2011 - Theses - Flinders University

‘Nangga, Tracy-nha,’ she offered, and waited. It was such a small thing, that request tospeak to someone in their own language, in their own country. I only had one word to reply.But I felt acutely embarrassed, anyway. I hadn’t been much chop at high school French, but itwas more than that. In this universe of language, I was an absolute beginner, my ignoranceexposed. There was no way around it: I had to plunge into the unknown country of anotherlanguage, another way of knowing the world.‘Wandu? Denise-nha?’ I ventured. ‘Nangga?’‘Wandu, Tracy-nha. Good,’ she said, genuinely pleased for me. It wasn’t so hard after all,was it?Moolawatana, 1926Soon, the stiffness passes and the chat begins.‘Your old man, he’s Arruru, north wind, warm wind. So you Mathari,’ the women tell her,and they assemble an array of moiety relatives for her. ‘Now this one, she younger than youbut she cousin to your marni—your old man—otherway, so atuna - wife - like you, so youcall her …’Rebecca’s head spins, trying to catch hold of flowing syllables and faces and genealogies allat once and ending up only with a feeling of warmth toward or distance from the various onesbeing pointed out to her. 6‘Mathari, that’s the south wind people. That must be right, inni? You from that cold place,England!’So she tells them about snow and the cold with much arming waving and miming when theirstation English and her own Cockney won’t bridge the gap, and they laugh at the thought andat her.5