Travel: In search of the shadows of Sydney's aboriginal heritage

Those names are songlines, divining a past of which today there seems little evidence. Aboriginals in Sydney, unlike most other Australian cities, are conspicuous by their scarcity.

The original Cadigal people occupied Sydney, fishing and foraging in the coves and the bush covered headlands. With the arrival, in January 1788, of the British First Fleet of 11 vessels carrying convicts, sailors and soldiers, everything changed.

As I stroll past the Opera House (where a restaurant is named in honour of an 18th century Aboriginal chief), I hear like a siren call the droning, yelping cat-calling noise in the distance of something meant to appeal to tourists: a didgeridoo at howling full pelt. I find myself lured, although I know that the didgeridoo would have been as unrecognised by the Cadigal (since it is native only in Queensland and Northern Australia) as to the villagers of Gretna or the Cotswolds (where paradoxically many years ago I bought a ‘didge’ for my Oz-besotted son).

There before me at Circular Quay are two rival camps of Aboriginal busking musicians. They’ve set up camp, removed their jeans (you can watch them do it) applied white body ‘paint’, laid out a mat on which are set boomerangs, sundry digging sticks and ornaments all decorated with dots or wavy lines, and of course, the ubiquitous CDs. Their sound has commercial appeal and their touts invite passing punters to share a photo op, drop a banknote or two in the tray, or make a purchase (CDs are $10, roughly £5).

They gather a crowd. Some tourists shoot selfies to mark their (literal) cheek by jowl meeting with the elder who’s making the didge produce its fireworks display of sounds. Business is brisk.

Such a scene was unforeseeable in 1788 when Captain Phillip sailed through the Heads from the Pacific, and entered this island-studded paradise. The Cadigal thought his ships were floating islands, mistaking the masts and yardarms for trees, and the sailors climbing them for possum. Seeing white faces, some Aboriginals thought the sailors must be ghosts—a nightmare encounter both fearful and gripping.

Now on Australia Day, while the rest of the nation celebrates, Aboriginals remember paradise lost. For some the date is simply ‘survivors’ day’. In Sydney the few descendents of the Cadigal know that survival then meant escaping the diseases the sailors and convicts (both men and women) unwittingly carried. Their dwindling ancestors needed luck and a deal of resilience to withstand the murder and cruelty which were often far more wittingly inflicted. From that time on, a way of life became remembered rather than practised, something preserved by word of mouth.

Some years ago I sailed with Aboriginals (natives of Queensland) down Sydney harbour from Circular Quay to visit Clark Island off Piper Point. The Tribal Warrior, as it was known, was made from bamboo, and cut a striking, off-beat sight with its rickety sails, progressing awkwardly through the heavier maritime traffic, looking fantastical.

There, on the island, I was shown the fissured rocks where the Aboriginals once lured basking barramundi into their nets. A midden of sea shells was crushed to compose a gooey white paste of the kind once used for painting warriors, and in this case for decorating one of the guides who stood before me enacting a ceremony in which he was propped on one leg, wearing a loincloth, grasping a spear while another crewman banged a drum.

Today the echo of Aboriginal possession of this harbour still persists, not just in the daily jamboree on Circular Quay. I walk to the Royal Botanic Gardens on the Domain, a sward of parkland which fronts the harbour beside the Opera House, where, each Friday a guided Aboriginal Heritage Tour is conducted by an Aboriginal guide.

I meet head ranger, Clarence Slockee, whose tribal people come from northern New South Wales, around Byron Bay. There are five of us taking the one and a half hour tour. “Meet Henrietta,” says Clarence, “her people hail from near Cairns. She’ll be your guide.”

The tour roams the gardens which have been manicured to within an inch of their life. But Henrietta knows the native plants and their properties, plants you’d still find if you roamed the headlands around the harbour or strayed into bush. Their manicured cousins, a little pampered, sit under our noses. “This myrtle tree,” – she squeezes a film of moisture from its leaf – “is used to clear headaches and as a flavouring for fish.” Two steps later she’s spotted a candle tree. “The fruit when burned give out a fierce bright light. And, see that paper-bark tree over there,” her finger points to a tall eucalyptus, “Its leaves were used by our people for bandages, they have antiseptic properties. Up there…” We follow her gaze to a bending Banksia through the branches of which drapes a spider’s web.

“There she is!” Henrietta reaches, almost touching, “the golden orb spider. Her web is used for stopping bad bleeding. The threads are stronger even than metal.” Then she’s distracted by flapping birds that have lately descended on the lawn. “Yellow-crested cockatoos, badly behaved, so we call them the teenagers of the bush.” On cue, they start jabbing each other, yapping.

For more than an hour we learn which plants might be foods or medicines, which might be dangerous, which add savour to the cooking pot. We wander towards the harbour. “This slope was a hill used only by men for initiation. They imitated animals in their dances, to give themselves speed or strength or wisdom. They passed on knowledge. Sometimes they cut each other. You’d know by how many scars he had, how much knowledge a man possessed.”

Clarence, a modern Aboriginal, has knowledge in abundance, and when the walk has ended, he shares it. Inside a small room he and Henrietta talk about Aboriginal crafts, and pass around baskets, woven mats, a knitted baby carrier, weapons and tools made from bone, then scrapers, axes, knives and awls, beautifully crafted, knapped from stone. Then Clarence produces his didgeridoo, making it pulse, yelp, ululate and drone in a burst of sound that lasts continuously for 5 minutes, and which, in skill and musicality, exceeds the waterfront buskers’ finest efforts.

“The didgeridoo is now as commonplace as the boomerang,” he says. “Both are now sold and deployed worldwide.”

A few days later I head to The Rocks, not far from the buskers on Circular Quay, for my second instalment of local Aboriginal history. Kalkani (“an easy name to remember, it rhymes with balcony” jests our guide) is petite and sassy, wearing the uniform of a ranger with Sydney Harbour National Park. The teenage schoolkids among our group snap to attention under her gaze. The adults smile. “Kalkani is an eagle’s name. My people in western Queensland have a tribal name that derives from the black cockatoo. Here, where The Rocks are, was Tallawallada.” She makes the kids chant back the name. “And where the Opera House stands was known as Jabbagully.”

We head for the statue of Captain Bligh (he of Bounty fame), and stop beside a Lemandra shrub, green and spiky, from which she snaps a single leaf which she then deftly splits into several strands and begins to plait. “You make the plaited leaf into a headband, a belt, a handle for a bag. The Lemandra seeds were crushed to make flour. Snakes laid their eggs beneath its spikes. The eggs were edible.”

As she tours us through the lanes and streets of The Rocks towards the looming Sydney Harbour Bridge, she tells us tales of frustrated romance between the sailors and Cadigal women. Then she outlines momentous events in Cadigal history, telling the tragic story of Bennelong, the chief who was adopted by the governor of the colony and became an undignified drunk. In the higher reaches of The Rocks in the midst of 19th century slums, we stop while Kalkani reminds the group that official recognition of Aboriginal existence was granted less than 50 years ago.

The status of Aboriginals has belatedly improved. In 1882 when the Palace Garden on the Domain was destroyed by fire it contained the only written record of Cadigal history. Along with its destruction numerous artefacts were lost. “Some people thought it was probably arson,” Kalkani says. “And since our culture is not written down there is little left to replace that detail.” What remains of course includes rock art. Stone is not so easily burnt.

Rock art sites in the Sydney area are few. Clarence Slockee had mentioned Balls Island. Several guide books mention Blues Point. I take the ferry from Circular Quay to McMahons Point, a pleasant seven-minute journey, walk the shoreline path to Blues Point and, after two hours of assiduous searching, discover nothing. But one Sunday night while on the cliff trail around North Head at the harbour entrance, I accidentally find a cave. High on the wall is a single hand print of indeterminate age and origin. As I stare at it I imagine an Aboriginal long, long ago, back turned to the ocean, spreading his fingers on the rock, then making a signature of sorts. It’s my dreamtime moment. I press my hand against the shape to see if its fits.

FACT BOX:

Getting There:

Emirates Airline (www.emirates.com ) flies daily from Glasgow to Sydney via Dubai.

From £896 return.

Staying There:

Harbourside Apartments with some of the finest harbour views, (www.harboursideapartments.com.au) have studio and one and two bedroom apartments, serviced daily, with a harbour side pool and car parking included. From £135 a night.

What to Do:

Aboriginal Heritage Tour of the Royal Botanic Gardens every Friday at 10am. Adult £17/child £9. Call: 0061-2-9231-8134)

Rocks Tour with Dreamtime Southern X (www.dreamtimesouthernx.com.au ) Adult £22/child £17. Children under 8 go free.

Further information about holidays in Australia: go to www.australia.com