Sitting on a cliff overlooking the spectacularly azure waters of Norfolk Island’s Anson Bay, is a paddock-to-plate experience that’ll leave your taste buds salivating for more, long after you’ve left the tiny Pacific Ocean island.
When the Ryves family moved to Norfolk Island three generations ago, they wouldn’t have imagined their farm property would turn into one of the must-do experiences atop the basaltic, nutrient rich soils. The Hilli Goat Farm Tour, led by Emily Ryves and her family, is one lunch-time feed you just can’t miss.
The tour starts with Emily and Steve (Emily’s dad) offering a history lesson in how the farm came to be one of Norfolk Island’s most delicious experiences, with the hairy VIP’s crying for attention (and food) in the background.
Originally settled as a cattle farm, it wasn’t until Emily saw a documentary of two ladies making goats cheese that she decided to transition from her role as a flight attendant and to farming and cheese making. Born and raised on Norfolk, Emily has always lived on the family’s property, where to this day, she lives with her husband Zach Sanders and their son, Charlie.
Watching the goats eagerly line up at the shed as the milking process is explained and demonstrated is fascinating. When you arrive at a small shed-like structure on the property, a few metres away from the milking shed, Emily will emerge with a cheese mould and explains the cheese-making process, from thickening of the milk to pressing and moulding curds. Alongside her thriving cheese produce business, she also stocks a growing organic goat’s milk skincare range but it’s the smell of the lunch being prepared in Emily and Zach’s home, situated just at the end of the property, that will really grab your attention.
A large Norfolk Pine table is set up just beyond the doors and is quickly covered with wholesome dishes prepared by Emily and her mother, Alison. Warm bread sits alongside an array of vegetable dishes sourced straight from the Hilli Goat Farm property and cooked in a variety of different ways. From roasted carrots and squashes potatoes, to salads, and traditionally fried fish, and of course, more goat’s cheese than you’d find in your local farmer’s markets.
The dishes are everchanging, seasonal and delicious, with a lot of traditional style dishes thrown in the mix. And while Emily and Zach are centre stage, it’s a true family affair. Emily makes the goats cheese, Steve provides the fruit and veggies, and Jamie catches the fish.
This is life on Norfolk at its finest – the people are inviting, the produce is locally-grown, full of colour and flavourful, and the atmosphere is relaxing. It’s a belly-filling learning experience that should be at the top of everyone’s to-do list to Norfolk Island.
New Caledonia culture is alive in this corner of the South Pacific with an estimated 40 per cent of the archipelago’s total population still made up of the Kanak people. Dedicated to Kanak culture is the architecturally spectacular Tjibaou Cultural Centre in Nouméa. Nestled between Magenta and Tina bays in the Tina Peninsula, the curved wooden structures rise above surrounding woodland and mangroves in this preserved natural site. Designed by Italian architect Renzo Piano, the Cultural Centre was designed to replicate the island’s traditional architecture and houses a museum, performance spaces, a library and an art centre.
Inside the monument, which is named after Kanak leader Jean-Marie Tjibaou, visitors will find sculptures, paintings, photographs and regular dance performances that represent Kanak and Pacific culture. Outside the hut-like buildings are a botanical garden and the winding Kanak path, which outlines the importance of nature to the Kanak people and the myth of the creation of man.
Get the timing right and you’ll even be treated to a performance by the We Ce Ca group, proving the Tjibaou Cultural Centre is a totally immersive Kanak cultural experience.
Despite its famed evergreen reputation, and Hollywood-represented history, Norfolk Island is somewhat of an enigma. As I board the plane from Sydney to the tiny 35-kilometre-square island in the South Pacific, I’ve convinced myself I’m about to enter a real-life production of Bachelor in Paradise, just in time for Valentine’s Day.
The first thing I notice about Norfolk Island, aside from the shed-like airport, is the thickness of the air. It’s February and the subtropical climate of the island, situated 1500 kilometres east of Brisbane, is certainly delivering the humidity. The weather is milder than expected, but I’m sweating profusely and the sapphire blue waters that surround the cliff-framed cost are looking rather appealing.
A crowd of locals stands metres away behind a cream fence, waving vigorously at arrivals and preparing farewells for the departing. Everyone seems to know each other, but what would you expect of an island that has a population wavering around 2000? Through the noise, I identify wataweih and whatawee as the main greetings and I make a mental note for my future grand finale.
Rose Evans is my guide for the day and I take careful note of landmarks as she drives around grassy bends and over steep undulations. But with famed Norfolk pine trees deepening the hue of endless sweeping pasture I quickly lose my landmarks. The landscape is far less tropical than I had imagined, which I later learn is the result of one of the earlier settlements where overgrown tropics were replaced with pastoral lands. It looks like a quaint UK countryside village, with the weather you’d expect of a subtropical island.
A brief introduction to World Heritage-listed Kingston, the blue lagoon of Emily Bay, the thrashing waters of Slaughter Bay and the town centre eventually ends at my private beach-house accommodation at Coast. From my deck, the blue skies are starting to scatter with grey clouds that threaten rain but never deliver, mocking the locals who are awaiting the end of a near-catastrophic drought. Not that you could tell by the landscapes that are hypnotizingly green. Through the pine trees, I spy the varying blues of the ocean and its surrounding reef, the source of many ships’ end.
Over dinner at Hilli’s Restaurant, Rose tells me how she came to call the isolated island home. As a young Queenslander, she holidayed on Norfolk Island and fell in love with the place and a local. Shortly after, she moved and has been here ever since. I’d soon come to learn this romantic tale isn’t unusual in this part of the world, and my hope for a paradise ceremony strengthens.
A Pinetree’s orientation tour is my half-day introduction to the island’s main sights. Along with my fellow grey-haired explorers, I listen as Max, our guide, rattles off fascinating island facts. For instance, the phone book uses locals’ nicknames rather than their surnames, there are no snakes or spiders here, and cattle and birds are the main fauna. I’m thrilled to learn about the absence of deadly critters we’re so used to in other parts of Australia.
“The language is 227 years old,” Max explains of Norfuk, a combination of old English and Tahitian. “It was created by some men who stole a ship, picked up their friends, settled on an island where they burnt their ship then couldn’t speak to one another.”
His dry sense of humour gets mixed responses on the bus, which is as entertaining as his stories that have me in fits of giggles. But Max makes it very clear there’s one conversation he won’t have on his tour – politics. The previously self-governed island came under Australian Government rule in 2017 and it’s still a touchy topic.
Instead, Max recites the historical tale I’ll hear multiple times over the coming days. It’s a fascinating narrative featuring ancient Polynesian seafarers, First Fleet farm lands, brutal convict settlements and a famous mutiny.
A similar discourse is delivered at a traditional sunset fish fry, during the Pinetrees’ Sound and Light Show where costumed players enact the horrifying days of the convict era, and again as I’m wandering the cemetery on a ghost tour.
I’m transfixed by the islanders’ unwavering script on the HMS Bounty mutiny, which in 1789 saw Fletcher Christian and eight other crewmen overthrow and set adrift Lieutenant William Bligh and 18 other men. The mutineers then returned to Tahiti to reunite with the women with whom they’d “fallen in love” before eventually heading to Pitcairn Island. There they set the ship ablaze and stayed for 20 years. By 1808, all of them, apart from John Adams, had been killed by each other or their Polynesian ‘loves’. Finally, in 1856, Queen Victoria granted Norfolk Island to Adams and the women and children who remained. When I question the story, drawing comparisons to other accounts of less gentlemanly behaviour during the British Empire’s history of invasions, one local offers a dismissive forced smile. And while my journalistic curiosity has me wanting to dig deeper into the romance of this story, I have a fond admiration for the pride the Norfolk nation has in their history.
It’s at this point I decide to join a Kingston ghost tour. Thanks to the island’s violent penal past, Norfolk is considered one of the world’s most haunted islands, and this has the attention of my inner woo-woo transfixed. Being a sceptical believer, I join the group with a lantern, an open mind, some garlic and a pinch of salt, hoping to hear fascinating stories but not expecting any actual ghosts. Accompanied by the sound of crashing waves, we move through the cemetery and past headstones etched with stories of murders, drownings and untimely deaths. I catch myself smirking when a guest questions a shadow (caused by a tree) in the distance, but tighten my grip on my black tourmaline crystal and soundlessly recite, “Please don’t follow me home, please don’t follow me home” in a bid to repel spirits.
It’s said a large number of the Norfolk’s spirits hang out around Kingston’s main street, Quality Row, and its elegant official houses. But it’s the duplex that catches my attention. As we park opposite, the bus fills with whispers and apprehension. We’re told about the house’s dark past, and some people choose to stay where they are. I spend my time ensuring I’m surrounded by living people, but eventually freak out and refuse to enter the servants’ quarters. Whether it’s anxiety or the supernatural, I’m convinced the building has evil juju. I let out a hushed giggle when a man jumps because he catches his son’s shadow while taking a photo; another when a woman, who is standing near a window without glass, quietens the group to ask if anyone else felt the “chill in the air” that “ran across” her skin. When I return to my cabin, I fall asleep with the light on.
Done with ghost and history hunting, I’m determined to pursue some nature-based adventures. Heading to Emily Bay, I meet with Jay Barker from Permanent Vacations who’s taking me on a snorkelling tour of the reef. The conditions look a little choppy, and my heart rate increases when Jay tells me we’ll start the tour at aptly named Slaughter Bay. I flipper up and dive in. The water is warm and, while the waves are strong, the reef is soon in view and my initial nerves dissipate. The crackling of the ocean is calming, the coral vibrant and the fish flourishing. Wrasse and blue trevally swim by, while rare Aatuti fish show their colours as the bullies of the bay. It’s without a doubt one of the liveliest reefs I’ve ever set goggles on.
Three hours pass before we pop up for a break. The ripples on the water are lit by the sun, while Lone Pine, which has been here for as long as anyone can remember, stands tall on Point Hunter in the distance. I’m breathless from both battling the current of Slaughter Bay and the inspiring landscape.
With the tide coming in and my skin starting to wrinkle, Jay offers to take me to some rock pools by Anson Bay on the northwest side of the island. Barefooted, I walk up a narrow sandy path and find a rope tied to a tree. “Hold on to this and pull yourself up,” Jay instructs as I start to wish I hadn’t bailed on the past two months of personal training. At the top of the climb, there’s a narrow goat track leading to more ropes, a side-stepping cliff edge and vertical track to the water. I don’t make it all the way down and, in a bid to hide my fear, dub it a good vantage point for photos. As we make our way back to the top of Anson Bay, I kick myself for not going further and vow to come back and tackle the rock pools in the future.
When I wake up the following morning, with muscles stiffer than a log of pine, I’m grateful to have a day free to explore in a Mini Moke. It’s Valentine’s Day so I enlist Jay to be my lunch date and navigator. We walk from the peak of Mount Pitt to Mount Bates, the highest point of the island, where the tropical landscape I had expected is thriving, then settle in at 100 Acres Reserve for a lunch prepared earlier by Picnic in Paradise. Surrounded by the sounds of black noddy terns and white terns nesting nearby, it’s not quite a scene from Bachelor in Paradise, but I feel totally at peace here, and not in a woo-woo ghost kind of way. A session at Serenity Day Spa and homemade pasta from Dino’s at Bumboras, a restaurant run from the owner’s home, built in the late 1800s, is a fitting end to the day.
Early the next morning, a symphony of cows mooing and white terns cacawing forces me from my slumber. A rooster sounds its alarm, crowing a good morning chant to the rising sun. The sun is shining through the window, dulled only slightly by the sheer curtains. The breeze pushes its way through the screen door, filling my room with the briny smell of the ocean. I wrap my hands around a cup of tea and step onto the deck for one last view of the pastoral lands and Pacific blues. I may not have uncovered all the mysteries hidden beneath the Norfolk pines and between the haunted buildings, or found myself the recipient of a bloom at a red-rose ceremony, but beyond its museums and mesmerising sweeping landscapes, this patch of land in the South Pacific has more adventure than a lone traveller could ask for.
First you feel the thumping in your chest, then you hear it. The rhythmic beat of kundu (drums) by the Enga Province men mixed with the smell of canola oil on human flesh that signals the official start of the Hagen Show.
The Hagen Show is an annual sing-sing (the word means gathering) and it features the coming together of dozens of tribal groups in Papua New Guinea’s highland city of Mt Hagen. The show in the town’s rugby stadium was first held in 1961 before the country’s independence as an attempt to unify warring tribes and preserve the region’s traditions. Now it occurs each year in August. Check the dates at papuanewguinea.travel.
It’s only five minutes after meeting Henry that you and he first hold hands. After 10 minutes he’s gently grabbing you – from behind. For the next nine days he rarely leaves your side for a second. He sings for you, cooks for you, helps you when you’re down. He even brings you flowers. Then, when it’s all over, after you give him a raincoat and some cream for his blisters as a parting gift, you hug him awkwardly and the steamy affair is finished. Such is the nature of a relationship in the Papua New Guinean jungle. It’s a strictly business relationship, of course. Henry is your porter.
Without knowing much about it, you always thought hiking the Kokoda Track wasn’t for you. In fact, you were convinced it was for people very unlike you. As a Greens-voting, peppermint-teasipping, inner-city leftie, the thought of spending 10 days in the bush with a bunch of flag-flying blokes chanting Aussie, Aussie, Aussie never seemed appealing. You’ve seen enough intolerance and ignorance dressed up as mateship and true-blue-ness to know that it can spoil a good time. You’ve long felt that patriotism in Australia has been highjacked by the wrong team. And you were sure it would be that very team that turned up to play on the Kokoda Track.
But then a couple of things changed your thoughts on wanting to do the hike. Most notably, a friend said you’d struggle to complete the track without “serious” training.
“You’ve got to be a tough bastard to do the Kokoda,” he told you.
As a seasoned trekker, and a competitive bugger to boot, this was akin to flapping a big red flag in front of an angry bull. It also led you to do more research about The Track.
You don’t like wars, or the glorification of war. You’ve been to Gallipoli. Honouring the diggers there can be an ugly, drunken affair. But you learn that the World War II campaign in PNG, with the Aussies fighting off what they thought was an imminent Japanese invasion, is an inconvenient truth. The battle for the Kokoda Track was a war they had to have. And you reckon the young fellas who suffered and died there in the belief they were protecting their country – their mums and dads, brothers and sisters – are deserving of everyone’s thanks.
So you decide to take on the Kokoda Track. Firstly, for a physical challenge. But also to honour the soldiers somehow and to see if those on your team (The Peppermint Tea Brigade) are welcome in the game.
With little training, you arrive in Port Moresby. You’re booked on a tour with Back Track Adventures, a Brisbane-based outfit whose website has the least number of photos of camouflage-clad men whooping it up in the jungle. In fact, it has none. A reasonable selling point, you conclude.
At the airport you meet with 12 other trekkers on the same tour. There are uni students, Aussie Rules players, health workers, farmers, bar girls and corporate chiefs in the mix.
Heading out to Owers Corner, the starting point of the trek, you ask one of your fellow trekkers if he’s nervous.
“I’m absolutely shitting myself, mate,” he replies.
At Owers, the group is greeted by the porters, a bunch of 30-odd local men from a village along The Track. They form a guard of honour and begin to sing together. As you walk through and become surrounded by their multi-layered harmonies, you feel a flow of emotion. “Selo, selo,” they chant, “Welcome, welcome.” You have never heard singing like this. Their voices, so naturally and effortlessly beautiful, don’t seem to come from the men themselves. Somehow the music emanates from the earth and the trees instead. It belongs to something ancient and unexplained. In that moment, you forget the hard slog ahead and that you too are absolutely shitting yourself.
You then line up and meet the ‘boys’, as they’re called. Robbie, Richard, Charlie, Binsy and, of course, Henry.
When you meet Henry you know you’re in good hands. At 40, he’s one of the elders of the group. He’s shy and polite and says very little. But you see caring and kindness in his eyes. You decide in that second that you’ll be kind to him too, keeping most of your gear in your bag and giving him just a few kilos to lug. The affair begins.
“Porters are you ready?” yells Charlie, the lead porter.
“YES!”
“Trekkers are you ready?”
“YES!”
And then the countdown commences to the first steps on the Kokoda Track: almost 100 kilometres of treacherous, sheer jungle trail from Owers to the village of Kokoda.
“10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1… Yippee, yippee, trekky, trekky, rock and roll!” shouts Charlie, while doing a little jig.
The first minute is murder: a steep downhill pinch that has you almost collapsing at the knees. Henry, always beside or behind you, reaches out to take your hand for the slippery sections. You politely decline. Four minutes later, all pretence of masculinity and self-sufficiency falls in a muddy pile. You take his hand for the first of hundreds of times.
“Like the care of a nurse and the love of a mother,” said Lieutenant Colonel Ralph Honner about the kindness of the Papua. New Guineans on The Track during the war.
The story of the ‘Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels’ is an enduring Australian legend. Given the name because of their ‘fuzzy’ hair, these men and women were dragged from their villages and into a brutal war. Employed by the Aussies to carry sick and wounded soldiers, along with ammo and supplies, they went so far above and beyond to save the diggers that you feel they deserve every piece of praise they get.
That evening, after the walking is over, dinner is done and Henry has filled your water bottles from the creek, you clamber into your tent and recall the day just gone. If asked, you’d describe the trekking conditions as similar to putting a step machine in a sauna, cranking it up to the highest setting and going at it for nine hours. For total authenticity, add mud, rain, bugs and a fair chance of gastro and malaria.
Despite this, after one of the hardest days of your life, you decide you are very glad to be here.
As you begin to fall asleep, the porters start to sing again. Their music drifts across the tops of the tents and into the warm night.
As day two unfolds, you get to know your fellow trekkers better. Everyone is here for his or her own reasons – from following in the footsteps of relatives who fought on The Track, to completing one of the big ones on the ‘bucket’ list, to simply getting in shape and having a different kind of holiday.
You’re glad the Aussie, Aussie, Aussie chant is yet to ring out across the Papua New Guinean countryside. But you’re also glad there are a variety of opinions and attitudes and world views being expressed along the way – openly and with good humour. These are salt-of-the earth Australians and you’re happy to be among them.
At the end of the day you feel exhausted, but proud that you are managing OK.
Pride is a thing you think about a lot on The Track. Has Australian pride been impaled on the sharp end of extreme nationalism? You remember Cronulla well. You wonder if it’s possible to be patriotic without being blinkered and boorish.
You’re still not sure, but the story and symbolism of the 39th Australian Infantry Battalion, remembered as one of the bravest and most important units in Australia’s military history, gives you hope that it somehow is.
Thrown together in a rush, the 39th was a motley bunch of mostly teenagers armed with weapons from World War I. Derisively dubbed the ‘chocos’ (chocolate soldiers, because they’d supposedly melt in battle), they were originally lined up for a passive role in PNG. But a series of events occurred that led those in charge to order the 39th to carry their weapons and the hopes of their homeland into the rampant jungle – to take on the infinitely superior Japanese forces advancing on Port Moresby and to save their nation. On the face of it, it was a big ask.
But the boys didn’t melt. They hardened. The part they played in keeping back the Japanese was phenomenal. Those who returned – many didn’t – have been dubbed ‘ragged bloody heroes’. For you, the courage and strength of the 39th is beyond belief.
On The Track, each day has its ups and downs in a literal and emotional sense. The walking is very hard going. It’s steep and slippery and you sweat like a glass blower’s arse in the cruel humidity. There are moments – sometimes hours or whole days – where you slip into a negative headspace and wonder why it is you’re here.
But the camaraderie amongst the group is a big help in getting you through these down times. There’s a sense that everyone is in it together.
The natural and cultural side of the experience is also a big motivator. Whenever you take time to look around, you realise you’re in one of the great forests of the world. The endless jungle is like a giant set of green lungs. And you relish the interactions with the locals along the way, the men with their bush knives and betel-nut smiles, the curious kids in the villages.
On day four you stop to rest and drink and swim at the most idyllic waterhole. Two rivers meet here, forming a perfect hollow like a giant bath to swim in. Bare-bottomed youngsters come to watch you flop about in the cool stream: a shabby bunch of whities with fancy cameras and high-tech outdoor gear and energy bars. You find it difficult to drag wet socks back on and leave a spot like this. Even harder to imagine there was once a horrible war right where you stand.
You reckon many people come to hike the Kokoda Track to honour fallen Australians, but leave bowing down to PNG – its people and its spectacular places.
As each day passes, and the tragedy of the war comes to life with greater clarity, you become more aware of this contrast between nature at its brilliant best and humans at their violent worst.
This distinction is most obvious on Brigade Hill when Gareth, the guide, holds a service for the fallen diggers. Under the Australian and PNG flags, on top of a beautiful clearing in the wilderness, with the warm midday sun filtering through the thriving jungle, he plays a recording of the ‘Last Post’ on a little speaker. For you, the lone bugle sound has never had so much emotion in it. The porters then sing their national anthem. You note that many trekkers have tears in their eyes.
Each day melds into the next once the routine is set in. You rise early, eat, walk, eat, walk, swim, eat, sleep. Then you get up and do it all again. Despite it being the most challenging thing most of you have ever done – and will ever do – it is still a lot of fun. The moments of joy make it worth it: a smile and a wave from a cute kid, a bird call in the jungle, a game of touch footy with the boys, a colourful sunset, Henry leaving a bunch of flowers tied to your pack. These will be your lasting memories.
At the end of it all, you feel relieved more than elated or excited. You also feel like you could sleep for a week.
As you leave The Track and make your way out of the jungle and back home, you think again about patriotism being highjacked by the wrong team.
Hiking the Kokoda Track has made you think it might be worth trying to win back a few points and even the score. It won’t be easy. But nothing worth achieving ever is. In New Guinea pidgin there’s an expression that means to go on a journey. The phrase is ‘throwim way leg’. It refers to the important action of lifting a leg to take the first step of what can be a very long walk.
When you slide into Cenderawasih Bay from the inflatable Zodiac, the first thing you’ll see is the colossal gaping mouth of the world’s largest fish. Those formidably sized jaws – they look big enough that one enthusiastic inhalation will suck you into the shark’s gullet – belie the gentle nature of these docile giants.
Finning alongside bespeckled creatures the size of a school bus is an extraordinary moment to treasure forever. Fishermen from Kwatisore village have developed a relationship with the whale sharks that congregate year round in this bay in West Papua.
The giant fish are attracted to the bycatch from the fishermen’s bagan platforms – they’re like large anchored outrigger boats – where nets are lowered each evening to lure bait fish with bright lights. Fishermen believe the whale sharks bring good fortune and reward them with anchovies when a catch is particularly successful. Working with the World Wildlife Fund, fishermen record daily sightings to help monitor the sharks’ numbers and identify any potential threats.
Because these are wild creatures whose appearance is not guaranteed, this long-term relationship between whale sharks and fishermen improves the opportunity for Coral Expedition guests to swim with the largest fish in the sea. You’ll be wowed by the experience.
As Coral Adventurer drops anchor off Syuru village, the ship is surrounded by war canoes paddled by standing warriors dressed in full tribal regalia. Once feared for their cannibalism – they purportedly used human skulls as pillows – their gesticulating towards guests is more friendly than formidable.
On its Papua New Guinea circumnavigation, Coral Expeditions includes a visit to Syuri village using the ship’s specially designed Xplorer tenders to take passengers ashore. The women of the village welcome guests with a traditional dance before travellers are invited into a longhouse to view the artworks for which the region is famous.
Located on the flood-prone delta of Asewets River, buildings are constructed on stilts a couple of metres above the ground and are connected by elevated boardwalks. Negotiating the rickety ladder-like steps into the longhouse requires steady concentration. The striking artworks of the Asmat have found their way from the coastal villages of New Guinea into art collections and museums in New York and Amsterdam. These elaborately stylised wood carvings, artefacts and shields are highly prized for their exquisite motifs honouring Asmat ancestors.
Later, guests explore the town of Agats, a former mission station, where the Asmat Museum of Culture and Progress showcases a large collection of antiquities. There’s also the chance to purchase exquisite artworks direct from the craftsmen at the village of Syuru.
Raja Ampat is a bejewelled Indonesian archipelago whose islands are rimmed by dazzling white-sand beaches lapped by an emerald sea. With 1500 islands straddling the equator and a foot in both the southern and northern hemispheres, Raja Ampat is renowned for its natural beauty.
The best way to discover this remote region is by travelling expedition-style on a small ship cruise among little-visited treasures like Misool, Kofiau and Wayag Islands.
The stone gardens of Misool stretch across hundreds of saltwater lagoons where guests can swim, snorkel and kayak among mushroom-like weathered islands undercut by the sea. Birdwatchers are spoiled for twitching opportunities at Kofiau Island, where lush tropical rainforest is home to endemic species like the Kofiau paradise kingfisher and Kofiau monarch. Small villages are dotted across the islands. Guests are welcomed into village life or they can relax on the beach or snorkel through vividly coloured coral gardens.
Wayag Islands are a similarly picturesque island group renowned for magnificent marine life and limestone outcrops clad in vegetation that clings determinedly to near-vertical cliffs. Energetic guests can hike to the summit of Mt Pindito where they are rewarded with unforgettable views over this stunning island group.
It’s late afternoon and I’m barrelling along the Buntine Highway in the Northern Territory. Cattle country. Here, even the names of dried-up creeks sound like they belong in a Slim Dusty song.
With the sun low in the west, there’s a golden-hour glow illuminating everything: the hardy gums, the tall grasses, the red-earth ant nests. It all feels like the Australiana dream of a landscape painter. I can’t help but smile. As I drive along I’ve got ‘From Little Things Big Things Grow’ playing on the hire-car stereo – it’s a quintessential Australian song that makes me smile all the more.
Gather round people, I’ll tell you a story An eight-year-long story of power and pride ’Bout British Lord Vestey and Vincent Lingiari They were opposite men on opposite sides
Apart from the occasional road train, I don’t pass any other vehicles out this way. There’s no phone reception, no billboard advertising, nothing but the long and bumpy highway unravelling before me and flat, dry country all around. Everything is still. The only things I see moving are flocks of screaming cockies above and nervous-looking joeys chancing it by the roadside.
Vestey was fat with money and muscle Beef was his business, broad was his door Vincent was lean and spoke very little He had no bank balance, hard dirt was his floor
My path to begin this trip was itself long and bumpy. Like many Australians, a visit to the outback to spend time in an Indigenous community had always been on my to-do list, but was relegated thanks to the lure of overseas travel. Years ago, when I first heard of the Freedom Day Festival, the idea to make the journey to Kalkarindji, 400 kilometres southwest of Katherine, was born. Still, other things always seemed to get in the way. To be on the road and on the way at last, with that familiar Paul Kelly harmonica refrain calling through the speakers, feels like a bucket-list item is finally being ticked off.
Gurindji were working for nothing but rations Where once they had gathered the wealth of the land Daily the oppression got tighter and tighter Gurindji decided they must make a stand
While many Australians can sing along to the words Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody wrote about Vincent Lingiari and his mob, few know much about their meaning. The place I’m headed, Gurindji country, is where this true story – a story about Aboriginal resistance and the birth of land rights – all begins.
They picked up their swags and started off walking At Wattie Creek they sat themselves down Now it don’t sound like much but it sure got tongues talking Back at the homestead and then in the town
And it’s on Gurindji land, more than half a century on, that Indigenous communities and other Territorians converge each year for the Freedom Day Festival, which commemorates and celebrates the courage of Vincent Lingiari and his people. It’s here in the twin townships of Kalkarindji and Dagaragu that Vincent Lingiari’s family still live, along with the families (and some remaining survivors) of those who joined him in the legendary eight-year struggle – first for wages then for their land.
Vestey man said I’ll double your wages Seven quid a week you’ll have in your hand Vincent said uh-huh we’re not talking about wages We’re sitting right here till we get our land
Despite the political origins of Freedom Day, this festival makes sure it also gives plenty of attention to music, sports and good times. There are indeed some important political and cultural moments throughout, and the history of why this festival exists is never forgotten. Ultimately, though, this is an opportunity for the Gurindji to celebrate and let their hair down.
“Welcome to our country,” says Rob Roy, a Gurindji leader and Traditional Owner, when I arrive in town. “We love having you mob from down south come here to visit. Settle in, relax and enjoy yourself.”
As far as bush festivals go, Freedom Day is about as down to earth and back to basics as it gets. Out-of-towners generally set up a campsite somewhere around the edges of Kalkarindji. The weekend schedule is loose and likely to change. All the events – from the music to the footy – are within walking distance of each other. It’s hot, dusty, slow-paced and unpretentious. Even headline acts like Dan Sultan and visiting politicians like Richard Di Natale sleep in tents and line up for the showers just like everyone else.
On Friday, the first day of the three-day event, people gather for the Freedom Day March. With an assorted mix of locals, politicians, union leaders, anti-fracking campaigners and visiting festivalgoers, we first listen to the Welcome to Country and some speeches, then we begin to march as one, honouring those who walked off the job back in the day, with hundreds of bright flags colouring the way.
I walk with Charlie Ward, Gurindji historian and author of the book, A Handful of Sand. The title references the iconic image of Gough Whitlam symbolically giving back the earth to Vincent Lingiari by pouring it into his hand.
“Kicking off the festival with the march means a lot to the Gurindji mob,” says Ward. “It began with the strike leaders wanting to remind the next generation of the sacrifices they’d made in their long struggle for freedom, and the journey from Vestey’s Wave Hill Station that began it all.” And so the festival begins.
Over the next three days, I attend talks at the art centre and buy a piece of local art. I watch barefoot basketball matches take place on the town’s new courts. I enjoy plenty of games of footy, with teams from all over the Territory battling it out to take out the top prize.
And I meet and chat with local Gurindji people, who seem proud to be showcasing their country to visitors who’ve come in from out of town. It’s the music, however, that really grabs my attention. The eclectic selection of performers – from folk singers to Johnny Cash impersonators, hip-hop stars to bush bands like Sunrise Band, Rayella, Mambali, Robbie Janama Mills and Lajumanu Teenage Band, who are the crowd favourites – is a real treat. It’s the bush bands that really get the Gurindji crowd kicking up dust on the dance floor. Each band offers an honest brand of music that fuses big, crunchy guitar rock with reggae then adds in an Indigenous twist, often with lyrics sung in their local languages and the introduction of digeridoos and clapsticks. While it’s a delight to see some big-name acts out here in this place, I have to agree with the locals – watching these homegrown bands, with the full moon overhead, is a highlight.
“We reckon this is possibly the best bush-band line-up on offer anywhere in the Territory,” says Phil Smith, a Gurindji Aboriginal Corporation employee and festival director. “And when we throw the likes of Dan Sultan, Remi and Baker Boy into the mix, this becomes a festival well worth travelling to from anywhere across the country.”
I couldn’t agree more. The Freedom Day Festival is everything I’d hoped for. There’s a sense of camaraderie among those who’ve travelled so far to attend, and a sense of gratefulness from the Gurindji for us making the journey to help honour their story and visit their land. As the epic fireworks show cascades across the sky, and the young ones who’ve never seen such a thing look up with mouths wide open, I feel privileged to be a part of all of this.
Talking with some of the Gurindji people on my final day, I learn the Vincent Lingiari story, as told in the song, is much more than eight years long. It’s a story that continues to this day. Lingiari’s vision for self-determination and self-sufficiency is one that endures. The success of this festival, I’m told, as it gets bigger and better each year, is undoubtedly another step towards moving things in this direction.
As I pack up and prepare to leave this place I can’t help but think that if more visitors make the time to come to Gurindji country each year, they’ll be helping make this vision a reality in their own small way.
From little things big things grow. From little things big things grow.
The ocean’s salty water floods through my stinger suit, caressing my body like a silk sheet that’s delicately pulled across my skin. The muted sounds of my fellow snorkellers talking, breathing and humming are in tune with the bubbling sounds of the reef, while tiny crustaceans snap and crackle, adding sounds that remind me of popcorn and sizzling bacon to the underwater symphony. Despite the reef’s tribulations, the sub-aquatic soundscape is vibrant.
Below me, a coral bommie glistens as the sun’s rays pierce the rippling water, creating a fittingly magical sparkle to the inaugural Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel tour. Schools of trevally and red bass follow the leader and moray eels pop their heads from dark hideouts, careful not to get too close to the action. Clownfish disappear into the wobbly arms of anemones, while colourful angel and parrotfish dart between green, blue, brown and pale coral – a contrasting reality of the state of the world’s largest living organism. Vibrant coral clings to life while others have noticeably succumbed to the impact of the modern environment.
We’re here in Cairns with Experience Co, a company that offers adventure-focused tours in 30 destinations across Australia and New Zealand, and the flagship company for Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel. Since arriving just a couple of days ago, we’ve taken a helicopter ride over the Great Barrier Reef, gorged on a delicious seafood lunch in Turtle Bay near the Yarrabah Community, and rafted down the rapids of Barron River. But it’s the dive tour out to the reef that is the real showstopper on this trip.
When we learn that 80 per cent of international and domestic tourists don’t engage in any form of Indigenous experience while travelling within Australia, the importance of an Indigenous-lead tourism initiative like this becomes obvious.
As we board the new boat, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags wave on the back deck, while the hull is decorated with the vessel’s logo, a colourful piece of artwork created by a local Gimuy Walubara Yidinji elder and artist, and inspired by the totems of the Traditional Land Owners of the region – the tentacles of a jellyfish, the wings of a sea hawk and the body of a turtle merge together to create the shape of a stingray. The vessel’s crew line our entrance to welcome us, including Indigenous rangers representing local Aboriginal tribes and the Torres Strait Islands. There’s no shortage of dive and snorkel tours in the Great Barrier Reef, but what makes Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel really stand out is its emphasis on Indigenous cultures and storytelling.
As the ship’s engine rumbles and we feel the boat start to push away from the dock and out to sea, Blake Cedar, who goes by his traditional name Rex, opens the tour with an Acknowledgement of Country and introduces the team. It’s just a taste of what’s to come, but an important part of the afternoon as we recognise the culture and history of Sea Country and its people.
We’re heading out to Moore Reef, a cluster of coral outcrops also known as bommies. It’s a one-and-a-half-hour journey, and my motion-sick-prone self wishes teleporting had been invented. I’m a water baby who loves being on the ocean, but my sight, inner ear and sensory processors don’t seem to work in harmony. I’m determined to find my sea legs on this trip though, and I settle in to a spot at the back of the boat, thankful there’s enough distraction on-board to keep my mind occupied. Rangers approach guests with a display of hunting tools, instruments used for ceremonial dances, and a hand drill used to make fire.
“You know that big long spear I showed you before,” says Jai Singleton, a 22-year-old Indigenous ranger who’s part of the Yirrganydji tribe. “Well, the first time I ever went out [hunting] for a turtle with my uncle, we had one of the big spears – they’re big and thick pieces of wood. Uncle hit the turtle but when he threw the spear back he hit the person driving the boat, knocked him out. Next minute, the boat was going around in circles.” It’s a funny memory of one of his earliest hunting experiences, a cultural practice Jai now takes very seriously.
“There are people that go out hunting, they do wrong hunting. They go out and take five turtles, that’s not good. Our people didn’t do that – we take one turtle and we go home and share that with the family and use everything. The only time they went out hunting for turtle was for ceremony. But people who go out every day, it’s ridiculous. That’s why you don’t see as many turtles now.”
Jai’s passion for his culture stirs a pride that’s hard not to rally around. He points to a murky beach we’re passing. “See there, that’s Yarrabah Mission,” he tells me. I later discover this sandy beach, Mission Bay on Gunggandji land, is not far from where we had dined on a champagne seafood picnic lunch just 24 hours ago – a contrasting experience to the one Australia’s Traditional Custodians and South Sea Islanders lived through during the years of the Stolen Generation. It’s this mission where Jai’s great-grandparents met. He tells me the tale of his great-grandmother who was taken from her family and her home in the Wujal Wujal camp and moved to the mission at the age of nine. Here, she met Jai’s great-grandfather, and they were married at the young age of 17-years-old just so they’d be allowed to legally leave the mission.
“For my dad, to see us have a job like this, he’s so proud. For his mother to come from where they came from, and then to see us today, he’s never been so proud.” Jai’s story is just one of many on the boat, and one that will continue to stay with me long after we’ve docked again in Cairns.
At the reef, I’m keen to zip up my stinger suit and dive into the water, but in a bid to get the full experience, I opt to see the reef from the dry deck of a glass-bottom boat. It’s just one of the experiences on offer. Others can take a heli ride over the reef.
The noisy engine roars and bubbles pattern their way across the glass. Rex stands at the rear of the boat, and with permission from the local Elders, he shares the Gimuy Walubara Yidinji tribe’s Great Barrier Reef creation story.
It’s a story of a hunter who spears a sacred black stingray, and his people who protect their land from the stormy aftermath by creating a rocky barrier, which we now know as the Great Barrier Reef. It’s a sacred story full of symbolism and deep significance to the Traditional Land Owners, and one that, out of respect for the people, I won’t share in its entirety.
Rex joins me for lunch and I’m keen to quiz him on the cultures of Sea Country. When I ask what working on this tour means to him, he responds with a similar pride I had previously seen in Jai. “I’m a proud Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander man, and I want to teach people about my culture.
This is my land, and my sea, and I want people to learn about it and respect it. To teach people how to preserve the ocean so that future generations can enjoy and experience it just like I did and the people before me.”
Rex is 21 years old. He was raised by his mother’s family in the Torres Strait before moving to Cairns to attend school.
“When I was a kid, I lived with my grandma and I repeated preschool twice because I didn’t know how to speak English, and for traditional reasons, I wasn’t going to school much.
“Growing up, I was really culturally connected. My grandparents were culturally strong and I was raised traditionally. But once my nan passed away, I moved to Cairns and stayed with my mum, who wasn’t very culturally connected… She put me in school and I learnt English really quickly but I realised, as I grew up, I had drifted away from my culture. Culture’s not taught in schools, which is a really big deal because we have kids going there and they’re learning the right things… But they’re just not learning everything they should be – our culture.”
Rex goes on to explain the concept of a totem, of which his is the hammerhead and tiger shark. I learn the northern islands of the Torres Strait have cultural similarities to Papua New Guinea, while the southern ones are more closely aligned to Australia’s Aboriginal cultures. More than 40 minutes go by and I’m still listening with fascination at the complex trading history of the Torres Strait. I’m perplexed at just how little I know about one of my own country’s Indigenous cultures.
Milln Reef, our second dive spot, is a 1.2 kilometre stretch of coral that’s considered one of the most beautiful in the region. Rex and I stop what’s turned into a passionate discussion about how we can work together to improve the country’s understanding of Indigenous cultures, and he prepares for the introductory scuba dive. His excitement is contagious.
“I love the reef,” he tells me jumping up from his seat. “It excites me every time I come out here and knowing I’m culturally connected to the ocean, it’s beautiful. One of my goals is to study marine biology so I can help the reef.” And with a shoulder shrug and a smile, he disappears to find his wetsuit.
My green gills are urging me to do the same, and I’m desperate to feel the cool water on my ailing face. A looming aeroplane ride stands between me and a scuba dive, but I pull on my stinger suit and mask to spend the rest of the afternoon in the water, safe from impending sea sickness. I start with a snorkel safari with the on-board marine biologist, Amandine Vuylsteke, and reef ranger, Enaz Mye, who goes by the name Sissy. Between watching fish and kicking my fins, Amandine talks us through the state of the reef, its sensitivity to climate change, the impact of humans and points out various fish, coral species and other marine life.
I follow a parrotfish over the reef, and spy a starfish lying on the sea bed below. The reef is a combination of light ripples, colourful coral and bubbles caused by the 20 or so people who are also in the water flapping their fins. Then, before I have time to steer myself in another direction, I’m besieged by a fluther of jellyfish. It’s the season for them in Far North Queensland, and I start to panic. Alongside crocodiles, which I’d so far managed to avoid, irukandji are my worst oceanic nightmare. I thank my lucky starfish that a layer of fabric stands between me and the transparent stingers. When I climb back on the boat out of breath and in an obvious state of trepidation, I realise my suit, as one person on the boat points out, looks more like I’m dressed for the cover of Sports Illustrated than a dive, with the zip sliding its way down to my belly button. Thankfully, the floating bobs were not irukandji and far less deadly.
Distracted by my efforts to try and keep lunch well inside my belly for the journey back to Cairns, my mind wanders back to something Jai had said during our discussion.
“When you look at someone like me, with fair skin and coloured eyes, I have to try really hard to convince people that I’m an Aboriginal man. Going to school every day, I was called black and white names by both sides. I’m not good enough for anyone – not good enough for the black fellas, not good enough for the white fellas, so I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he tells me.
“But my father, and his dad, we’ve always been a part of the reef, hunting and fishing. So to now get to come out here where this is our office is amazing. It’s an honour to show our guests. There are a lot of untold stories that anybody else can tell until they’re blue in the face, but it has to come from the people themselves. And it’s my pleasure to share it.”
And in that simple reality, the importance of an extraordinary trip to the reef like this one becomes abundantly clear.
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