"Several killin's were performed in these shoes," Billy continued, "but the karadji man doesn't always spear the criminal. The victim knows the executioner is always watching but he never knows when the blow will be struck."

Depending on the crime, the executioner might play with the fellow, leave signs that he'd been there while the criminal slept, move his things, or take something and return it another night. All these actions tell the victim the karadji could have killed him but left it for another day.

Ancient stalkers. The psychological warfare made the victim become obsessed with death. Rather than suffer the agony of awaiting the final blow, many people just wasted away. Often they met with an "accident" of their own design.

The young man asked what kinds of crimes could be punishable by death.

"Oh, lots of things," Billy said. "Rape, murder, if ya hurt a child or molest it...stuff like that."

"Is that the only type of punishment?" he asked.

"Oh, no. There's all sorts depending on the crime. Beatings, splinters up under the fingernails, stuff like that. You don't want to hear any more."

Billy paused only a moment before moving to the base of the tree. He fished through a tattered box. Before he showed us this prize, he offered a serious warning.

"You can both look but only the bloke here can touch. These are men's objects. Even though you're not a tribal member, they have such a strong curse I would be afraid for you if you broke tradition."

He produced a pair of slippers woven from human hair and feathers.

"I keep them hidden so tribal women won't see them. These belonged to the karadji man, the fellow responsible for enforcing punishments handed down by the elders. If an Aboriginal women saw these she'd probably run away screaming."

He tossed one of the flat, grey shoes to the ground before rolling his foot onto the slipper. Then he gingerly peeled it from the ground, careful not to disturb the dirt beneath.

The slipper had left hardly any imprint in the dust, and soon the wind would sweep even that away. The victim never knows where his tormenter comes from or where he goes because there are never any tracks.

After learning about the Stolen Generation, I mentioned to an Aussie that while I had been greeted warmly I was unsure how a black tourist would be treated.

He felt that black Canadians, Americans and Europeans were afforded the same courtesies I had enjoyed. Africans and Jamaicans fared well but were considered inferior. Australian blacks ranked last.

Apparently the kinds of experiences Billy had suffered during his youth were still alive and well Down Under. The young American and I sat silently after hearing him speak. We were concussed by Billy's words, prostrated by this intensely personal confidence, this damning condemnation of a government that had attempted genocide.

His tale was all the more horrifying due to Billy's age. He appeared to be in his early or mid-forties, younger than my father, not so much older than myself. How could this have happened so recently?  I had fled an America I had found increasingly intolerant to find the enduring parallel of our own hatred.

As the rest of the audience hurried away after the lecture, a young American asked Billy's opinion on a few things. Billy soon spoke of his youth.

He had grown up at a time when the Australian government had thought children of mixed race would be better raised in white households.

He and many other children had been forcibly removed from their families, split apart from siblings and raised in foster care. They had been denied information about their biological families.

Since the welfare department had snatched children from camps when the parents were out gathering food, the information probably had not even been recorded.

After a life spent between two worlds, Billy had traced his family back to the Alice. His brothers and mother had already regrouped but Billy had rejoined his family just two weeks after his father had died.

The Australian government had not repealed laws against the Aboriginal population until after World War II and had not lifted its restrictions on non-white immigration until 1973. From 1918 through the late 1960s those with dark skin were officially considered incapable of raising a family.

The charming aura of 1950s innocence and naiveté in daily Australian life which had so bemused me included that decade's hidden underbelly of oppression.

Billy explained the Aboriginal concept of time. Even now many tribes follow their own rhythm, something a non-native might think is a total lack of concern for the passing hours and days. To understand this, he said to look not only at cultural differences but the weather.

The extreme heat of summer doesn't encourage vigorous activity. In fact, Aborigines tend to think white men are crazy to rush around in the middle of the day.

"You won't see any tribal people that silly," he said. "They have a siesta in the shade for a few hours and labor in the evening. And they don't just sit there while it's hot. The oral tradition is strong. They teach the young, pass along Dreamtime stories or trade news."

He talked about a film producer who asked him to round up some of the locals so he could record them dancing. They came, all right, but hours late. They sat on the ground and chanted and sang to warm up before the performance. And that went on for almost four hours.

That producer eventually shot his footage, all three minutes of it. He was out of his head with anger. Billy told him that if he wanted to see some lively dancing he'd better take his camera north or out to Queensland where the vegetation's thick. Tribes in the central region worked too hard to survive to waste energy on elaborate celebrations.

The docent Billy passed around traditional items to aid his lecture. The nulla nulla or fighting stick had been fashioned from the ironwood tree, a hardwood that attracts lightening. The nulla nulla was used for digging the ground or pounding food.

A sharp flint inserted in the end might have been used in battle to cut the enemy but more often had sliced open game. The animals would have been thrown onto the fire whole to singe the hair and the blade wouldn't have been used until the meat was partially cooked.

"Before the rifle," Billy mused, "kangaroos were trapped by their own curiosity. A hunter crouched behind a rock or scrub chucked boomerangs close enough to the animal to catch its interest. The roo wouldn't notice other hunters creeping up from behind with their spears." 

 An outdoor museum called Pitchi Richi was the final stop on my list of Alice attractions. Agricultural equipment and water tanks from Australia's colonization were preserved on the lawns.

Magnificent flowers burgeoned before the house, the most spectacular of which was the Stuart's Desert Pea. The vine bloomed an elongated flower like a split, red pea pod with a large black swelling at the middle.

The highlight of the day was a demonstration of boomerang and spear throwing, bullwhip cracking and didgeridoo playing by a man named Billy. He dug damper fresh from the pit oven and sawed off the dirt and burned bits. The sweet, thick slices of bread perfectly set off the tang of melted butter.

When the water boiled he threw a handful or two of loose tea into the billy, or metal bucket. After a few minutes, a sharp rap on the side of the bucket sank most of the tea leaves.

"Some old jackaroos," Billy mused, speaking of Aussie ranch hands, "swear you can clear the leaves by swinging the billy over your head. 'Course, none of them jackaroos would show me, exactly, and I never did have a mind to douse myself with boiling water." 

"Excuse me!"  A woman charged across the clearing to my campsite. She stopped just short of bulldozing me with her ample hips.

"Can we share this space?" She waved at two vehicles puttering nearby. "There isn't another clear spot left."

"Sure, come on over," I replied.

The spot was rocky and the Kombi wasn't a 4WD. Besides, a bit of company sounded like an appealing change from my long evenings of solitude.

My fingers paused above the typewriter's keys. I was hesitant to return to work while the woman still eyed me expectantly. The seconds ticked by and my welcoming smile became strained. Finally she spoke.

"You'll have to move these things."  She flapped her hands to indicate my cooler, my chair, my typewriter, myself.

"It's a tight fit and we want to park there."  She pointed firmly to the opposite side of my fire pit. I don't know why she chose the narrow strip of ground over the more spacious clearing in which she stood but I obliged.

The car squeezed around the rocks and rattled its valves a final time as it wheezed to a thankful stop. The woman turned to me again.

"You'll have to move your car," she said. "We park side by side and your car is in the way."

"And where do you suggest I move it?"

"Over there."  Her hand flapped dismissively at the craggy landscape.

"I'm afraid it's not 4WD."

"Well, just move that, then." 

Flap, flap, this time at my tent.

"If you move that," flap, "you can move the car there," flap, "then we can park there." 

"Daaaaaahling," called the driver, "just move and I'll park there."

"Where?"

"There. Where you're standing."

"I don't want to park here. I want to park over there."  She pointed firmly at some imaginary patch of clear ground.

"There's no room there. If you'll just move, I'll park where you're standing." 

"But I don't want to park here."  She jabbed her finger at the ground, any easy flapping long dismissed in this battle of wills. "I want it over there!"

I glanced at the people in the first van. The driver gripped the wheel. His unblinking eyes were locked dead ahead. The passenger drooped against the window frame as if they had done this a thousand times before and would a thousand times again.

And people asked me why I traveled alone.

South of Alice, a parking bay became my new camp. A few trailers at the edge of a stream looked as if they had been entrenched for weeks. I set about my own routine for making camp.

First I stocked up on firewood. A pit had been dug by a previous camper, leaving me only to round up a half-dozen fair sized rocks. The rocks would contain the fire, provide a shelf for the kettle, and retain heat long after the embers died down.

Aborigines traditionally used rocks extensively for cooking. They often placing heated stones inside carcasses to cook the meat inside. Embers piled on top cooked the meat from the outside.  

Laying out my swag was the most demanding task. The cold desert nights required several blankets, two sleeping bags, a tarp beneath the tent and a foil blanket inside. Even with all these layers, I swaddled myself with thermal underwear and sweats.

After all my fidgeting it was simple enough to unfold a lawn chair and sink into a long communion with the landscape. With the manual typewriter perched on the cooler, I updated my journal. Just another quiet day in the outback.

Melody asked if I had met any nice guys during my travels. When I said no, she rummaged through her pockets and turned out a handful of condoms. She shuffled the packets and spread them on the table.

"Take one, be safe," she said. "You never know, you might see a handsome man. Wait, I pick one for ya. What color you like?" 

"What colors do you have?"

"I had blue but now only black and white." 

She gave me a sly look. I laughed and rolled my eyes.

"I give you black one." She giggled as she pushed a condom across the table. "Everyone need a black one at least once."