Martha B. Hopkins: hiking in Australia at 82 & the death of her son.
October-November, 2011
It gets harder all of the time. Yesterday I passed a rack of
birthday cards. No more birthdays. Last night rugby game between Australia and
Wales: a shorter guy with strong build and cropped blonde hair–quite like Alex—was
key to Australia’s win. I see an ambulance, I see someone stepping onto a bus or riding
a bicycle. At last he is free from his struggles, including those that confront short, strong,
funny, sensitive men in the meaner parts of the US.
Wakened at 4am last night (as I often do) and scribbled:
Is my son burning now?
Have his strong bones turned to ash?
The clean vapors of integrity
will land on the few who can absorb them.
The freshness of his humor will show.
His spirit swirls around me
but I cannot hug, only love, one that is dissolving.
How many things we never got to say
it doesn’t matter now. Only that you are safe.
________________
Wednesday, October 26, 2011 in Arnhamland, Northern Australia,
was the hardest day, physically, of my life. It was within just a hair of being too much, but worth every painful, thrilling, expensive, beautiful, revelatory
moment. It was not just a fascinating experience for me, but also for the two
Belgians, retired Australians and two young women that joined
us. "Gary" was out guide, and Chris the out-van driver .
First time I have seen an actual sunrise in Australia. Driving
east at 5:30 a.m. from Darwin to Arnhamland–– from black skies driving through
peopleless lands to dim lighting to bright, pale yellowing skies. A fortuitous
glance in the right direction showed a little dark orange hill on the still
dark horizon. Steadily it rose and became the blood orange sun that I had
watched slide down into Darwin Harbor the night before. Our objective: 10,000 year old rock paintings on the underside of overhanging rocks of what is
called Injalak Hill near the little village of Oenpelli, and learning something about the mysterious "dreaming" land of indigenous
Australians. The trip could be as long and as complicated as the guide chose to
make it. From what I gather now, I think we got the whole nine yards.
The few tribes that are there are broken into clans and strictly observe
customs that prevent the consequences of interbreeding. Ultimately everyone is related anyway and the sacredness of relationships is
highly honored. The land has been studied geologically and culturally (from bones, DNA, etc) and in every other which way since the end of the last ice age. It is said that it has changed little. Miles-wide
green flood plains between high plateaus became giant lakes
during "The Wet."
_________
We climbed the face of a giant escarpment,
like scrambling up toward Finger Rock (in Tucson) but more complicated. It was too hot to
scramble, so we moved more clumsily picking our way upward into the rough mass of huge blocks, boulders, hunks, and wedges of silicified sandstone tilted
every which way, often with just one narrow way around. Every few feet up I
could see new canyons and obstacles, but we kept going. I was near the front, as always, so I could hear, but basically I couldn't hear much of the general
talking. I could observe, though. At a fairly level stop, Gary, our graying but sprite indigenous
guide, asks me if I had a camera. I said yes and he said let's take a picture
of you and a black man to show your grandson. He was almost always peaceful
and smiling at the humor of situations. I think it is his way of getting some
people comfortable, with black and white folks touching each other. Many people have
trouble with that, but not me.
No rock was cold, just soft warmth that gradually became too hot
to touch, especially the yellows, grays and browns. We kept drifting upward, often single file
or just one or two of us at a time because the rocks were so close together. It
was sometimes quite steep but I came to realize that Gary was always there and
offering me his hand before I knew I needed it. Suddenly I was aware that this
was one of those relationships that felt forever, where you fully understand each
other and your own private mysteries. Complete trust.
We finally arrived on a wide plateau under a huge overhang,
covered with paintings. Gary stopped and in a prayer-like voice began speaking
in his native tongue. We all were silent. He said he has asked the ancestors for
permission to let us take pictures but that there will be some places NOT to
take pictures. On some surfaces, always the underside of an overhang, the
paintings are more dense. The longer I looked, the more I saw buried under each other.
Gary speaks of the Lightning Man, the fish, the serpent, the honey bee. We kept moving slowly among the rocks, seeing and listening. At one place with a single figure, he said "no pictures."
It was getting hotter and everyone was sweating and drinking from
their water bottles. He sat easily, comfortably cross-legged, and explained the
studies that determined that the paintings are 10, 000 years old. . . and that
they, and he, and all of us will vanish eventually as "as a patch of water
will vanish from a hot surface—with no trace that it ever existed." He
gently describes that as an elder, he has no younger replacements. He knows and
speaks of it. I know of it and hardly know what to say. At some time everyone
has watched a puddle on cement shrink and shrink and disappear. It has always
happened and will always happen. It is sometimes disquieting to contemplate,
but he was so totally calm that it was inspiring to me.
As we continued through a tight spot, the next obvious place I
would have placed my hand was a narrow ledge, smooth as glass by thousands
of hands over thousands of years. He said "not pictures," and then the next
place he paused. He simply pointed to the right at a wedge-shaped crack, at the
bottom of which was a recognizable skull. Judging from the fact that the back of the skull where the poor person's ear would have been faced me, I gathered that long ago
someone probably fell head first from above. Or
perhaps it has settled down there. What a helluva
way to die, but even now it could happen. There would be no way to get down there except with one or two people like Gary carrying or dragging the injured or dead out. There were no paths, no place for a
helicopter to land, just the rocks, an occasional plant and lizard, and the poop
of some animal. Gary played here as a small boy.
We continued into a box canyon with one wall tilted enough to
preserve a complex red drawing with several stick figures
around a more detailed one. Gary sat on a ledge, explaining that this was a
portrayal of what happens when a member of the family dies. He stepped down and
pointed at one of the small figures. I told him that my son had died three days ago. He smiled
gently, without missing a beat, put his hand on a boulder and said "He'll
be back."
_________________
Gary was the only one who knew the routes and protected and
guided everyone gently and ably. Because I was by far the oldest (nobody
over 60) I was the first in line when we had to go single
file––which was most of the time. And I soon learned that people behind me were
very grateful that I was going slowly.
Always I felt protected by Gary and it became like a slow motion
dance––we didn’t say anything. I put my hand forward when I need a little
steadying or support and when it was a complicated place, he silently pointed
or put his toe on a spot that I was to use. Further on, quite high up, we had
to cross by a place that had a severe drop on one side. The only way was
to slide on your back between two horizontal rocks, at most two feet apart, by
pushing with your feet. It too was smooth as glass from thousands of backs.
There was no shortcut, no finding an easier way. It was all hard squirming but
he always kept the pace moving. He would make a small gesture of pointing where I should put my hand or he would gently tap a rock where I should put my
foot. One of my legs (broken years ago) was aching, my back was aching, my body was sweating, and my
head and heart were pounding—and there were no choice but to follow him.
We trickled into a "cooler," amphitheater-like
formation and arranged ourselves in front of a ledge that had many stones and
objects placed on it. No pictures were to be taken here. The only thing that
looked like a "weapon" was a long stone spear point, which was used
for spearing fish and animals. A couple of things looked like arrow heads but
were kinds of scrapers and piercing tools. No weapons and no talk of war or
violence. These are, and apparently always have been, peaceful people. How
utterly refreshing, I thought. They don’’t worry about killing or overpowering other
people and it shows in the lovely and relaxed attitudes. He explained the uses
of one oval rock which he demonstrated by pounding lightly on his chest to
remove phlegm, but not too hard because it was "too dangerous––" meaning
don't pound too hard or you'll hurt yourself. the same phrase, "too
dangerous," was used for scraping to remove or trim hair. Too much and you'll cut
yourself.
A small rock worn smooth on one side was a piece of red
ochre. Red, yellow, orange and white are widely used by all tribes to make
their distinctive designs, including "war paint," for some. But Gary
just drew a few red stripes on his face. I was startled to see his red palm
when he held up the rock. Later I asked to look at his palm, and sure enough,
ours were as alike as two palms could be: a simian crease almost exactly like
mine. We both just looked at each other and smiled.
_____________
One of my greatest fears is turning or bumping my right knee in
a way that messes with the hardware surgeons put in there years ago. I know what it is to turn just
enough in the wrong direction so that the tips of the screws feel sharp inside and pointedly say it's time to change leg positions immediately. My right leg has
become extremely strong in certain directions, but by using it so much that day, it was tiring. Fortunately lunch time came. Everyone was
dripping and exhausted. Chris had climbed up with drinks and the makings of
hearty ham and cheese sandwiches. By that time I simply could not lift my leg up the big
step necessary to see the view of immense distances, but one rock down, I
still had a commanding view of the giant green flood plain and distant
formations. Right near me was a smooth rock with a little tilt—a
perfect bed—and another smooth rock for a pillow in just the right place. I
almost fell asleep. My back stretched out and I rested, which I must do several times a day since there is no cartilage
between some of my lower vertebrae.
It had gotten really hot as we worked our way down through another tight slot canyon, past the never-ending rock, I thought I was going to
collapse. The paintings got sparse, and while more interesting in some
subject matter (like fishing), they were less interesting than safely getting down. There was no choice but to keep going. Gary kept the pace very slow with many stops. We were all bright pink and pouring sweat, but everything around us was so
beautiful that there were no words of complaint. Just awe. I didn’t think I
could go another millimeter—I felt tested to the max. But I made it.
It felt wonderful to have a new soul-mate. . . a forever friend in Gary. I doubt we will ever meet again, but I had a sense that I think we both felt. He helped me understand the loss of my son.
I think none of us can redefine our birth—our surroundings, the people
that are immediately upon us, what has been decided for us to learn, or not to
learn—and become comfortable with what we think is fixed. . . or change it, accept it, or suffer. In the few hours during the rugged hike on the Top End of Australia last year, my life took on a richness hard
to explain, and one that is with me permanently.
______________
Martha B. Hopkins, author of Second Chances: A Travel Narrative of Southern Africa, has been a geologist, journalist, real estate broker, civic activist, and writer of non-fiction articles. She lives and writes in Tucson, Arizona.
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