minister John Curtin (1941–45), future PM Ben Chifley (1945–49), past PM Arthur Fadden (1941) and future senator Neil O’Sullivan (1946–62), who were returning from a morale-boosting mission in the region. “Dad invited them into the kitchen where they huddled around the fire while he knocked them up a feed of steak and eggs, washed down with tea,” Peter recalls. “Jack, realising he had the ear of half the war cabinet, mentioned his wartime rations of 12.7kg of tea per month were a tad inadequate. Several weeks later, the Niagara’s tea ration was mysteriously raised to 45kg per month.” Curtin returned several times to the cafe during the war, Peter says, and once “secretly shouted lunch for a group of Australian troops”.

Now, no trip down the old Hume is complete without settling into a booth at the Niagara for a burger and soda. It was in the Castrission family for six decades, then the Loukassis family from 1983. In 2021 Sydney couple Luke Walton and Kym Fraser took it on, renovating the Art Deco cafe back to its glory days. The duo lovingly restored the interior, including its priceless fountain bar and beaten-up booths, and sent the iconic rooftop neon sign to Sydney for a spruce-up. Locals have embraced the revamped Niagara, and after a pandemic-induced hiatus, travellers are returning in droves. “We’ve seen a yearning for nostalgia but also heard many stories from travellers revisiting the town and seeking to engage with the old Hume on a deeper level than a simple drive-by,” Luke says.

We discover it was Adrian, along with fellow old Hume enthusiast Peter Gaston, who was responsible for the replica highway markers and shields we’d just passed on the road from Barnawartha. “Most people just don’t know where the old highway is. There’s no guidebook, so we decided to take matters into our own hands,” says Adrian, who, with assistance from local tourism authorities, funded and then erected the replica markers in 2018. “First the signs on the freeway encouraging motorists to turn into Chiltern were knocked off, and then the pandemic hit. So interest in following the old highway hasn’t been as strong as we’d hoped.”

It would be futile erecting the historic mile markers south of here, because the next 300km or so through Wangaratta and towards Melbourne may as well be called the Kelly Way. Yes, we are now in Ned Kelly country and there’s absolutely no escaping it.

The epicentre is, of course, Glenrowan, the place of Ned’s last stand. There, under the gaze of the garish Big Ned, you can buy every Ned trinket you can imagine – not just key rings and T-shirts, but also toilet-roll holders and garden gnomes. More importantly, you can also indulge in a Ned Burger and, of course, wash it down with Ned Beer. 

“Why is there so much fuss about him? He was a crook, wasn’t he?” I dare to suggest to Thomas, who has selflessly volunteered to do most of the driving while I attempt to juggle a smorgasbord of pies and burgers in the passenger seat.

“Shh! You can’t say that in these parts, you’ll get lynched!” he exclaims, quickly glancing in the rear-view mirror before planting his foot firmly on the accelerator.

Phew! At least we got out of town in one piece. Of course, poor Ned wasn’t so lucky. He was shot, captured and shipped off to the hangman’s noose in Melbourne.

Undoubtedly, one of the best things about travelling the old Hume is you avoid those ubiquitous service centres dotted along modern highways. Dreary, dirty and downright hectic, they’re the very antithesis of the old Hume pit stops. 

Give me welcoming ports of call like the Seven Creeks Hotel in Euroa (bypassed in 1992) any day. What began with a couple of enterprising locals peddling goods to the passing parade of traffic on the old Sydney Road in 1853 has since evolved into an impressive Federation-style two-storey pub that dishes up scrumptious tucker and genuine country hospitality. No multinational eateries with hiked-up prices here. However, beware when pulling up a bar stool that you may well encounter the odd Kelly fanatic, no doubt exhausted from combing the streets of Euroa’s CBD in search of the National Bank, which the Kelly Gang held up in 1878. 

Best not tell them it was demolished and replaced by another building in 1974. 

In a way, the phantom bank is a symbol for the old Hume in many parts of central Victoria, where the old track has simply been superseded with the new Hume directly on top of it. If you follow one of these stretches about 15km south, you’ll get to Longwood…and Longwood East.

First cobbled together on the old highway as a staging post for horsedrawn coaches, the original town was moved 4km west when the railway arrived in 1872. Today, the modern Hume cuts through a wedge of farmland between both villages, its constant hum a far cry from the days in Longwood East (that’s the old village), when the sound of bleating sheep would only be broken by the occasional bugle alerting the local toll gatekeeper that a coach was approaching. 

Another old Hume town impacted by the advent of the rail is Avenel, which first sprang up around the 1857 historic coach stop (now a private residence) on the southern banks of Hughes Creek. It later moved west, when, as occurred in Longwood, the railway arrived in 1872. 

Spanning the creek near the old coach house is a spectacular six-arch sandstone bridge. Despite carrying all the road traffic – from horsedrawn coaches to motor cars and semi-trailers, from when it opened in 1859 until it was closed a century later – this engineering treasure is in remarkably good condition. What’s better is you’re allowed to walk on it.

While strolling past one of the peppercorn tree–shaded abutments, we meet 75-year-old local Wayne Henderson and Maggie, his four-year-old Maltese/Shih Tzu, on their daily constitutional. “She’s taking me for a walk,” Wayne says with a laugh, desperately trying to keep up with his energetic canine companion. Wayne manages to hold Maggie back long enough to tell us about “the good ol’ days” travelling over the bridge as a child in his dad’s car “with no air-con and when the Hume was just one long line of traffic”. Mmm… sounds like the “good ol’ days” are overrated.

However, even here, on this now off-the-beaten-track bridge, there’s no escaping Ned. When he was only 10 years old, just downstream from here, he famously rescued primary schooler Richard Shelton after he accidentally fell into the creek while walking to school. “Ned dragged him onto the bank, got him breathing, and then just rode off,” says Wayne, adding, “I generally think Ned was a villain, but he must have had some goodness in him to make sure he was alright.” 

Shelton’s parents were so grateful they presented Ned with a seven-foot-long green sash, a gift cherished by the bushranger for the rest of his short life. In fact, after being shot and captured at Glenrowan, a doctor found the badly bloodstained sash under his infamous armour.

A tale of two bridges

The modern and much safer Hume Highway not only bypasses many historic towns but also some of Australia’s best-loved bridges. 

These include several notable 19th-century stone crossings that, although now well and truly off the beaten track, still span several creeks and gorges between Sydney and Gundagai (as featured in Part 1). The old Hume further south also boasts its fair share of eye-catching bridges, including the impressive six-arch sandstone engineering feat at Avenel (see page 78), as well as these two landmark crossings at Gundagai and Mundarlo (near Tarcutta).

Prince Alfred Bridge

For more than 150 years, this timber-and-wrought-iron connection between Gundagai and South Gundagai stood proud, stretching across the Murrumbidgee floodplain. For locals who’d just been issued their drivers licence, crossing Prince Alfred Bridge was a rite of passage. 

For travellers, it was a rollicking teeth-rattling, bum-clenching 900m-long ride, braving vibrating timber planks that agitated with each passing vehicle. It’s a national tragedy that this clatter wasn’t recorded and squirrelled away in the National Film and Sound Archive for future generations to appreciate. In 1984 the bridge was closed to traffic, and, following ongoing safety concerns, it was partially demolished in 2021. Apart from a short section at the southern end of the crossing, all that remains are remnants of timber posts, sawn off at waist level. Today, these extend across the floodplain like a procession of tombstones – a constant reminder nothing lasts forever, even on the old Hume.

Hillas Creek Bridge (Pictured)

When this attractive arch crossing, designed by engineers who pioneered the use of the bowstring shape in reinforced concrete, was opened in 1938, its appearance quickly earned it the moniker “Little Sydney Harbour Bridge”. It was listed on the Register of Australian Historic Bridges in 1982, just a few years before it was bypassed. When travelling north on the modern Hume, if you look to the left (north-west) just before you cross Hillas Creek, depending on the season, you can sometimes spot the old bridge through a copse of deciduous trees. If you’re in the passenger seat, look closely at how narrow the bridge deck is – little wonder that more than a few trucks lost side mirrors when passing other vehicles here.

Many stretches of the old Hume have nicknames, most bestowed by truckies. There’s Gasoline Alley in Yass, where trucks stopped to refuel, and Champagne Corner, where a semi lost a load of alcohol near Breadalbane. And don’t forget Sylvia’s Gap near Gundagai. That was apparently named after a lady of ill repute. You get the drift. 

Just out of Wallan, the pinch, which straddles the top of the Great Dividing Range, is called Pretty Sally. Travellers and truckies have long speculated about the origin of the name of this hill. But it’s generally accepted it’s so-called after a Sally White who operated a nearby shanty in the 1840s where drivers refreshed themselves and spelled their bullocks or horses before tackling the steep hill. 

According to Peter Williams, who arranges convoys of Minis along the old Hume and who has researched many of the curiously named locations, “She was said to be as ugly as sin, so what’s more natural than to call her ‘Pretty Sally’?” 

It’s been a long, hot day with relentlessly blue skies so bright they hurt the eyes. But approaching dusk near Beveridge, there’s smoke and dust hanging low in the atmosphere and we can just make out the sea in the distance, if we squint. This would have been a similar view to that enjoyed by Hume and Hovell, who, on 14 December 1824, caught their first glimpse of the briny from the top of a nearby hill, now called Mt Fraser.

From here, purists would follow the old Hume along Elizabeth Street and into the centre of Melbourne – yes, in the shadow of Old Melbourne Gaol, where Ned was hanged on 11 November 1880. But instead we track towards Geelong, near where, on 16 December 1824, Hume and Hovell mistakenly believed they’d reached Western Port but had in fact reached their turn-around point at Point Wilson or, more probably, Point Lillias. 

Just short of here is the last stone cairn that marks the route of the Hume and Hovell expedition, this one on the outskirts of Lara. It’s on the verge and most drivers zoom past. But we don’t. We stop and ponder on the 1000 or so kilometres we’ve journeyed from a similar cairn near Appin, just south of Sydney, that bookends their expedition route. 

The old road – with its well-worn ruts carved out by gold escorts and skid marks left by terrified truckies who for more than a century ran a nightly gauntlet along a narrow strip of broken bitumen and cracked concrete – is gone. It’s been replaced with the hidden Hume, which in places is hard to find, and even harder to follow. It’s a choose-your-own-adventure at every turn, a road trip where Australia’s last 200 years is laid bare, just waiting for you to discover. While it may harbour a potted past, as more travellers choose to bypass the bypasses, its legend will continue to grow. Just don’t mention Ned.

We thank Hyundai for providing an Ioniq 5 EV for this story.

The post The road less travelled appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Hargrave was born in 1850 in Greenwich, England. His father, lawyer John Fletcher Hargrave, moved to New South Wales in 1857, and by 1865 secured a place on the Supreme Court bench. Later that year, young Lawrence also emigrated with his mother and siblings, and soon after arriving in Sydney joined the schooner Ellesmere as assistant to expedition leader Abraham Thompson on an exploratory circumnavigation of Australia. The Ellesmere journey left a positive impression on Hargrave but the time at sea kept him from his studies. Unable to follow his father into law, he was apprenticed in the engineering workshops of the Australasian Steam Navigation Company. Between 1872 and 1877 he worked as an engineer on six expeditions, earning a reputation as a respected explorer and cartographer. 

Hargrave took a position at the Sydney Observatory in late 1878. During the next five years he observed the transit of Mercury and was involved in an attempt to observe the transit of Venus. The attempt failed due to poor weather. He also observed conditions related to the catastrophic volcanic eruption of Krakatoa in Indonesia. At the observatory, Hargrave designed and built adding machines to assist his astronomical calculations. 

By 1883, Hargrave was enjoying an independent annual income of about £1000 due to his father’s land investments, which allowed him to fully commit to scientific research. He began experimenting with monoplanes, focusing on wing shape, and from 1887 worked on an engine‑powered aircraft able to carry a human. In 1889, after experimenting with 36 different designs, he developed a three‑cylinder rotary engine that became a prototype for the aircraft engines that dominated the first 50 years of powered flight.

During the 1890s, inefficient propeller design and the poor power-to-weight ratio of most engines meant aeronautical pioneers focused more on the study of gliding and wing design rather than powered flight. Hargrave made a number of monoplane gliders. Unhappy with their stability, he began to instead study box kites. “I am using kites, and find perfect stability can be got by making them of three dimensions instead of two,” he wrote. “Cellular kites do not confine their surface to one plane, but distribute it in various portions, forming cells through which the wind blows.”

Hargrave married Margaret Johnston in 1878 and the couple had six children together. In 1893 the family moved to Stanwell Park, between Sydney and Wollongong, where they owned property and coalmines. The area is well known for its winds favourable for gliding, and on the morning of 12 November 1894, Hargrave launched a linked series of four box kites off the town beach and climbed into a seat attached to the lowest kite. A strong gust propelled him into the air, but the kites remained steady in the buffeting winds because of their box design. Having proven human flight on a stable, multi‑winged craft was possible, he wrote, “The particular steps gained are the demonstration that an extremely simple apparatus can be made, carried about, and flown by one man…without any risk of accident.”

Hargrave’s designs were taken up by other inventors, including the French-American Octave Chanute, whose designs were later incorporated by the Wright brothers into their Wright Flyer, which, in December 1903, became the first aircraft to achieve powered flight with a pilot on board.

Hargrave’s interest in aeronautical experimentation continued throughout his life. His later research explored ways the curvature of wings could increase lift. His work strongly influenced the design of biplane aircrafts, and today he is recognised as one of the great pioneers of aeronautics.

Hargrave’s only son, Geoffrey, was killed in May 1915 during the Gallipoli campaign. Weeks later, on 6 July, Hargrave died of peritonitis following surgery in Sydney, aged 65.

‘Australia’s first piloted flight’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Australia’s first piloted flight appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The 240-million-year-old fossil was found in the early 1990s by chicken farmer, Mihail Mihaildis, on the New South Wales Central Coast. Mihail had bought a 1.6-tonne sandstone slab to fix a broken retaining wall at his home but as he sliced through the stone’s outer layers, the outline of an unknown creature revealed itself. The Australian Museum’s (AM) former Head of Palaeontology, Dr Alex Ritchie, persuaded Mihail to donate the fossil to the museum, where it was included in a travelling dinosaur exhibition at Darling Harbour.

It was here that a young Lachlan saw the fossil, spoke to AM staff and decided to be a palaeontologist. Twenty-five years on, Lachlan, who holds joint roles with the Australian Museum and UNSW Science, is doing his PhD on this very fossil, and has just had his first paper published.

“I was obsessed with dinosaurs… and so 12-year-old me saw that fossil on display back in 1997. And then 25 years later it became part of my PhD, which is insane,” Lachlan says.

The fossil, named Arenaepeton supinatus, meaning ‘supine sand creeper’ – shows nearly the entire skeleton, and remarkably, the outlines of its skin. Less than 10 fossils of the lizard-like species have been identified globally. And Lachlan says the discovery may “rewrite the evolution of amphibians in Australia”.

“This fossil is a unique example of a group of extinct animals known as temnospondyls, which lived before and during the time of the dinosaurs,” says Lachlan.

“It’s got the head and the body attached, and the fossilisation of the creature’s skin and fatty tissues around the outside of its body – all of that makes this a really rare find.”

Arenaerpeton inhabited freshwater rivers in what is now known as the Sydney Basin during the Triassic period, 240 million years ago. Lachlan says it most likely hunted other ancient fish such as Cleithrolepis, but apart from that, there is not much evidence that tells us about the other animals which shared the land and waters with Arenaepeton.

“Superficially, Arenaerpeton looks a lot like the modern Chinese giant salamander, especially in the shape of its head,” Lachlan says.

“However, from the size of the ribs and the soft tissue outline preserved on the fossil we can see that it was considerably more heavyset than its living descendants. It also had some pretty gnarly teeth, including a pair of fang-like tusks on the roof of its mouth.”

Related: Australia’s living fossils

Lachlan says what is exciting about the discovery is that Arenaerpeton is large – estimated to be about 1.2m from head to tail – when most other closely related animals that lived at the same time were small.

“The last of the temnospondyls were in Australia 120 million years after Arenaerpeton, and some grew to massive sizes. The fossil record of temnospondyls spans across two mass extinction events, so perhaps this evolution of increased size aided in their longevity.”

Dr Matthew McCurry, Curator of Palaeontology at the Australian Museum and Senior Lecturer in UNSW’s School of BEES said the fossil is a significant find in Australian paleo history.

“This is one of the most important fossils found in NSW in the past 30 years, so it is exciting to formally describe it,” says Matthew, who is also a co-author on the study. “It represents a key part of Australia’s fossil heritage.”

The study has been published in the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, and the fossil will be on display at the Australian Museum, Sydney, later this year.

Related: All that glitters: the fossils of Lightning Ridge

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But this year’s festival was different. It was the first without Yunupingu.

The Yolngu Elder, leader of the Gumatji clan, and land rights activist passed away in April, aged 74.

Yunupingu and his late brother Dr M Yunupingu, the frontman of Yothu Yindi created Garma Festival in 1999.

The post In pictures: Garma Festival 2023 appeared first on Australian Geographic.

An old colloquialism not exclusively applied to eucalypts, it is used to describe anything that could quickly kill a man, leaving a widow behind. 

It is widely accepted that large eucalypts have earned this reputation due to their well-documented propensity to drop large branches – onto cars, houses and people. 

But it’s not that simple.

After a little digging, I found the term was first used to describe eucalypts by early European settlers during a prolific era of native forestry.

Then, I discovered an expert on the phenomenon: Associate Professor Cristopher Brack from the Australian National University’s Fenner School of Environment and Society.

“It comes from the days of native forest harvesting when people were using axes and chainsaws out in the eucalypt forests,” Cristopher explains.

“If they didn’t pay attention and didn’t notice branches broken up in the crown of the tree, when they’d start chopping down the tree, those broken branches would fall, and could kill you.”

Because most forestry workers in those days were males, the falling branches were dubbed widow makers.

Myth debunked 

While they got – and continue to get – a bad rap, it’s not just eucalyptus trees that can become dangerous. 

“Almost all trees, once they reach a certain age, carry dead wood in their canopy,” says Cristopher. “And very often that dead wood is structurally sound, it’s attached up there. But in storms and wind and with other disturbances [like being chopped down!] it can break.”

What makes eucalypts different from other trees is their abundance.

“In Australia, eucalypts are by far the dominating tree… so if you see dead wood in a canopy, the chances are it’s a eucalypt dead branch,” Cristopher explains.

“Let’s remember, these were native forests they were harvesting… so most of the trees were eucalypts. 

“Yes, there were other trees out there, like the casuarina, but the eucalypts were also the species the harvesters wanted because they’re the best-quality tree.”

What is ‘sudden branch drop’? 

‘Sudden branch drop’ is another string of words I often hear when the dangers of eucalypts are being discussed. 

It’s an arboriculture term for the occurrence of dead and decaying branches suddenly falling from a tree, without any apparent cause for their dislodgement. 

“Dead branches in canopies do occasionally fall, you expect that in storms and rain and what have you, but every now and then there’ll be a perfectly still night or day… and a branch will just fall off for no obvious reason – that’s ‘sudden branch drop’,” says Cristopher. 

However, just like dead branches in canopies, ‘sudden branch drop’ isn’t exclusive to eucalypts. 

“It’s reputed to be a eucalypt thing, but, again, a tree in Australia is most likely to be a eucalypt!”

Can we go back to loving them now?

So, there you have it. Eucalypts seem to be a victim of their own popularity, unfairly vilified alone for the traits of many tree species. 

“I think eucalypts are such clever trees,” says Cristopher. “They exist in incredibly harsh environments, and they thrive. I do love them.”

He’s not alone in his affections for these spectacular species. 

We can all now go back to embracing these deeply embedded parts of our cultural identity, and to loving them warts (falling branches) and all. 

Related: Eucalyptus and the ancient kingdom of fire

The post Are eucalyptus trees really ‘widow makers’? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Granite for the piers and pylons was quarried at Moruya on the New South Wales south coast, but only 20 per cent of the steel was produced in Australia. Most was manufactured in England.

By 1928 giant “creeper cranes” were built on opposite sides of the bridge and work on the arches began.

The project employed more than 2000 people, 16 of whom died on the site.

It displaced more than 800 tenant families living on the bridge’s path. Their homes were demolished without compensation.

The bridge was opened to the public on 19 March 1932. 

Related: Gallery: Sydney Harbour Bridge opens, 1932

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Kailua George Jr

Torres Strait Islander

A young man – impressive, tall, with a deep voice and a presence, even among senior leaders from the many islands of the Torres Strait – Kailu George stood to deliver a speech on behalf of the youth, exactly where his grandfather’s grandfather had done on a tiny island called Masig back in the very early days of the Torres Strait Island Regional Council.

It was August 2022 at the anniversary of the first meeting, a meeting that is famous and celebrated among islanders. It came from an enormous struggle against injustice that every Australian should learn about.

Torres Strait Islanders are one of two major Indigenous groups in Australia. I am a Torres Strait Islander; we have a distinct flag and culture. In 1901, when the White Australia policy was enacted by the new federation of Australia, the fishing vessels that Torres Strait Islanders owned and successfully operated were confiscated by government authorities. 

The island men were forced to work on them for mere rations while their communities lived in poverty.

By 1936 tensions had reached boiling point and the Torres Strait Islander boat crews went on strike. In the months before, the workers had communicated the timing of the strike to each other by leaving messages under coral bommies on the reefs. 

They stood their ground, achieving one of their key demands: the formation of a Torres Strait Islands Council – a Voice for the Torres Strait Islander people. The first meeting was on Masig Island. I was fortunate enough to be at the anniversary with young Kailu, a namesake of his ancestor. Kailu senior was one of the first councillors, representing the Erub Island community.

I interviewed young Kailu more recently. I wanted to share his story because I was impressed by his poise and his grace at that anniversary meeting. I saw how he listened as the minutes from the 1942 gathering were read, his pride shining through when Kailu senior’s words were read.

Kailu explained to me back then, “I got an invitation from Mayor Uncle Phillemon Mosby to go to Masig because I was school captain in Year 12. He asked me and the other school captain, Nina Lui, to address the leaders from the Torres Strait on behalf of our youth.”

Kailu is now in his 19th year. He’s working two jobs. He’s a lifesaver at the Thursday Island pool, and when UAV Industries Marine – a maritime training and development organisation specialising in courses for Indigenous students – delivers a regular coxswain course, he’s an assistant for the trainer and assessor. 

Kailu continues to study, working towards a masters ticket – a licence to operate larger vessels. 

Brought up by his grandparents in accordance with traditional island adoption, Kailu was raised as that generation was. “I was brought up in the old ways. It was a strict upbringing, always going to church. I loved the preaching, especially by Athe (grandfather) Pedro Stephen, and Uncle Gabriel Bani’s singing too,” Kailu says. “I think it is the best way to be raised – with discipline. It’s good to be humble and respectful.” 

He gives an example. “When two uncles are talking, and you need to walk in between them, or even just passing them, you don’t just walk straight by. A youth bows his head and says ‘excuse me’. There is less of that respect today from youth. But Elders appreciate it when young people know that respect.”

I relate to this. I was raised in the same way by my Torres Strait Islander father who was born on Thursday Island. We talked about the islander word for how we were taught to be respectful and to listen.

“The word for it is sesthaman,” Kailu says. “It’s a person who is respectful, humble. A person with situational awareness, who listens, watches and observes something or someone. It is like that small gesture, the nod of the head that has a lot of meaning, that shows the personality of that person. It is a sign of a leader to be humble.”

As Kailu made his way through school, he found his voice. He talks about what a shy boy he was, and how he developed a love of basketball watching his father play. When he wasn’t selected to play in the rep side, he practised and persevered until he was. But when he went to Cairns, he got homesick and stopped playing for a while.

“I then took up leadership opportunities – in Year 10 we went to Bampfield Beach on Prince of Wales (Muralug) Island for a leadership course,” Kailu says. “My confidence started to come through and I got back into basketball and started refereeing.”

With a smile from ear to ear, Kailu tells me about his most recent adventure, to the tiny island of Masig where we met.

“I had sprained my ankle at basketball the night before we left Thursday Island. It was so swollen, it was hard to climb on to the ferry to Horn Island to catch the plane to Masig. I was writing my speech in the plane, and when we landed on Masig, I put my feet on the ground and my ankle suddenly felt good. I could run!” Kailu laughs. “I got one photo of me running, I’ll send it to you, the pain be go away!”

Related: Listening to the voices

Kailu pauses in thought, and then says, “I felt spiritually connected to that island where my grandfather was part of the first councillors’ meeting. When Athe Pedro Stephen introduced me before I gave my speech, he talked about the prophesy of my life. When I was born, Athe spoke at the church. He said he saw a vision about what I can do and what I am capable of. He said ‘this boy has fire in his hands’. Still to this day I don’t know what that means, I am just taking each day slowly. 

“For Athe to talk about that in front of all those leaders from across the Torres Strait, it was amazing,” he says. “I still have people come up to me now and shake hands. It was a blessing.”

Kailu’s speech was brilliant. He represented the youth well. The Elders were proud. Soon after Kailu’s speech, the leaders of the Torres Strait made the Masig Statement – Malungu Yangu Wakay (Voices from the Deep). It is an expression that means the Torres Strait wishes to speak with one voice, joining theirs with our Aboriginal brothers and sisters on the mainland as was called for in the Uluru Statement from the Heart. 

The second time I met Kailu was in Parliament House in Canberra in late 2022. He was selected with other young Indigenous leaders from around the country to experience how decisions are made about our lives, thousands of kilometres from our island home. Kailu believes our history is important to our present and our future. 

He talked about how inspired he was to learn about the Gurindji Wave Hill “walk-off” and other courageous efforts our people have made, not just at home in the Torres Strait, but throughout the mainland as well. 

Kailu hopes we will make history again. He hopes we will win the referendum that will recognise us as First Peoples, by ensuring we have a Voice to the decisions that are made concerning us. 

He expresses sadness about the misinformation he sees in the media. “When they say we already have a Voice, you think, How can they ignore that our people have suffered for such a long time.”

“I’ve been telling other youth about our history, what I’ve learnt; about how a Voice, when we win the referendum, is something that we can pass on to future leaders. 

“We talk about it when we play basketball,” he says. “We talk about it when we play football. All this small, small talk, you may not move all them kids, but I know I might get one or two who take what I’m teaching them, and it will be stuck with them. 

“And I think about how I was, just recently – that shy one just sitting there, sesthaman, but will soon explode with that knowledge and do good things.”

The Voice to Parliament Handbook by Thomas Mayo.
RRP: $16.99 from the Australian Geographic Shop

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The Matildas’ current success can be traced back to the rise of feminism during the 1960s that gained momentum in the 1970s.

Soccer generally was boosted by the Socceroos’ first-ever qualification for the men’s FIFA World Cup held in West Germany in 1974, after which both the men’s and women’s games developed rapidly. But it wasn’t the first time Aussie women had participated in organised competitive soccer.

In the aftermath of World War I, many women’s teams formed. Women had taken on men’s manual jobs admirably during the conflict, which they were forced to relinquish once the soldiers returned. Some found soccer a way to maintain community ties and stay strong.

The first officially recorded Aussie women’s football clubs included two Toowoomba teams and the Latrobe Ladies, which formed in Queensland in July 1921. By August the Queensland Ladies’ Soccer Football Association was founded, with more than 100 members.

The first public match played by women in Australia was in Brisbane at the Gabba in September 1921. In front of a crowd of 10,000, North Brisbane defeated South Brisbane 2–0.

The women’s sport grew, drawing good crowds, but over in Mother England trouble was brewing. The Football Association (FA), English soccer’s governing body, was unhappy with the women’s game, which was wildly successful in the sport’s home country. Proceeds from matches were being donated to charities beyond the FA’s control; one particular match on Boxing Day in 1920 drew a record crowd of 53,000, raising about $140,000 at today’s Australian values.

Almost a year to the day after that landmark game, the FA banned women’s football, ruling that: “Complaints having been made as to football being played by women, Council felt impelled to express the strong opinion that the game of football is quite unsuitable for females and should not be encouraged.” It cited irregularities in handling of funds raised (unproven), among other concerns. “For these reasons the Council requests the Clubs belonging to the Association refuse the use of their grounds for such matches.”

It didn’t take long for Australia to follow suit. In February 1922 the British Association Interstate Conference in Melbourne emulated their English counterparts in banning women from official grounds. Although many women continued to play competitively, others, fearing negative public opinion, turned to more “acceptable” sports such as tennis and hockey.      

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Vegemite first hit Australian supermarket shelves in 1923, but it took a while to find its feet.

Indeed, the now classic spread may have failed into obscurity as “Parwill” if not for a very clever advertising campaign in the second world war:

A product of war

Vegemite has German U-boats to thank for its invention.

When the first world war began in 1914, Australians were big fans of Marmite, the British yeast extract spread.

As the Germans began sinking ships full of British supplies to Australia, Marmite disappeared from the shelves. Due to the conditions of its patent, Marmite could only be manufactured in Britain.

As a result, there was a gap in the market for a yeast spread.

Fred Walker, who produced canned foods, hired food technologist Cyril P. Callister to create a homegrown yeast spread using brewer’s yeast from the Carlton Brewery.

Callister’s experiments produced a thicker, stronger spread than the original Marmite. Callister’s inclusion of vegetable extracts to improve the flavour would give the spread its name, Vegemite, chosen by Walker’s daughter from competition entries.

Australians were wary of Vegemite when it first appeared on grocery shelves, perhaps due to brand loyalty to Marmite.

To try and combat this, Walker renamed Vegemite “Parwill” in 1928 as a play on Marmite: “if Ma might, Pa will”.

This rebrand was short-lived. Australians were not any more interested in Parwill than they were in Vegemite.

A nutritious food replacement

In the 1930s, Walker hired American advertiser J. Walter Thompson. Thompson began offering free samples of Vegemite with purchases of other Kraft-Walker products, including the popular Kraft cheese.

Kraft-Walker also ran limerick competitions to advertise Vegemite. Entrants would write the final line of a limerick to enter into the draw to win a brand new car.

It would take another world war, however, before Vegemite became part of Australian national identity.

The second world war also disrupted shipping supply routes. With other foodstuffs hard to come by, Vegemite was marketed as a nutritious replacement for many foods. One 1945 advertisement read:

If you are one of those who don’t need Vegemite medicinally, the thousands of invalids and babies are asking you to deny yourself of it for the time being.

With its long shelf life and high levels of B-vitamins, the Department of Supply also saw the advantages of Vegemite. The department began buying Vegemite in bulk and including it in ration kits sent to soldiers on the front lines.

Due to this demand, Kraft-Walker foods rationed the Vegemite available to civilians. Yet the brand increased advertisements. Consumers were told Vegemite was limited because it was in demand for Australian troops due to its incredible health benefits.

One ad told Australians:

In all operational areas where our men and those of our Allies are engaged, and in military hospitals, Vegemite is in great demand, because of its value in fighting Vitamin B deficiency diseases. That’s why the fighting forces have first call on all Vegemite produced. And that is why Vegemite is in short supply for civilian consumption. But it won’t always be that way. When the peace is won and our men come home, ample stocks of this extra tasty yeast extract will be available for everyone.

This clever advertising linked Vegemite with Australian nationalism. Though most could not buy the spread during the rationing years, the idea that Vegemite was vital for the armed forces cemented the idea that Vegemite was fundamentally Australian.

Buying Vegemite was an act of patriotism and a way to support Australian troops overseas.

Happy little Vegemites

In the postwar baby boom, Vegemite advertisements responded to concerns about the nation’s health and the need to rebuild a healthy population:

This emphasis on Vegemite as part of a healthy diet for growing children would remain the key advertising focus of the next 60 years.

The ear-catching jingle was composed in the early 1950s, first for radio and then later used in the 1959 television ad.

The link between Australian identity and Vegemite was popularised internationally by Men At Work’s 1981 song Down Under, with the lyrics “He just smiled and gave me a Vegemite sandwich”.

The 1980s also saw the first remake of the 1950s television campaign, re-colourising it for nostalgic young parents who had grown up with the original:

In February 2022, the first international arrivals welcomed back into Australia post-COVID were greeted with a DJ playing Down Under, koala plushies and jars of Vegemite.

On Vegemite’s centenary in 2023, the unassuming spread is now firmly cemented as an Australian cultural icon. Love it or hate it, Vegemite is here to stay.

Hannah Viney, Researcher, Monash University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Our top 10 most iconic Australian foods

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While National Reconciliation Week focuses on relations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people, NAIDOC Week is purely to celebrate our culture and achievements.

We get to celebrate who we are and what we have achieved, and we get to support all the deadly Blak businesses.

It’s a time for our community to celebrate being Blak, with local events that are accessible to all. Or you can relax at home and enjoy the many films and TV series written or produced by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander filmmakers or staring fabulous Blak talent.

A brief history of NAIDOC

Held in the first week of July, NAIDOC Week has a long history of activism and celebration.

NAIDOC stands for National Aborigines and Islanders Day Observance Committee and it dates back to the 1920s and the fight for better living conditions and rights for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

It continued into the 1930s with the boycotting of Australia Day and the establishment of The Day of Mourning. In 1955 the event was expanded to a week-long celebration held in July.

Over the years the event shifted to become one of celebrating Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, culture, and history, our survival and our resistance. With more than 65,000 years of history we need at least a week to celebrate our deadliness!

NAIDOC Awards

An event that is very popular is the National NAIDOC Awards which acknowledge the contributions of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples to our communities. There are a range of categories including sports, creative arts, youth, Elders and lifetime achievement.

The “male” and “female” categories unfortunately miss a valuable opportunity to celebrate our leaders who are beyond the gender binary. Introducing gender-free categories would allow trans and gender diverse mob to be equally celebrated, as they also work tirelessly to make life better for the generations to come.

The NAIDOC Ball

The annual NAIDOC Balls held across most states and territories are also a highlight of the week. Much attention is paid to the fabulous outfits and jewellery, as this is one of the biggest events of the year and one of few opportunities to come together and celebrate a deep sense of pride in what we have achieved.

It’s also important to consider the accessibility of the key NAIDOC events, such as the awards and balls. Indigenous peoples will be out of pocket at least A$120 for a ticket to the awards and balls, and organisations including Blak businesses are ticketed at $220, with $300 tickets for corporate allies. During a cost-of-living crisis, $120 is a big ask.

Given NAIDOC is a national celebration, more funding is needed from government and local councils to fund mob to host celebrations. It would be fabulous to see government and mainstream organisations provide funding to Indigenous owned and controlled organisations to host NAIDOC events that are community-led and accessible to everyone.

What does NAIDOC week mean for non-Indigenous people?

Unfortunately NAIDOC week often leads to unpaid labour for many Indigenous people in workplaces, as they are expected to organise NAIDOC events and celebrations.

During NAIDOC week, non-Indigenous people can show their support by not putting extra pressure on Indigenous staff and being involved in the organising of NAIDOC events. Employers could also include a day off for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander staff so they can participate in cultural celebrations.

Non-Indigenous people can also support Blak-controlled businesses such as caterers and florists. But this should happen throughout the year as well.

They should also listen and learn throughout the year, not just during NAIDOC. Engage with free content such as First Australians, After the Apology, First Inventors and Mabo. Read some of the wonderful books written by Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people.

During NAIDOC we also see deadly collaborations with big corporations which is a great way to showcase Indigenous excellence. This year Indigenous artist Rubii Red collaborated with Xbox to create a hand-painted console with profits going to Aboriginal kids in out of home care.

Happy Blak Christmas you mob!

Bronwyn Carlson, Professor, Indigenous Studies and Director of The Centre for Global Indigenous Futures, Macquarie University and Tamika Worrell, Associate Lecturer in Indigenous Studies, Macquarie University

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

The post What is NAIDOC Week? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Victoria is Australia’s undisputed home of the outdoor art movement and the best place to explore the fast-growing silo-art trail. Many stunning art sites are strewn across the state, particularly the Wimmera Mallee region, and they provide plenty of good reasons to stop and stay awhile among classic rural landscapes populated by welcoming communities. 

But for the traveller wanting a truly diverse experience of the outdoor art explosion, Melbourne is the obvious starting point. Your public-art tour starts on a real high with as much urban energy, rebelliousness and diversity as can be mustered through an aerosol spray can or the swipe of a paint roller. 

After taking in the famous graffitied walls of Hosier, AC/DC and Union lanes, among a veritable maze of inner‑city art, head to the suburb of Fitzroy and explore the murals of Brunswick, Fitzroy, Young, Napier, Smith and Johnston streets. Here, you’ll enjoy your first encounter with the works of some of the big names of the street‑art movement – Cam Scale, Adnate, Jimmy Dvate, Rone, Heesco and Sofles – all side by side or within an easy block or two on foot. And while you are still in Melbourne, take a tram to Brunswick and the first painted silo of your travels. Here, you’ll see a heartfelt depiction by Loretta Lizzio of a well‑known photo of Jacinda Ardern, then prime minister of New Zealand, embracing a Muslim woman in the aftermath of the horrific Christchurch mosques massacre. 

Before you head off from greater Melbourne, take a detour down the eastern side of Port Phillip and enjoy the street‑art offerings from The Big Picture Fest at Frankston. For several years, this bayside city has staged a street-art festival, and the legacy of more than 50 giant murals is within easy reach. Take a walking tour to catch the works of Smug (or Smug One), Lucy Lucy, Julian Clavijo and Jason Parker, among others. 

Heading out on the Victorian art trail there are two branches to follow. The first is to the north‑east, roughly centred on the city of Shepparton, a 190km drive from Melbourne. Shepparton is the ideal centre from which to radiate and explore the branches of the silo-art trail in north-eastern Victoria. A day in the east perhaps, visiting six or seven sites, followed by an overnight stay in Shepparton, then a second day taking in the silos to the west. 

But why rush? A round trip taking three, four or five days from Melbourne could encompass more than a dozen silo sites, as well as local attractions such as Kelly Country and historic Glenrowan, and Barmah National Park on the Murray River. 

Shepparton itself is a street‑art centre with spectacular works by Adnate as part of the city’s Aboriginal Street Art Project. And while you’re in town, have a look out for Mooving Art Shepparton, a scattering of more than 90 brightly coloured and decorated fibreglass and resin cows. A whole lot of bovine fun. 

Just over 60km to the east of Shepparton lies the smaller centre of Benalla, where it can be confidently said that the whole street‑art movement in regional Australia began. Benalla staged its first Wall to Wall Festival in 2015 and, except for the COVID years, the town has attracted many of the big international names to each celebration of public art since.

Taking the road north from Benalla, works at Goorambat and Devenish show the great diversity in themes of silo art. Almost 19km from Benalla on the Benalla–Yarrawonga Road (C373) lies the small town of Goorambat (population less than 300). In 2019 animal and bird specialist Jimmy Dvate completed a group of silo paintings culminating in a magnificent depiction of a team of three Clydesdale horses – Clem, Sam and Banjo. Two of the horses were bred locally. 

A further 9.3km on up the C373 and a left turn onto Boxwood Road, and then Main Street, leads to the even smaller town of Devenish. Here, artist Cam Scale has painted three tributes to armed forces from the district on the town’s silos. Like so many small rural communities, the sacrifice of Devenish, particularly in World War I, was out of all proportion to the size of the town at the time. One in six residents enlisted in that terrible conflict. 

Keeping with the military service tributes, on the Midlands Highway, 21km west of Shepparton, a water tower at Tatura (by Andrew Davis and Cam Scale) pays tribute to the great Victorian engineer and WWI general Sir John Monash. 

From Tatura, silos at Kyabram (38km from Shepparton on the Echuca Road/C351) and Rochester (37km from Kyabram on the C362) showcase more of Jimmy Dvate’s wonderful wildlife images. 

Depending on the time you have available, you could continue west from Rochester and fall in with the second silo-art trail at the small, picturesque goldmining town of Wedderburn (122km via the Elmore–Raywood Road/C337 and Calder Highway/A79). While in Wedderburn, don’t miss the Uniting Church in High Street, with its gorgeous murals of endangered bird species adorning the exterior. They were painted by Andrew J. Bourke and Bryan Itch. 

From Wedderburn, the trail takes you west and on through the big‑sky country of the Wimmera and Mallee, all the way to the border with South Australia. Of course, you could embark on this western branch of the trail as a standalone adventure after sampling the outdoor art offerings of Melbourne. Either way, the art trail of the Wimmera Mallee region promises grand rural scenery everywhere you look, and the chance to visit more than 18 spectacular and diverse silo sites.

Travelling from Melbourne, it’s a 244km drive (via the National Highway M8 and the Sunraysia Highway/B220) to St Arnaud. (If approaching from the east, St Arnaud is just 42km from Wedderburn via the Old St Arnaud and Wedderburn roads.) Either way, this historic goldmining town is the perfect jumping‑off point for the Wimmera Mallee region. As you tour the town, you’ll come across several murals by local artist Kyle Torney, culminating in the two steel silos in McMahon Street. Kyle’s distinctive monochrome images of local identities and historical subjects sets his work apart from anything else you’ll see on the silo‑art trail. 

Heading west from St Arnaud, the next stop lies 63km along the Wimmera Highway/B240 at Rupanyup, where Russian mural artist Julia Volchkova painted images of two young local sports stars – netballer Ebony Baker and Australian Rules footballer Jordan Weidemann. The monochrome portraits of the pair embody a spirit of youthful camaraderie and optimism. The Australian Grain Export silos are easily found at Gibson Street, not far from where the highway enters town. 

Continuing west and heading for the major regional centre of Horsham, a must-see attraction is the so-called Stick Shed at Murtoa (15km from Rupanyup on the Wimmera Highway). This gigantic timber-framed structure was built in the 1940s to store grain. The vast interior of the heritage-listed building could be aptly described as an agricultural cathedral. 

From Murtoa, it’s a further 31km on the Wimmera Highway to the major regional centre of Horsham and a first introduction on the silo-art trail to the virtuosic work of Sam Bates (aka Smug). Don’t miss his spectacular historical tribute to local Indigenous hero Djungadjinganook at the privately owned silos and adjacent flour mill at 35 Wawunna Road near the centre of town. Being a large regional centre, Horsham is also an ideal place to break your journey. 

From Horsham, head north for 36km on the Western Highway/A8 to Dimboola. This small town was the setting for the eponymous 1969 play by Jack Hibberd (later also a film) and is also a jumping-off point for Little Desert National Park. 

Make sure you visit the nearby Pink Lake, and take time to see the Dimboola Imaginarium, a whimsical gift shop (complete with a giant toy giraffe) housed in the beautifully restored former premises of the National Bank of Australasia. 

On the road to Rainbow (C227), 10km north of Dimboola, lies the “one-house town” of Arkona. At Arkona you’ll see another aspect of the work of the very versatile Smug, here depicting the invisible man – or, more precisely, local tennis legend Roley Klinge. 

From Arkona, continue north on the C227 for 59km to the delightfully named town of Rainbow. A further 22km on leads to one of the most remote silo groups on the trail, at Albacutya. On a side road on the Rainbow–Albacutya Road, young Melbourne artist Kitt Bennett has created a colourful group of murals inspired by the innocent pleasures of growing up in the bush. 

Outlying silos can be found in the west at the small towns of Kaniva and Goroke. They feature wildlife themes, with the perennial country favourites of kookaburras and magpies painted by Geoffrey Curran at Goroke, and a hobby – a small Australian falcon – celebrated by David Lee Pereira on the silos of Kaniva. Visit either or both sites if you are on your way west to SA. 

Back on the roughly figure‑of‑eight pathway of the Wimmera Mallee silo‑art trail, a drive of 53km from Dimboola to Sheep Hills, via the C234 and the Stawell–Warracknabeal Road/B210, brings the traveller to one of the standout silo murals of the tour. At Sheep Hills, internationally renowned artist Adnate has produced a work steeped in local Indigenous significance. Depicting four faces – two Elders and two Elders of the future – Adnate’s work celebrates the continuity of culture through the generations.

From Sheep Hills, the next destination on the trip is Brim (36km along the B210 and then the Henty Highway/B200), where Guido van Helten kicked off the entire silo-art trail back in 2015 with his seminal and monumental depictions of local farmers on a cluster of four silos. Onwards, 22km up the Henty Highway, the art trail comes to Rosebery and the work of prominent street artist Kaff-eine. Her work depicts two farmers. On one silo a young woman stands resolute to the hardships of working the land. On a second a typical Mallee farmer caresses his beloved horse. 

The northern extent of the Wimmera Mallee trail finds three silo sites close to one another. Woomelang (population about 190) lies 44km up the Henty Highway/B200 and the C246 from Rosebery. Here, you’ll find a number of small mobile silo bins dotted around the town. In 2020 a group of seven artists that included Kaff-eine, Jimmy Dvate and Andrew J. Bourke decorated the bins with images of endangered species, including a Major Mitchell’s cockatoo, mallee emu-wren, malleefowl and spotted-tail quolls. 

From Woomelang, the trail heads a short distance (14km up the Sunraysia Highway/B220) to Lascelles, and a monumental work across two silo cells by the installation artist Rone. Here, Rone has produced portraits of a local farming couple, Geoff and Merrilyn Horman, whose family has lived and farmed here for four generations. The scale of these subtle, yet imposing, images must be seen to be believed.

It’s then on to the town of Patchewollock (49km up the B220 and Sea Lake/Patchewollock roads/C248). Patchewollock marks the start of the silo‑art trail for those approaching from the north. Its main tourist drawcard is its silos, featuring a portrait by Fintan Magee of local Nick ‘Noodle’ Hulland. Clad in trademark checked shirt and faded jeans, it’s a no‑nonsense portrayal of a resolute Mallee farmer. Patchewollock is the northernmost point on the trail. From there the road goes east to Sea Lake (82km via the C248, Sunraysia Highway/B220 and Sea Lake–Lascelles roads). Sea Lake’s silos feature the work of Travis Vinson (aka Drapl) and Joel Fergie (aka The Zookeeper). Their vividly coloured mural depicts a young girl sitting on a swing while gazing out across nearby Lake Tyrrell, with a blazing sunset sky merging into the night and a canopy of stars. At 20,680ha, Lake Tyrrell is the largest salt lake in Victoria. 

Turning south and back towards St Arnaud or Wedderburn, a stop at the tiny town of Nullawil (population 92) marks a grand finish to this clockwise loop of the silo-art trail. Nullawil lies 51km from Sea Lake on the Calder Highway/A79. The silos at Nullawil exhibit yet another spectacular example of the work of Smug. Rather than another portrait of a farmer or local identity, the subject in this case is a dog. It’s not just any hound, but the quintessential Australian worker and ever-faithful companion – a kelpie that Smug called Jimmy. 

St Arnaud, and the end of the silo-art tour, lies a further 90km along the Calder Highway. If you’re still up for some sightseeing, why not stop in Wycheproof, a town that boasts of having Australia’s smallest mountain on its doorstep? Mt Wycheproof rises 148m above sea level, and a giddying 43m above the surrounding plain. Such are the varied delights of the spectacular big-sky country in Victoria’s Wimmera Mallee region.

Alasdair McGregor’s new book on silo art will be published in August and is available to preorder from our online store. Price $59.95.

The post Follow your art appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Currently studying marine science at James Cook University (JCU), and assisting in its shark research lab, Courtney’s career focus is on the relationship between Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and elasmobranchs (a subclass of cartilaginous fishes, including sharks and rays). 

While Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have been living side by side with sharks and rays for tens of thousands of years, there is no scientific record of this human impact – positive or negative – on the animals.

Courtney wants to change this, and is commended for her work in bringing First Nations culture and history into scientific literature.

Ultimately, Courtney wants to change the way the world sees sharks and promote their conservation.

As a JCU student ambassador Courtney also works to inspire other young First Nations people to consider tertiary education and has co-created an Indigenous student support community.

“NAIDOC Youth of the Year — that has a deadly ring to it, I reckon!” Courtney said in her acceptance speech.

“… I just want to thank everyone who has got me to where I am today,” she continued. “This is actually gnarly. I’m going to keep it short and sweet. Thank you so much guys and for our Elders.”

About NAIDOC and the awards

NAIDOC Week is a yearly celebration of the culture, history and triumphs of First Nations people.

The theme for 2023 is For Our Elders, inviting reflection on the wisdom and guidance of Elders in communities.

The National NAIDOC Week Awards celebrate Indigenous excellence across the nation, honouring Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders making outstanding contributions to their community and beyond.

This year’s awards ceremony was held on Saturday night (1 July) on Meanjin Country at Brisbane Convention and Exhibition Centre.

Here is the full list of this year’s winners:

• National NAIDOC Lifetime Achievement Award: Aunty Dr Naomi Mayers OAM
• National NAIDOC Person of the Year Award: Professor Kelvin Kong
• National NAIDOC Female Elder Award: Aunty Dr Matilda House-Williams
• National NAIDOC Male Elder Award: William Tilmouth
• National NAIDOC Sportsperson Award: Donnell Wallam 
• National NAIDOC Youth Award: Courtney Burns
• National NAIDOC Creative Talent Award: Rachel Perkins
• National NAIDOC Caring for Country and Culture Award: Lala Gutchen
• National NAIDOC Education Award: Bubup Wilam Aboriginal Child and Family Centre
• National NAIDOC Innovation Award: Daniel Motlop

The post Gunaikurnai marine science student Courtney Burns named NAIDOC Youth of the Year appeared first on Australian Geographic.

Engineering is about process, and the process of engineering was very different in Australia before the English colonised the land. However, when our Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander students take the step into engineering, or other STEM subjects, there is little material provided that relates to their experience or their peoples’ technical and management knowledge. This is a result of historic denial of the First Nations of Australia as enduring scientific and technical civilisations.

The versatility and minimalist nature of Aboriginal technology designs are inspiring. The flexibility and artistry in tool manufacture, which can differ in neighbouring communities, is a salient lesson for engineers now. Some key aspects of this approach can be seen through five examples of ingenious Indigenous engineering.

The Kimberley raft

The King Sound region of the Kimberleys in Western Australia is renowned for its strong tides, rips and whirlpools. Navigation can be difficult, though there are areas of calm water in the bays. The Bardi community, from One Arm Point, call their raft the kalwa.

The raft is made mostly of light mangrove wood, providing buoyancy. The two fan-shaped sections that make up the boat are wider and thicker at the outer ends to provide stability. These two sections, lapped over each other, are made on a base of mangrove trunks sharpened at the ends; hardwood is used to pin them together. A small basket, made with hardwood pegs on the back section, is used to secure belongings or any fish that are caught.

The design ensures the top of the raft stays above the water when loaded with the paddler, passengers and belongings. The size of the raft determines the load it can carry. Water that washes over the raft will flow out through the gaps between the wooden slats.

Ingeniously, the structure can be pulled apart. One half can be tied to a harpooned dugong, which will swim around and become exhausted, while the hunter floats on the other half.

Rafts were made in different styles all around the coast of Australia, from the different materials available in particular areas and for uses relevant to that landscape.

Thuwarri Thaa Aboriginal ochre mine

The Thuwarri Thaa (aka Wilgie Mia) Aboriginal ochre mine is located in central WA in the Weld Range, between Mount Magnet and Meekatharra. It has been in use for probably tens of thousands of years, including by non-Aboriginal miners from the 1940s to 1970s.

The ochre is still important in body and artefact painting for ceremony. It is also used as a skin coolant during summer and for warmth during winter; as a fly repellent; in curing hides and in making glue.

The mine is a deep, sloping shaft cut into the mountain. Wood was carried into the cavern and made into scaffolding to reach seams of ochre out of reach above the cavern floor. Tunnels have been dug along seams in the walls. Heat, flaked pebbles and fire-hardened, sharpened wood were used to undercut the seams of ochre. Fire may have been used to crack the surrounding rock, as well as to provide light deep in the cavern. At times, large sections of ochre could be wedged off.

The ochre was mined from deep underground and then processed onsite. Some was transported by traders northwest to Carnarvon (450 km), south to Kellerberrin (525 km) and east to Wiluna (300 km). To transport, the ochre was dampened and rolled into balls.

Thuwarri Thaa was reserved as a men’s only site and stories pass down knowledge of the site and the material. Its location, its mining and its uses are embedded in the creation story of the marlu or red kangaroo. The red ochre is his blood, the yellow ochre is his liver and green is his gall. The entire mining and distribution industry was regulated by these cultural constraints and influences and thus maintained sustainable practices.

When non-Aboriginal people mined there, the roof was blasted off a large cavern at a nearby site, little Wilgie Mia. Ochre from the site is still used in ceremony. People can visit with a permit if guided by Wajarri Yamaji Traditional Owner guides.

Budj Bim eel traps

The Budj Bim area (also known as Lake Condah), a dormant volcano in south western Victoria, was continuously occupied for thousands of years. The Gunditjmara community farmed eels and harvested galaxia fish in a series of dams and water channels constructed out of the basalt lava flows, an amazing surveying feat.

More than 30,000 years ago, Budj Bim (called Mount Eccles by Europeans) spewed forth the Tyrendarra lava flow, a significant creation event in this country recorded in local oral history. The lava flow to the sea created large wetlands by changing the drainage pattern. This volcanic activity lasted until after the last ice age. Carbon dating shows aquaculture began as early as 6,700 years ago, soon after the lava flow stopped.

The people then continued to alter the water flow through the region with excavated channels. The channels are made in straight or curved paths, with sharp corners helping to reduce the speed of water. Dam walls were built to produce ponds.

These traps for eels and the fish traps in other locations were designed to allow animals to enter the trapping area, be retained in the cooling water and then captured when required for food. The eels remained in pools designed for collection for long periods, where they would breed. This provided a food supply all year round.

The rock was also used to construct dwellings or stone huts, along with 36 storage structures and 12 pits, which are associated with eel trapping. Most of the stone dwellings have a diameter of less than 1.6m. The rest are considered to be storage caches. The area has many scar trees with signs of burning; many of the Manna gums were used for baking and smoking and preserving the trapped eel. Smoked eel products were traded over a wide area.

The structures were exposed during heavy fires in the area and the extent of the all the engineering work is still not known. These traps are an Australian UNESCO World Heritage site, the only one listed exclusively for its Aboriginal cultural values. The Gunditjmara people now work with engineering students designing projects exploring engineering approaches embedded in the landscape.

Yidaki / Didgeridoo

When Ben Lange, an Aboriginal man from Cairns who plays the Yidaki, came to the University of New South Wales to study electrical engineering, he worked with the physics department to look at how the Aboriginal people created sounds with this instrument. This work led to greater understanding of the use of the mouth and its components in speech production, providing inspiration for new approaches in speech therapy.

The Yidaki (European name the Didgeridoo) is a drone pipe played with circular breathing – the lungs are used as a form of air storage to maintain a continual flow through the pipe. The wood is selected from termite-hollowed trees. This bore is widened by hand, especially at the base of the pipe. Bees’ wax is used to smooth the mouthpiece.

The shape of the mouth across the pipe, the control of air through the mouth with the diaphragm, and the position of the tongue in the mouth, as well as the shape of the player’s voice box, all affect the sound from the instrument.

Brewarrina fish traps

The Brewarrina fish traps, called Biame Ngunnhu by the local Ngemba people, were created by Biaime in the Dreamtime – there is no oral record of other events that locate the period of construction. They are considered the oldest and longest-lasting dry wall construction on earth.

Dating of the traps would be hard, especially as many of the stones were recently moved to construct a stone weir across the river. Importantly, these fish traps provide an example of collaborative knowledge sharing and governance.

When the fish were running in the Barwon River, a tributary of the Darling, the clans would gather from all around to talk about caring for Country. The fish traps are scattered across and down the river. When the water is high, the lower traps are inundated, but the upper traps are opened upstream and fish swim in with the water flow. They are closed and the fish remain in the traps until they are ready to be caught, usually by spear. When the water drops, the lower traps are then used.

The Ngemba families each owned a trap, each feeding a specific language group when they came to the meetings. The time was spent understanding what was happening to Country around them – through sharing stories, and planning ceremonies, such as rain-making, as needed. This history of knowledge-sharing is now being continued by the Ngemba people with a project for online storytelling and data collection around service provision in their community.

The fish in the river include Australian grayling, river blackfish, short-finned eel, Australian smelt, climbing galaxias, common galaxias, congoli, flathead gudgeon, mountain galaxias, pouch lamprey, smallmouth hardyhead, trout galaxias and southern pigmy perch. However the main fish there now are introduced carp, and the high level of irrigation upstream means the river is often dry.

There is great diversity of Aboriginal peoples across Australia. Aboriginal people have different languages and come from vastly different landscapes, each with their unique ecology. Yet technology is part of our everyday life: the houses we live in; the internet we learn with; the watercraft we use for fun or fishing.

Indigenous communities need students graduating with the skills to help maintain and build infrastructure or create software to support their enterprises and care for Country. In project management, the participatory democracy practised in Indigenous communities is a good example of flat management processes and a way to reinvigorate the Western approach to sustainability and democracy that is failing in our engineering projects – as much as in the political space.

Indigenous Engineering for an Enduring Culture, edited by Cat Kutay, Elyssebeth Leigh, Juliana Kaya Prpic and Lyndon Ormond-Parker is published by Cambridge Scholars Publishing.

Cat Kutay, Lecturer, Faculty of Science and Technology, Charles Darwin University, University of Technology Sydney

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Recognising Indigenous knowledges is not just culturally sound, it’s good science

The post 5 Indigenous engineering feats you should know about appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The last time Lewi was on this 1401m-high mountain, he could see little. It was dark and he was rushed. He’d started ascending this peak at 5am, and he planned to climb four more mountains that day. It would be the longest day in his quest to climb the Abels – the 158 Tasmanian mountains taller than 1100m above sea level, with a drop of at least 150m on all sides – in 158 days. 

Named for Abel Tasman, the first European to sight Tasmania in 1642, the concept of the Abels was conceived in the early 1990s, and while they’re little known outside of their home state, their recognition has grown rapidly on the island. At the time of writing, just 31 people had completed the Abels, but more than one‑third of those “Abelists”, including Lewi, had done so in the last 18 months.

This day, as Lewi ascends Sandbanks Tier again, things are more leisurely. He’s here to finally take in the view, which comes as he rises onto the summit ridge, peering down onto yingina/Great Lake and as far as kunanyi / Mt Wellington, half the island away. It was on that mountain above nipaluna/Hobart that his fundraising 158 Challenge began in January 2022 and finished more than five months later, on his 30th birthday. As he talks, it’s clear that the most exhausting thing about this day’s climb on Sandbanks Tier is the memory.

“It was one of those days when fatigue and ambition came to a head,” he says. “I had to complete Sandbanks Tier before 7am in order to pick up a key from a landowner for access to another Abel, which resulted in me starting at 5am in complete darkness. Coming down when it was wet, dewy, dark and misty, I slipped down a 2m-high rock into [Richea] scoparia and bush and scraped my legs pretty intensely. 

“People will say that Sandbanks Tier is one of the gentler walks up an Abel, but I turned it into the hardest. And I continued that day, trying to do five Abels, and by halfway through the third Abel I was crying – literally in tears.”

Lewi didn’t manage to summit five Abels that day – he was beaten after three – but he did go on to finish all 158 mountains in 158 days.

In completing the climbs, he smashed the record for the fastest round of the Abels by more than two years and elevated the profile of this greatest of Tasmanian mountain missions.

Bill Wilkinson hasn’t completed the Abels – he remains about 20 peaks short and resigned to defeat by bad knees – but the concept wouldn’t exist without him. While visiting Scotland more than 40 years ago, the Launceston-raised bushwalker teamed up with a traveller from London to climb several Scottish peaks in the group known as the Munros.

Initially compiled by Sir Hugh Munro in 1891, the Munros are the 282 Scottish mountains higher than 3000ft (914.4m). Among Scottish walkers, climbing the Munros, aka “Munro bagging”, is a challenge that borders on a national obsession.

It was an experience that set Bill thinking. Could a similar model be applied to Tasmania’s mountains? On his return to Tasmania, he set off, not to the mountains, but to libraries, where he spent months poring over topographic maps.

“I played around with the mathematical modelling for a long time,” Bill says. “I had a model where I started at 950m minimum – I quickly got rid of that and then nearly stopped at 1050m. But then there were too many scrubby ones, so it ended up at 1100m. But then you’ve got plateaus and trying to work out whether they’re just one massive mountain, so that’s where the 150m (drop) came from. But I played around with a lot of different ideas.”

In 1994, Bill, working with six writers, published the first volume of The Abels: A Comprehensive Guide to Tasmania’s Mountains Over 1100m High, bringing the mountains to walkers’ attention and creating a quest that slowly gained traction – it would be 17 years before the first person, Phil Dawson, climbed every Abel.

Initially, the list contained only 155 mountains, because, despite the exactitude of his study, Bill missed three Abels: Tramontane, Sharlands Peak and Nescient Peak.

“I kept looking at the wrong contour for Nescient Peak,” he says. “That became locally known as Bill’s Abel. Nescient means ignorant – I was ignorant.” The trio was added to subsequent volumes of the Abels book, the most recent of which, Volume 1, 3rd edition, was published at the start of 2023.

In studying the maps, Bill noticed that nine of the peaks that qualified as Abels were unnamed. In his mind, he created names for them, finally applying to the nomenclature board of the day to have the titles adopted. Once he proved the mountains had no recorded Indigenous names, or hadn’t been christened by early explorers or settlers, his names – among them, Mensa Moor, Agamemnon, The Hippogriff and Mt Othrys – were accepted.

“It was great fun,” he recalls. “I tried to fit in with the local traditions. Mt Othrys I named because it’s next to Mt Olympus – the gods were on Mt Olympus and the Titans were on Mt Othrys, and they were fighting. And Agamemnon was Clytemnestra’s husband.” (Agamemnon and Clytemnestra mountains stand almost together beside Frenchmans Cap.)

Bill says the Abels aren’t a perfect model – the drop on Mersey Crag makes its status as an Abel disputable, for instance – but after nearly 30 years, they’re only growing in popularity, and he remains proud of the collection.

“The Abels are becoming part of the language of Tasmania,” he says. “I sometimes wonder whether the minimum drop of 150m could be a bit less, but when you start looking at their distribution, the state’s covered very, very well. And it’s a nice lot of mountains – there’s quartzite, dolerite, sandstone, conglomerate – and you’re walking in all sorts of different terrain – dry sclerophyll, wet sclerophyll, rainforest, buttongrass. 

“Everything was very fluid early on, but once I established the model, I was very happy.”

By the end of 2022, 7390 people had completed the Munros. At the same time, just 25 people had climbed all the Abels. But only one person had done both.

Growing up in Scotland, Malcolm Waterston was once challenged by a teacher to climb all the Munros before he turned 21, but by the time he emigrated to Australia at the age of 31, he still had about 100 to climb. 

When he spotted the Abels book by Bill Wilkinson et al. in a shop window in his adopted home of Queenstown, on Tasmania’s west coast, in the 1990s, it was like a love letter from home.

“As soon as I heard of the Abels, it became a challenge, because it made it so much like the Scottish scene,” Malcolm says, as we reach the summit of Quamby Bluff, the 1228m-high  Abel in the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. It’s a mountain Malcolm often returns to from his home in nearby Launceston, having climbed it about a dozen times.

After setting out to pursue the Abels peaks in the mid‑1990s, Malcolm retired from his vet practice 10 years ago, at the age of 60. It was partly to concentrate on his Abels quest, becoming just the sixth Abelist when he summitted on Camp Hill in January 2016. 

All the while, the Munros called from across the globe, as did family tradition. Malcolm’s sister had completed two rounds of the Munros, while his father held the record for the longest time to complete the Munros, climbing his first peak before the age of 10 and his final one in his 80s. 

On visits home, Malcolm slowly picked off unclimbed Munros until, by 2022, only 11 remained on his list. It was time to complete his mission, which he did (while infected with COVID) by summitting the 980m-high Beinn a’ Chochuill in September 2022.

As we look out from Quamby Bluff, Malcolm points out an amphitheatre of Abels – more than 16 peaks – visible from this grandstand and I ask him which of the challenges was tougher.

“The Abels are a far more difficult challenge,” he says. “There’ll never be as many people do them. My friends in Scotland who have climbed the Abels say that you throw away the Scottish mountain rulebook when you come to Tasmania. You play by completely different rules because of the remoteness, the terrain, the vegetation and the big rivers that you’ve got to cross at times. The Abels took me places I’d never have gone otherwise. It’s been a real journey and hobby. I’ve loved it as a lifelong thing to do.”

Becca Lunnon describes herself as the accidental Abelist, even the accidental bushwalker. When she moved to Tasmania in 2012, she was no bushwalker, but when she smiled her way into a job in a Hobart outdoor‑gear store, things took a turn.

“I’d been overseas and Mum had retired down here from Melbourne,” she says. “Within the first week of deciding that I was coming to Tasmania to figure out what I wanted to do with my life, I walked into a bushwalking store and was offered a job because of my smile. A couple of months after starting, I thought I really needed to actually use some of the gear so I could talk about it from firsthand experience. 

“I was invited on a pretty spectacular trip to Scotts Peak on Lake Pedder, and we had a magical day. I was thoroughly addicted from that point onwards, and now here I am – bushwalking is one of the biggest parts of my life and my identity.”

In January 2023, Becca became the 26th Abelist when she summitted on Tramontane, a remote peak west of Lake St Clair. But what sets her apart from most Abelists is that she never set out to become one. There are several distinct mountain challenges across the state of Tasmania, from the Tasmania Connoisseurs Peaks Challenge (featuring the 125 favourite mountains of the challenge’s three creators, including Paul Geeves – the second Abelist) to the Abels, but the quest that captivated Becca from the beginning was the Hobart Walking Club’s Peak Baggers List, a spreadsheet of the state’s 481 mountains, with each peak assigned a point value out of 10, according to its difficulty.

Her attempt to climb every mountain in Tasmania began on the Abels because of the wealth of available information on them. Trestle Mountain, one of four Abels on the Wellington Range behind Hobart, was one of her earliest climbs, and the peak to which I was now hiking with her. She’d insisted we take it slow, because she was running in a 67km ultra event three days later, but still it was an effort to match her pace. 

“I got very addicted very quickly,” she says, laughing as she recalls her first climb on Trestle Mountain 11 years before. “I decided I was going to ride my bike to Big Bend (an ascent of 1100m from Hobart) and then climb as many of the mountains as I could. I wanted to be up here for sunrise, so I set out at some ungodly hour, like 3am, slowly ground my way up the icy road, and then started walking. I found my way up Mt Connection, Collins Bonnet and Trestle Mountain, walked all the way back and rode home. I was very tired by the time I got there.”

It wasn’t until Becca had less than a dozen Abels to complete that she truly turned her mind to that particular quest, and it was only when she came to her final mountain that the realisation of what she was about to achieve was driven home.

“When I did my second‑last one, I wasn’t feeling like it was too much of an achievement, but then a friend said that
more people had orbited the moon than had climbed all the Abels,” she says. “When he said that, it made me think it was kind of cool.”

With the Abels complete, Becca’s mission to finish the Peak Baggers List continues. At the time we climbed Trestle Mountain, she had 32 more mountains to climb, mostly scrubby, off‑track peaks that she predicts will take her another two to three years to complete. Success would place her in an even more exclusive club, with only four people having climbed every mountain on the list. She will almost certainly become the first woman to do so, but, like so many Abelists, she notes that the joy of the climbs is less in the numbers than in the experiences, places and discoveries – external and internal – to which they led.

“It’s not really a competitive thing, it’s a sense of achievement that’s measurable,” she says. “It’s about the sunrises and sunsets, the birds, the encounters with whatever wildlife, just all those little things, as well as the actual climbing of the mountain.

“It’s given me a sense of knowing myself and has been key to learning about and developing my own self‑identity, self-confidence and self‑esteem – to move from somebody I don’t think I really liked, to somebody I do.”

Lewi Taylor blames his 158 Challenge on a single throwaway sentence after reading about Zane Robnik, the 26‑year‑old who completed the then‑fastest round of the Abels – two years and 197 days – in 2018.

“I said to a mate, ‘Just conceptually, what if you do one mountain a day?’” says Lewi. “He just looked at me, and the look said, ‘Well, you’ve got to try it.’ We checked it out, and over the course of 18 months really got our teeth into an itinerary. I’ve got quite a logistics brain, so the idea of connecting lots of mountains in a sequence that can give you a unique experience was what really appealed about the Abels.”

Along the way, after Lewi’s mum was diagnosed with breast cancer for a second time, it turned into a fundraiser, eventually raising $167,000 for Cancer Council Tasmania. For 158 days, Lewi’s life was reduced to the exhausting pursuit of peaks. “I’ll always say that the experience of hiking the Abels is more mental than physical,” he says. “If you do something every day for two or three months, you will become good at it. I essentially became a mountain goat in my body. I could no longer run, I could no longer jump, but I could climb mountains very, very well.”

Briefly, it looked like Lewi would complete the challenge one week early, but then, a fortnight out from the finish, his troubles began. The tail shaft fell off his car, and he then contracted COVID, forcing him to isolate on Tasmania’s east coast, sitting out a week of perfect weather and returning to the mountains just as heavy snow started to cover them. “I was waist‑deep in snow on those mountains for a few days,” he says.

It was just as his car died that, by chance, Lewi met John Carswell, the seventh person to complete the Abels. John gave him a place to stay in Launceston, the loan of his ute to keep the challenge alive, and then joined him on the final three peaks.

This day, on Sandbanks Tier, John has joined Lewi again, an odd couple of Abelists reunited on an Abel – Lewi, the fastest to have completed the mountains; and John, the slowest, climbing his first peak when he was nine and completing them 54 years later. Recalling his first climb, on Mt Owen, above his childhood home in Queenstown, John jokes that his Abels pursuit began with a tantrum.

“My older brother was 11, and my dad offered to take him to climb Mt Owen,” he says. “I wasn’t invited initially, and I put on a turn. I remember the effort I had to put in – turning on the tears, yelling and screaming, to the point where my mother went to my dad and said, ‘Trevor, I think you’d better take him with you.’”

More west‑coast Abels followed when John was a boy scout, though an attempt on Mt Geikie was defeated by heavy rain – five decades later, this 1191m-high mountain would be his final Abel. With him that day in 2016 was Malcolm Waterston, with whom he’d climbed so many of the Abels, and six years later he was part of the group that accompanied Lewi to his concluding summit of kunanyi / Mt Wellington in snow.

As I walked and talked with Abelists, this repeated crossover and interaction became a familiar pattern. Stories and climbs intertwined, until the Abels began to feel as much a community as a quest. Lewi says it was this, and the generosity of people like John, 40 years his senior, that finally got him over the line on time in his 158 Challenge.

“Something like this spans intergenerationally,” he says. “The act of bushwalking, of just being out in nature, is not specific to any one type of person. People just throw their arms around you.”

Like all great adventures, completion of the Abels leaves hanging the question of what next. Becca still has mountains to climb, Malcolm had the Munros to finish, and John has climbed five of the Seven Summits, the highest peaks on each continent. Lewi, too, has his sights ahead, but what he sees are more Abels.

“People said that Zane’s time was unbeatable, and people now tell me that no-one will ever do it quicker [than 158 days],” he says. “In my 158 days, I had 109 days of actual hiking, so I think it can definitely be done faster. Maybe I’ll do them quicker again myself to show that I’m not just full of arse. But that might be some time away.”

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I’m with chef and entrepreneur Stefano de Pieri, known for Stefano’s, his gourmet restaurant in the old cellars of the town’s Grand Hotel, his books and late-’90s television show A Gondola on the Murray.

Archaeologist Mark Grist, a Wergaia/Wamba Wamba and Nyeri Nyeri man, is also here and you could say his close friendship with Stefano is a metaphor for the modern cross-culturalism in this multicultural city on the Victorian side of the Murray River.

Stefano immigrated from Treviso in Italy to Melbourne in 1974, but he could have been born and bred here. In contrast, Mark has been based in this, his home town, after studying in Canberra and working nationally. Mark says their friendship is not so unexpected. He remembers going into the Grand Hotel years ago – still owned today by Stefano’s ex-father-in-law – and finding relatives working there at a time when many people wouldn’t employ Aboriginal people.

Stefano agrees Mildura has changed a lot since he moved here. “[Then] you wouldn’t have been able to buy, I don’t know, a Malaysian belacan,” he recalls. “Now there’s everything here.” This meeting of two friends from very different backgrounds is just one of the many pleasant surprises we encounter during a week in this thriving city, where we come across everything from avant-garde art and a Chinese flying school at Wentworth, to the “Garlic Man” basing his processing facility here.

Mildura’s population of about 52,000 includes Irymple, Red Cliffs and Merbein in Victoria. But it’s also expanding into nearby Wentworth, Gol Gol and Buronga and continues to grow. Many, including professionals, are newly arrived, but others were born here and are now returning home.

Take a walk down to the Murray at dusk and there are people from every part of the world enjoying this lifeblood of the region. They include Traditional Owners, fishers, boat captains, rowers and those who just love to sit under a tree and observe the river’s many moods. In recent years there’s been a dramatic shift in the riverfront’s relationship with the city. While wide Deakin Avenue and the CBD were once cut off by the train line, now they’re connected to the river by steps, a walkway and lakes. 

Further down on a big, sandy bend at Apex Park – home to the only inland life-saving club – locals and campers fish and swim as noisy ski boats zoom past. 

On the other side, at Gol Gol, opposite Nichols Point, Jane MacAllister, a Wentworth Shire councillor, was relieved when the huge 2022–23 floods didn’t destroy “her” river red gum clinging to a cliff, although many trees display flood markings.

“To see that river rising – it’s one of those supernatural forces,” she says, explaining that the people of Wentworth have historically built levees to stop the water reaching their town.

Jane grew up in Mildura but left for university. Whenever she returned she’d “get up on the rise and see that gorgeous river; it’s a powerful thing”. And she’d think, Ah, I’m home.

To Indigenous people such as Baakantji ranger Ricky Handy, who works out on the famed Neds Corner Station, 85km west of Mildura, the river is particularly significant. “It’s our lifeline and healing place,” he says. “And it’s for everyone to come and enjoy.”

From February 2024, Trust for Nature (TFN), a not-for-profit organisation, plans to pass the ownership of this 30,000ha conservation reserve to the First People of the Millewa Mallee Aboriginal Corporation that represents the Ngintait and the Latji Latji people and whose major role is to “heal Country”.

To get to Neds Corner, a once run-down station that borders Murray-Sunset National Park, we drive through the Millewa, a wheat and barley grain-growing region, and down to where the mallee almost reaches the river.

Dryland farming is gradually changing as best-practice farming methods improve farm productivity and sustainability; some farmers are working with grower groups such as Mallee Sustainable Farming (MSF). 

We are met by Neds Corner manager Anthony (Bluey) Pay, Ricky, and fellow rangers Kyle Payne and David Williams, and take off to see the conservation work that has brought the station to life.

Anthony explains that since the first graziers arrived in the area from 1857, the cattle-and-sheep station was overstocked and “virtually eaten out”. But in 2002 TFN bought the property, and under its management, in collaboration with Traditional Owners, volunteers, donors and other supporters, the landscape has been transformed, its native vegetation restored.

The river and its banks and nearby areas were rich food sources for First Nations people and the area is dotted with significant cultural sites – former burial grounds and middens, which TFN has been working at ways to protect.

We pull up at the Pine paddock, named for dead pine trees on a windswept sandhill. “This was just a sand-blown hill with nothing on it,” Anthony says.

Now bluebush, saltbush, black box trees and rare native orchids are thriving and emus, goannas and snakes are common. With the planting of thousands of trees and another 80,000 to go, Anthony describes what has happened here as “bloody awesome”. 

The paddock is surrounded by 21km of fences electrified by solar panels to stop cats, foxes, rabbits and other feral animals from entering. Ricky shows me a spot on the exclusion fence where a rabbit has tried to dig its way in. He and the other rangers have sandbagged the spot. 

The old homestead and shearers quarters have been restored and even the former shearing shed is put to good use, with its wool table used to sort seeds collected from the property.

“We want to keep the history here,” Anthony says.

A great deal of Mildura’s pioneering attitude today is due to its unusual history as a planned town back in the 1880s, when Canadian entrepreneurs the Chaffey Brothers (George and WB Chaffey) first took over the derelict Mildura sheep station to create a massive irrigation scheme.

Third-generation local, ceramic tiler, former Mildura Rural City Council mayor and present-day councillor Jason Modica walks us along the Chaffey Trail to the Arts Centre and Rio Vista, the former home of WB Chaffey. 

“The original plan of the town was overlaid on the landscape,” Modica says. “It wasn’t like a mining town or frontier town. It was actually a model town.” 

In 1884, after debilitating droughts, the Victorian government began investigating large-scale irrigation. On a trip to western USA in 1885, future prime minister Alfred Deakin met the Chaffey brothers, who’d created an “irrigation colony” on the Cucamonga Plains near Los Angeles. George Chaffey came here, explored the Murray River valley and in 1887, after protracted negotiation, purchased the then-defunct pastoral lease and created the Mildura Irrigation Colony, an area that would later become known as Sunraysia. 

The Chaffeys adapted the town plan of Ontario for the present site of Mildura, and named streets in the American style of first, second and so forth. Visionaries, they developed a series of steam-driven pumps to lift water from the Murray, and their plans included an agricultural college. But, as believers in temperance, they only allowed two pub licences, which led to locals opening their own clubs.  

However, dreams were shattered when the area was hit with drought, the Depression and financial woes. Labelled “Yankee water thieves” after going into liquidation and the banks foreclosing on hundreds of local farmers, the Chaffeys had to face a royal commission into the failed colony.

Eventually George Chaffey returned to the USA but WB stayed in Mildura, becoming mayor in 1920 and, as times improved, helping the Sunraysia district become the “fruit basket of Australia”, producing table grapes, dried fruit and citrus. Later, almonds and pistachios were planted.

Under the soldier settler scheme, many returned World War I servicemen took up land here, followed by Greeks and Italians after World War II and Turks in the 1970s. Refugees from Vietnam, Afghanistan, Burma and other countries followed. 

Although the Chaffeys’ legacy is not quite the agrarian socialist society the brothers envisaged, Mildura’s reputation for self-reliance and innovation, as well as for being a caring community, lives on. Philanthropy, civic engagement and volunteerism are strong, and as one regular visitor told us, there’s an “oh well, we’ll do it ourselves” attitude.

Its second biggest industry after agriculture is social services. For a long time housing was cheap, attracting a fairly significant welfare component, and organisations servicing that sector.

For example, the Christie Centre is addressing the lack of employment for people with a disability by creating accessible work opportunities for people of all abilities in the region, mainly at its flagship business, the Mildura Chocolate Company.

After COVID, many people moved here for the lifestyle, affordable real estate and good schools. Medical specialists are now living here and servicing Melbourne, reversing the usual tradition. But nurses are needed, as are tradespeople, teachers and front-of-house staff and sommeliers for the more-upmarket restaurants. There’s a need for a new hospital, although in the meantime a cancer treatment centre is being built. 

Locals say they would welcome the return of a passenger train to Melbourne, six hours drive away. (The Sturt Highway connects Sydney and Adelaide.)

Jason Modica reminisces that life for his grandparents on both sides was hard, but good. His Anglo grandfather first picked grapes here in 1932, while his Italian grandfather came for the temperate environment and the water, purchasing land at Gol Gol in 1934. But agriculture has changed enormously. He describes the city today as a “corporate town” run by the big businesses that own the “very thirsty” almond, dried fruit and fresh fruit farms, most of which rely on mechanisation. The rapid growth of the past
15 years has also led to new housing developments, particularly in Mildura and its satellite towns, as well as Gol Gol and Buronga.

“There was an option to come here and be a farmer and have a subsistence life and make some money,” Jason says. “That doesn’t exist anymore.” And with the pressure of today’s water economy, he laments, “people making the decisions don’t understand that the river needs to be healthy”.

Driving out of town we come across a group of people rolling covers off sultana vines in the hot sun. They include farmer Peter Sandler, who explains the covers are erected to protect the grapes from burning. He bought into his farm at Red Cliffs 15 years ago but does this extra work to supplement his income. It pays “150, 160 bucks an acre, roughly”.

Due to the 2022–23 floods and disease, many farmers lost 40 to 60 per cent of their crops. “With rising expenses and everything else, you’ve got to basically find something else to plug the hole,” Peter says. 

He complains that the big farms are “forcing all the little blokes out” while local grape growers have been hit hard by recent trade wars with China. Paying for water is very complicated, and expensive too.

“Farming’s no longer straightforward,” Peter says. “There are seven chemicals you need a licence for. You’ve got to be a computer whiz.”

Still, local innovators are also changing the scene. The names of two inspirational couples pop up wherever we go: Jenni and Bruce Chalmers, of Chalmers Wines, and Duncan and Jan Thomson. In 1983 the Thomsons founded SunSalt, which produces salt from the underground saline water at Hattah in north-western Victoria. They then established Murray River Salt in 2000. 

Murray River Salt produces Australia’s only natural pink salt, premium gourmet salt flakes created from the brine of the Mourquong Salt Mitigation Basin in New South Wales, 13km north-west of Mildura. The company taps into this natural resource and converts it into a value-added gourmet food product, while protecting the environment from the effects of salinity. 

We are at Mourquong, and Melissa Tucker, operations supervisor at Murray River Salt, explains that this site is part of the Salt Interception Scheme, an engineering tool used to divert groundwater away from the river system into evaporation basins. “By harvesting the salt here, we are preventing approximately 200 tonnes per day of salt [saline water] entering the Murray River,” Melissa says. 

Before showing us around Chalmers Wines at Merbein, Kim Chalmers, a trained classical composer, explains she and her sister, Tennille, are partners in the wine business and the original nursery, while her Dutch husband, Bart van Olphen, is the winemaker. Her parents, Bruce and Jenni, who are still involved, were broadacre wheat and sheep farmers between Euston and Balranald in NSW when they started a nursery, grafting and propagating vines and selling them to grape growers. They gradually began to specialise in Italian varieties. “They had a grand vision that this diversity would change viticulture in Australia, and it has – but it’s taken 25 years to do it,” Kim says. 

Then in 2004 they started making their own wine, “making sure we chose varieties that had nice high natural acidity, required less water, handled the heat better and needed fewer chemicals”. They were pushing against a commercial idea that cool climate is good and warm climate is bad in wine. Their techniques for warm climate wine are now critical information for other vineyards looking at ways to manage climate change. Now they grow 50 different varieties that produce more elegant, fresher wines to suit our Australian lifestyle. And they sell premium hand-picked grapes from this vineyard to 30 different winemakers across the country.

“Our approach is healthy soil, healthy environment, balanced vines,” Kim says. “We’re minimising our impact by reducing our irrigation significantly – about 35 per cent less than the rest of the district on average. Sustainability is also supporting your social ecosystem. We’ve got a really great multicultural workforce of people, and we’ve got a great work culture here.” Since 1999, when the annual November Australian Alternative Varieties Wine Show began, Mildura has become a capital of alternative varieties. “We love the region, we’re very proud of Mildura,” Kim says. 

One such international winemaker, Marco Sollazzo, is making us a cuppa in his kitchen in Mildura and explaining how he came to move here, all the way from his home town of Rome. 

Marco, 34, has a masters in viticulture and winemaking and a bachelor degree in food technology from Italy. Wanting to improve his English, he studied in Dublin for four months before applying for jobs in Australia and New Zealand. He was offered a three-month position here with Zilzie Wines and extended for six months in 2015. 

Marco returned to Italy after the first vintage in Australia but came back to Zilzie under a sponsorship scheme in 2016 because of better working conditions. Now an Australian citizen,  he has created social connections with a few international winemakers working for nearby wineries, his Australian family – Candy, Krister and Karl – and some special people who spend time and effort showing him around Mildura. “We generally spend our time sharing our food culture and traditions at each other’s homes,” he says. “We love to sit behind a glass of wine or a beer.”

While we’re here it’s vintage time – usually between January and April – and workdays are long. “In vintage, I work six days per week…and then generally 11–12 hours per day,” Marco says. “I look after a few varieties such as prosecco, pinot grigio, shiraz, cabernet, merlot and organic wines.”

He describes Mildura as “dynamic” and an easy, more-affordable place to live than the big cities. But you need to be proactive and join groups and clubs. He’s in a running group. “It’s nice because you have the riverfront not far away,” Marco says. “Everything is reachable within 10 to 15 minutes. I like it; there is not as much traffic as Rome and other big cities.”

At the “best coffee in town” at Steampunk, owner and chef chef Silvano D’Alessandro is chatting to us from behind his machine. He prides himself on knowing the names and preferred order of some 360 people who come here regularly. “You’re not a customer here; you’re a guest,” he says. Silvano grew up in Red Cliffs, went to Melbourne for 20 years and ran a restaurant in South Yarra. So, the “very Brunswick” influence is strong. He also cooks about 14 private “secret” dinners a year for 12 of “your closest friends”. Yet Silvano still feels Mildura has a long way to go in terms of dining variety and entertainment, and is turning his eyes to Singapore as his next endeavour. 

Les Murray’s ode to Mildura as a “rose-red city”, “Oasis City”, is displayed on a wall at Stefano’s Cafe. The at-times controversial poet was the patron of the annual Mildura Writers Festival, which is still, Stefano de Pieri says, “very, very intimate”.

The city has several festivals, including a country music one. Its Sculpture Triennials, which took place between 1961 and 1988, inspired the many sculpture festivals we have today.

Stefano’s Cafe, which is now owned by Ryan Casey, often provides the food at opening nights at new art gallery NAP Contemporary, while Chalmers Wine is served. Anthropologist Erica Tarquinio and her partner, Riley Davison, who managed a community owned Indigenous arts centre in Central Australia, are the gallery owners and moved here two years ago. They mounted this project shortly after Riley’s parents’ former VW dealership showroom was made available to them.

“There was a great response from the artists and the city, who understand a new art gallery is good for the community,” Erica says. “Some of the art is challenging, but it’s always a good talking point.

“The greatest thing about Mildura is you get a little bit of everything. It’s a bubble, but it also has diversity.”

As Stefano tells me during our garden walk: “There is always something curious happening in this place.”

The post A bit of everything appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The winter solstice marks the moment the Earth’s South Pole reaches its furthest tilt away from the Sun.

“During the Southern Hemisphere’s June, or winter, solstice, the Sun appears at its lowest point in the sky, marking the shortest day of the year and longest night,” explains astronomy expert Glenn Dawes.

“During the solstice, Earth’s Southern Hemisphere is tilted away from the Sun, while at the same time the Northern Hemisphere is tilted towards it, resulting in the longest day of the year there.

“The word “solstice” comes from the Latin sol (sun) and sistere (to stand still), because the Sun was believed to stand still for a moment before changing direction.”

Here in the Southern Hemisphere, the winter solstice occurs each year between 21 and 23 June.

Following the winter solstice, days start to become longer (and nights shorter) until the summer solstice (the longest day and shortest night of the year), which occurs between 21 and 23 December.

Winter solstice traditions

Th winter solstice has long been celebrated worldwide, with different cultures and religions partaking in various traditions, rituals and festivals.

In Australia, hundreds of Tasmanians brave the icy waters for the Nude Solstice Swim – a communal skinny dip in the River Derwent at Long Beach, Sandy Bay. The cheeky swim also marks the end of Hobart’s Dark Mofo winter festival

And at Australia’s research stations in Antarctica and on Macquarie Island, expeditioners take on an even colder swim – plunging into sub-zero temperature waters.

Meanwhile, across Australia, a much warmer tradition occurs at numerous locations holding lantern festivals to mark the occasion.

The post What is the winter solstice? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

The development of the United Nations began with the Declaration of St James’s Palace in 1941, which was the first joint statement of goals and principles produced by the Allies in World War II. It was signed by representatives of Great Britain, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and the exiled governments of Belgium, Czechoslovakia, Greece, Luxembourg, the Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Yugoslavia and France. Subsequent proposals to replace the old League of Nations with a new organisation gained momentum. 

In 1944, Great Britain, China, the USSR and the USA met at the Washington Conversations on International Peace and Security Organization (aka the Dumbarton Oaks Conference) in Washington, DC to draft the organisational structure and procedures of this new body. 

Herbert Vere ‘Doc’ Evatt became minister for external affairs when Curtin’s Labor government took office in 1941. Having displayed relatively little interest in foreign policy up to this point, Evatt quickly overcame his lack of experience and eventually had a prominent role in the founding and early running of the UN.

Threatened by Japan’s entry to the war and learning that Britain and the USA had privately agreed on a “beat Hitler first” strategy, Evatt focused on improving Australia’s fighting position in relation to the rapidly approaching Japanese forces. When he discovered that Roosevelt and Churchill had agreed with China on peace terms for the Pacific without consulting Australia, he was furious. He set about formulating an alliance with New Zealand that would form the basis for postwar regional security. Rejection of this initiative by the USA bolstered Evatt’s support for the new international organisation proposed by Britain, the USA and the USSR. 

Evatt backed early attempts to build the UN. In supporting the idea of collective security, there was the possibility that less powerful countries such as Australia could have a better say in international negotiations, and might receive protection against aggression. However, the proposal produced at the Dumbarton Oaks Conference concerned him; he believed it concentrated power in the hands of too few. There was little or no role for small nations to play, and Evatt thought this would discourage their involvement. 

During the San Francisco Conference in 1945, the Australian delegation suggested a range of amendments to the Dumbarton Oaks proposal. With the support of other smaller nations, Evatt succeeded in enlarging the scope of the General Assembly, the main deliberative organ of the UN, so its powers were closer to those of the Security Council.

His second major achievement was a greater acknowledgement of the social and economic roles of the new organisation. Member nations pledged to work towards better living standards, full employment and freedom for all.

Evatt’s attempts to reduce the veto power of the Security Council were unsuccessful. Although amendments were put forward, the USSR, in particular, refused to give any ground.

Evatt was president of the UN General Assembly in 1948–49, during which time he was instrumental in drafting the Universal Declaration of Human Rights and played a prominent role in the creation of Israel. 

Because of Evatt’s passion displayed at the San Francisco Conference, the General Assembly voted for Australia
to have a non-permanent seat on the Security Council
in 1946–47. 

‘Founding of the UN’ forms part of the National Museum of Australia’s Defining Moments in Australian History project.

The post Defining Moments in Australian History: Founding of the UN appeared first on Australian Geographic.

One hundred years ago McCulloch was the most senior scientist at the Australian Museum in Sydney, second only to the director.

He’d begun his career as a cadet just one week shy of his thirteenth birthday and served an eight-year apprenticeship under curator Edgar Ravenswood Waite. When Waite moved to New Zealand in 1906, McCulloch took charge of fishes, crustaceans, mammals, reptiles and skeletons. He was 21 years old.

Untangled

McCulloch soon discovered that our knowledge of Australian fishes was like that mess of old fishing line at your favourite fishing spot – an annoying careless tangle left by others, including confusion about the taxonomy of freshwater cod.

McCulloch dedicated the next 20 years to sorting out Australia’s fish fauna, describing and illustrating many new species. In his 1922 ‘Check list of the fishes and fish-like animals of New South Wales’, McCulloch gave cautious support to the then-controversial idea that the trout cod and Murray cod were different species in the genus Oligorus.

By 1925, McCulloch had pretty much documented every species of fish known from Australian waters at the time, but chronic disease and overwork haunted his physical and mental health. In July of that year, he departed Australia for an international fisheries conference in Honolulu from which he would not return.

Besides classifying Australia’s fishes, his legacy includes his Admiralty Islets diorama at the Australian Museum, which celebrates its centenary in 2023, and – controversially – several cultural artefacts he stole for the museum’s collection during an expedition to Papua in 1922.

Related: Meet ‘The Codfather’

Whitley

In Sydney, McCulloch’s assistant of three years, Gilbert Whitley, stepped into his shoes and set about publishing his mentor’s work posthumously, including a four-part, 550-page epic called A checklist of Australian fishes (1929–30).

This work drew a line in the sand for all future fish research in Australia. Whitley would become a successful fish biologist in his own right, publishing many scientific papers and popular works.

In his memoir The Codfather, Dr Stuart Rowland writes that Whitley discovered that the scientific name of Murray cod for the previous 70 years, Oligorus, was already in use for a genus of beetles. As it was no longer a valid name for fish, Whitley took the opportunity to rename it Maccullochella in honour and recognition of his late boss in 1929.

Brendan Atkins is author of The Naturalist, the remarkable life of Allan Riverstone McCulloch, published by NewSouth Publishing (in association with the Lord Howe Island Museum), October 2022.

The post Who is the man in Maccullochella? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

“There is this preconception that everybody thinks the Great Barrier Reef is dead, so I think it’s really important that people get out and see how incredibly diverse and beautiful it is,” says Jason deCaires Taylor, MOUA founder and sculptor. “We need to get everyone involved in marine conservation. Hopefully it’ll encourage a different type of audience to dive in.”

Ocean Sentinels, MOUA’s newest snorkel trail, was installed over four days in early May. These eight hybrid-form sculptures portray notable scientists and conservationists fused with elements of marine life, and relay stories about their research, heritage or conservation work. The sculptures stand 2.2m tall and are submerged only a few metres below the surface, in shallow waters ideal for snorkellers.

“They form a linear tour,” says Jason. “Each have their own story, so you learn a little bit about the individuals and what they’ve studied.”

Among their ranks are Dr John “Charlie” Veron OAM – the “godfather of corals” who identified 20 per cent of the world’s known coral species – depicted with elements of pectinia and brain corals; Professor Peter Harrison fused with staghorn corals to celebrate his contributions to the field as a “coral IVF” pioneer and discoverer of mass coral spawning on nearby Magnetic Island in 1981; and young Wulgurukaba and Yunbenen woman Jayme Marshall, who is sculpted alongside the roots of mangroves and cathedral fig trees to represent the next generation of Indigenous leaders.

It’s hard to pick a favourite, but Jason says he’s especially fond of Sir Charles Maurice Yonge’s portrait. The marine zoologist led the 1928–29 Great Barrier Reef Expedition that introduced the international scientific community to the reef. His sculpture is blended with a ramose murex shell.  

Jason made the sculptures with “green” cement and reinforced them with marine stainless steel – they’re designed to withstand Category 4 cyclones.

But most importantly, the surfaces and shapes of these artworks are designed to attract marine life.

“It’s hoped that in years to come a variety of endemic species such as corals, sponges and hydroids will change the sculptures’ appearance in vibrant and unexpected ways,” says Jason. “Like the Great Barrier Reef itself, they will become a living and evolving part of the ecosystem, emphasising both its fragility and its endurance.”

According to Dr Adam Smith, marine biologist and Deputy Chair of MOUA, colonisation has already begun.

“They’ve already been covered by a sheen of green algae,” Adam says. “As soon as they get put in the water the marine life is attracted to them. Because they’re a structure that acts a bit like an artificial reef, things settle on them; fish seek shelter and over time there will be a natural recruitment of corals.”

Annual monitoring at MOUA’s “Coral Greenhouse” documented a fivefold increase in fish abundance and diversity, compared to baseline surveys at the site.

Divers are encouraged to take photos of marine life and upload them to iNaturalist.

“The key for me is for tourists not only talking about reef conservation and their role in the planet and climate change, but taking action,” Adam says. “A small thing can be to take a photo and upload it for citizen science.”  

Adam estimates that more than 500 species have been recorded at John Brewer Reef, 70km off Townsville, from corals, molluscs, sharks, rays and a plethora of fish. 

It’s a chilly autumn morning in Sydney, and the usual city rhythm of cars, pedestrians and distant construction is disrupted by drumming and a chorus of singing voices. The music draws the attention of passing commuters, who stop mid-coffee run to watch the performance of the Kerkar Kus dance crew.  

The ceremony commemorates the official opening of a new permanent art display in Exchange Square, off the Barangaroo exit of Wynyard train station. Commissioned by Lend Lease and curated by Nina Miall, Mermer Waiskeder: Stories of the Moving Tide features 11 eagle rays handed-crafted from reclaimed ghost nets. The artwork was created by the Ghost Net Collective, a cross-cultural group in north Queensland that has been creating art from discarded, lost or abandoned fishing materials since 2009.

“The net is a silent, deadly killer and we want to raise awareness by people being able to see it,” says Lynnette Griffiths, lead artist of the Ghost Net Collective. “Everyone knows about plastic bottles, but the net is under the water, snagging on reefs and killing our fish. An estimated 80 per cent of plastic pollution in the ocean has its origins in the maritime industries [so] we really need a groundswell of support and awareness.”

The Ghost Net Collective used more than 6.5km of fishing net to create the 11 rays, making it one of the largest hand-crafted public artworks in Australia. Most of the nets were donated by Tangaroa Blue Foundation and Sydney Fish Market, including disused trawler nets taken from Indonesian waters. Despite their steel frames, the sculptures are posed in a way that evoke movement and fluidity, aided by the LED lights that pulse on their bellies.  

Lynnette says it took roughly 30 days to stitch the skins onto an individual frame. Each ray is unique, depicted with different motifs of waves, foam and coral. Stitched into the underside of some are smaller rays – more than 100 in total – that were made in online workshops by people across Australia, the Pacific and Canada. Two rays represent Aboriginal Australians and Torres Strait Islanders by featuring the colours of their flags.

Eagle rays are a totem animal on Erub Island in the Torres Strait.

“There’s a connection to these stingrays, which lies in the story of the tidelines,” says Torres Strait artist Jimmy John Thaiday, from Erub Island. “It explains how the tide comes in and the tides go out. In our language it is ‘Mermer Waiskeder’. The ‘Mermer’ is when the tide is coming in, and when the tide is going out. The ‘Waiskeder’, that’s when the tides are starting to change and then you have the sound of the water turning. You hear that when you see all of the waves starting to change.”

Eagle rays were also chosen to represent Barangaroo’s lengthy maritime history, from the Gadigal people fishing in bark canoes to 19^th century maritime industries.

“The original tideline for Sydney Harbour was somewhere within this place,” says Lynnette. “When the LEDs are on at night, we’ve denoted the tideline with a bar of light that runs through.”

The fever of eagle rays hangs above one of the most trafficked sites in Sydney’s CBD. They’re best viewed at night, when they come to life in a riot of colours.

Mycelium is taking root in the world of traditional design, with fungal biomaterials harbouring potential to one day displace leather, concrete and fossil fuel-derived plastics.

These possibilities are explored in IM-PERMANENT, a new exhibition in Melbourne that features more than 20 multimodal artworks made entirely from mycelium, including sculpture, apparel, lighting, architectural pieces and more.

“Personal standouts for me include a ceramic wall-cladding material, filled with mycelium and glass fibres, as well as recycled terracotta [that] creates a naturally circular and fire-retardant skin for buildings. It also happens to be stunningly beautiful,” says David Constantine of social impact consultancy Ellis Jones, which created the exhibition in collaboration with RMIT University.

There’s also packaging produced from mycelium. “Think bottle ‘shelves’ for mailing or delivery, packing components and more. Ideas that could turn traditional paper pulp packaging on its head.”

Mycelium is the network of fungal threads – hyphae – that form the “root” of the mushroom. These intricate structures absorb nutrients from the environment and decompose organic matter.

David and his team at Ellis Jones were introduced to mycelium’s potential after a conversation with Ed Linacre, Australia industrial designer and co-founder of Mycelium Studios. David became fascinated by the exceptional work produced by local and international designers.

The unconventional material is compostable and low waste. David describes the biomaterial resource as quickly becoming the “it” material of sustainability. It’s inexpensive, easy to grow, lightweight yet surprisingly strong and durable. As this technology improves, it’s hoped these biomaterials will help achieve a waste-free circular economy.

The post Collision course: What happens when science meets art? appeared first on Australian Geographic.

In the early 20th century, heavy industries – steel manufacturing, engineering works and aircraft production – set up shop at Fishermans Bend. General Motors-Holden’s Limited (GM-H) bought a parcel of land there in 1936 for £400,000. Construction of the head office, assembly plant, parts department, and other facilities was completed in 11 months. Despite its origins as a saddlery in 1856, Holden established itself in the fledgling automobile industry by manufacturing vehicle bodies in the early 20th century. At this time, car bodies and chassis – the base frame of the vehicle – were manufactured separately, because the latter was typically imported from overseas. By 1924 Holden was the exclusive supplier of car bodies for US car manufacturer General Motors (GM) in Australia. In 1931 Holden became a subsidiary of GM, merging to become General Motors-Holden’s Limited. 

When the GM-H Fishermans Bend factory opened in 1936 it boasted state-of-the-art technology, modern facilities and Art Deco architecture. “In fact, nowhere else in the world will there be any [GM] plant containing all of the modern units and processes which will be operating at Fisherman’s Bend,” reported The Mercury on 11 January 1936. “A place of particular interest will be the special air-conditioned paint processes department, which has been designed to ensure the best possible working conditions, and the total absence of dust, which is so essential to constant high quality in paint finish.”]

The first vehicle manufactured at the plant was the American Oldsmobile, which rolled off the assembly line in 1936. Up to 100 cars were produced a day. Here, Australia’s first locally made, mass-produced car would one day roll off the assembly line – the Holden 48-215 “FX”. Affectionately dubbed “Australia’s own car”, it was destined to transform suburban Australia and become a cherished national icon. 

When war broke out in 1939, GM-H became a leading munitions manufacturer. The plant produced armaments such as shell and bomb cases, major airframe assemblies, engines, guns, small marine vessels, and motor vehicle bodies. Women were hired to work the factory floor and, in 1942, employee Joyce Breedin was photographed assembling fighter planes. The former laundress was described as “an expert in setting brads ready for applying the ‘skin’ (body) to the wing frame of a Wackett trainer”. 

In the economic boom of the postwar period, GM-H turned its attention to producing the first car wholly manufactured in Australia. The first FX Holden rolled off the assembly line on 29 November 1948 to much press and fanfare, with Prime Minister Ben Chifley exclaiming, “She’s a beauty!” 

Labour unions had a strong presence at Fishermans Bend, so employees had access to a range of facilities. They included canteens, common rooms, a medical centre and even a theatrette. Alongside sporting contests and social events, in 1948 GM-H threw a lavish ball to celebrate the launch of “Australia’s own car” for the workers. 

By 1958 Holden vehicles represented more than 40 per cent of Australia’s car sales. With a million vehicles sold by 1962, GM-H continued expanding and dominated the Australian market throughout the 1960s–70s. But by the 1980s–90s Holden sales started to drop because of increased competition with Ford and Japanese manufacturers such as Toyota. Due to a small domestic market, high manufacturing costs, and the fragmented right-hand-drive market, GM-H began scaling down operations across Australia in 2013.

In 2016 the Victorian government purchased the GM-H Fishermans Bend plant for $130 million. The University of Melbourne acquired part of the site in 2021 for a new engineering campus. 

The post From ‘noxious trades’ to car manufacture: the history of Melbourne’s Fishermans Bend appeared first on Australian Geographic.

While the unique biology and charisma of the species (Nuytsia floribunda) has been recognised by Traditional Owners for millennia, such rich Indigenous knowledge is barely known to Western science. Our research team includes three generations of Merningar alongside non-Indigenous scientists. In our new research, we set out to explore mungee’s physiology, ecology and evolution from both Indigenous and Western science perspectives.

The plant’s ability to access a wide array of resources is remarkable, enabling it to prosper in the hostile, infertile, but biologically rich landscapes of southwestern Australia. This is also the case for Noongar people, whose traditional diet reflects the biological richness of their Country.

Mungee is a revered teacher to Noongar people, with lessons for us all about living sustainably and in harmony with one another.

Related: Australia is the real home of mistletoe

A sand-loving parasite

Nuytsia floribunda is widespread across Noongar Country (Boodja) and known to most Noongar as moodjar. But it’s also called mungee by Merningar and other southern Noongar groups. Being mostly Merningar, we call it mungee and use that term here.

Mungee is a mistletoe tree that grows up to 10m tall in sandy soils. It’s endemic to southwestern Australia, but widespread throughout. The parasitic capability of the plant comes from highly modified, ring-shaped roots (haustoria) that act like secateurs to mine other plants for water and nutrients.

We used “two way science” (cross-cultural ecology) methods – including a literature review, shared recording of visits on Country, and an author workshop – to investigate mungee more thoroughly than would be possible through Western science alone.

A revered teacher offering divine guidance

Like other Indigenous Australian knowledge systems, Merningar lore is place-based. It inextricably links people, specific places, other organisms and non-living entities of Country. Mungee tells specific stories through where it lives, the plants it lives with, and when it flowers.

The species is widely held as sacred among Noongar peoples. For Merningar, it has the highest status of all plants. Mungee holds important lore about how we as humans relate to each other and with the world around us, similar to a cornerstone religious text such as the Christian Bible.

Related: Australia’s giant parasitic Christmas tree

For Merningar, mungee is a powerful medium that helps restless spirits move on to the afterlife, known to us as Kuuranup. This enables those of us still living to be untroubled by their presence.

Senior elder Lynette describes mungee as her teacher, providing guidance on how to exist in Merningar Boodja. The annual summer flowers represent her ancestors returning to their Country, reminding her to cherish and respect both her old people and her Boodja.

Lynette calls the ring-shaped haustoria of mungee her “bush lolly”. Under Merningar lore, digging for these sweet treats is not allowed when mungee is flowering. This is when bush lollies are scarce, so the rule is about living within seasonal constraints.

An example of living sustainably

Mungee primarily reproduces by cloning, sending out suckers up to 100m from the parent plant to produce identical copies. This results in patches of mungee clones gathered together in tight-knit populations.

We saw parallels between patches of mungee and the communal kinship structures of Noongar society, where family is more important than individuals.

Before European settlement, extended Noongar families lived in largely separate groups, interconnected with other family groups as part of a wider geopolitical system. We see mungee as a botanical exemplar of putting community before individuals, for the greater good.

Mungee accesses water and nutrients by tapping into a wide range of host plants. This diversity of hosts enables mungee to live in many different landscapes. This parallels with the sophisticated, but often place-specific knowledge of Noongar peoples across their botanically rich Boodja, which has enabled use of a wide range of traditional plants.

Living a prosperous life within environmental boundaries is achieved by conservatively drawing upon a wide range of resources. It provides a lesson for all who live in dry and infertile regions such as southwestern Australia.

A tree to be celebrated

Mungee’s bright orange flowers bring joy to all who witness their display during the celebratory summer months in southwestern Australia. The plant’s unique biology, ingenuity and charisma has long been recognised by Noongar peoples and their lore.

Prolific annual flowers are a memorial to the many old people who have cared for their Boodja through millennia. They also remind us to protect the old peoples’ legacy.

To Merningar, mungee is a valuable teacher and exemplar of prosperous biological (including human) existence in the southwest Australian global biodiversity hotspot. It has much to teach the rest of us, too.

Alison Lullfitz, Research Associate, The University of Western Australia; Jessikah Woods, Emerging artist, Indigenous Knowledge; Lynette Knapp, , The University of Western Australia; Shandell Cummings, Artist, art administrator and educator, Indigenous Knowledge, and Stephen D. Hopper AC, Professor of Biodiversity, The University of Western Australia

This article is republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.

Related: Mistletoebird: Australia’s native flowerpecker

The post Australia’s native Christmas tree is a gift that keeps on giving appeared first on Australian Geographic.

With Uluru as an off-centre backdrop, soft lights and a haunting soundtrack introduce Outback tourists to an ancient story beginning with the Mala (rufous hare-wallaby) People. Projections of the wallaby scurry across yellowing desert spinifex and mulga. Glowing footprints of an evil spirit sneak across the sky. A cluster of drones majestically transforms into a bird, and then a devil dog portrayed so powerfully the crowd is silenced.

Launched in May, Wintjiri Wiru features more than 1200 drones and feels more like a performance than a show. It also features important inma (songs) that have been passed down from generation to generation. It’s the first time a show of this magnitude has been performed on a regular basis anywhere in the world. As far as a cultural art experience goes, Wintjiri Wiru will undoubtedly capture the attention of Australia and the world in an even bigger way than the illuminated installation Field of Light has since 2016. But this story is about more than being entranced by pretty lights; it’s about more than making another tourist buck. This is a story about preserving the world’s oldest surviving living culture by sharing it in a modern, exciting and accessible way.

A story as old as time

Rene Kulitja is one of 10 senior Aṉangu from Kaltukatjara and Mutitjulu who worked in close collaboration with Voyages Indigenous Tourism Australia and light artist Bruce Ramus on Wintjiri Wiru. For her, the twice-nightly storytelling experience is a way to connect people from all walks of life with Tjukurpa (Aṉangu creation stories and lore).

“When we saw the result of all that work we were quite overwhelmed, we felt immensely proud and happy,” Rene says on behalf of the Anangu Consultation Group.

“We had no experience in anything involving those kinds of technologies and lights in the past but how we saw it bring things to life for us was amazing, and that it came from our Tjukurpa, from our story, from our understanding of the world.”

Denise Brady, another Aṉangu senior, adds: “With the light show… I see the colours, the picture, the pattern and hear the voices of our grandparents still talking…”

The Aṉangu are proud to be sharing a small part of their story, no matter the medium, and believe it will help ensure a viable and culturally rich future for Indigenous children. Peter Mitchell, also of the Anangu Consultation Group, says they are telling the same fundamental stories passed down by their older brothers and fathers.

“…With this light show it’s going to be the same… the next generations will follow from that story and the way we’ve done this thing, and they’ll continue into the future… and they will be able to think to themselves and see what their parents have left for them, what they’ve done for them,” Peter says.

“They will think ‘we know we’re not going backwards, we are going forwards into the future but the way we go forward is going to be with strength and in the proper way that will do our parents and grandparents proud’.”

An artful marriage

Wintjiri Wiru is a dazzling new experience that instead of taking away from traditional Indigenous art, sits alongside it, adding another dimension. Indigenous guide Sammy Wilson, also part of the working group, hopes the show will encourage visitors to head out on the Mala Walk around the base of Uluru. While following the red-earth track, Sammy stops at caves to point out rock art and tjukuritja (physical evidence) used for teaching youngsters, and visitors. He says Wintjiri Wiru ties in well with their story and compliments other Indigenous tourism experiences – walking tours, art gallery visits, bush tucker talks and more.

The Aṉangu are eager to invite visitors to expand their understanding of Tjukurpa, and they express hope Wintjiri Wiru will encourage people to see more than Uluru.

“Tourists have been coming to this Country for a long time but it’s taken us a long time to develop something such as this,” says Rene, who’s also an internationally acclaimed artist. “One thing that would be really great to come out of it is for people to want to see more of our Country beyond just here (Uluru), (to come) out to other parts of the country with us.”

She says they have created Wintjiri Wiṟu for the next generation and adds: “For all the people of whatever colour they are, come together, be as one. Go into the future together.”

Technology & environment

– Acoustic testing has been carried out to ensure the noise of the show does not negatively impact upon the desert wildlife, and testing will be ongoing.

– The drones are stored in temperature-controlled and dust-proof housing to protect them from the desert climate.

– Solar power was considered but the disruption to the environment regarding installation was too great. It will continue to be considered into the future though, as solar technology advances.

– The original show site was moved in order to protect a population of endangered desert skinks.

– The Wintjiri Wiru viewing platform has been built with sustainable timber and above the desert for minimal disturbance to the landscape.

Image credit: Voyages Indigenous Tourism Australia. Anangu hold the Mala story, from Kaltukatjara to Uluru, through a drone, sound and light show designed and produced by RAMUS.

To learn more about Wintjiri Wiru, visit ayersrockresort.com.au.

*All quotes from the Anangu Working Group have been translated.

Related: The Uluru Statement from the Heart: Voice, Treaty, Truth

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The Goulds described and illustrated more than 300 birds that were completely new to science, including the pied butcherbird (Cracticus nigrogularis) and the now extinct paradise parrot (Psephotellus pulcherrimus). It was an astonishing record of observation and sustained hard work.

The Goulds did not do this alone. According to Vanessa Finney, Head of World Cultures, Archives and Library at the Australian Museum, First Nations guides and knowledge played a vital role in the study.