November 2020
Bayini. According to stories I have been told by Yolngu from North East Arnhem Land, Bayini is a Yirritja moiety spirit-being (some call her a ghost), who walks the landscape in and around Yalangbara, Port Bradshaw. Dhulmumiya (Spring Camp), is one of these places, its located across the bay from Yalangbara and Bawaka, near Dhanaya outstation.
Bayini has golden white skin, and has long, long hair, and a reputation for stealing the shiny metal jewellery of the living people she encounters. She is also known to be jealous of women and wants to steal the young men to take as husbands. Bayini is benevolent, however, as she looks after the land with deep love.
The story goes that she was a Macassan woman who got thrown overboard the ship she was on. Other stories, in anthropological accounts, speak of her as a light-skinned woman who arrived in Port Bradshaw by canoe and got marooned as her anchor got caught under a rock and claimed by the sand. I haven’t heard if or how she perished, but I can imagine, with all the crocodiles and sharks in the waters here, what might have happened. Or not.
Other tales in Arnhem Land speak of the Bayini (or Baijini) as a people, families of light-skinned seafarers that pre-date the Macassans. Some speak of them as whalers (totem hunters) and dugong fishermen and others suggest that they are also trepang catchers like the later Sulawesi-based Macassan fishermen (groups consisting mainly of men), or they could be families of sea-gypsies from China or Singapore. It is said that the Bayini people were of a different mindset to the trepang industry-based Macassan traders, much more inclusive and aligned with the cosmology and way of being of the Yolngu people, and danced alongside them on the beaches. Many Yolngu ceremonies included the stories of the Bayini, holding a deep message of what has been termed “Bayini for Bayini and Yolngu for Yolngu”. This symbolised a way of walking where the individual identity of each group was held intact but both existed in a space of mutuality. Dancing the story of the Bayini was seen a reminder of sovereignty, where the Yolgnu belong to the land – always have, and always will – and the story of the Bayini was imprinted by ceremony into the the living cultural landscape.
As a central mythical figure, or ancestor in this area, Bayini is symbolised by the anchor and chain – as you can see on the clan flags in my videos and pictures of the funeral space for Old Man Emu. The anchor and the chain is also very evident in some of the bunggul ceremonial dances and songs, or manikay, and I have been told they are related to “Bayini”, though I’m not quite sure exactly what they refer to; Bayini the woman, or Bayini the people.
At the funeral, the paternal grandsons slept in the bower shed with the body of old man emu, as it rested in the freezer box under his special yellow-and-blue-painted coffin. At night, they made sure that all crevices, like the horizontal space under the door after it had been shut, would be covered up, by pushing sand up against the door and sealing the opening. Why? you might ask. Well they were afraid that Bayini would come and get them at night. And steal their jewellery.
It has turned out that Bayini is a strong figure for me, as I engage wholeheartedly in the incredible experience of Yolngu culture. I guess I am a woman with golden white skin, and long, long hair, after all! So, it’s no surprise that I have a story with Bayini. Perhaps it’s part of why I am here, on this earth. I do have a very strong way of engaging with larger-than-life myths. So. Here’s my story, and I’m sure its only the beginning of a bigger story that will still reveal itself over time and immersion into cultural space.
I sing. Often. Harmonics, polyphonics, overtones. Healing tunes. This is something that started for me at the beginning of this crazy covid year, in shamanic space in South Africa, after a traditional Amazonian pepper ceremony, for opening the voice. I had laughed and said ‘I don’t sing, my voice isn’t beautiful enough’. But. The universe had other plans, and gifted me a tune, and a way to sing it. In harmonics. So, I was singing to a nearly-dead turtle under a tree on the beach, watched by a few curious kids, a woman and the old songman : brother of old man emu, father’s side. ‘What are you singing?’ the woman asked. “I’m singing the turtle’s (miyapunu’s) soul back to the dreamtime, sending it love, and thanking it for giving its life up so that everyone can eat of its nourishing flesh”. She nodded. The old man watched. It was a special moment.
Later that week, I found myself again under a tree at the beach, this time scraping yellow dye off roots, a Yolngu cultural practice done in preparation for dying pandanus leaves for weaving. The usual for me, right? Indeed. Anyway, a boat turns up, with people on it. One of these people was a traditional owner of Bawaka outstation across the bay. You’ve heard of Bawaka, right? Yes you have, earlier in this piece, the place where that Bayini legend went down, long long time ago. “Hi”, he said, telling me his name. He was a strong cultural leader I’d heard of a few times before, and had hoped to meet for a while already. “My wife’s a weaver”, he said, and introduced me to her too. How lovely! I thought, as we smiled at each, shared some words other and exchanged good energy. I continued scraping dye, and I sang a little, like I had to the turtle, happy in my skin.
“Maybe later you can sing with me”, he said, as I got up to go back to camp. I realised that he was referring to playing clapsticks as I sang! Really? I’m just new at this singing thing and I noticed with that thought, a wave of shyness creep up on me. But… “I’d love to!” I replied.
Later, we were all sitting under the tree again, taking shelter from the hot afternoon sun. Me, stripping pandanus fibre this time. The families, stretching out lazily in the heat, enjoying the day. I started singing out loud as I pulled the fibre gently apart, a meditation in motion, softly, gently, with deep focus. Huu, uuu huuu, uuu huuu, uuu huuu, huuu. The tunes emerged from my throat in flow, raw base tones merging together fluidly with their audible harmonic overtones. Just as I had been guided to do, since way back in South Africa, and every day since. Medicine songs, healing tunes. ‘Rainbow sound’, I call it, like singing between worlds; universes, planets – dimensions, even.
Bunggul started, I got up to leave. And this is where Bayini popped into the scene.
“I really loved your songs”, he said. “It’s like the sound is floating through my head like a dream… coming from nowhere, just singing in my head. I could sleep all day listening to that song!” “Well”… I said. “Before you go to sleep, I have a story for you. The kids here have been asking if I am Bayini”, and I unfurled my long hair out of its usual bun, to show the reason why. “But”, I told him, “I always say: ‘Yaka (no) – I’m not Bayini!’”
The rest of the family under the tree were now alert and listening to my story too. “I’m not Bayini – my skin name is Galikali – that means I’m Dhuwa moeity, and Bayini is Yirritja! I can’t be Bayini, because she’s my mum!!!” Now all the family nodded their heads in assent. “Yes, of course – Bayini is Yirritja, and you’re Dhuwa! Yo, yo. You’re right”. They were now all listening with interest. “But!” I added, “I say to the kids: When I die, my spirit is going to come back to this country and you will be able to see me sometimes, maybe if you’re lucky. I’m not like my mum, like Bayini. I’m not a cheeky or jealous one, I’m coming back and all you mob will know I’m here because you will hear me singing, singing, singing into the land, into your heads and into your hearts. Just like that song floating through your head like a dream, I will be heard. And… I’ll be singing songs of healing”.
Then I stopped. Took a breath, and considered my audacity in telling this story to the traditional owner of the land that forever holds the myth of Bayini, the white-skinned, long-haired woman. Not sure what to expect. He looked up at me as I was standing next to him sitting under the shade of that tree, and he opened his arms.“I really like your story. Come and give me a hug”…
“And maybe”, I winked as I walked off afterwards, “it’s not just a story”.
And there I am, the weaver soul walking through this body of René. Having the time of my life. Singing my song. My heart’s truth making pure expression into the cultural space, the mythical landscape, as I take part in this wondrous illusion. My imprint unfolding into, through and beyond the magnetic world of manifest reality, alongside other magnificent souls.
PS. I did get asked again, by another brother of old man emu, to sing with him as he played his clapsticks, but universe had other plans. I rest in the knowledge that these things take time to be in their best place, that a seed has been planted, that this story has not yet finished. The myth of Bayini’s daughter, Banumbirr* the morning star, has only just begun.
“The story of Barnumbirr (Morning Star), depicting the first death in the Dreamtime, is the beginning of Maḏayin, the cycle of life and death”.
And hear this:
My name: René means ‘reborn’, Bahloo means ‘dying’.
and…
*Banumbirr is my given culture name. For real.
