The Australian aboriginal

As full as the aboriginal legends are of poetry, so their dialects are full of music. For euphony, fullness, and vowel quality, few modern languages equal the primitive tongue; and much of the charm is derived from a natural source. Even in our own language, the vernacular name of a bird or animal is often derived from the particular call made by the creature. In Europe we have christened the cuckoo, the peewit, and the boo-book owl because of their distinctive cries; in a like sense, the central Australian natives call the bell-bird “ban-ban-balele,” the mopoke “kore-gore,” and the spur-wing plover “kurreke-tar-tar,” all three names being sounded like the natural cries of the birds themselves.

As further illustrations we might mention the Dieri and Arunndta word for kangaroo, viz. “arre,” which, one is told, is what the animal “says” when brought to bay, and the Sunday Islanders’ name for a grasshopper, “dingi-ding,” which alludes to its chirrup.

In regard to the coining of words, quite apart from the sonorous qualities the object named might possess, the aboriginal is no less inventive. The Arunndta call thunder “kwatche-ingoma,” i.e. “roaring water,” and a sharp shower of rain pattering on the ground “kwatche unndoma,” i.e. “dancing water.” What is commonly known as the milk-bush in Australia (Sarcostemma) is called “epi-epi” by the Aluridja because it exudes a milk-like sap when broken and reminds them of the female breast (“epi”). Kangaroo grass (Anthistiria) is referred to by the Arunndta as “arre-arre” because, they maintain, the red colour of its seed stalks resembles that of the marsupial. The Arunndta for the familiar beef-wood tree of central Australia is “iltjija,” meaning long fingers, the word drawing attention to the length of the leaves.

Whereas in our own language words like “choleric” have originated because the bile in a human system was supposed to beget wrath, and whereas one bushman might accuse another of being “livery” when he is ill-tempered, the Arunndta have a verb, “lunbatunbatterama,” meaning to grumble or to be sulky, in which “unba” stands for bile.

In view of the great number of Australian tribes and the multiplicity of their dialects, any attempt at linguistic generalizations would seem to be futile, when often even adjoining tribes have adopted totally different vocabularies for the most common commodities of life. As a matter of fact, the groups which build up one and the same big tribe often have considerable differences in their vocabularies. For instance, the eastern groups of the Arunndta make use of very many words and expressions which are quite foreign to the western. Yet in respect of certain words, it is known that with slight modifications their significance has carried far beyond the borders of a single tribe and has been accepted by a group of tribes living up to a few hundred miles apart.

Although the aboriginal tongue is crude in its construction, it is, nevertheless, wonderfully rich and scientifically exact. Whereas a modern language becomes very commonplace in the ordinary course of conversation, and is inclined to handle subject matter somewhat flippantly, the aboriginal system of nomenclature is both profuse and incontrovertible. During his descriptive narrations from Nature, a European rarely bothers about discriminating between objects composing one big class. If he talks of a forest, he is usually satisfied to convey the idea of a number of trees standing collectively at the site his story is dealing with; if he wishes to be exact he might specially describe the trees as pines or gums. But the aboriginal wants, and gives, more; his vocabulary, in fact, rarely includes such words as “tree,” “animal,” “meat,” or “seed”; he tells you immediately, without being specially asked, that the “tree” is a gum, the “animal” a wallaby, the “meat” that of kangaroo, and the “seed” that of the water-lily. Moreover, his verbal supply is so copious that in a single word he can tell one the name, the age, the habitat, and many characteristics.

A language without words is known to most Australian natives; thoughts and messages are communicated by means of gestures from individual to individual, and from tribe to tribe. This system is so perfect, and the code so well understood by all, that important tidings are transmitted from one centre to another in incredibly short time. The method might to a certain extent be compared with the flag-signalling of a marine; it is too complicated to be discussed in detail, but we shall select a few code signals by way of illustration.

Halloa! To attract the attention of a person whom conversation is to be taken up with, the native, standing as erect as possible, and with his legs astride, lifts his hands to his head and swings them outwards (in opposite directions), downwards, and upwards again, time after time. Whilst doing so, he calls aloud, with a shrill, piercing note, even though the other fellow be well beyond hearing distance.

Come here! Maintaining the erect position, he throws both hands upwards, to above a shoulder on one side, then sweeps them (extended) in front of his body to well behind it on the opposite side, at the same time bending his body forwards from the hips.

I am coming to you. The person places his hands upon his chest, and throws them towards the stranger.

Follow behind me. He slaps his right hand against his buttock.

Stop or stay there. The arms are held, bent at the elbows, at each side of the body, with the open palms of the hands turned towards the distant man, and vertical circles are described with them in that position.

Go that way. He points the index finger in the required direction and jerks the hand forwards several times.

A woman. He places his hands over his breasts.

Kangaroo. The hand is passed, with successive semi-circular movements, indicating the hopping, from one side of the body to the other.

A snake. The hand is moved forwards in a wavy line.

I can see. He touches one or both eyes with his hand.

Dead man. Throws his head back and extends his arms laterally upwards.

A man. He strokes his chin.

I can hear. He points to his ear.

To kill. The palms of the hands are placed together and moved as if striking an object.

Emu. Bends the fingers of one hand at right angles to palm and sways the arm to and fro.

Sleeping. He lays his head upon the palm of a hand.

Sitting. He points to the ground.

Running. His legs are moved in a running fashion.

Hungry. He draws in his abdomen and shows his ribs.

An intricate system of sign language is carried on by movements of the hands and fingers when the natives are at close enough range for the signals to be visible. The following are a few of the more common signs used every day by the Arunndta tribe:

To call the attention of a person, a man holds his open hand in front of his face, with the palm towards him, and drops it again. The sign having been acknowledged, a mutual exchange of gesture correspondence is indulged in, by means of which an almost inexhaustible number of ideas can be communicated in the form of coherent “speech.” The following few signs (most of which are sketched on page 391, Fig. 57) may be taken as typical of a vocabulary which in its entirety is both elaborate and intricate:

In the course of conversation, an aboriginal aids his speech by gesticulation. When inclined to be cheerful, he smiles and laughs in a decidedly refreshing sort of way, and often smacks his lips out of sheer pleasure, but when his feelings have been ruffled and he is angry, he pouts out his lips and does not hesitate to let you know how he feels. He betrays his feelings by most apparent tone inflections in his voice. He frequently nods his head to indicate assent, but rarely shakes his head to betoken dissent. When in doubt over any matter, especially in answer to a question, he shrugs his shoulders. His hands are used a great deal during conversation. If he wishes to give one an idea of nearness, the finger is directed to the ground a short way off, and if distance is implied the finger points to the horizon.

In reply to a question concerned with the location of a thing, he does not point, as a European would, but turns his face in the direction he wants to indicate and thrusts out his lips. When beckoning with his hand, an aboriginal does not move his hand upwards towards his face as we do, but passes it downwards with a scooping action. The course a traveller has taken, or an animal decamped in, is indicated by extending an arm in the direction and snapping the fingers.

A native has a very good idea of time. The hour at which a past event has happened, or at which a coming event is to happen, is indicated by pointing at the assumed altitude of the sun. To fix a time definitely for a contemplated or proposed action, a stone is placed upon a cliff, or in the fork of a tree, at the hour decided upon, a day or two in advance, in such a position that a sunbeam just strikes it at the moment. When the correct day arrives, the stone is watched until it is again illumined in the same way; and the natives then know that it is time to act. This method is employed when, say, the men have left camp early, and they order the women to follow them at a later hour.

Days are reckoned by the number of sleeps they have had, and the biggest measurement of time goes by so many moons.

When he comes to computing numbers, his fingers are of the greatest service to him, and at times his toes as well. An aboriginal is not a mathematician, and his vocabulary does not contain running series of numerals. The usual method of counting low figures is after the following pattern of the King Sound natives:

• “arra” (one).
• “kwiarra” (two).
• “kwiarra arra” (three).
• “kwiarra kwiarra” (four).

Beyond four, counting either goes by “hands” or “feet,” or for ordinary purposes there are two comprehensive words in use which signify a “small-large number” and a “large-small number.” In some cases, such as the Aluridja, “one” (“goitarada”) appears as the diminutive form of “two” (“goitara”). In the same sense, a shorter distance is expressed by the Wongapitcha as the diminutive of a great distance by qualifying the word “wurnma,” meaning “far,” by affixing “wimuggitta,” which means “young.” Hence “wimuggitta wurnma” reads the “young (one) of far,” i.e. “close up.” This is really the same way of expressing a fraction of space as the same tribe has adopted for expressing minority in age; a youth or young man is known as “wimuggitta wardi,” the second word “wardi” standing for an adult man.

The Dieri of the Lake Eyre region have one of the most elaborate systems of numeration, which includes, at any rate, an expression for every number up to eleven.

• “kulno,” one.
• “mandru,” two.
• “parkulu” or “parkulintja,” three.
• “mandru mandru,” four.

• “mandru ja parkulintja,” five.
• or “marra warra kulno,” five, i.e. hand part one (one hand).
• “marra pirri kulno,” six.
• “marra pirri mandru,” seven.
• “marra pirri parkulintja,” eight.
• “marra pirri mandru mandru,” nine.
• “marra warra mandru” ten, i.e. hand parts two (two hands).
• “tjinna pirri kulno,” eleven.
• “marrapu,” many.
• “mörla marrapu,” very many.

In the above table the following explanations will be found useful:

• “ja” = and.
• “marra” = hand.
• “tjinna” = foot.
• “warra” = part.
• “pirri” = nail (toe or finger).

Thus the reading of the numerals runs: One, two, three, two-two (four), two and three (five), or one hand part (five), hand finger-nails one (six), hand finger-nails two (seven), hand finger-nails three (eight), hand finger-nails four (nine), two hand parts (ten), foot toe-nails one (eleven).

To imply a repetition or continuance of action, the frequent use of the same verb is avoided by the Sunday Islanders, but the same effect is achieved by reiterating the word “garra” indefinitely. The expression of continued action is usually in the present tense and is mostly applied to words like “running,” “walking,” “jumping,” “sleeping,” “raining,” “blowing,” “bleeding,” etc., etc. For example, a man from a tree or other look-out might be describing to his companions below, the doings of their hunting party out on the plain; while the latter keep moving, he conveys the fact to his hearers by ejaculating “garra, garra, garra, ...” The direction of the hunters’ movements is indicated by the swing of his hand. The moment the observer in the tree stops saying “garra,” the people below know that the hunters have ducked or have temporarily ceased the pursuit.

The terminal syllable of a word is never uttered very clearly by an aboriginal; and it is consequently difficult to distinguish between a short e, a, o, or u. This is particularly true of the language used by the old men, the defectiveness being often increased by the gaps between the incisors resulting from the initiation ceremonies.

There are occasions, however, when the last syllable receives especial emphasis. The Wongapitcha word for plenty is “ura”; when the idea of plenty is great the word becomes “ura-ku,” with an intentional intonation upon the “ku”; and when the plenty is extraordinary, the word receives yet another syllable and becomes the superlative “ura-ku-pu.”

The simple affirmative of the Aluridja, which has also been adopted by the Arunndta, is “o,” less commonly “u”; but when strong affirmation is intended the word is changed to “owa,” or “owau.”

The ordinary negative of the Arunndta is “itja”; but forcibly expressed this may become “itjama” or “itjingalai.”

Any sudden exclamation or accidental noise, like a cough or sneeze, might be exaggerated by the addition of a syllable at the end. When a Sunday Islander sneezes he makes a word out of the natural noise sounding like “Tish-e!”

An exclamation which is common practically to all Australian tribes, and may express surprise, fear, pain, or disgust, is a very liquid “irr.” The Arunndta have strengthened this monosyllabic cry by giving it the suffix “ai”; nowadays the word is, however, mostly pronounced “Yerrai!” A variety of the last-named, but not quite so forceful, is “Yakai!” A sudden fright or the anticipation of harm might produce a very short “i,” without any indication of the presence of the liquid consonant.

Appreciation is indicated by “Aha!” or “Hm-hm!” practically throughout the central and northern districts of Australia; in both cases special emphasis is applied to the second syllable.

A central Australian exclamation calling one to order or attention in a somewhat harsh manner is “Wai!” When one person is being irritated by another, such as a parent by a whining child, the offender is thus rebuked. This word may also become a suffix; it may be combined, for instance, with the radical “irr” and produce a word “Yirrawai,” which is perhaps the strongest in a sense of disgust and reproach available in the Arunndta tongue.

Standing at the end of an adjective, the expression “’n-dora” in the same dialect signifies a great or superlative degree; e.g. “marra” means “nice,” but “marr’n-dora” a conception more like “excellent.” In the opposite sense, “kurrina” (bad) becomes “kurrina’n-dora” (worst). The same suffix can be attached to an adverb. When, say, an emphatic denial is needed, “itja” (no) takes the form of “itja’n-dora.”

There are numerous other syllables, which, when fixed to the end of a word, convey a special significance. When, in the Arunndta, the syllable “tu” is added to a person’s name in address, it really stands in place of a sentence like “Is it not so?” For instance, “Nani knulia atoa utnuriraka, Endola-tu?” when literally translated reads: “This dog man bit Endola, is it not so?” Endola is the name of a woman who is being addressed. In place of “tu,” the longer form of “ditjekwi” might be used.

Again, the suffix “lo” is found in daily use in the same dialect; it stands for the phrase: “Where is?” Hence the completed sentence, “Kwatche-lo?” stands for “Where is the water?”

When one finds “jara” added to a word, plurality is indicated, the sense conveyed being that many of the kind specified by the noun are assumed. The word for girl in the Arunndta is “kware,” consequently “kwarenjara” means that a number of girls are being considered, the “n” being simply interposed for the sake of euphony.

Any proper noun, like the name of a person, may be modified by adding “ia” to it, and, by so doing, one makes it a term of endearment in the vocative case. “Ware” ordinarily means “boy,” but by altering it to “waria” (i.e. “ware-ia”), the meaning becomes “dear boy” or “O boy.”

If the terminal “a” of a substantive is found to be changed to “inna,” the diminutive of the original is implied. A somewhat common name for a woman in the Arunndta is “Unnruba,” but during the years of childhood of a bearer of this name, the appellation is always in the form of “Unnrubinna”; in later years this changes to “Unnruba” more or less automatically.

A diminutive sense is also conveyed by duplicating an original word. In the eastern Aluridja dialect “kaitji” means an ordinary spear, whereas “kaitji-kaitji” is an expression applied to a toy spear. The Dieri recognize a Supreme Being whom they call “Mura”; any one of their numerous demi-gods, however, from whom they trace their descent is referred to as a “Mura-Mura.”

Alterations in the ending of a verb indicate different moods and tenses. The verb “to come” in the Arunndta is “pitchima”; its inflections and their meanings will become apparent from the following short sentences:

• “Pitchai arrekutcha!” Come here, old woman!
• “Pitchikarrerai arrekutch’njara!” Come here, old women!
• “Arrekutcha pitchama.” The old woman is coming.

• “Arrekutcha pitchika.” The old woman came (or has come).
• “Arrekutcha pitchichinna.” The old woman will come.

If we replace the verb “pitchima” by “lama” (“to go”), the inflections, taken in the same order as above, become: “lai,” “larrirai,” “lakama,” “laka,” “litchinna.”

An adverb which finds considerable application in the Arunndta is “kalla,” indicating the completion of any deed or action. Most frequently the nearest translation would be supplied by the English word, “already.” If, therefore, we again consider one of the above sentences and interpose the word “kalla,” the meaning is strengthened considerably: “Arrekutcha kalla pitchama” then means “The old woman is already coming.” But “kalla” might further convey the sense of repletion. “Einga knullia kalla kwatche n’ dai” would mean, literally translated, “I dog enough water gave.” And finally “kalla” might express the completion of an action. A native, after losing the track of an animal, or having eaten as much as he wants, might be heard to say “kalla,” meaning “finished.” Finally “kalla” might even stand for “dead.” We have already noted a similar word in the vocabulary of the Sunday Islanders, viz. “Kaleya,” meaning “finish” or “good-bye.”

The personal pronouns are either used as separate words in a sentence, or they appear as prefixes to the principal verbs.

In the Arunndta, the following are used:

• “einga,” I; “nuka,” mine; “eingana,” me.
• “unda,” thou; “unguranga,” thine; “ngana,” thee.
• “era,” he; “ekurra,” his; “erinna,” him.
• “nuna,” we; “nunaka,” ours; “nungana,” us.
• “rankara,” you; “rakankara,” yours; “rankarana,” you.
• “etna,” they; “etnaka,” theirs; “etnana,” them.

As an illustration let us translate: “I like the boy”; we should have to transpose the words into the following order, “I boy like,” and the Arunndta would be: “Einga ware unjinum.” On the other hand, we might select the Sunday Island dialect as an example in which prefixes are used for representing the personal pronouns. The first personal prefix is “nun,” the second “min,” and the third “il” or “n’.” If, therefore, we take a simple verb like “jakuli” to “break,” we have:

• “nunjaluki,” I break.
• “minjaluki,” you break.
• “iljaluki” or “n’jaluki,” he breaks.

The third person plural is represented by “punjanga n’”; hence “punjanga n’jaluki” stands for “they (altogether) break.”

Whereas we have seen that an “n” might be interposed between two words for the sake of euphony, it no less frequently happens that two or more words are contracted into one for similar reasons. If, to quote a simple case, we wish to translate into Arunndta “You give (it) me,” we have three separate words, “unda” (you), “nuka” (me), and “dai” (give), which in the above expression are fused into one word, “nukundai.”

Apart from the full and pure vowel sounds, the Australian aboriginal dialects include the modified sounds expressed by the German diphthongs, œ, äu, and ue (i.e. the French u). The pairs of consonants, p and b, k and g, and t and d, are often interchanged during speech. Sibilant sounds are extremely rare. My own name was very difficult, if not impossible, for the Aluridja to pronounce; the best they could make of it was “Battedu.” So, also, the imported pet name of the domestic cat, “pussy-pussy,” as it is used by the settlers, cannot be managed. The Aluridja call it “putte-putte,” and the Arunndta “put-pudtha.”

Let us look into the construction of the Aluridja personal pronouns a little more carefully. Every pronoun consists of a stem, which is different for every person, and an ending, which varies with the case.

The stems are:

• First person, singular, “naiu”; plural, “nganan.”
• Second person, singular, “nuntu”; plural, “nurangari.”
• Third person, singular, “balu”; plural, “tana.”

And the endings are as follows:

• Genitive, “-ba.”
• Dative, “-lukuru.”
• Accusative, “-na.”
• Ablative, “-languru” (from), or “-lawana” (with).

A simple sentence embodying three pronouns would be: “Naiulu tanalawana nuntulukura ngalierra,” which, literally translated, reads: “I with them to you have come.”

A few of the Arunndta interrogatives are:

• “Ewunna?” What? or What is it?
• “Unndana?” Where?
• “Nguna?” Which?
• “Ngula?” Who?
• “Ntakinya?” How many?

The aspirate is very occasionally met with. The local group of the Arunndta, residing at Arltunga, which styles itself “Herrinda,” is one of the few exceptions. Even in the settled districts, where the natives have adopted European names, one christened “Harry” is usually spoken of as “Yarri.” The sounds which are most commonly aspirated are the exclamations, e.g. “Hai!” “Aha,” and “Hm-hm!”

Used in conjunction with a vowel, usually an “a,” the consonantal combination “ng” is common to all Australian dialects. Although to the modern tongue a little difficult to master, the sound is strikingly fluent with the aboriginal; indeed, its frequent inclusion in words of fundamentally simple origin suggests a primitive, natural derivation. Along the north-western coast, the words for “water” are “ngawa” (Wave Hill), “ngauwa” (Humbert River), “kornga” (Sunday Island).

In the Arunndta, “nga” stands for either “Here you are!” “There!” or “Take it!” all phrases being used in the sense of offering something to a person, such as mother to infant. “Ngaboni” is a modified form of the last-named, having any of the following meanings: “Here!” “Look!” or “Behold!” And “ngarai” is yet another modification of similar significance, usually placed immediately behind the object it is desired to draw attention to, e.g. “Arre ngarai!” (Look at the kangaroo).

Verbal greetings, akin to our “Good-day!” are rarely, if ever, made use of by natives when they meet; but some of the tribes recognize an orthodox term of salutation at partings, as indicating a friendly feeling which the speaker bears towards the person he is on the point of leaving. The Mulluk-Mulluk and some of their neighbours on the Daly River have adopted the word “mummuk” to express their farewell, whilst the Sunday Islanders’ vocabulary includes a similar expression in the word “tchorrogu.”

An alarm, such as we would raise in the form of “Look out!” or “Get out of the way!” is rendered by the Arunndta “Par-le!”

There are numerous examples which could be mentioned of words appearing in an aboriginal dialect which have a striking resemblance to European words of modern and ancient languages, which at this stage of our knowledge of primitive tongues must be recorded as curiosities rather than linguistic analogies. One of the most remarkable, perhaps, is the Arunndta for head, viz. “kaputa”; but to connect this in any way with the Latin word would be as unreasonable as calling the “patriarchal” type of aboriginal a semite.

It is, therefore, not my intention to suggest anything beyond mere coincidence, and it lies far from my mind to attempt theorizing upon little evidence, yet it must be admitted that similarities in points of evolution and culture, no matter how trivial and accidental they may be, are not without interest. Viewed entirely in this light, there is no harm in mentioning one or two similarities which exist between certain words of the Australian dialects and those of other tongues, articulate or otherwise.

Affirmation is expressed in the Cambridge Gulf district by “yau,” “yo-au,” or “yowai.” During latter years, the same expression has found its way south, even as far as the MacDonnell Ranges, where it has largely replaced the original form of “owa.” In the adjoining coastal districts of the Northern Territory, a similar word is in use as well as one which sounds more like the German “ja.” It is of more than passing interest to note that throughout the Malay Archipelago “yo-au” or “yowai” is the principal form of affirmation in use among the local primitive peoples. It is not unlikely, therefore, that the early Macassan trepang fishers, who used to visit the north coast of Australia long before the white man arrived, brought this word along with them.

We find, also, that the consonantal expression, “ng,” combined with a vowel sound, is common among other primitive languages. Professor Garner, too, has found it included in the inarticulate “speech” of apes in the form of a note indicating satisfaction, which can be represented by “ngkw-a.” The speculative mind naturally wonders whether this simian cry of satisfaction is perhaps fundamentally of similar, though independent, phonetic origin to the northern Australian word for water, the essential of life, which we noted above is “ngawa.”

The di-syllabic muttering of a European child-in-arms, moreover, which the happy parents flatter themselves sounds like “pa-pa” or “ma-ma,” is equally characteristic of the aboriginal babe, but the parents in the latter case interpret the note to be “nga-nga.” And, indeed, the Arunndta mother responds by handing the infant the fluid it needs, while she caressingly soothes it with the simple little word “Nga,” which in our own language would be equivalent to the sentence, “Here you are!”