A Night in the Daintree - when Gordon went Away Forever
By Dallas Sherringham The camp-fire slowly settled into its comfortable bed, as camp-fires always do, and the blue and orange flames had subsided into a soft red glow. We were sitting in a clearing in the jungle, where the clear, cool Mossman rushed quickly by from the dark green cloud shrouded mountains to the sea. The boisterous laughter and loud talk had given way as well, as the night crawled in and the last purple glow of another one-off show at dusk had been lost and gone forever. The faces around the camp-fire had been black and white under the sun, but in darkness they were all the same color - a soft golden red that was alive. Just above, the Daintree sky was a string of endless pearls tossed carefully across - well forever- for our pleasure. Sitting beside camp-fires is always melancholy for me. It instantly carries me back to the camp-fires of my youth when I was nurtured by the one's I loved and could never lose. But I lost them along the dusty roads and tracks of life - and they are spirits now, drifting somewhere- I hope they are here? Yes I know they are here, just beyond the edge of darkness. Old Jim was a tall quiet skinny bloke who didn't say much. He sat looking into the fire. He was far away. Old Jim moved slowly but with the smooth grace of a bushmen. He reached into the fire with a long sturdy stick and stirred the glowing logs with some authority. Old Jim ran the fire the conductor of nature's ancient performance, enacted over and over for hundreds of generations. There was Billy the man with the guitar and the huge grin, assorted boys and girls perched just beyond the circle eyes wide open at the wonder of it all. There was a handful of fellow travel writers spread around the camp-fire trying to sound relevant. They were innocent to such matters and came from the Big Smoke to explore the deepest Daintree. So did I, but I grew up in similar circumstances in the town of Wellington where the Central Tablelands end and the endless Western Plains begin. An Aboriginal town. I struck up a yarn with Old Jim about those days of camping on the Darling when it was an unspoilt river, of catching cod on the Murrumbidgee and climbing shaggy mountains because..well because they were there. Old Jim smiled along in approval - we were reading from the same page. I carefully avoided 'serious talk' because we were guests of Old Jim and young Billy and his guitar. Indigenous Australians are perfect hosts and to me it is irrelevant and irreverent to spoil a camp-fire with such talk. Besides bush talk is about getting to a particular destination by a roundabout method, like stalking a choice piglet for lunch or catching a yellow belly trawling in a 20 m river hole. But one of the Sydney alumni couldn't help themselves. "What do you think about these claims of the stolen generation? Did it affect your..er..tribe?" She blurted out. I looked at Old Jim who half grimaced and looked at me for help. I could tell straight away she had stripped away the skin and exposed a deep hurt in Old Jim's life. He didn't answer but looked very downcast and downhearted before gliding to his feet and saying "it's getting late. Goodnight" and disappeared into the darkness like a swift shadow. Billy had been strumming his guitar but Old Jim's heartache was his heartache too. The smile ran away from his face as the camp-fire chatter subsided. "What happened? Did I say something wrong?" the innocent journo chirped. Billy stopped...mock frowned..and smiled, falsely "Nah, he'll get over it, besides we need the money." He burst into a chorus of 'Pub With No Beer' and everyone joined in. "Well I'd like to know!" These questions need to be asked," she said, demandingly after the song had disappeared. And she was right of course, but she asked her question at the wrong time and the wrong place. Now I am not a reporter, I am too nice, too shy to be a reporter. I am a travel writer and I see the whole scene overall. Tunnel vision has never been my forte. "Well folks, that's it" Billy said putting the fire out with the last of the tea in the billycan. "Oh, lady, about the children and your question, I hope to have a very special guest for you at breakfast."
A Day in the Daintree Next morning was very funny and very sad. It started as the normal brekky beneath shady palms and dripping rainforest trees framed by tropical flowers. I stopped to take a photo of a tiny azure blue kingfisher perched on a limb fluttering it's wings. A stunning shot. A group of noisy French birdwatchers arrived at the table next door while two journos arrived at my table clutching coffee mugs and a little worse for wear. Inevitably the conversation turned to what the French were doing with all the camera gear and binoculars. Their English was good: "we are after ze rare blue kingfisher! We have been looking for ze birdie for three days and haven't zeen one" the rather over exuberant bespectacled leader complained loudly as though it was our fault. She showed a small of photo "ze birdie" and I instantly recognised it. "Why, as a matter of fact there was one just here; you just missed it," I said while stirring my cuppa nonchalantly. A great racket suddenly ensued: "Where? Where? Where?” “Where was it?" They grabbed cameras, they pushed each other in the rush and they all leaned over the rail in the general direction I had pointed with an uncaring wave of my hand.
The bedlam went on for a good while: we sniggered in our coffee. Finally they gave up after seeing my smile. "Oh, how cruel, Monsieur was joking after all, he did not ze the blue birdie" the bespectacled one simpered giving me the stink eye in the process.. I couldn’t help laughing and I became the victim of sudden friendly derision from the French. How could I, an uncouth amateur who could not possibly know a blue kingfisher from a cassowary, have found “ze blue birdie”? Finally I played my trump card and showed them the photo. The racket roared to life again. "That's it! That's it!" That's the blue kingfisher". Tears streamed down faces, the simpering resumed. There were offers to buy the photo, promises were made, substantial cash offered and addresses taken.
Billy to the rescue! At the end of breakfast young Billy appeared, smile placed perfectly for the occasion and surprisingly well dressed by rainforest bushmen standards. "You’se come with me folks," he said, beckoning his following of journalists down to where a tiny old lady with gentle features sat shyly but proudly in a far corner. What is it about indigenous ladies? They have the calmness in the centre of the storm but they know how to cut to the chase.. "This is my Great Auntie ," Billy said softly, introducing his royalty - our royalty if the truth be known. We all murmured "hi" or similar. Auntie Grace looked us over carefully, trying to hide her feelings I suspected. She was cordial but not welcoming. "You'se wanted to know about the kids being take away," Billy waving his hand as though the whole world had been swept away. And it was. "You'se see, Auntie's brother Gordon was taken away by the reform school blokes." It was a strange gasp of air that came over us all, me included and I had been at school when my friends has been taken.; not in a big scene like you see in the movies, but quietly and softly like a thief in the night. One day your friends are playing with you at recess happily like bush kids always are, and the next day they are lost and gone forever. "It's for their own good, my grandparents would say," if it was mentioned at the table that night. But in the Daintree it was different again. Auntie said in straight words that have been said before many times, (to the best of my recollection as I was too self conscious to take notes but it was something that sticks in your mind): "Mum dressed Gordon in his best Sunday Church clothes when the inspector came to get him. His hair was freshly combed with a healthy amount of Spruso hair oil, his collar was starched and his second hand suit was patched and pressed. He had long socks, shorts and black donated Bata shoes polished perfectly. His clothes were packed with love in a brown Caskelite port in which his worldly possessions including his best marbles and his lucky baby turtle shell. Mum packed him his favorite chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches which she wrapped in a brown paper bag." Auntie had a sweet, soft voice with a great storytelling ability and was much better spoken then the ever present Billy who hung on every word proudly. Through the louvred windown I could see Uncle Jim listening in. She told how Gordon stood shaking and silent with the whole family including 'cousins" stood chatting, waiting for the inspector and his assistant to arrive. Young Billy jumped in: "He was a fat old bugger, he bought a young assistant to act as a runner and tracker if the child decided to do a bolter when they arrived." Back to his gentle Auntie: " We waited and waited peering down the dirt track, looking for the sound of the motor and a sign of dust on the track. Soon the old green Chev came rattling and roaring into view.” “Uncle Percy joked It looked like a green monster coming to eat Gordon, but no-one laughed. I was so proud of Gordon, the way tears streamed down his face but he didn’t budge. “The fat man talked to my mum and told how it was for Gordon’s good because he had a white father and hhe would be well looked after. I was tugging on Mum’s dress and sobbing ‘Don’t let him go mum, Don’t let him go’. “Gordon gave mum one last long look and she held him tight, patted down his hai,r gave him his port and said softly:: ‘Be Good My Son, I love you".. “The Fat man grabbed his arm, pulled it away and said ‘Best we make it quick for the boy’s sake’” “Gordon climbed in the back and the car sped away.” "Some kids chased it for while cheering Gordon off in a cloud of dust." Gasps and even a few tears amongst the journos. My eyes welled up as well. “And what happened then?” I couldn’t help myself – someone had to ask. “We never saw Gordon again,” her voice fading away. "He went away forever."
FOOTNOTE: I think about Gordon occasionally when my mind turns to dreaming. Some stories stay with you and change the way you see things - and understand them. How lonely must it have been for this poor little rainforest boy ripped from loving arms by strangers. I tried to track him down through Government channels, but no Gordon from Daintree was listed. I guess they changed his name or gave him a nickname. We will never know. I hope he had a good life, made many friends, had a loving family, laughed a lot and found happiness. And I hope Gordon's memory can live on in this story and in my heart. It's a story that had to be told.
Today's Indigenous Queensland men are able to celebrate and demonstrate their culture - a far cry from just a few years ago
The never ending Dreamtime stars of the rainforest have been known to hundreds of generations of Indigenous Australians
The rare and endnagered azure blue Daintree kingfisher had the French Twitchers in stitches
The serene Far North Queensland Coast
The ancient Mossman Gorge has been a swimming spot for 60,000 years, give or take afew (Photo: portdouglas.com)