Navigating the shifting sands of Straddie
As sandmining ends on North Stradbroke Island and its Aboriginal people guide the place they call Minjerribah towards a future in eco-tourism, there’s a mixture of hope and uncertainty.
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ON A headland overlooking the mighty Pacific Ocean, Josh Walker looks skyward, inhales and utters a harmonic, singsong sound. It’s a call to his Aboriginal ancestors, letting them know he’s bringing a woman on to this place of men’s business and asking them to protect us from bad spirits.
We walk on. Within metres, a woman with no such introduction from the tribal songman is posing for a photo on the cliff’s edge, and further along, a girl in a string bikini is butt-wriggling her way down the rocks. This is Point Lookout on North Stradbroke Island, and these are complex times.
To the holiday-makers, Point Lookout is a place to swim and frolic, grab a feed of snapper and follow it up with a gelato. To the generations of white residents, this is home. To Walker, 48, who also goes by the Aboriginal name Buangan Nunagal, this is not Point Lookout but Mooloomba and it’s where his ancestors would hunt, no women allowed. And it’s not North Stradbroke, it’s Minjerribah and it belongs to him and that of his tribe, the Quandamooka.
Archaeological digs here put Aboriginal inhabitation at more than 20,000 years – about five times older than Egypt’s Great Pyramid – and the Quandamooka have never left. They were put in a mission, told to forget their culture, used as cheap labour, prohibited from parts of the island – but never left. In 2011, the Federal Court recognised their continued link to the land, granting them native title over North Stradbroke and surrounding waters. Last month, Quandamooka celebrated after a claim over 98 per cent of Moreton Island, or Mulgumpin, was ratified. A claim on islands such as Karragarra, Macleay, Coochiemudlo and parts of the bayside mainland awaits judgment.
As the dust settles on the Moreton news, the Quandamooka – made up of the Nunukul, Ngughi and Goenpul clans – are asserting their right to have a substantial role in Stradbroke’s management. The first stage is almost complete: by the end of the year, sandmining will be gone after 70 years. That was a battle and the wounds are still fresh, with a good slab of white and black residents lamenting its loss.
The second stage is a plan to make Minjerribah – as we are all being urged to call what most of us know as Straddie – into a world-renowned hub of indigenous eco-tourism. The Labor State Government is an enthusiastic supporter, allocating more than $25 million to Minjerribah Futures, a three-year, 23-project program ending in 2021 to aid the island’s economic transition. Steering much of the change is the Quandamooka Yoolooburrabee Aboriginal Corporation (QYAC), the native title group’s body corporate, an eight-year-old bureaucracy revered by some and viewed with suspicion by others.
Big ticket items include a whale-watching boat crewed mostly by indigenous people that launched in July, the still-to-be-built Quandamooka Art Museum and Performance Institute (QUAMPI) at the barge-landing township of Dunwich and a whale interpretative centre at Point Lookout.
Walker strolls past the site for the whale centre, a cleared piece of land that once held a tennis court. It’s a stunning spot just above the popular Gorge Walk, with ocean views. The $3 million development spearheaded by QYAC will be called Yalingbila Bibula (Whale on the Hill) and house a 15-metre skeleton of a whale that was washed ashore, plus a hydrophone to transmit the sound of passing whales.
This year, it became a lightning rod for simmering dissent and confusion over the island’s future and QYAC’s role. Some say it was because residents weren’t consulted, alerted only by survey pegs that led to wild theories about the project’s size. Some say it’s because the well-off whites of Point Lookout don’t want Aboriginal people re-establishing a footprint in their holiday haven. For some, it’s traffic concerns, others claim QYAC is acting too haughtily. Some Aboriginal locals say it’s because exhibiting whale bones is culturally insensitive.
Walker says it’s all fear of change, some of it concocted. The Aboriginal knockers are hypocrites, he says, because they’ve been mute for years about a whalebone already on display in the local museum. Bad blood festers among some in the tribe over native title – “They whinge for the sake of whingeing,” says Walker – and non-Aboriginals might have to endure a few years of flux before the benefits of indigenous management flow through.
But he says the rewards are already being reaped by his people. He’s been employed by QYAC for the past two years to lead ceremonies and educate tourists, such as on the guided Gorge Walk on which he calls to the ancestors.
He grew up in Inala, in Brisbane’s outer west, returning to live on Minjerribah 12 years ago but his pedigree is strong: his grandmother was renowned poet, Oodgeroo Noonuccal, or Kath Walker, his father the activist firebrand, Denis Walker. Many of the Quandamooka stories he tells to tourists were passed to him by his grandmother on visits to the island and, with storytelling elders like her dead or dying, were in danger of being lost.
“QYAC gives me a platform now and all the youth are learning way more than they ever would have,” says Walker. “QYAC has empowered our youth; they’re not disenfranchised, they don’t feel left out, worthless. They’re proud, working on country.” Here on Minjerribah, says Walker, an island built on ever-shifting sands, “the dynamics have changed”.
RICH HERITAGE
Cameron Costello is pointing out a cleared site on the water’s edge at Dunwich, or Goompi, that once held the barracks for workers on the Sibelco sand mine. It’s now earmarked for the $9.5 million QUAMPI – an acronym and the word for pearl oyster – and QYAC’s chief executive officer is upbeat about its role in what he calls the Quandamooka renaissance. “This whole strip along here is rich with cultural heritage so it’s symbolic that we’re removing mining infrastructure and reinstating cultural infrastructure.”
He foresees tourists flocking to the centre to learn about indigenous culture, many of them steered across Moreton Bay through partnerships with casino and hotel company, Star Entertainment, and Brisbane Marketing. There’ll be an art gallery, restaurant, conference and theatre facilities and Costello does not share concerns it will be a white elephant.
“We’ve got government people doing the business planning, and that’s really what it’s going to come back to, making sure we execute the plan well,” says Costello, 46, a Quandamooka man, lawyer with a background in indigenous arts management and Queensland Tourism Industry Council board member. In June, Tourism Minister Kate Jones said QUAMPI will generate $8.5 million during its two-year construction, $2.5 million for local businesses when operating and add 20,000 tourists to the 375,000 who visited in 2018.
Driving on, we pass campgrounds run by Minjerribah Camping, a business that QYAC and Indigenous Business Australia took over from Redland City Council in 2012. It’s now fully owned by QYAC and, Costello says, is turning a profit after upgrades and improved practices. It used to employ a couple of Quandamooka people; now there’s more than 20. “With QYAC and Min Camping (QYAC’s main company) we’ve got 100 employees and 65 are Quandamooka people,” says Costello. “In terms of Closing the Gap, it doesn’t get more real than that.”
One of QYAC’s employees is co-ordination ranger, Patrick Coolwell, 31, who is at the wheel of the four-wheel-drive. “Since native title has happened it’s done nothing but good for this community,” he says. “The opportunity we have to have a say is big.”
Adds Costello: “There’s a social transition; it used to be that if you were in the mining truck with the high-vis and the uniforms, you were in the position of power, now it’s Aboriginal rangers in 4WDs.”
We pull up at Myora Springs, an oasis centred on a creek fed by a freshwater spring that flows to Moreton Bay. Middens on the banks testify to its history as a gathering place for the Quandamooka, who call it Capembah. Costello points out graffiti on signs using that name. “Some people are struggling with the concept that the land’s been handed back: ‘What’s this Aboriginal language, native title? We don’t want this stuff’.”
But it’s here, cemented in federal law through the tribe’s inhabitation of Minjerribah that began long before explorer Matthew Flinders came ashore in 1803 and continues, despite upheaval. One of the most radical changes for the Quandamooka took place just up the road from the springs, at Moongalba, where the Myora Mission began in 1892. Much of the tribe was “detained and trained” there, with many employed as cheap labour at the long-gone Dunwich Benevolent Asylum, about 3km away.
From 1897, Myora was run by a series of government protectors. Assimilation was the aim. Using Aboriginal language and cultural activities was discouraged, with “nuisances” sent away.
Myora closed in 1943 and more Quandamooka moved to One Mile, so named because Aborigines without special permission or work tickets were not allowed within one mile of Dunwich. Today, most of the island’s Quandamooka live at Dunwich but, says Coolwell, who grew up at One Mile, which lacks town water and sewerage, “our lifestyle was not growing up around mine lives, silver spoon in your mouth”.
Many Quandamooka did work in sandmining, though, and families were divided over its shutdown. There are other rifts. Dale Ruska, one of the original native title claimants, objected to the process, including agreements with the State Government and Sibelco that he believes gave too much ground, and is part of a band of Quandamooka that rejects QYAC’s authority.
Costello’s authority is questioned, too. His father, Roy Costello, grew up at One Mile, but Costello was raised in Mackay and has never lived on the island. “I have to smile when people question me and my identity,” says Costello. “I’ve been coming to the island since before I can remember; my connections to country are deep and spiritual.” Locals are quick to tell you he’s also well-connected to the State Labor Government. He now lives at the bayside suburb of Lota, which the Quandamooka claim.
“There’s a vocal minority whose personal agendas have been to make QYAC seem like it’s corrupt, or not truly representative, but all you’ve got to do is look at all our very publicly available annual reports, talk to any of our prominent elders.”
He knows some non-Aboriginal islanders are also wary about QYAC’s direction. The furore over the whale interpretative centre was fuelled by misinformation, he says, plus a resistance to Quandamooka encroaching on Point Lookout, 19km from Dunwich. “Local residents have had a big say in directing (Redland City) council what to do, so they’ve been very much empowered to drive their own idea of how Point Lookout looks and feels,” says Costello. “So when the Quandamooka have got their native title and are saying, ‘There’s no cultural presence here, we’re going to do that now’, there’s been a big backlash.”
He says Mooloomba has a monument to Captain James Cook but there’s little to say it’s Aboriginal land. Along with the whale centre, sculptures of eugaries (pipis), an indigenous food source, will be erected, designed by Quandamooka artist and 2018 Commonwealth Games medal creator, Delvene Cockatoo-Collins.
More changes will come – to how National Parks are run, to where 4WDs can go, to how indigenous sites are treated, to how some businesses operate. Even access to the popular Blue Lake, where Aboriginal men were once cremated, is a hotbed of debate. But, Costello says, residents will benefit as the island transforms to a magnet for indigenous and environmental tourism.
“People are struggling with the concept that they’re not in power,” he says. “Native title has brought power and control to the Quandamooka people over their country and it’s a journey for our own mob, local businesses, the council, the State Government to work through. We’re all on this journey together.”
BUSINESS ABUZZ
Dunwich has always been a tad sleepy but on this pre-holiday weekday, it’s close to comatose. There are two cars in the main street (one mine), and no customers in Maxine McCullough’s Stradbroke Pharmacy. Last month, she shut her smaller outlet and surf shop at Point Lookout after six years of turnover halving, year on year. “It was affecting my core business here.”
McCullough says the phasing out of mining, which contributed about $60 million annually to the local economy, has seen families leave and trade drop away. Now that the mine’s end is nigh, many businesses are worried about the future, still waiting for the long-promised master plan for Dunwich and a detailed business case showing how projects such as QUAMPI will replace mining dollars. The concern is shared by the Straddie Chamber of Commerce and Dunwich Business Group.
Says McCullough, a chamber committee member: “Anyone that has any idea that could be good has been chopped down, not listened to, particularly if they’re coming from outside of the indigenous community. It feels like the government and QYAC have made up their mind.”
Newcomer Arlanda Rayne bought the nearby Island Fruit Barn Cafe three years ago, and says there’s a mood of “fear and uncertainty”. The “hideous history” of indigenous disempowerment demanded redress but social cohesion won’t be realised by ignoring the thoughts of much of the 2000-odd population. “It’s a shame because there is so much support from white people on Straddie to nurture and nourish indigenous culture,” she says. She hopes QUAMPI will help Quandamooka but says QYAC money should also be spent on “violence issues, youth suicide prevention, on experts in addiction”.
Jack Ninnes works at the Stradbroke Butcher, a young bloke with many indigenous mates who reckons a lot of those who are worried “are already pretty well off in their lives”. “They feel they’re going to have something taken away from them but I don’t think that’s the case.”
Still, talk swirls about the island of non-indigenous businesses being squeezed out, such as the honey company run by the Bowman family on the island for 40 years, and the camping gear hire business that 25-year resident, Paul Mergler, took over two years ago. Obtaining permits to operate is the sticking point, with Bowman and Mergler claiming they’ve been caught in a bureaucratic nightmare since QYAC began to be consulted about permits by state government departments under native title agreements.
QYAC got into beekeeping two years ago, with Star Entertainment helping launch the project. It popped chocolates made with the honey in celebrities’ gift bags at this year’s Logies held at Star Gold Coast. Bowman says he’s been unable to renew permits yet QYAC has them. “I think QYAC want to build an empire,” Bowman says. QYAC is keen to grow a honey business, says Costello, but has no desire to close the Bowmans down. He says Mergler was operating without a permit and QYAC had a duty to report him to Queensland Parks and Wildlife. He says QYAC works well with other commercial outdoor operators.
Then there’s Mark Jones, a Quandamooka man who is aligned with Dale Ruska’s breakaway mob. They claim sovereign ownership, unburdened by agreements with governments made under native title. “The so-called elders, they’re not my authority,” says Jones. “This is what they’ve led people to believe by setting up QYAC, that there’s one entity of control. It’s no different to what they did at the Myora Mission.”
Jones runs Straddie Adventures, a kayak and sandboarding tour company that in April was declared a Best of Queensland Experience by Tourism and Events Queensland and others. He does not have a permit, declaring “your legislation is not relevant to us”. In July, the QPWS told him to cease his tours until he gets a permit. In October, TEQ terminated his Best of Queensland rights. QYAC ensures regulations in national parks are met and, says Jones, “they’re coming in the back door to attack my business”.
Jones says Costello told him that if he’s running a commercial activity, the law says he needs a permit. Jones says it’s a cultural activity. “Cameron falls very short of understanding this stuff because he’s never lived here,” says Jones, who returned 11 years ago to the island where he grew up. “His learnings are from just listening to some of the old people. That’s their story, that’s fine. But guess what, there’s many people who have different upbringings, beliefs, stories, customs. Don’t just keep taking one side and one story.”
Jones and Ruska were dissenters against the family make-up of the Moreton Island claim, arguing that one of the 12 original families through which descendants claim title did not have bloodline connection to country. The Federal Court dismissed their case just before Moreton’s native title claim was confirmed. The action was brought after Jones and his group walked out of a Quandamooka authorisation meeting for the Moreton claim in late September. He estimates that of 380 Quandamooka who voted at the meeting, less than a quarter live on Stradbroke.
Five of QYAC’s 11 current board members, representing the 12 families, don’t live on Stradbroke, including the chair, Dr Valerie Cooms. Would they not argue they have a connection, a right to say? “Yeah, they have a right – to not open your mouth,” says Jones. “Their knowledge does not come from living on country … they’re government, that’s it, they’ve got money pouring in from government, getting grants, free money from the taxpayer”.
Costello says personal agendas drive the dissenters. He says the overwhelming support for QYAC at the authorisation meeting proves it has broad Quandamooka support. “The tribe clearly spoke.”
BACK TO COUNTRY
There’s a serenity about Evelyn Parkin, or Aunty Evelyn, that grows even gentler as she ponders her plans to visit areas of Minjerribah that have been locked off to mining for decades. “I’m 72 and there’s parts of this island I haven’t been to. To go down there and have picnics and walks, I look forward to that, knowing those fences are going to come down.”
She recalls growing up at One Mile, swimming at the creek, her childhood home of corrugated iron, the way indigenous families cared for each other, even through differences. It pains the Quandamooka elder that there are tribal divisions over native title. The agreements reached with government are not perfect, she says, but “you have to work through it”. “We wait for the time they want to walk with us, we’re all family.”
As for those who might object to changes to how the island is run, she asks one thing. “To acknowledge. To acknowledge that the Aboriginal people have a say, a big say in national parks, the beaches, the lakes. That’s a big, big thing for non-Aboriginal people who have been coming here a long time. It’s a big thing for those people to know that Aboriginal people are in control. At long last. We say at long last.”
She tracks the changes in Aboriginal empowerment; from the mission days’ subservience, to the Aboriginal rights movement of the 1960s and ’70s, to turn-of-the-century activism when “we were learning to find ourselves”. Now, she hopes for a resurgence in Quandamooka culture and the younger generations are in the box seat.
People such as Alyssa Brewster, 16, a QYAC trainee office administrator, and Emma Healey and Tallulah Mewett, both 18, who are tour guides on the whale watch boat. Brewster is thrilled she can stay on Straddie for work. “You feel a connection with the ancestors because you’re working on the island, for them,” she says.
For Healey and Mewett, having non-indigenous people thank them for their tour talks, telling them they’d learned much about the Aboriginal history on their doorstep is “the best part”. “To create inclusivity,” says Healey, “you have to create understanding which is what we can do. It’s great to be able to share my culture to the world.”
Mewett knows there’s doubt about QYAC, the end of mining, Minjerribah’s future. There are divisions in her family. But “a lot of my aunties and uncles tell me I should appreciate what’s happening because they never got that opportunity,” she says.
“This is what they wanted for us through native title; they want our culture to continue and that will be through generations like us practising it and working on country. It’s great seeing them watch us grow and experience.”
Oodgeroo Noonuccal once wrote A Song of Hope. It’s closing lines are: “To our fathers’ fathers, the pain, the sorrow; to our children’s children, the glad tomorrow.” Perhaps there’s a chance those words will become more than poetry.
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