Vignette: ABOUT THE BUNDLES

In document 'Owning' a marginal identity : shame and resistance in an Aboriginal community (Page 192-200)

A sense of mystery and magic surrounded the Bundles from my first acquaintance. I never met them, of course, for they died many years ago. Lest you think there are no Bundles left at all, let me be clearer; I am talking here about the brothers Bobby, Kelly and Tom, or Weakener, as he was known. It was Nan Campbell who first spoke to me about them; they were her mother’s brothers.

I remember my old uncles. They never used to stay here on the mission; they lived out in the bush. No-one really knows where it was. Somewhere out Beecroft. We used to tiy and fo llo w them but they wouldn't let us. They'd come and visit us now and then; bring fis h fo r my mother. They knew a lot about the old ways. D oesn'i matter where they were, they could always tell i f something was wrong in the family.

There was one time, I was real sick. I was a teenager then and we were with dad, working on the dairy farm . I was lying in my bed when suddenly I got a fright; there, at the window, was a black snake. M y uncle always used to carry that snake 'round in an old sack. About three or fo u r hours later, I got up and 1 was better. Uncle'd boil up sarsparilla to make us medicine. I remember he would sit up all night with a sick little baby.

Nan was the youngest of William and Ethel Wellington’s children. A descendant of Maori labourers brought to work Berry's estate, William was bom at Coolangatta in the 1880s; Ethel (nee Bundle), a local Aboriginal woman, was bom at Roseby Park, probably in the final decade of the century. The two married in 1915 at Nowra and raised their family at Roseby Park, though they moved about sometimes so that William could get work. There were seven children in all. Today, the majority of families at Jerrinja are descended from this family. During my time there, four of these family groups were still presided over by Nan and her surviving siblings. The name Bundle is held dear, as the link which provides a traditional right to the land.

We’re the real people, original, I was told, not Johnny-come-latelies.

There is no-one at Jerrinja now that goes by the Bundle name, though there are Bundles about town and further afield. Gwen was bom a Bundle, but she married a

Reid, from Gulargumbone. Gwen’s father was a Bundle - Ted, last o f the Bundles, so

they say. He was another mystery. I think he might have been an American Negro -

someone told me - he was that black and tall. That suggestion didn’t get far with

others, but he was not one of the brothers, Ethel's brothers, and the nature of the relationship had me perplexed. It was explained to me once that Ted was the brother of Nan's grandmother, a fact I found difficult to reconcile in terms of ages and generations. Gwen was so horrified by one attempt I had made to make sense of the genealogy that I decided to let the matter lie for a time. Perhaps I would ask Nan. Gwen was still a child when Ted left to join the circus. He died while on the road, some place in Victoria.

If I was looking to talk to Nan, I’d find her where she is most days, sitting in the comer of her loungeroom by the window, keeping a watchful eye on what's going on about the mission - one half of it, at least. Being at the end of a cul-de-sac, Nan has an almost complete view of the street and the houses lining either side. All the homes she can see, except the mansions which look down from the road above, are occupied by members of Nan's extended family. To the right an empty block merges into Frank's backyard, full with jeeps, boats, nets and all the other bits of flotsam and jetsam that a fisherman accumulates over the years. To the left is Valerie's, always a hub of activity. Nan watches Sam and Trudy saunter up the hill toward the Top House, where Norman is sitting enjoying some sun. In the distance, Linda's young neds, Leslie and Robert are roaming about, probably playing havoc with someone's fruit trees. Angela appears running; hop, skips and jumps across the potholed road and dashes into her grandmother, Gwen's. Minutes later she emerges, loaf of bread in hand, takes a flying leap off the verandah and sprints home. Topsy, returning from her daily trek to Eileen’s, cuts across Nan's yard and disappears through the gap in the palings. No-one is hurrying to fix the hole. Most fences here lie in varying states of disrepair; life at Jerrinja calls for more fluidity than good fencing would allow. I make my way via Frank's.

Looking back on the days of the mission managers, Nan is filled with mixed

emotions. She grows nostalgic, sometimes, that was the good old times then. We

were happy living the way we were. I'll say we were better o ff then than we are today.

At other times, she rails. We never had a life o f our own. We had to slave fo r the

white managers. They used to send us little picanninies fo r gum tips. We had to scrub the bathroom, toilet and laundry fo r them. My poor old Uncle Bobby used to go fish in g at the lighthouse. He was a great fisherman; always got them. I don't know

how he did it. M r Smithers, from the Protection Board, would say he wanted a snapper. H e'd only say it and Uncle Bobby would go and get one. I'd ask him, "Why are they 'pending on you unc?" ''I don't know daught."

Our people were here before the reserve, it was an oft-repeated refrain and the basis for the sense of pre-eminence that Nan and her family felt they had over others on the mission. I was only buying it in a general kind of way - that the land had been part of their people's traditional estate - for hadn’t I read in the history books that the reserve had been established to relocate Aboriginal families from the old Coolangatta estate. It took more books to change my mind. At the Mitchell Library it was there in black and white that Jack Carpenter, his wife Judy, Jimmy Bundle, Lucy and Chip were all well and truly resident at Crookhaven recreation ground in the latter 1800s.

The story begins, of course, much earlier. So far as the historical records are

concerned it seems the name Bundle makes its first appearance in the historical record in 1809 in noteable company. A Sydney Gazette report of the 3rd September

identifies Young Bundle as one who with the resistance figure Tedbury, son of Pemulwuy, was responsible for an attack on two white settlers at Parramatta. In the following year Young Bundle met with Governor Macquarie on his tour of the Cowpastures, being listed amongst other natives "who honoured us with their company and attendance”. Bundle was a familiar figure at Throsby’s Bong Bong property and sometimes served as a guide to the south coast. It was Bundle who reported a massacre of Aboriginal people in the Illawarra in 1818.

Nan greets you with a luminous, twinkling, crinkling in the comers sort of smile that makes you feel for a moment the little bluebird of happiness has just lighted on your

shoulder. H ow are you daught? We settle down to talk. My nephew, Mervyn, was

going to show me, one time, where my uncles lived. He used to fo llo w them about. He said, "Come on aunt, I'll show y o u ”, but I never went. I wish I knew where it was,

I'd fight fo r that place" - as if she hadn't already. For years she has been involved in the struggle for land rights and at Jervis Bay she came close to arrest, protesting government plans for a naval base.

Although it bothered Nan that she didn't know where, exactly, her uncles had lived, the real problem was that Nan felt herself left out of a secret of altogether greater proportions. They - the older generations - had all conspired to silence. They had never let her in on their way - the culture way. The old people knew the lingo; they used to talk amongst themselves. Nan recalls with dismay how her grandmother used

to chase her away. She was very strict. Old grandmother had favourites; I wasn't

very welcome, used to get tossed away. Stretching and massaging the fingers of her

poor hand with the other, Nan searches for reasons and judges herself unworthy. I

must have been cheeky, too forward. We got around with a lot o f white people. That's what took it out o f me. Instead o f sticking to our own ways. It made grandmother wild.

But sometimes, on reflection, she landed the ball back in the other court. This is

where a lot o f our old people failed down. They wouldn't let you listen. They should have sat down and told us stuff. Instead o f learning us, they'd get nasty with us. They should have left us the culture; instead they took it away with them.

Nan and her family say they feel more at home on Beecroft than on the mission. On weekends and school holidays they'll pack up the car with tents and billies and fishing lines and kids and go out to camp at Honeymoon (now Bindijine), sometimes for weeks on end. It’s about being in the bush, enjoying the sea, relaxing, recharging and connecting with their spiritual inheritance.

We were at Honeymoon Bay when Nan told me she thought the mermaids might've

had something to do with her uncles' life in the bush. I think they might have got to

my uncle. They could've had him out here sitting with them. Like the bit-bit women,

if the mermaids took a fancy to someone, they would call them - wangalang - put

them under a spell. The bit-bit women were especially tricky. Beautiful, with long

dark hair, they would come onto the mission and even roam the streets of Nowra; but you could tell - if you were looking - because their feet were pointy. I asked Gwen

about them, Lovely jet black hair, down to their feet, long fingernails. Brrr, you make me creepy now, Nat. They reckon they used to charm the men. I f they wanted the men they charmed them, just like Jedda. Charm them away.

I imagine that when they were young the Bundle women, Nan, Eileen and Sylvia, all had beautiful long black hair1. All three still wear their hair loose and long and carefully combed, though they are silvery headed now. Eileen looks a lot like Nan, but she has a restrained and almost regal air. My guess is that she was one of the favourites that Nan spoke of.

I know very little about her - Eileen - except that her life seems to have been filled with sorrows and losses. Eileen herself has lived to a good age. She is strong, having survived challenges to her own health. But all around, people close to her, those she loved, have not had the same endurance and have succumbed to prolonged illness or been suddenly wrenched away. In the face of it all, Eileen remains stoic, but it seems somehow that she hides herself behind closed doors.

I was never certain what sort of reception I would get when I paid a call at Eileen’s, so it was always with some trepidation that I closed the gate of the high paling fence behind me, and approached the door. I knocked, not too hard, and waited. Quite

often the door remained unanswered, but today - What do you want? The door

opened an inch or two. I was wondering i f Dallas was home. Asleep. Eileen?

Resting. Can you tell them I'll come back another day?

For reasons I never did fathom, there were days when I was warmly welcomed, when Eileen talked freely, and, on those rare days, I practically floated out the door. To say that Eileen spoke freely must be seen in relative terms, for she always spoke

guardedly, with conspiratorial gravity. She told me one day how her Uncle Bobby had taken her with him, out to Beecroft Peninsula. He had stopped at a particular place in the bush, and instructed her to stay there, not to move. He had disappeared then, returning after a time with - to her amazement, since he carried no line - a huge

I

The sisters Eileen and Sylvia have since passed away.

snapper in his hands. Her uncles, she said, had lived out there, but they moved around, didn't stop the one place. She mentioned a cave at Target Beach.

I don't go out there, to Beecroft, she meant. I won't go there. I don’t know about those things. In weighty tones Eileen told me many times over. It took me some time to understand, if I ever did, Eileen’s taciturnity. For Eileen, Beecroft was filled with dangerous and mystical powers which one could not afford to mess with. Warnings issued by her uncles to keep away from certain sites remained vividly in her mind. Eileen knew, I’m sure, more than she spoke about, but there wgre serious questions for her about what she had the right to speak of and to whom.

Gwen told me about childhood visits out to Beecroft too. Them old elders, well they

made a track through the bush. It was a short cut. I don't know, I s'pose that's all fenced in now on account o f old Halloran has got all that land in there now,

everything. In those days the fishermen from the mission would set up camp out at Target. If it was a Sunday or school holidays, when they came back for food supplies,

they might take the children back out for the day. We'd end up getting in trouble. We

used to go dorrying around, looking for things we shouldn't do. We found a footprint in the rock. Bundoola2. Everytime you went near it, you can bet your bottom dollar we'd have rain...They told us we shouldn't have gone up there because we brought bad weather fo r the fishermen. Thunderstorms, hail and everything. I must admit that in all the time I was at Jerrinja the similarity between the names Bundoola and Bundle never once occurred.

It was from an unexpected quarter that I learned more about the Bundles. ’Though second time round he had 'married' a Wellington, Boodgie occupied a peripheral position on the mission - as far as the politics went, at least. Raised at Orient Point, Boodgie grew up in close contact with Roseby Park, but not on it. His mother was a Koori woman, with family on the mission; on his father's side, Boodgie was

descended from pioneer settler stock: the Caffreys, who grew com on the Point and the Lonesboroughs, who first settled Goodnight Island. Boodgie followed closely in

the footsteps of his father. My life was similar to old dad’s, he told me, tone's of

2 Versions of the Bundoola story have been published in Organ 1990. A local account was given to me

affection in his voice, net fishing and oyster farming. He had even inherited his

father’s nickname, Boodgerigoo, a name bestowed by the old Koories, meaning good

fella. Perhaps heir too to his warm heart and cheeky sense of humour. Boodgie’s father lived to a ripe old age, swearing by his rum tonic and bicycle riding. Boodgie himself was dying of cancer.

His stories brought the Bundles to life:

I've often seen them out in Jervis Bay spearing groper through the tail. They're coming around on the rocks see, the high water, feeding, their tails up in the air. A nd they'd (the old Koories) sneak out, from about here to there and whoosh, bang! The old spear...right through the tail, he can't swim away. Oh I've often seen that...

Nuggett and I follow ed them when we was kids - the voice is full of life and

expression - and, oh god, we got that fa r away they couldn't hunt us back, so they took

us with 'em. Oh god, they cut sugar bags and wrapped them around our legs 'cause all the spiky seeds... Went right out around the caves and everything, getting honey out o f the caves. Oh god, we never follow ed them again...it nearly killed us. (We were gone) a w eek...I nearly got killed when I come home. M other was going to kill me, didn't know where I was. (I had an) uncle there, he was in amongst it too see, her brother. Yeah, he was there too, Jimmy Dixon ...That was him, Jimmy Dixon. I follow ed him and Billy Carpenter ...There was a lot o f Carpenters there. Two or three

Bundles... Oh there was a team o f them. They'd all have a bit offlour, some'd have flour, some'd have sugar, tea. Never starved, plenty o f honey. Shoot a wallaby, cook

him on the coals. Spear a fish ...

On certain days the tremor of distant bombing carries through the air, rattles the windows at Jerrinja and unsettles the hearts of Nan and her family. For decades

In document 'Owning' a marginal identity : shame and resistance in an Aboriginal community (Page 192-200)