I have always loved islands – the dream of getting away from it all, of journeying to a place of empty beaches, magically coloured shells, faded driftwood, castaway lives and lost time. Islands to me have always been places of escape and discovery – escape from the over connected world of highways and commitments to a place of isolation, unmapped tracks and freedom from the tyranny of made-up time and made-up deadlines. There are no deadlines on an island, only waves and casuarina shadows bobbing in afternoon breezes. Or so I dreamed.
For as long as I can remember I have wanted to go to Tasmania. The island’s very name has always conjured up in my mind an exotic place, full of strange animals, ancient trees and lonely coastlines; a mysterious heart at the bottom of the world. I had to go there. So last year, I finally made it.
Arriving off the boat on a sparkling clear day, I felt immediately vindicated – the hills glowed green and flowed with waving grass, the ocean was a deep aqua blue and the distant mountains beckoned – Tasmania was already meeting my expectations.
I drove around the island for a couple of weeks and was astounded by Tasmania’s beauty, its rocky peaks, pristine lakes, empty coastlines, romantic countryside, convict ruins, incredible food and the world’s strangest museum.
To complete my trip I decided to go camping in the bush, so as to have my last night alone with the stars and wildlife. I wanted to experience the wilderness first hand. I drove to the remote north east of Tasmania and left my car at the end of an old mining road and began walking.
The wilderness was hauntingly beautiful; a range of sombre mountains beneath a brooding grey sky framed the horizon. Dark clouds in the distance leaked silver rain showers. Parrots squawked, a currawong sighed and cicadas buzzed. It felt good to walk into the landscape.
All day I hiked a track that led to a smaller trail and by dusk I realized I was on an animal path – a well-worn wallaby route that led me below tall tree ferns and enormous trees into a rocky valley shrouded by blue-green tiers.
As I looked up to the darkening ridges I realized I was slightly lost, but I felt I could get back in the morning. I could hear the sound of a river flowing nearby and so I headed towards it, looking for a place to camp.
Just as I arrived at the river I saw a small stone shining in the granite sand on the shore. I reached down to pick it up and as my head came up, bang! I glimpsed a dark tree limb. A pain like fire hit my head. I fell over and stars filled my eyes as I slipped into darkness.
. . .
Come with me.
He helped me up.
I will show you this island. You have been here but you have not seen it. I will show you my country.
Come. You will see light and darkness.
He looked into my eyes and I into his. Was he an apparition or a ghost? I wasn’t sure.
In his eyes I saw darkness, a deep well of time that kept receding the longer I looked. The well went back thousands of years, tens of thousands of years – an unimaginable amount of time. I felt these years unfolding in his black eyes and dark strong face.
I don’t know what he saw in my eyes.
And while I felt the creep of fear, I also felt trust.
Follow me.
Down along the river we walked, and then up a narrow path on the side of a steep ridge. I followed him without talk for an hour or a day or a lifetime; I wasn’t sure how long.
Rest.
We came to an outcrop with a view. Below us was a sweeping valley framed by dark hills and mountains that seemed to breach up from the land and into the evening like whales leaping up from the ocean into the sky. Here were whales frozen in motion.
Sit.
Listen.
From what before was silence I gradually heard the natural world: the rhythmic sighing of an owl; the slow uncoiling of the river below, hissing down its course; kangaroos scurrying, thumping the ground with their tails; possums growling, leaping from branch to branch. This was the silent voice of the earth come to life, alive and well.
Night came. A powder of stars peppered the sky above in abstract patterns of emus, ornate fish and canoes. In the distance I could see a wide sheen of water with moonlight shimmering across it.
See.
There is the sea. This land is what you call an island. But once we walked across that water to come here. Beyond the sea, this is where we come from and our souls are still connected with that land as one. There is no such thing as islands.
The moon shone brightly on the sea revealing a silver pathway.
We gazed at the shining water for a long time before he spoke again.
Feel.
Feel what you cannot touch. The land you feel out there is inside us. The land you call an island is connected to us. What is outside to you is deep within my people.
Look up.
He swept his arm across the heavens and the stars seemed to ripple and wave with his movement.
I had never felt the presence of the stars so close, like they were inside me. The stars glowed with hope and reassurance.
He spoke calmly.
We are from the stars, born of them, descended down, then spread into terrestrial constellations to live as part of the land. I speak of the land’s spirit and our birthplace above.
He pointed at the Milky Way.
Pormpener. That is the sacred path we followed here. The stars are made of fire. The stars still guide us, ever bright even in dark times. Beware darkness.
You think of the stars as far away. We think of them as close, as part of our blood stream, as part of our family. The stars above are inside us; they are our past, present and future.
The stars tell us about time. The stars do not change. There is only now, one time, one river of fire flowing from the night sky to the sea to your soul.
Awake!
He waved his arm again, across the night and suddenly there was a fire burning and faces bright in a circle around it. Families were sitting around the warm light and their faces glowed warm and were coloured like leatherwood honey. I saw men cloaked in kangaroo skins, with wild manes of hair. There was the smell of kelp and seal fat and muttonbird oil. There were babies nursing and children playing and women who looked as strong and sleek as a sliver of the silver moon.
I saw faces covered in ochre and a cave behind the group – this is where they sheltered. These were Pleistocene people below the stars, a people fallen on a faraway island.
Observe.
These are my people, of trouwunna, fellow star people, the first islanders.
We have always been here. We will always be. Your people are visitors. We had welcomed you. We thought you were ghosts. Things did not go well. There was much hardship.
But now the living and the dead live side by side. We are survivors and we lend advice.
Our advice.
Love this island like it is your mother. Hold it near as your daughter or son or grandmother. Love it for our ancestors who have bequeathed it to you. Love it for your children’s children. Care for it. Protect it. Cherish it. See yourself as a part of it, not separate. Live with it, not against it.
The land – the cockatoos, the wombats, the wind, the seals and darting fish, they are us and we are them. The plants and trees and butterflies, they are our brothers and sisters, our clan. We do not believe in separation.
Know this.
Forget what you have learned. There is no such thing as a noun or a person, place or thing. There are no things. We are all connected. This is trouwunna.
Erase what you have been told. Rewind your thoughts.
Go back to when you were a child. Did you not feel you lived in a magic world of wonder, spirit and secret meanings?
You have forgotten, but what you thought when you were young is true. Everything is alive. There is wisdom to be gleamed from the rocks and rills and ravens. You knew this, but that memory has been lost. Find it again.
Remember this.
Love the land as you love yourself. The land is not a thing to trade; it is not an heirloom to barter or commodity to sell. The land is who we are, who you are, who you will become.
Keep listening. Listen and learn.
His people began to sing and the stars wheeled across the vast night sky, turning faster and faster; a night with dark faces lit up by the fire and moon. There were stories, fires and songs. Possums spoke of clans. Lizards with blue tongues beat on drums. A wombat stood up on its back legs and held a spear. There were giant dancing kangaroos and an echidna teaching children rhymes. Seals sprang up and sang from the kelp forests that glistened with abalone shells.
Dolphins and stingrays darted across the stars.
I watched as generation after generation of his people looked at me, fed me and sang to me. They took me for walks in the stars and down the rivers and over the mountains through ice and rain.
They showed me their island. I sang with them.
I heard thunder boom and echo in the canyons. Lightning flashed and fires burnt in the buttongrass plains.
I saw birth and struggle and celebration and ceremony.
I saw their faces.
Warriors, victims, heroes.
He showed me feasts and famine, joy and sadness, horror and destitution, remembrance and dignity. Some things I could not look at. Other things I could not turn away from.
I heard his voice carry across the night.
The stars are here to guide …
The stars spun in a circle above us as he spoke. He and I became the centre of a million spokes of light. The world turned and I learned more about his people and their land.
I felt their resolution and strength. They had wisdom to share and shed. They struggled. They reconciled. There was blending. They stayed close to the land.
They found grace.
I am mannalargenna.
I come from the stars and these are my people. Dream with us and listen to our story.
Watch us dance with the stars and sing with the kangaroos.
You are here to learn, even while you sleep.
. . .
A sulphur glow clung to the horizon as dawn brightened. I could smell ochre and charcoal. A flock of black cockatoos swept across the morning sky, screeching wildly.
I told you who I am. I know you will be fine. Now it is up to you. None of us are ghosts.
Take this with you.
He handed me a heart-shaped stone, slick and shining; it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what.
Remember me. Remember my people. Remember this country and share this story.
Remember the songs and the stars and the teachings by the fire.
Hold this stone close to your chest and let it beat in time with your heart.
Awake.
I lay where I had fallen. I got up. My head did not hurt
I looked around. There was a fire circle next to me and the ashes were still warm. The vegetation looked bent, as if from visitors – animals or humans, I knew not.
I felt a small stone next to my heart, hanging from around my neck. How did it get there?
This is the story of my trip to Tasmania.
Tasmania is not an island at the bottom of the world. Tasmania is at the centre of the world and the universe spins around it. And at the centre of the world there are the silent songs of nature and people singing by a fire. There is caring and courage. Come to this island to wake-up, to dream and learn.
There’s a little a bit of mannalargenna in all of us.
. . .
This piece was taken from the book, Tasmania: An Island Dream, a collection of inspiring stories and poems about areas of Tasmania that the writer and photographer Don Defenderfer has visited over the last 30 years. Aboriginal Elder, Dr. Patsy Cameron AO, described Don's work as "A powerful narrative that portrays a reverent and magical intimacy with this island that takes ones’ breath away."
Don Defenderfer is a native of San Francisco who once went on a holiday to Alaska where he met an Australian who told him to visit Tasmania. So he did, and while here he met a woman. That was 30 years ago. He was state coordinator for Landcare for many years, a job that allowed him to be inspired by not only the beauty of the Tasmanian landscape but by the many people that are trying to repair and renew it. He has a Masters Degree in Social Ecology and a Bachelor of Environmental Studies with a minor in writing. He has published three volumes of poetry, and his work has appeared in newspapers and periodicals, including The New York Times and The Australian.
