ISSUE 2
RED DUST
I held out my arm to her, palm up and she pointed to the blue tinge under my wrist where the veins could be seen. ”It’s so fragile,” she said, looking at my arm but holding her own, “I feel like it would break if I touched it.”
They stared at my skin, my freckles and strangely curly hair, they noticed my eyes were blue. One of the girls gasped and came close, peering into my eyes. Gently, she put one small hand on my cheek and pushed my face toward her friend...
SISSY LOOK, SHE HAS SKY IN HER EYES.
TORRES STRAIT WATERS
S TO RED DUST COUNTRY
Age old markings decorated their However last year communities bodies, dust thickened the air came together as one, in the as the dancers feet met the spirit of unity, to dance and share ground of the sacred meeting their culture rather than compete. place and songs of language and dreaming stories hung on the air, drifting through the silently There were many newcomers, including our own New Mapoon watching crowds and trees. troupe, a group of youngsters In other years the festival was who only the week before were shy to dance in front of their held as a competition, with one community. group named the winner based on the act’s aesthetic style and cultural fidelity.
SPIRITS IN THE DUST
Then suddenly, there they were alongside elders, adults, youths and children from clans across the state, representing their own bloodlines and community. After the first performance we couldn’t get them to stop! If they were moving, they were dancing. The campsites would fill with dust as the children practised their ‘shake a leg’,
dodging smacks and yells from the adults who were opposed to having dust in their tents and cooking. At night our tent cities would come alive with campfires, fluro lights and the smell of food cooking. “This is how we do it,” Aunty Nandy would tell me, teaching me to make island scones or cook enough rice and yam for a horde of hungry dancers. She would tell me to practise or I would forget the way. I guess that’s why these festivals, these celebrations of culture are so important. It too needs to be practiced, else we forget the way.
Their newfound sense of pride spread like wildfire. Here they were, part of a community, part of a representative body, carrying on their shoulders the stories and history of their people. What a thing to be part of.
LAURA ABORIGINAL DANCE FESTIVAL 2013
IINJINOO UMAGICO BAMAGA NEW MAPOON SEISIA
Mina big eso (thankyou) to the communities of the NPA for taking me in, sharing language and culture and for their love and kindness.
In the land of the Red Dust I learned to listen for the sound of the drum to bring you home.
I AM WILDRICE Wild Rice, est. 2013, was created by Jessica Rhian as an exploration of the world and the stories of wonder within.
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