Garry Sonny Martin

On the edge of the Charleville ‘Yumba’, a camp of makeshift dwellings where Aboriginal families from the surrounding nations lived after being removed from our lands, there was a large volume of water that we called ‘the swamp’. The Warrego River was located on the opposite side of town to the Yumba and it served as the main watering hole and fishing spot for the local townspeople; the swamp would serve as ours, but without the yellow belly and catfish. The swamp would fill to its brim after good rain fell in the district, but it would also collect water from an underground spring that was located closer to town.

Growing up on the camp was a reasonably happy time for us kids as we were oblivious to the hardships that our parents faced and, because of our ignorance to their problems, we went on about our business of having fun – the swamp was one such place where we did have fun! There was a huge coolabah log in the middle of the swamp that we used as a place of rest when we were tired of playing water games. We’d also use it as a diving board. It wasn’t very deep (about four feet at its maximum), and there was no fear of kids drowning as most of us could either swim or dog paddle.

All us young fellas, about six or seven of us, would go over to Granny’s place to collect Uncle Bodge as he was a favourite of ours, but at the same time we also knew he was a big sooky baby that would easily be upset. Off we’d go, running from tree to tree, stopping to give the soles of our feet time to cool down before taking off again for the next tree. The sand would be burning hot in the middle of the day and the only way we could make it down to the swamp without suffering severe burns to our bare feet was to stop in the shade of the trees.

The swamp was lined with red berry bushes where we would hang our clothes once we stripped naked and we were ready to plunge ourselves into the water. We would swim and play for hours in the murky swamp waters without a care in the world; that is until, Bodge’s sister, Auntie Doris showed up looking around mischievously at us little black kids, naked as the day we were born. We knew she was up to something but went back to having fun. That’s when she must have gathered up all our clothes and taken off up the road.

‘Doris, don’t you dare!’ wailed Bodge. ‘Doris, I’ll tell Mum on you.’

Bodge called out as he scampered across the swamp towards the bank where our clothes once hung in the berry bushes. Off she ran, down the narrow path with all our clothes in-hand; Bodge full-pelt chasing after her. It was such a funny sight for us onlookers even though we didn’t know whether he would catch Doris and return our clothes or not… Bodge, being a little overweight and unfortunately being crippled with poliomyelitis at a young age, wasn’t the most graceful runners you’d ever seen, and to see him chasing after his sister was a sight to behold.

Eventually he ran her down, and she gave our clothes back. I suspect that she actually let him catch her for fear of getting in trouble with Granny. Either way, I was happy to put my shorts back on before becoming the laughing stock of the camp. We may have lived in absolute poverty, but we still knew how to have fun. That’s just the way with little kids.

Bodge was crippled with poliomyelitis and suffered severely throughout his life with chronic pain in his foot and as he got older he became more frustrated and angrier by his disability and one night in a drunken rage he took his 22 rifle and shot the foot. Needless to say, but the very next day he had to go and see the doctor as his foot needed medical attention. Bodge later revealed that the doctor had asked him what happened to his foot and he told him what he did and all the doctor could say was, ‘Goodness Allan, I’m so glad you didn’t have a headache, you may have blown your head off.’

On special days of the year, families would gather down by the swamp to enjoy a day’s outing. A few of the bigger boys would have their own tin canoes that they made from old roofing iron found at the local rubbish dump. They would paddle around racing one another, having a great time. Occasionally they’d have to stop and scoop out water that seeped in through the nail holes that hadn’t been puttied up with soap; and then once emptied, off again they’d go.

Auntie Doris would venture in and have a swim on the odd occasion. I remember there was one time in particular when she went in to cool herself off, but the problem was she wore this dress that had rope woven around it and as she got out deeper into the swamp waters the dress wouldn’t sink, it just floated on top water as she tried frantically to submerge the mass. My mother always told us kids that one should never laugh at another person’s expense, but watching Auntie Doris that day we couldn’t stop laughing – it looked so funny with her tangled up in her beautiful frock! I believe it was the first and last time she ever wore her beloved roped dress swimming as I got the feeling she was quite embarrassed by the ordeal and especially with some of the bigger boys looking on.

As the sun began to sink into late afternoon it was time to pack up our belongings and wander off towards home before it got too dark, and sometimes along the way we would gather up any cow dung we could find to make smoke for the night. The smoke dung would be used to chase away the mosquitoes that swarmed at night, and with their relentless attack on our bodies it meant little sleep. And, whilst the smoke wasn’t all that pleasant it was much better than the menacing mosquito bites… I believe the stagnant waters of the swamp were the perfect breeding ground for them. There were frogs and mosquitoes by the millions! I reckon if I was a lizard I’d never starve living down by the swamp.

On a recent trip back home to Charleville to visit my old mate, Sugar Ray, a local Bidjarra Elder, we went for a drive down to have a look at some land adjacent to the old camp where we once lived. He said he would like to use the land to agist wild goats that he could then maybe sell to the local meat works. I remained in the car while he got out to open the gates of the once Aboriginal reserve and the place we called home and as I looked around the memories of my distant past came rushing back, some vivid and some not. I closed my eyes momentarily to take in those wonderful thoughts of my childhood and immediately I could see me and my mates, Happy and John, splashing around in the swamp. As I opened my eyes to a state of consciousness, I am truly saddened that the old swamp is no longer.

The land now fittingly belongs to the Bidjarra people, the Traditional Owners of the region. How ironic it is that the land be handed back to the Traditional Owners after taking it from them in the first place. It maybe that there is a sense of justice after all or maybe just a sense of guilt… I’ll let you be the judge of that.