Mutant Message Down Under (8 page)

C
OMMUNICATION WAS
not a simple task. Pronouncing the tribal words was difficult. In most instances they were very long. For instance, they spoke of a tribe called Pitjantjatjara and one called Yankuntjatjara. Many things sounded identical until I learned to listen extremely carefully. I realize that reporters around the world do not agree on how to spell Aboriginal words. Some use
B, DJ, D,
and G, where others for the same words use P,
T, TJ,
and
K
. The point is that there is no right or wrong to it, because the people themselves do not use an alphabet. It is a no-win situation for the folks who wish to argue. My problem was that the people with whom I was walking used nasal sounds I found extremely difficult to make. To sound “ny,” I learned to force my tongue against my back teeth. You will see what I mean if you do this and say the word “Indian.” There is also a sound made by elevating the tongue and flicking it forward rapidly. When they sing, the sounds are often very soft and musical, but then there is a very abrupt forceful noise.

Instead of using one word for sand, they have over twenty different words, which describe textures, types, and descriptions of soil in the Outback. But a few words were easy, like
Kupi
for water. They seemed to enjoy learning my words, and they were more adept at learning my sounds than I was at learning theirs. Because they were the hosts and hostesses, I used whatever made them most comfortable. I had read in the history books Geoff had provided that when the British Colony was first established in Australia, there were two hundred different Aboriginal languages and six hundred dialects. The books didn't mention talking mind-to-mind or using hands. I used a crude form of sign language. It was the most common method of talking during the day because obviously they were sharing mind messages and telling stories by mental telepathy, so it was simply more polite to indicate something to a person walking next to me with a sign rather than disrupt with a spoken sentence. We used the universal sign of moving the fingers to say “come here,” or holding up the palm for “stop,” and fingers over the lips for “silence.” In the first weeks together I was told to be quiet often, but eventually I learned not to ask so much and to wait to be included in the knowledge.

One day I caused a ripple of laughter through the group as we walked along. I scratched myself in response to an insect bite. They roared with comical expressions and imitated my gesture. It seemed the specific sign I used meant I had spotted a crocodile. We were at least two hundred miles from the nearest marsh.

We had been together for several weeks when I became aware of eyes surrounding me anytime I ventured away from the group. The darker the night, the larger the eyes seemed to become. Finally the forms became clear enough for me to identify. There was a pack of vicious wild dingos on our trail.

I went running back to the camp, truly frightened for the first time, and reported my finding to Ooota. He in turn told the Elder. All the people standing nearby turned and joined our circle of concern. I waited for words, because I had learned by then that words from the Real People tribe do not automatically pour forth; they always think before they speak. I could have counted slowly to ten before Ooota relayed the message. The problem was one of odor. I had become offensive. It was true. I could smell myself and see the expression from the others. Unfortunately, I had no solution. Water was so scarce we would not waste it on bathing, nor was there a tub available. My black companions did not have the foul smell I had. I suffered with the problem, and they suffered because of me. I think part of the problem was my constantly scorching and peeling flesh and the energy being used by the burning of stored toxic fat. I was obviously losing weight daily. Of course, having no deodorant or toilet paper didn't help, and there was something else I observed. I noticed that soon after we ate, they went into the desert and emptied their bowels, and it truly did not have the strong smell that is associated with waste matter in our lifestyle. I was sure that after fifty years of my civilized diet it would take some time to detoxify my body, but I felt if I stayed in the Outback, it was possible.

I shall not forget how the Elder explained the situation to me, and the final solution. They were not concerned for themselves; they had accepted me for better or worse. Their concern was not for our safety; it was for the poor animals. I was confusing them. Ooota said the dingos believed the tribe was dragging some rotten piece of meat, and it was driving them crazy. I had to laugh because that really was the smell, like an old hunk of hamburger you left sitting in the sun.

I said I would appreciate any help they could offer. So the following day at the peak of the heat, we jointly dug a forty-five-degree angle trench, and I lay down in it. Then they covered me up completely with soil; only my face was exposed. Shade was provided, and I was left there for about two hours.' Being buried, completely helpless, unable to move a muscle, is quite a feeling. It was another new experience for me. If they had walked away, I would have become a skeleton in that very spot. At first I was concerned that some curious lizard, snake, or desert rat would run up my face. For the first time in my life I truly related to a victim of paralysis, thinking about moving an arm or leg, telling an arm or leg to move, and it did not respond. But once I relaxed and closed my eyes, concentrating on releasing toxins from my body and absorbing the wonderful, cool, refreshing, cleansing elements from the ground, the time went faster.

Now I appreciate the old saying, “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

It worked! We left the odor behind us in the ground.

T
HE RAINY
season was approaching. This day we spotted a cloud that stayed in view for a short period of time. It was a rare and appreciated sight. Occasionally we could even walk under the big overhead shadow, catching the same view an ant might see from the sole of a boot. It was such a delight to be among adults who had not lost the important sense of childhood fun. They would run ahead of the shadow, out into the bright sun, and taunt the cloud by teasing how slow the legs of wind were walking. Then they would come back to walk in the shade once again and tell me what a wonderful gift of cool air Divine Oneness provided for people. It was a very lighthearted and playful day. Toward the late afternoon, however, tragedy struck, or at least what appeared to me at the moment to be tragedy.

There was a young man in his midthirties called Great Stone Hunter. His talent was finding precious gems. He had recently added the “Great” because over the years he had developed the special skill of finding marvelous big opals and even gold nuggets in the mining areas after the commercial companies had abandoned the property. Real People originally felt precious metal superfluous. You could not eat it, and in a nation without markets you could not buy anything to eat with it. It was valued only for the beauty and service it might provide. However, with time, the natives found it was prized by the white man. That was even more astonishing than his strange belief that you could own and sell land. Precious gems are what provide the financing for the tribe's scout, who periodically goes into the city and brings back a report. Great Stone Hunter never ventures near any commercial operations still in business because of the haunting history of his people forced to work in the mine. They would enter on a Monday and not emerge until the end of the week. Four out of five died. They were usually charged with some crime, so were forced to work as part of a criminal sentence. There were also quotas to meet, and many times a wife and children were summoned to work with the prisoner; three people could perhaps fill the quota set for one individual. It seemed very easy to find some infraction to extend every sentence. There was no escape. It was, of course, very legal, this degradation of human lives and human flesh.

On this particular day, Great Stone Hunter was walking on the edge of an embankment when the ground gave way, and he fell off the cliff onto a rocky surface about twenty feet below. The terrain we had been walking over was made up of large sheets of naturally polished granite, layers of slab rock, and fields of gravel-sized stones.

I had, by this time, started developing a good-sized callus across the bottoms of my feet, similar to my companions' hoof appearance, but even this layer of dead tissue was not enough to make walking comfortable over jagged stones. My mind was on my feet. I was remembering a closet full of shoes back home, including hiking boots and running shoes. I heard Great Stone Hunter's cry as he tumbled through the air. We all rushed to the edge and looked down. He lay in a heap; already a dark pool of blood was visible. Several of the people rushed down into the gorge and, using a relay system, had him back on the top almost instantly. I doubt it could have worked faster if he had floated up. All their hands under him looked like a caterpillar on an assembly line.

When he was laid upon the polished slab at the top, his wound was openly displayed. It was a very severe compound fracture between the knee and ankle. The bone was protruding like a huge ugly tusk, about two inches, through the milk chocolate-colored skin. A headband came off immediately and went around the upper leg. Medicine Man and Female Healer stood on either side of the wounded patient. Other tribal members started making camp for the evening.

I inched closer and closer until I was standing next to the prostrate figure. “May I watch?” I asked. Medicine Man was moving his hands up and down the wounded leg about one inch away from the surface in a gentle gliding motion: first parallel, and then one moving from top to bottom while the other hand moved from the bottom to the top. Female Healer smiled at me and spoke to Ooota. He in turn relayed her message to me.

He explained, “This is for you. We have been told your talent is that of female healer to your people.”

“Well, I guess so,” I answered. I had never been comfortable with the idea that healing comes from physicians or their bag of tricks, because I had learned years before, when I had my own health challenge with polio, that healing has only one source. Doctors can aid the body by removing foreign particles, injecting chemicals, setting and realigning bones, but that does not mean the body will heal. In fact, I am certain, there has never been a doctor anywhere, at any time, in any country, at any period in history who ever healed anything. Each person's healer is within. Doctors are at best those who have recognized an individual talent, developed it, and are privileged enough to be able to serve the community by doing what they do best and love doing. Now was not the time for a lengthy discussion however. I would accept the wording Ooota had chosen to use and agree with the natives that in my society, I, too, was regarded as a female healer.

I was told that the movement of the hands up and down, over the area of involvement, without touching, was a way of reconnecting the former pattern of the healthy leg. It would eliminate any swelling during the healing phase. Medicine Man was jogging the memory of the bone into acknowledging the true nature of its healthy state. This removed the shock created when it snapped in half, ripping away from the position developed over thirty years. They “talked” to the bone.

Next, the three main characters in this drama—Medicine Man at the foot, Female Healer kneeling at the side, and the patient on his back, resting on the earth's surface—all began to speak in prayerlike fashion. Medicine Man put both hands around the ankle. He did not appear actually to touch or pull the foot. Female Healer acted in the same capacity around the knee. Their speech was in the form of chants, or songs, each one different. At one point, in unison, they all raised their voices and shouted something. They must have used some form of traction, but I could not see any actual pulling taking place. The bone just slipped back into the hole from which it had exited. Medicine Man held the ragged skin together and motioned to Female Healer, who now began to untie the strange long tube she always carried.

Weeks before, I asked Female Healer how the women handled their monthly menses and was shown pads made from reeds, straw, and fine bird feathers. After that, from time to time, I would observe a woman leaving the group and going off alone into the desert to take care of this necessity. They buried the soiled piece just as we did our own excrement daily, in cat fashion. Occasionally, however, I had noticed a woman coming back from the desert carrying something in her palm which was taken to Female Healer. She, in turn, opened the top of the long tube she carried. I observed that it was lined with the plant leaves they used to heal my blistered and cut feet and daily sunburns. Female Healer inserted the mysterious item. The few times I was close at hand I had gotten a whiff of a terribly offensive odor. Finally I discovered what the secretly encased object was—large clots of blood passed by the women.

On this day, Female Healer did not open the top of the tube, but instead opened the bottom. There was no foul smell. There was no smell at all. She squeezed the tube into her hand and out came a black tar. It was very thick and shiny. She used it to cement the jagged edges of the wound together. She literally tarred them into place, smearing it all over the offending surface. There was no bandage, no binding, no splint, no crutch, and no sutures.

Soon the trauma was put aside, and we were busy eating our meal. During the evening, different people took turns putting Great Stone Hunter's head in their lap so he had a better view from his resting place. I also took my turn. I wanted to feel his brow and see if I could detect any fever. I also wanted to touch and be near this person who had apparently agreed to go through this demonstration of healing for my sake. His head in my lap, he looked up and winked at me.

The next morning, Great Stone Hunter stood up and walked with us. There was not a hint of a limp. The ritual they had performed, they told me, would reduce the osseous stress and prevent swelling. It had worked. For several days I looked closely at his leg and watched as the natural black compound dried and began falling off. Within five days it was gone; there were only thin scar lines where the bone had exited. This fellow weighed about one hundred forty-five pounds. How he could stand up without support on that completely severed bone and not have it come flying back out the hole was a marvel. I knew this tribe as a whole was very healthy, but they seemed to possess some special talent in dealing with crisis intervention as well.

These people with health-care talents had never studied biochemistry or pathology, but they possessed the credentials of truth, intent, and a commitment to wellness.

Female Healer asked me, “Do you understand how long forever is?”

“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes, I understand,” I repeated.

“Then we can tell you something else. All humans are spirits only visiting this world. All spirits are forever beings. All encounters with other people are experiences, and all experiences are forever connections. Real People close the circle of each experience. We do not leave ends frayed as Mutants do. If you walk away with bad feelings in your heart for another person and that circle is not closed, it will be repeated later in your life. You will not suffer once but over and over until you learn. It is good to observe, to learn, and become wiser from what has happened. It is good to give thanks, as you say, to bless it, and walk away in peace.”

I don't know if this man's leg bone was healed rapidly or not. There was no X ray available for pre- and post-views, and he is just a man, not a superman, but to me it didn't matter. He had no pain. He had no aftereffects, and as far as he and others were concerned, the experience was over, and we all walked away in peace and hopefully a bit wiser. The circle was closed. It was given no more energy, time, or attention.

Ooota told me they did not cause the accident. They only asked that if it was in the highest good for all life everywhere they were open to an experience where I could learn about healing by witnessing it. They didn't know if a challenge would appear or to which individual it might come, but they were open to allow me the opportunity for the experience. When it did, they were grateful once again for the gift they were allowed to share with the Mutant outsider.

I, too, was grateful that night for being allowed into the mysterious virgin minds of these so-called uncivilized humans. I wanted to learn more about their healing techniques, but I didn't want the responsibility of adding challenges to their lives. It was clear to me that surviving in this Outback was challenge enough.

I should have known they were reading my mind and knew before I spoke what I was requesting. That night we discussed in length the connection between the physical body, the eternal part of our beingness, and a new aspect we had not touched on before, the role of feelings and emotions in health and well-being.

They believe how you feel emotionally about things is what really registers. It is recorded in every cell of the body, in the core of your personality, in your mind, and in your eternal self. Where some religions talk about the necessity of feeding the hungry and giving water to the thirsty, this tribe of people say the food and liquid being given, and the person to whom it goes, are not essential. It is the feeling you experience when you openly and lovingly give that either does or does not register. Giving water to a dying plant or animal, or giving encouragement, gains as much enlightenment for knowing life and our Creator as finding a thirsty person and providing nourishment. You leave this plane of existence with a scorecard, so to speak, that registers moment by moment how you mastered emotion. It is the invisible nonphysical feelings filling the eternal part of us that make the difference between the good and the lesser. Action is only the channel whereby the feeling, the intent, is allowed to be expressed and experienced.

In setting the bone earlier that day, the two native physicians worked by sending the thoughts of perfection to the body. There was as much going on in their heads and hearts as in their hands. The patient was open and receptive to receive wellness and believed in a state of full and immediate recovery. It was amazing to me that what appeared to be miraculous from my point of view was obviously the norm in tribal perspective. I began to wonder how much of the suffering in the United States, in illness, in the role of victims, is due to emotional programing, not, of course, on a consciously acknowledging level, but on some level of which we are unaware.

What would happen in the United States if physicians put as much faith in the healing ability of the human body as they do in believing drugs can or cannot cure? More and more I appreciated the importance of the doctor/patient bond. If the physician doesn't believe the person can get well, that belief alone may cripple the task. I learned long ago that when a doctor tells a patient there is no cure, that really means, in the doctor's education and background, there is no information available to use for a cure. It doesn't mean there is no cure. If any other person has ever overcome the same disorder, then the human body obviously has the capability to heal. In a long discussion with Medicine Man and Female Healer I discovered an incredible new perspective on health or illness. “Healing has absolutely nothing to do with time,” I was told. “Both healing and disease take place in an instant.” My interpretation of what they were saying was that your body is whole, well, and healthy on a cellular level, and then in an instant, the first derangement or abnormality happens in a part of some one cell. It may take months or years for the symptoms or diagnosis to be recognized. And healing is the reverse process. You are ill and your health is declining and then, depending upon what society you are in, you receive some sort of treatment. In an instant the body stops going downhill and begins the first step of repair. The Real People tribe believes that we are not random victims of ill health, that the physical body is the only means our higher level of eternal consciousness has to communicate with our personality consciousness. Slowing down the body allows us to look around and analyze the really important wounds we need to mend: wounded relationships, gaping holes in our belief system, walled-up tumors of fear, eroding faith in our Creator, hardened emotions of unforgiveness, and so on.