The Tide Riders
Navigating murky history
Long before missionaries reached the Kimberley coast, the Jawi people of Ewuny / Sunday Island, were navigating some of the most turbulent waters on Earth.
The Jawi were the masters at using the waters of the Buccaneer Archipelago to commute between more than 2,000 islands on biel biel, light mangrove-wood rafts pegged together without rope or metal nails.
Where an unfamiliar eye would see treacherous whirlpools and racing currents, the Jawi - whose skills earned them the moniker of Tide Riders - saw the ocean as an efficient watery-version of an autobahn.
‘They used the outgoing tide to take them out, and the incoming tide to bring them back,’ says Jawi woman and Oolin Sunday Island Cultural Tours owner Rosanna Angus.
‘They were very smart people. They made use of the natural resources around them.’
That ability to read and adapt to changing conditions without losing direction no doubt helped the Jawi and a neighbouring clan, the Nyul Nyul people, manage the extensive upheaval wrought by the arrival of missionaries to their remote part of northwest Western Australia in the 1800s.
Sunday Island: balance, not loss
From 1899, pearler Sydney Hadley began a private mission on Ewuny to harness the Jawi’s knowledge and labour to gather lucrative mother-of-pearl shells and trepang (sea cucumber).
The non-religious mission saw Jawi families move from shelters made with spinifex and shrubs into houses. Children began attending school and lived in dormitories, while adults built infrastructure, tended gardens, sewed, farmed and worked in return for rations.
Then Christianity arrived alongside compulsory English lessons, formal schooling and Western routines.
Rosanna does not categorise that history into a simple story of good or bad; the mission provided members of her family with education and skills they later used as nurses, teachers, builders and shopkeepers. Her mother became a nurse, an uncle became a teacher and lay missionary. Catholicism remains part of Rosanna’s own life.
But the compromises were profound. English grew stronger while Jawi language was less fluently spoken. Children saw their parents but no longer lived alongside them each day. Existing systems of leadership and spirituality had to make room for foreign ones.
The non-religious mission saw Jawi families move from shelters made with spinifex and shrubs into houses. Children began attending school and lived in dormitories, while adults built infrastructure, tended gardens, sewed, farmed and worked in return for rations.
Then Christianity arrived alongside compulsory English lessons, formal schooling and Western routines.
Rosanna does not categorise that history into a simple story of good or bad; the mission provided members of her family with education and skills they later used as nurses, teachers, builders and shopkeepers. Her mother became a nurse, an uncle became a teacher and lay missionary. Catholicism remains part of Rosanna’s own life.
But the compromises were profound. English grew stronger while Jawi language was less fluently spoken. Children saw their parents but no longer lived alongside them each day. Existing systems of leadership and spirituality had to make room for foreign ones.
'We compromised a lot of our practices and our language for the mission,' Rosanna says. 'It was about being able to balance.'
That balance continues. Ceremony may mean Mass is postponed or held outdoors. Christian belief sits beside cultural law. Jawi words, knowledge and family stories endure, but fluency has been weakened.
Most of the guests on Rosanna’s Sunday Island tour arrive knowing little about the island’s mission history. Rosanna sees that not as a problem, but as the reason the journey matters.
'We compromised a lot of our practices and our language for the mission,' Rosanna says. 'It was about being able to balance.'
That balance continues. Ceremony may mean Mass is postponed or held outdoors. Christian belief sits beside cultural law. Jawi words, knowledge and family stories endure, but fluency has been weakened.
Most of the guests on Rosanna’s Sunday Island tour arrive knowing little about the island’s mission history. Rosanna sees that not as a problem, but as the reason the journey matters.
Beagle Bay: rebuilding what was taken
North of Broome / Rubibi, Beagle Bay has its own story, told by Nyul Nyul man Robert Dann.
In 1890, it was French Trappist monks who first arrived at Beagle Bay, 130 kilometres north of Broome, with the aim of imposing their beliefs on an ancient culture. A decade later, German Pallottine missionaries replaced the Trappists.
‘The Trappists were much more old school,’ Robert says. ‘They told our people they weren't allowed to speak their own language.’
Whilst the Germans took a softer approach, children were still separated from their families. Unpaid Aboriginal labour was used to build the Sacred Heart Church, known for its striking altar, artfully inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Its 60,000 bricks were made by hand, using materials sourced locally.
In 1890, it was French Trappist monks who first arrived at Beagle Bay, 130 kilometres north of Broome, with the aim of imposing their beliefs on an ancient culture. A decade later, German Pallottine missionaries replaced the Trappists.
‘The Trappists were much more old school,’ Robert says. ‘They told our people they weren't allowed to speak their own language.’
Whilst the Germans took a softer approach, children were still separated from their families. Unpaid Aboriginal labour was used to build the Sacred Heart Church, known for its striking altar, artfully inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Its 60,000 bricks were made by hand, using materials sourced locally.
For Robert, the history of Beagle Bay is personal: his mother was one of the many taken from their family as a child, and lost touch with her wider kin and culture. She will never know her song, her dance, her language, or skin group.
‘She couldn't tell me any of that,’ Robert says.
Luckily, Robert’s father was able to be taught lore and culture by his own father, and go through initiation.
‘My dad taught my mum everything,’ Robert says.
For Robert, the history of Beagle Bay is personal: his mother was one of the many taken from their family as a child, and lost touch with her wider kin and culture. She will never know her song, her dance, her language, or skin group.
‘She couldn't tell me any of that,’ Robert says.
Luckily, Robert’s father was able to be taught lore and culture by his own father, and go through initiation.
‘My dad taught my mum everything,’ Robert says.
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