Across No Mans Land in Central Australia part 2

Part 1 can be read here – Across No Mans Land part 1

Next day we reached the shore of the lake, an immense area of white and brown salt, extending west and south-west until the dancing mirage hid the further reaches. It is larger than Lake Amadeus. Beautiful tropical islands, verdant with gorgeous foliage (so lied the mirage) greeted our eyes, headlands, like fingers beckoning us to go west, jutted out from the shore on either hand. But all around an endless sea of high red sandhills., in line upon line from the east, bespoke the true aridity of the lovely scene. By noon on August 22 we reached our farthest west on this attempt, and were then less than ten miles from the border of Western Australia. Here, sitting on the crest of a high sandhill, we had temptation fairly thrust at us. Seemingly 25 to 30 miles ahead stood a prominent range, judged to be 800 to 1,000 feet high. How it beckoned one to seek its secrets; what a promise it held of water, perhaps, best of all, a spring, what a sad moment it was for each of us when the decision to retreat had to be made, for, though it was well within reach, not a beast of the outfit nor a man of the party could have expected: the smallest chance of returning alive should the promise of water be unfulfilled.

Terrible Sufferings With camels very dry, canteens holding only a residue, and 126 miles between us and sure water, the marching orders had to be for home and mother as quickly as the exasperatingly slow plod of the team would allow. At 2 miles an hour we did the stage in six days, and marched back to Pinta-Amoru, at Mount Singleton, with four gallons of water in hand, one camel silly, and another throwing fits. To all of us it was a terrible stage— terrible for the long drawn-out anxiety as to whether the camels would stick it out, terrible for the state of filth our unwashed bodies developed, terrible for the awful suffering our innocent beasts had to undergo. Hour by hour we anxiously watched the signs of thirst, developing — the shrivelling tongues, the drying mouths, the hollowing flanks, and those sharp twitches of the tail whose significance no camelman fails to understand. Perhaps worst of all, while we laid on the ground at night near the beasts (we dared not hobble them out to feed lest they walk far away in search of water), our weariness was for ever disturbed by one or more rolling on the sand, kicking and struggling in pain from the fire which burnt in their bellies.

How good it was,16 days after departure, to reach our water again, and to bail it and bail it for them; to see them drink till they appeared ready to burst. Altogether, they took a bit more than 300 gallons of water between them. Then we cleansed ourselves, washed clothes, shaved, and mended gear, and in a few days, now happy and revived, we made still another attempt to reach and remain in the new lands beyond the border. Soon we saw a smoke put up by a party of wandering blacks, and in due course reached the site of the burn, found the tracks, and proceeded to follow them to the water, so fondly anticipated. Hot on the trail, our boys got worked to a high pitch, of excitement, for there Is little sport more exciting than when the quarry is human. Nicker, as good as, if not better than, a native at tracking, took the lead, flanked by Jack and Lockey who, with spears fitted to woomeras, kept darting from cover to cover as if expecting a war to develop at any moment. At many places there came comic relief, in so much as tracks showed clearly where the quarry, aware of pursuit, had kept running into bushes as they fled in the night and had often halted to turn round to listen or to hurry along stragglers.

Natives Who Do Not Drink at length we caught them quite unawares, peacefully in camp at middle morning, confident they had outpaced pursuit. An old man, a woman, two young boys and a baby in arms stood up with every sign of fear. The poor old man was shaking like a leaf, and, to hide his fear, he started to talk volubly. This, after all, didn’t take us much further, for he spoke a strange dialect, and all we could understand for sure was ‘wandabi cuckera lowah’ or ‘rockholes west dry.’ Soon, however, ‘Old Yow’, as we christened him because of this curious half musical way of saying ‘yes’ with a voice like an old tom cat, at last understood that we wanted water. He did not hesitate to take us to a rock hole, but, before commencing to march, he walked to his camp for his spears. Thereupon, in most solemn manner, this naked man performed as picturesque a ceremony as one could imagine. Bearing himself proudly, he walked to Jack, held out his weapons at arm’s length, and in perfect silence took those which Jack was carrying in exchange. Pax vobiscum (Peace be with you) it meant, or, as Lockey explained, when I asked him. ‘Him brother now, can’t fight him, good friend orright”.

Watering Camels at a gnamma hold – Photo WA Museum

Now the really interesting thing about ‘Old Yow’ and his family is that, during the winter, at least, they do not drink! Astounding though such a statement may seem to many people, it is, nevertheless, solid fact. From our own evidence, we know that for four days Yow did not have a drink. Moreover, no one in the camp was carrying anything to hold water, nor was this wild family hurrying towards one of the many supplies of the neighborhood. The fact of the matter is, that this portion of the Wall-mulla country abounds with yams, a succulent native potato growing on the roots of a green bush with yellow stalky stems. By chewing yams and sucking the moisture, they gain sufficient liquid, which, though an extraordinarily small supply, has been made to be enough by rigorous and continued training. Subsequently, from other natives, we had it confirmed that Yow is hardly ever seen at a water hole. Nevertheless, he is looked upon as rather a crank by manv of the tribe, who say he is ‘Ooor fellar,’ meaning that he is a bit ‘weak in the head’

‘Walk On – Don’t Stop’ The Ilbilba maru (ti-tree scrub) tribe which abuts on to the Wallmullas have had so little contact with white men that they still believe us to be only a scattered tribe, whose roaming members they meet just now and again. They do not believe we have any big camps, but a sort of main popular meeting place somewhere far away to the east — that is Alice Springs. That place is to them, indeed, the limit, of all things white. At one water hole which some of this tribe took us to. called Yingurrdu (meaning ‘walk on, don’t stop’) we had the unique experience of meeting a native man who had never seen a white man. The poor old woman, who was standing by some others as we rode up, began to shout and yell, all the while hopping up and down. Mystified as to her antics, we got our boys to make enquiries. And then the truth came out — she was terrified out of her wits! By the way, the name Yingurrdu indicates a sense of humor in those natives. For though it is a permanent supply and plenty of it, the water, being in gypsum and limestone, is too bad for drinking except in emergency. It is indeed a case of walk on and don’t halt if any alternative offers.

Final Episode, part 3, next week-