The art of the Indigenous Peoples of Australia was, and to some extent still is, related to everyday life, it flows directly from rituals, not from aesthetic needs. The sense of touch is strongly involved in the creation of paintings. Take as an example drawings made in sand with a finger or a stick. These are, of course, impermanent forms, like Tibetan loose mandalas. Navajo Indians create similar ones. Native Australians do not need to preserve written drawings with a stick, because they are disposable pieces needed to extract the content during rituals.

I realized this when we reached the hamlet of Barrow Creek, on the main Stuart Highway, north of Alice Springs. There was a small pub covered with a million business cards and other gadgets, with children wandering around with cans of Coca-Cola and packets of crisps. Women looked away and men treated us like nothing. The excuse to stop here was to ask for directions. Our best maps showed no path that could take us anywhere near the mountain we were looking for. I counted on the help of the whites, I walked around the settlement, but I didn't see anyone.

– We are looking for a driveway to Mount Strezleki – Rocket asked one of the Elders.

I stood on the sidelines and thought we were wasting our time. How could they hear about a small mountain located far from hiking trails, a mountain with such a foreign name. And then something strange happened that I still can't explain. One of the men stood up languidly, took a stick, began drawing lines in the sand and muttering to himself. But clearly enough that we understood that he was talking to us.

– Drive twenty kilometers further north. There will be a mountain on the left, like a giant termite mound. It's hard to pass it - he said, not looking us in the eye for a moment.

He didn't want eye contact, and besides, he was drawing a map - as it later turned out - a very precise one.

– Just behind the mountain there will be an ordinary farm gate – he continued.

– You will open it and the path will lead you further. Recognize your mountain by its smell - he finished, put down his stick and rubbed the map with his boots.

My jaw dropped to the floor. Thanks to his tips, we found Strzelecki Mountain without any problems. It was a completely desolate area. We set up camp three kilometers from the summit. We walked for two days on very difficult terrain. The heat was tormenting us, the spinifex grass was hurting our legs until they bled, and billions of flies were bothering us. We conquered the mountain, measured it and described it. We felt the thrill of discovery. We left behind a metal plaque and a bottle with a written note, hidden among the stones at the very top. When climbing to the top, Valdi, who stayed in the camp, was visited by the owner of these lands. He asked what we were doing, but didn't chase us away. He was in a hurry because he had a flat tire and wanted to get to civilization on a half-board. At the end of the short inspection he said:

– I didn't know that I had Strzelecki Mountain on my land.

When I remember this story, I have the uncertain belief that the Elder who made the map in the sand intuitively sensed our intentions. He treated our journey as following in the footsteps of Strzelecki, whom he understood as his Ancestor. And this is of the utmost importance to him. It's sacred. He wanted and had to help us.

I asked the indigenous people of Australia about the Dream Paths. Very few people wanted to talk to me about it at all, and everyone answered differently. It's as if the Native was asking us about eternal life from a Christian point of view. I would have to tell him that we have a paradise from which we were expelled, a purgatory and hell. We look at our lives from the perspective of the past, we clumsily try to grasp the present and we think too often about the future. He wouldn't understand us. 

The indigenous have only one land, here and now, and one time in which the present is thoroughly intertwined with the past and in which there is no room for the future. For them, every day begins a world that is directly connected to the Dream Time of the Ancestors. This is about mythological references to the period of the creation of the world, which have continuity in the present. This cosmos remains not entirely clear to me, but the more I immerse myself in it, the greater satisfaction I feel, which slowly turns into a strong bond. What captured my imagination the most was the topic of Song Paths. I have already revealed that music is important to me. I spent several years with rock musicians as their manager, and I have been writing about jazz for many years. What is extraordinary and fascinating to me is that the First Peoples treat songs like a map, that they can sing their way through the bush. They are like birds singing their flight paths - hundreds, thousands of kilometers. The song, which has aesthetic significance all over the world and stimulates strong emotions, has a practical function for them.

– For us, conquering the world means expanding the map of Song – Amaroo, a honest and constantly smiling Aborigine whom I met in the Oenpelli settlement, in Kakadu National Park, tried to explain to me. I came here attracted by the landscapes of the East Alligator River floodplain. There were billabongs, i.e. lakes left after the flood in the wet season, filled with water lilies and... crocodiles. On a hot day, I was tempted to dive into them. Amaroo was a good conversationalist, he wanted to tell me something. His eyes were full of dignity. He spoke calmly, restrained, in a language that a white man could understand. I had the impression that he spoke to me as if I were a child, patiently and cheerfully. I could talk to him for hours, the Rainbow Serpent probably sent him to me.

– Once upon a time, each of us owned a piece of land. The deed of ownership was the Song, he said.

My imagination caught on to a song by Beata Kozidrak, which I don't really like.

– “There is no water in the desert…” I hummed to Amaroo and asked if I would go anywhere with this song.

– If it's good, it'll be on the charts in your country. If it's amazing, the world is waiting for you - Amaroo ironized, but I asked for it myself.

– You won't get far with this song because you didn't receive it ritually and forever, and its words mean nothing. You won't get anywhere with her, Amaroo explained and continued:

– Our Song can connect opposite ends of Australia, and often crosses language borders, i.e. other countries. The Song describes nature, and as I walk the Path of the Song, I gain power. It draws you in like a whirlpool of water, carries you like a motor. This has enormous POWER!

– I understand that you travel across the country with the Song on your lips. It's one melody. There is a finite, specific number of bars, only the words change - I tried to follow, but I didn't understand much of it.

– My verses are my homeland. I go and sing. I'm going because I sing. After singing the last verse, I reach the border of my territory.

– But the Song Line goes further, even thousands of kilometers. The same melody is sung in many languages! It's like learning the Odyssey, memorizing the map and traveling the world with it - I finally got it.

– Yes, just like you, but without a passport and visas I can cross the "border". My grandfather encouraged me to travel like this, but no further than two "countries" across the "border," he said.

Próbując zrozumieć mitologię Pierwszych Ludów Australii, trafiłem na pikantny opis fragmentu inicjacji. Obrządek kultywowany jest nadal, choć nie przez wszystkich. „Matura męskości” trwa nawet do kilku tygodni i składa się z wielu etapów. Kto nie podejdzie do egzaminów, traci szacunek i jest wytykany palcami. Jeden z elementów inicjacji stanowi obrzezanie. Napletek młodzieńca odcinano ością ryby lub kawałkiem muszli.

Ten istotny obrzędowo kawałek skóry miał także swe życie po oddzieleniu go od właściciela. Otóż, na przykład, zjadano go w rytualnym posiłku, dodawszy do rozdrobnionego mięsa kangura. Zdarzało się też, że otrzymywała go siostra obrzezanego, malowała go ochrą i nosiła na szyi. Bywało, że napletek krążył z rąk do rąk, według rytualnie ustalonego porządku, po czym wracał niczym bumerang do właściciela, a ten sprawiał mu symboliczny pogrzeb, jak głosi mitologiczny przekaz*.

Życie Rdzennych jest trudne, a ich zwyczaje i zachowania, z naszego punktu widzenia, mogą budzić niepokój. Słyszałem opowieść o dziewczynce, która miała jedną nóżkę krótszą. Miała też swoje marzenie, o którym wiedzieli wszyscy bliscy: chciała latać, szybować wysoko jak orły i mieć upierzenie jak najbardziej strojne papugi. Niepełnosprawność ruchowa, z którą się urodziła, skazywała ją na śmierć. Żyła tak długo, jak długo nie istniała potrzeba intensywnego przemieszczania się. Przyszedł jednak czas na daleką wędrówkę całego plemienia. Musiała zostać zgładzona przez swoich rodziców, tak stanowiło plemienne prawo. Kiedy jej rodzeństwo zapytało pewnego dnia, gdzie jest ich siostra, ojciec odpowiedział:

– Widzicie to duże drzewo? Tam wysoko ponad nim szybuje nasze maleństwo. Tej nocy spełniła swoje marzenie i zamieniła się w ptaka. Od teraz będzie nam towarzyszyć w wędrówkach jako papuga kakadu.

* K. Kunicki, Aborygeni australijscy, Mitologie Świata, Warszawa 2007.

My name is Wajpuldania, I am an Aborigine, a pure-blooded Australian from the Aranda tribe. I am 9 years old and have chocolate-colored skin. My ancestors lived around Lake Eyre, the largest lake in Australia. It is almost completely white due to the salt content. When a drought comes, the water evaporates from it, and every few years, during heavy rainfall, its banks fill up. My dad told me that our ancestors had been here forever. At school, you told us that the first people appeared in Australia 40, or maybe even 70,000 years ago. Before the arrival of the white man's ships in the 18th century, there were at least 400,000 people living throughout the country.

When the whites saw us, they called us natives, which in English means Aborigines, and that's how it stayed, we got used to it. The first contacts with newcomers from across the great oceans were even successful. However, it soon turned out that our people did not understand the intentions of the white people. And they didn't understand our culture. My great-grandfather tells me that those were dark times, over 200 years of fights, wrongs and mutual misunderstanding. But at the same time, he boasts that he lived to see him recognized as a normal person and removed from the Book of Flora and Fauna. It was only 50 years ago! And my grandfather was among the first Indigenous Australians to gain the right to vote in 1984 and be able to vote for parliamentary candidates.

He still remembers how important this event was to him. In the city I speak English, and at home, in the yard - the dialect of my tribe. Our Aranda language is rich, has about 30,000 words and difficult grammar. I speak both languages ​​fluently, I can name, describe and arrange everything, but I think differently in each one. I must admit that this is not easy for me. I like going to school, I have friends of different skin colors. I'm the best in my class in math. And in the bush I can find water, edible fruit and I don't need a map or GPS - I can just sing my way. What I like most is my great-grandfather's stories, in which the world of my ancestors has intense colors. They are as beautiful as in the paintings of Albert Namatjira, our painter.

The culture of Indigenous Australians is based on a close relationship with nature. The myths of the First Peoples and the world of beliefs dating back to the so-called Age of Dreams, i.e. the Time of Creation, are more interesting than all the films and computer games I have ever encountered. This is a huge wealth of magical fairy tales that we cannot and do not want to convey to anyone else. My great-grandfather taught me a clan song with which I won't get lost in the bush. He also took care of my initiation - the fire of tribal initiations, thanks to which I am almost a man. My great-grandfather keeps saying that our culture is being reborn. I hope he's right.

Beneath the surface of white Australia there is this unwanted, black one. To explore it, you would have to live for many years somewhere in the wilderness among the First Nations. Or at least wander around the Outback. Marek Tomalik lives in the Beskid Mały Mountains, and outside the windows of his house there is a space: hunched, monotonous, a bit like in the Australian Alps. Aboriginal paintings on the walls. I want to find out from Mark, who has traveled through the Australian desert 16 times, written several books about the Outback and considers himself an ambassador of Australia, what it's like to sit next to an Indigenous person. And what does this common silence mean?

– They don't want contacts with white people – says Marek. – During my trips, the ice only broke a few times: when we got a flat tire and were saved by a silent Native family passing by. I did some shopping for them at the gas station and only then did the guy tell me where he was from. The second time was when we were looking for Góra Strzelecki and asked the Natives for directions. When we used the magic word "Ancestor", they started to listen to us and drew a detailed map with a stick in the sand, because walking in the footsteps of the Ancestor is a very important mission for them. The third time I met an Indigenous artist on the Todd River, we baked kangaroo tails together. For the fourth time, don't ask me how, I managed to participate in a ceremony led by a Native elder.

– So what do you understand what Dreaming is for First Nations? Is it religion?

– For a very long time, the British deprecated everything that was Aboriginal. It was decided that since it was not the religion of the Book, but only some shamanic superstitions, it needed to be eradicated. It was only in the 1940s that systematic religious studies began to be conducted on Dreaming, or the Time of Creation. At that time, groups fascinated by these beliefs appeared in the West. Aborigines do not call it Dreaming or Dreamtime, these concepts were introduced by European invaders. They have nothing to do with sleep, sleeping or dreams. The more appropriate name Jukurrpa comes from one of the languages ​​of the desert people and is currently respected by most Aboriginal communities. To put it very simply, it is the Time of Creation, the equivalent of our afterlife, where Guardian Angels and other creative spirits live. It comes from feeling rather than intellect. Yes, in our understanding it is religion.

– Does the strength of these beliefs come from the fact that the whole of Australia is dotted with holy places, and the faith is so strongly connected with nature, cosmology and totemic ancestors? And that the Dreaming lasts forever?

– Our time is divided into the present, past and future, with them there is only one: the present. The Ancestors who created the world a long, long time ago, according to Indigenous Australians, continue to create it, and through ceremony, music and dance trance, you can return to the time of the Ancestors, the Time of Creation. And their holy places are invisible to us – profane people – they are part of the landscape.

– In your latest book, 9 Bonfires, you write: “I don't think it would be an abuse if I compare the Totemic Ancestor to the more familiar Guardian Angel, who does not take animal form, but appears, according to our tradition, in a winged human form.” Is comparison to the Christian faith your way of understanding?

– In order to lead a peaceful life, an indigenous Australian must obey the laws given by the Ancestors and perform rituals and ceremonies in their honor, which is also known in Catholicism. A Sunday walk to church, or even better, a pilgrimage to a sacred place, can be compared to the Aboriginal journey to sacred places called the walkabout and to ritual dances. Their painting of images on bodies, rocks, tree bark, and even the most modern ones on canvas is a ritual activity, a rite, and as such is subject to many rigors. Some analogies can be drawn to the writing of Orthodox and Greek Catholic icons born in prayer and asceticism.

– One of the characters in your book, a Native Elder, said: “You read the surface quite nicely, but – at your current state of initiation – you won't go deeper. And that's how it should be. It is a secured system for protecting our cultural, religious and ethnic, i.e. national, identity. That's one of the reasons we've been here for 80,000 years." Is a white man able to go deeper into this faith? 

– It's better not to dream about it. Because it is inaccessible, bordering on impossible. The trust of Indigenous Australians has to be earned over the years, and I respect that. Let's leave them alone, but let's learn from what they want to tell us and show us.

Isolated Aboriginal communities vary in size – both in terms of area and number of inhabitants. And they are always open – at least to Native people. They can go on a ritual walkabout pilgrimage at any time and come back whenever they like.

Up to a hundred people live in the smallest settlements, and over a thousand in the largest ones. The number of whites contributing to communities is usually proportional. These are teachers, doctors, administrative workers and families of employees - wives, husbands and children. The location of communities has its roots in the past. They are located near a farm (there was work there, and therefore an opportunity to get food), around Christian missions or along some communication route convenient for the white man, for example near mines.

Inside the communities there are so-called secret zones, women's and men's, where some are unwelcome by others or are not allowed to enter at all. Most communities have a shop, office, health center, school, gas station, post office and telephone. A few even have an ATM and a pub, but most of these settlements, highly isolated in the desert, are "dry" in terms of alcohol and trying to bring alcohol there may be treated as a crime. High fines - from two thousand to five hundred thousand dollars - discourage potential traffickers from neighboring villages and make tourists think twice. The entry of a white person into a remote settlement is most often limited by a permit, which must be applied for at Aboriginal offices in state capitals.

It takes a long time and often ends in rejection. Whites are not allowed to enter many settlements, even with permission. The shops are very modestly stocked - but you can find cheaper (and authentic!) handicrafts there. Groceries are usually out of date and in limited supply: frozen toast, sugar, cola and canned goods, rarely anything else. After a heavy flood that cuts the community off from civilization for several weeks, this may not be the case either. Where there is a health center, you can ask for accommodation. There are usually slightly more beds than staff, so newcomers can take advantage of them. Doctors in the settlements have their hands full. Compared to white Australians, Indigenous people smoke and drink more, are more likely to have problems with hypertension, obesity and other diseases related to a sedentary (!) lifestyle, as well as diabetes (about thirty percent of Indigenous people are at potential risk).

Their way of eating is far from the "white" ideal, even further from the undoubtedly healthy diet of their ancestors. This is the result of a sudden departure from the traditional lifestyle. Fresh vegetables and fruits, and with them vitamins, reach remote desert communities very rarely. Sometimes never. The inhabitants of the settlements hunt sporadically and reluctantly. They also have no special devotion to their eternal natural pantry known as bush tucker. A few years ago, the government film project "Catch & Cook" was created - an audiovisual manual teaching how to hunt and prepare prey. There are also other programs that mobilize the body and spirit of the natives, trying to restore them to mother nature. However, there is a lack of research on the holistically understood Indigenous Australian. The white man – once again – tries to separate the soul and the body. And he makes a big mistake.