The Kwinkan. Mudrooroo
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Mudrooroo was born in Narrogin in Western Australia in 1938. He has travelled extensively throughout Australia and the world and is now living in Brisbane. Mudrooroo has been active in Aboriginal cultural affairs, was a Member of the Aboriginal Arts Unit committee of the Australia Council, and a co-founder with Jack Davis of the Aboriginal Writers, Oral Literature and Dramatists Association. He piloted Aboriginal literature courses at Murdoch University, the University of Queensland, the University of the Northern Territory and Bond University. Mudrooroo is a prolific writer of poetry and prose and is best known for his novel, Wildcat Falling, and his critical work, Writing from the Fringe. Old Fellow Poems and Wildcat Falling are both available with his audio presentation. He has completed a new novel Balga Boy Jackson to be released in 2017.
Also by Mudrooroo and available in ETT Imprint
Wildcat Falling (ebook)
Doin. Wildcat
Wildcat Screaming
Dalwarra
The Indigenous Literature of Australia
The Garden of Gethsemane
Writing from the Fringe
The Indigenous Literature of Australia
Pacific Highway Blues
The Song Cycle of Jacky
An Indecent Obsession (ebook)
The Master of the Ghost Dreaming
The Undying
Underground
The Promised Land
Old Fellow Poems
This edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay 2017
First published by Angus & Robertson 1993
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers:
ETT IMPRINT
PO Box R1906
Royal Exchange NSW 1225
Australia
Copyright © Mudrooroo 1993, 2017
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-925706-22-2 (ebook)
Cover illustration by Greta Kool
I respectfully dedicate this book to the linguist, Mari Rhydwen, who helped me with obscure points of Australian / English usage.
Any mistakes are mine.
Thanks Mari for your kind and considerate help.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
This volume contains the transcripts of thirteen curious recording sessions conducted over the month of July 1992 in the old federal capital of Canberra. They have been edited to delete many hesitations, as well as extraneous and libellous matter, though in the interests of veracity, the oral style of the material has been retained as much as possible. The object of the editing process was to put together a clear, readable manuscript which might go towards elucidating the life and career of the famous Dr Watson Holmes Jackamara. I stress here, as I must, that the name of the subject who subsequently suffered a nervous breakdown and disappeared shortly after the conclusion of the recording sessions, is not to be found in my text. This was at his own request and to preserve his privacy. The manuscript was vetted by both the governments of Australia and of the island nation. Any matters which might directly or indirectly contravene the respective secrecy Acts of both countries have been removed. The unedited tapes are to become part of the Jackamara papers which when collated will be deposited in the Petersen Library of Caine University, Brisbane. There they shall be available for limited perusal by scholars after a period of total restriction as yet to be determined.
SESSION ONE
‘Yes, well I did know, or should that be, I do know Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara, and I have read, or let us say glanced through the volume of his exploits, or perhaps I should say cases. And you are the, the chronicler of his life? I find it very interesting, most interesting; but what has it got to do with me? You see, as I did know the Inspector I was ready to peruse the book and did, but, to be precise, I thought that you fictionalised the cases too much, not as to the sensational aspects, but as to appearing to get into the minds of the participants in the tragedies. I see by your raised eyebrows that you are querying my use of the word “tragedy”? Well, sir, I do prefer the formality, I have no wish to extend this brief meeting into friendship, I regard all police cases as tragedies, the result of individual strivings and aspirations colliding with the social mores which may be seen as fate. Social collapse averted by individual collapse and so it goes on. I find little of this in your fictionalised working over of the participants. Well, it is only what must be expected, for after all, and for that matter how could you really begin to delve into and understand the inner workings of not fictional characters, but real people engaged in the tragedy of life often to such a degree that they put their all on the line. Perhaps only the policeman, the avenging fury, might begin to understand and love aspects of the criminal; but not all, sir, no, not all for after all he is no psychoanalyst; but then what has psychology got to do with the understanding of a human nature enmeshed in tragedy? Ah, so you interview people? Interesting, and the details of the cases? ... from the Inspector himself . I remember, even now, that he was an excellent raconteur. In fact, I feel that I am ready to cooperate in your, well, in your project of literary realisation.
‘I remember Jackamara, I’m sorry, Detective Inspector Watson Holmes Jackamara. It was like this. At that time, I was standing for election to the federal Parliament and he was detailed not only to be my minder, but to pull the black vote onto my side. You see, well, I can admit it now, I was very much the city slicker. Still am for that matter, but, well, you may ask, what has this got to do with my connection with the Detective Inspector? What, you say that he is now a Doctor of Criminology! Well, well! It appears in this world only I remain constant and on the down turn ... Well, when I met the good Doctor, the black vote was substantial, very substantial in that electorate. It was decided by those in power that I go around to the various settlements and missions to present a sympathetic ear to their grievances. Naturally, I was to promise nothing; but in those days in Queensland the mere presence of a parliamentary candidate amongst the blacks was like the visit of royalty. Still, I needed an “in” and so the Inspector was provided for that “in”. We got on splendidly, well, we did to a certain extent, as much as it was possible for a white and black man to get on. He was a great one for the stories, and as our enforced companionship wore away his reserve, he gave me much enjoyment on the road to some of those missions which are so remote that to say out of sight is out of mind is quite correct. Why, he even took me to his old mission home.
‘By that time, I was used to these clusters of abandoned humanity lurking on the very brink of my vision. To enter into one of these clusters was a trial. The blacks were stand-offish, preferring to gaze away rather than towards, and the white persons in charge were little better. They on the whole were suspicious of politicians. Some, I saw, had identified almost wholly with their charges; others lorded it over them, and the rest, the majority, suffered their isolation and were ready to fling their petty grievances towards me. Naturally, I ducked them.
‘Jackamara’s home was typical of these abandoned missions. The better ones had been ordered by the State Government to become municipalities; others like his, a few dilapidated houses squared about a church and a rambling bungalow, the once home of the missionary, were placed under the control of a government agent and forgotten. When I arrived, I found that the agent had taken leave of absence. His headquarters, the bungalow, lay silent behind a mesh fence topped by barbed wire. A light-skinned lad pulled