Walking with Darren

a nature essay by scott michael atkinson

photos by tamsyn jones

Ubirr, a rock formation discovered and named by the Aborigines, emerges in the distance.

Darren is smiling, I think, while we drive through Kakadu National Park. It’s hard to tell since the look on his face changes rarely. As always, he is wearing his sunglasses and his lampshade-like hemp hat to protect his eyes from the Australian sun. Dreadlocks that earned him the nickname Bob Marley hang out the back of his hat. He and Bob also share the same half-grin, suggesting either sarcasm or pleasantness.

Darren Raymond is part owner of Demmob, a tour company based in Darwin. Demmob is slang for “them mob,” meaning a group of people. Occasionally, the word slips into conversation: “Look at them mob over there,” one of the guides might say, pointing to a group of people. Darren spends the drive through the park telling jokes and stories with the other guides. He’s more soft-spoken than the rest of them, though he manages to work the word “shit” into almost every sentence, always keeping the same calm face.

But when we reach our destination, Darren does smile. This is where his ancestors, the Aborigines, lived for what scientists guess was about 40,000 years. Trails have been cut through the bush, which is sparse here among the boulders and dry sand, and guardrails have been installed to stop the over-curious tourists who may wander where they’re not welcome. Darren turns toward us before we start down the trail, his face still calm but more serious, and asks for our respect. That’s all. He says he is going to be telling us stories, most of which we won’t believe — which is fine, so long as we understand, and respect, that he does. Before walking down the trail, Darren takes us over to a sign that pictures different Aborigines. He points out one in particular who has recently passed away.

Darren, left, and other guides pose for the camera.

“We don’t say his name,” he says, “because we’re still sad. If we want to talk about him, we say, ‘that old man from Cannonhill.’” Darren writes down the name “Big Bill” on a piece of paper so we know what they called him. He was a large man, Darren says, growing solemn, “A very powerful man. A very gentle man.” We take a few steps down the trail and stop, looking at the landscape. The trees are sparse here in Kakadu, with tall grasses growing out of the sandy terrain. Large boulders and rocks appear sporadically, some the size of small hills; there are larger ones in the distance, further down the path. Darren smiles again. “When we die, we go back into the Earth, into these rocks and trees,” he says, looking around as though Big Bill is right there listening.

Darren turns and takes a few more steps down the trail, returning to his normal quiet, funny self, and stops us as we start to follow him. We’re already doing it wrong. He shows us the proper way to walk through the bush. Darren is always relaxed, but appears even more so while he turns his palms out, as if to help him absorb everything. Then he takes a few nonchalant steps as if taking a walk by himself, with no destination in mind. He is not out to see everything in Australia, just what he can show us at this pace.

To explore it all on foot, while enjoying it, would take a long time. Probably something close to 40,000 years.

Everyone follows Darren, still walking in the same, easy gait. He stops by an unmarked tree, just another along the sandy path, and motions for us to gather around. The tree is a Spiral Palm, he says, also giving its Latin name. Like its name suggests, the leaves grow out from the trunk in a spiraling pattern. Darren grabs one of the leaves, pointing out the spike along the edges, mentioning how you have to be careful when handling them, then wraps the long leaf around his hand a few times and fakes a strong tug, showing how Aborigines once yanked them free. They were mostly used for weaving baskets, though Darren mentions that this is a tree that can save a person’s life. The base of the leaf is thick, similar to cabbage and very moist, containing the moisture and nutrients one might need to survive in the bush without food or water.

Still holding the leaf, he beckons us closer so we can see the small pocket of water formed where the leaf meets the trunk. These trees contain their own ecosystems, he explains, serving as home to spiders, frogs and other creatures. When we’ve all had a look, he unwraps the leaf from his hand and gently lets it back into place, just as before. Then we keep walking.

Visitors walk by the banyon tree's hanging roots.

We stop at another tree; it has a slightly gnarled trunk and seems just as random as the last one. It’s an Ironwood tree, he tells us, and was once used for several everyday tasks in Aboriginal life. The name comes from the toughness of the wood, which was used primarily for timber and weapons. Its roots provide an extract that could be used as glue, like epoxy, to bind spearheads to weapons. A medicinal ointment used to treat cuts and burns can be extracted from the leaves by holding them in a fire.

I try not to look at the guardrails up ahead or at the signs providing information for tourists, imagining the first time an Aborigine found a burnt Ironwood leaf and rubbed the substance on a cut to see what would happen.

Darren stops at two more plants before we reach the rocky terrain: a vine ideal to use as rope and a tree with rough leaves that were used as sandpaper. Darren always gives us the common names of the plants and matter-of-factly follows them with the Latin names as well. When one member of our group asks how he knows all of the Latin names, he shrugs and says, “I’m just into plants,” and keeps walking.

Our path has entered the rocks, which are big and make the terrain seem suddenly mountainous. The trail into the rocks begins between two large walls, one covered in Aboriginal art, with some of the paintings so high we have to crane our necks to see them. Most of the paintings are red – one of the few colors that has survived thousands of years of weathering and erosion. Other streaks of orange and yellow also have remained, but appear more sporadically. Blues and purples, made from weaker substances like fruit, have long since been worn away. The stronger colors were made from ochre — pigments from naturally tinted clay.

Darren takes a seat at the end of a long, smooth rock, which serves as a bench for the rest of us. He asks us to sit so that he can talk to us about the paintings. Most of us are sweating and glad to be in the shade of the rocks, chugging water and slapping at relentless flies. Darren sits patiently, a nearly full bottle of diluted Gatorade next to him, while he waits for everyone to quiet. Flies land on his face; he makes no effort to shoo them.

“This is not art,” he says, once we’ve all quieted down. “This is how we tell our stories and document our history.” A steel barrier is between the painted wall and us. Darren tells us to pretend it’s invisible so we can see the paintings as they once were, untouched and undisturbed except by those who painted them.

Darren dates some of the pictures just by looking at them, such as one of a hunter holding a spear and its thrower. Spear throwers were a later invention in the history of the Aborigines, telling Darren that this was painted after a particular date.

From there, the path steers upward. The landscape has changed. Other huge rocks scatter the terrain, some much higher than ours, some smaller, stretching out like buildings in a city. Plants grow out of every small crack where dirt has had the chance to collect.

Ahead of us is a rock taller than the rest. We all look thankful as Darren heads toward it. This is Ubirr, discovered and named by the Aborigines. The slope on our side is just gentle enough to climb with generous sedimentary stairs.

Darren falls back, walking in his easy manner, while everyone else climbs eagerly. Some people stop to take pictures with him, the rest are making their way to the top, navigating the rocky terrain until they finally stop, stand up straight and look around.

Everyone is quiet. The sun is suddenly more forgiving, and the flies seem to have disappeared. Even at this height, the rocks continue forever, or at least until they reach the hazy horizon. On the far side is a large clearing with a billabong reflecting the sun and surrounded by marshy grasses. Everyone starts moving again, slowly at first, walking around the edges and looking at the view each offers. One tourist cannot help herself as she walks to the edge, tips her head back and opens her arms as if trying to absorb it all. Darren does not talk during this part of our walk, except to those who come to him. Mostly, he just watches us witnessing the home of his ancestors while he sits among the rocks and trees, smiling.

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