Mutant Message Down Under (15 page)

A
S I
walked away, I knew my life would never again be as simple and as meaningful as it had been these last few months, and that a part of me would always wish it could return.

It took me most of the day to walk the distance into the city. I had no idea how I would handle getting from this place, wherever it was, back to my rental house. I could see the highway but didn't think it would be a very good idea to walk along it, so I continued through the bush. At one point I turned around to look back, and just then a gust of wind came out of nowhere. Like a giant eraser my footprints were wiped from the sand. It seemed to clean the slate of my existence in the Outback. My periodic overseer, the brown falcon, swooped over my head just as I came to the edge of the city.

There was an elderly man in the distance. He wore blue jeans, a sports shirt tucked in his thick-belted midline, and an old, well-worn, green bush hat. He did not smile as I approached; instead, his eyes widened in disbelief.

Yesterday I had everything I needed: food, clothing, shelter, health care, companions, music, entertainment, support, a family, and lots of joyful laughter—all free. But that world was now gone.

Today, unless I begged for money, I could not function. Everything required to exist had to be purchased. I had no options; I was at this moment reduced to a filthy, tattered beggar. I was a bag lady without even a bag. Only I knew the truth of the person contained within this exterior of poverty and grime. My relationship with the world's homeless was in that instant forever changed.

Approaching the Australian man, I asked, “May I borrow some change? I just came out of the bush and must make a telephone call. I have no money. If you will give me your name and address, I will repay you.”

He just continued to stare, so intently that the lines on his brow changed direction. Then he reached into his right-hand pocket, extracting the coin, while he held his nostrils closed with his left hand. I knew I had offensive body odor again. It had been about two weeks since my soapless bath in the crocodile pool. He shook his head, not interested in being repaid, and quickly walked away.

I wandered down a few streets and saw some schoolchildren gathered together. They stood awaiting the arrival of afternoon transportation home. All had the scrubbed-clean appearance typical of Australian uniform-clad youth, their clothing all identical. Only the shoes showed any sign of individual expression. They stared at my bare feet, now looking more like a hoofed mutation than a human female appendage.

I knew I looked dreadful and only hoped my appearance was not too frightening, with the scant clothing and my hair uncombed for over 120 days. The skin on my face, shoulders, and arms had peeled so often I was freckled and blotched. Besides that, I had already received confirmation that, quite bluntly, I stank!

“Excuse me,” I said. “I just came out of the bush. Can you tell me where I can find a telephone, and would any of you happen to know where the telegraph office is located?”

Their reaction was reassuring. They were not frightened, only filled with giggles and laughter. My American accent served as further foundation to the basic Aussie belief: All Americans are odd. I was advised there was a phone box two blocks away.

I called my office and asked them to wire money, and they gave me the address for the telegraph company. I walked there, and from the expressions on their faces as I arrived, they had been told to look for someone with a very unusual appearance. The clerk reluctantly released the funds to me without the required identification. As I picked up the stack of bills, she sprayed both the counter and me with a Lysol-type spray.

With money in hand I took a taxi to a large discount store and purchased slacks, shirt, rubber thongs, shampoo, hairbrush, toothpaste, toothbrush, and bobby pins. The cab driver stopped at an outdoor market, where I loaded a plastic bag with fresh fruit and bought a half dozen different kinds of juices in throwaway cartons. Then he drove me to a motel and waited until I was accepted. We both questioned if they would let me in, but money in hand seems to speak louder than questionable appearance. I turned on the bathwater and blessed the bathtub. While it filled, I called the airlines for a flight out the following day. The next three hours I spent soaking in the tub, sorting out the details of the last few years, and especially the last few months of my life.

The next day I boarded a plane, face scrubbed, hair ugly but clean, hobbling on the thongs which I had to cut and barely fit over the acquired hoof, but I smelled wonderful! I had forgotten to buy clothes with pockets, so my money was stuffed inside the shirt.

The landlady was glad to see me. I was right, she had covered with the property owners while I was gone. No problem—I just owed back payments. The wonderfully friendly Australian business owner who leased me the television and video recorder just before I left had not even sent a notice or tried to repossess his equipment. He, too, was glad to see me. He knew I wouldn't leave without returning his merchandise and settling the bill. My project was still there awaiting my attention. The healthcare participants were upset but joked and asked if I had gone opal mining instead of coming back to the office. I learned that the owner of the jeep had agreed that if Ooota and I did not return, he was to go into the desert for his vehicle and then call my employer. He told them I had gone on walkabout, which meant destination unknown and traveling on Aboriginal nontime. They had no choice but to accept my actions. No one else could complete the project, so it was still there waiting for me.

I called my daughter. She was relieved and excited to hear everything that had happened and confessed she never had a feeling of uneasiness about my disappearance. She was certain that if I had been in serious trouble, she would have sensed it somehow. I opened my accumulated mail and learned I had been dropped from the family Christmas exchange by the relative in charge! There were no excuses for not sending them Christmas gifts.

It took time soaking, using a pumice stone, and applying lotion to make my feet receptive to hose and shoes once again. At one point I used an electric knife to saw off most of the dead tissue!

I found myself being grateful for the oddest items, such as the razor that removed the growth of hair under my arms, the mattress that elevated me above miniscule jaws, a roll of toilet paper. I tried, over and over, to tell people about the tribe I had grown to love. I tried to explain about their way of life, their value system, and most of all their message of concern about the planet. Every time I read something new in the paper about the seriousness of environmental damage and the predictions of how the greenest and most lush vegetations may be burned into nonexistence, I knew it was right; the Real People tribe had to leave. They could barely function on the food available now, let alone deal with future radiation effects. They were correct that humans cannot make oxygen. Only the trees and plants can do that. In their words, “We are destroying the soul of the earth.” Our technical greed has uncovered a deep ignorance that is a serious threat to all life, an ignorance that only reverence for nature can reverse. The Real People tribe have earned the right not to continue their race on this already over-populated planet. Since the beginning of time they have remained truthful, honest, peaceful people who have never doubted their connection with the universe.

The part I did not understand was that no one I spoke to was interested in the values of the Real People. I realized that to grasp the unknown, to embrace what looks different was threatening. But I tried to explain that it may expand our awareness; it might cure our social problems; it may even cure disease. It fell on deaf ears. The Australians became defensive. Even Geoff, who had at one point hinted about marriage, could not accept the possibility that wisdom could come from bush people. He implied it was great I had experienced a once-in-a-lifetime adventure and now hoped I could settle down and accept the expected female role. Eventually I left Australia, my health-care project completed, my Real People story untold.

It seemed the next leg of my journey in life was not under my control but was being driven by the highest level of power.

On the jet returning to the United States, the man sitting next to me started up a conversation. He was a middle-aged businessman with one of those potbellies that seemed ready to burst. We chatted about numerous subjects and finally about native Australians. I told him of my experience in the Outback. He listened intently, but his concluding remarks seemed to sum up the response I had been receiving. He said, “Well, no one knew these people even existed, and if they are leaving, well so what? Frankly, I don't think anyone will give a damn! Besides that,” he added, “it's their ideas against ours, and can a whole society of people be wrong?”

For several weeks my thoughts about the wonderful Real People were gift-wrapped and sealed tightly inside my heart and behind my lips. These people had touched my life so deeply that it was almost like “casting pearls before swine” to risk the negative reaction I felt might be forthcoming. Gradually, however, I began to realize my old friends were genuinely interested. Some asked me to speak about my unique experience to groups. The response was always the same; listeners sitting spellbound, people who realize what has been done cannot be undone, but can be changed.

True, the Real People tribe were leaving, but their message is left to us, even with our gravy and cake-frosting lifestyles and attitudes. Not that we want to talk the tribe into staying, into having more children. That is none of our business. What we should care about is putting their peaceful, meaningful values into practical application. I now know we each have two lives: the one we learn by and the one we live after that. The time has come to listen to the frightened moans of our fellow brothers and sisters and indeed the earth itself in pain.

Perhaps the future of the world would be in better hands if we forgot about discovering something new and concentrated on recovering our past.

The tribe does not criticize our modern inventions. They honor the fact that human beingness is an experience of expression, creativity, and adventure. But they do believe that in seeking knowledge Mutants need to include the sentence, “If it is in the highest good for all of life everywhere.” They hope we will reevaluate our material possessions and adapt them accordingly. They also believe humankind is closer to experiencing paradise then ever before. We have the technology to feed every person in the world and the knowledge to provide a means of self-expression, self-worth, shelter, and more, for all people everywhere if we wish to do so.

With encouragement and support from my children and close friends, I began to put my Outback experience into writing and also began speaking anywhere I was invited, for civic organizations, prisons, churches, schools, and so on. The response was split. The KKK referred to me as the enemy; another white-supremacy group in Idaho put racial messages on all the cars in the parking lot at my speaking location. Some ultraconservative Christians received my lecture by telling me they believe the Outback nation to be pagans destined for hell. Four employees of a leading Australian television probe program flew to the United States, hid in a closet at a lecture, and attempted to discredit everything I said. They were certain no Aborigines had escaped the census and still lived in the wild. They called me a fraud. But a wonderful balance took place. For every nasty comment, there was someone else eager to learn about mental telepathy, how to replace weapons with illusion, and to hear in depth the values and techniques the Real People use in their lifestyle.

People ask how this experience has changed my life. My answer is, Profoundly. After I returned to the United States my father passed away. I was there holding his hand, loving and supporting him on his journey. The day after the funeral I asked my stepmother for something to remember him by—a cufflink, a tie, an old hat, anything. She refused. “There isn't anything for you,” she said. Instead of reacting with bitterness as I once might have done, I responded by mentally blessing the dear soul, and I left my parents' home for the last time, proud of my own beingness; looking up at the clear blue sky, I winked at my dad.

I now believe there would have been no lesson available to me if my stepmother had lovingly said, “Certainly. This house is full of your parents' things. Take something to remind you of your father.” That is what I expected. My growth came when I was denied what was rightfully mine and I recognized the duality. The Real People told me the only way to pass a test is to take the test. I am now at the point in my life when I can observe an opportunity to pass a spiritual test even though the situation appears very negative. I have learned the difference between observing what is taking place and judging it. I have learned that everything is an opportunity for spiritual enrichment.

Recently, someone who had heard me lecture wanted to introduce me to a man from Hollywood. It was January, in Missouri, a cold snowy night. We had dinner, and I spent hours talking while Roger and the other guests sat eating and drinking coffee. The following morning he called to discuss the possibility of making a movie.

“Where did you go last night?” he asked. “We were paying the bill, getting our coats, and saying good-bye when someone pointed out you had disappeared. We looked outside but you had just vanished; there wasn't even a footprint in the snow!”

“Yes,” I replied. My answer formed in my mind like an idea written in newly processed concrete. “I intend to spend the rest of my life using the knowledge I learned in the Outback. Everything! Even the magic of illusion!”

“I, Burnam Burnam, an Aboriginal Australian of the Wurundjeri tribe, do hereby declare that I have read every word of the book
Mutant Message Down Under
.

“It is the first book in my life's experience that I have read nonstop from cover to cover. I did so with great excitement and respect. It is a classic and does not violate any trust given to its author by us Real People. Rather it portrays our value systems and esoteric insights in such a way as to make me feel extremely proud of my heritage.

“In telling the world of your experiences, you have righted an historical wrong. In the seventeenth century the English explorer William Dampier wrote of us as being the ‘most primitive, wretched people on the face of the earth.'
Mutant Message
uplifts us into a higher plane of consciousness and makes us the regal and majestic people that we are.”

—
Letter from Burnam Burnam
,
a Wurundjeri elder