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Thinking

If you don't like reading, don't go to law school.

I'd been told that a dozen times over the past eighteen months. I'm in the "bore you to death" part of law school's three year cycle: scare you to death, work you to death, bore you to death. I began reading the Australian Indigenous Law Review online. Everything discussed seemed so sad. Every attitude since 1788, even the best-intentioned, seemed to be off. Each activity went awry.

The same thing could happen that happened to the American Indians, being a ward of the government was better for them short-term, but destroyed their work ethic and social structure. I suppose that's happening already.

The Linnean had a paper on Australian ethnomedicine a few years ago [V. 21 • No. 4 • October 2005]. It was good but there was so much that I knew wasn't quite right. As I recalled, it said something like:

Traditional tribal healers, called 'Nungungi' in some language groups of Central Australia, are identified as such whilst still young children and are given special education in the healing arts. Medical ethnobotany is currently practised widely by Aboriginal Australians and is a living profession. In littoral, coastal and inland communities, a sick individual will consult a family member and use local ethnobotanical remedies as the usual and normal method of treating disease symptoms. If these persist, the patient usually then consults a local healer. In the central arid regions of Australia, such healers are called "Nungungi". Their professional knowledge is extensive. In parallel Australian cities of the twenty-first century, some 60 percent of European patients also seek the advice of their local pharmacist as their first professional medical consultation for the alleviation of the symptoms of most ailments.

Yes and no. A nungungi is a tribal healer. But more. Warning about that mine collapse was "healing" where Alf was concerned; just as Mum's curing Jimmy of dengue was. Her role is paramedical healing; mine is juridical and societal. [see "Visiting Queensland"]

The old Kullila healer – the kangaroo – had said I would be "a doctor." Mum and dad both recalled that. Was I doing the wrong things? If I was astray, why wasn't I being guided by the Serpent or by Biami? Or was I headed for a doctorate in law? What did doctor denote to a Kullila nungungi? I felt like Kim, wondering who he was.

When Rachel got home I was quite stiff. I must have been sitting, entranced, for at least three hours.

"Are you OK?"

"Just stiff. I've been thinking."

"Want me to rub your back?"

"Oh, yes! Can I tell you about my day?"

I told her about my visit to UNSW and about my thoughts after getting home.

"Well, going backwards, I think that 'doctor' in southwest Queensland meant a person who made things better – not merely things that have to do with human health. Secondly, you shouldn't let yourself get depressed: if there weren't things that really needed to be remedied, you'd have no purpose. Third, there's no point getting your knickers in a twist before you see the Dean on Thursday. And fourth, where do you want to go for dinner?"

"Wow! What do you charge?"

"You couldn't afford it. Answer my question!"

"Fish or sushi."

"Very well. Sushi, then."

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Kimberly might not have been drunk, but she certainly wasn't sober. Stumbling from the car with her bag in one hand, and her coat in the other, she stopped, directly in front of the headlights. Lifting her skirt up, she wiggled her ass at me. Giggling loudly, as only the slightly tipsy can, she ran off to the side of the road, and did it again. I was torn. I could sit there and stare at her long legs, black panties carelessly uncovered, smile almost painted on her face. I could. For hours....

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