Bouncing Stones: the power of Aboriginal symbols
By Jeanna Kochmer
This article appeared in Abroad View Spring 2004
The old woman’s long dark handscling to my white skin. “Hold on to me tight,” Nana says, the Elder’s ancient voice barely audible over the salty breeze of the Coral Sea as it unites with the sweet smelling Australian rainforest.
“I have you,” I tell her. A hint of urgency hangs in the air as we make our way down the rocky, winding 
slope. Gigantic rainforest trees—gum and strangler figs—loom above us, while spiky pandanas grow in their shade. On the outskirts of the trail, wait-awhile vines armed with vicious thorns loop around and hang from branches and from attacking plants like the stinging tree (whose nettles remain embedded in the skin for up to months, even years, depending on the species). We are here to return the Bouncing Stones.
I descend most of the trail backwards or sideways, helping the Elder down a path she’s walked innumerable times throughout her near century-long life. Nana is the oldest, wisest and most respected Aboriginal woman of the Kuku Yalangi mob in Mossman, Queensland, Australia. She is the only woman left on Earth who knows how to make dilly bags, which the Aboriginals use to transport water and gather fruit. They are long, deep bags woven into intricate patterns made from hundreds of thin strands of wait-awhile.
We are descending a trail at the Women’s Sacred Site, where the females handle and discuss all of their “woman business.” The events that happen in this place are special, secret and sacred— events that no man should know about. Aboriginal women make pilgrimages to this and other women’s sites countless times throughout life to seek guidance. Men have sacred sites of their own, and the same rules apply. For the Aboriginals,it is a horrifying and shameful experience to learn any part of the traditions of a place forbidden to them. Some sacred sites, like marriage and burial grounds, permit the presence of both sexes.
Ronnie Harrigan, a medicine man and respected Elder, is a relative of Nana. He has been teaching me about Aboriginal traditions and has arranged for me to spend the weekend with Nana. I’m staying with Ronnie’s family for a month while I collect information for the final component of my four-month study abroad program.
I met Nana and her middle-aged son, Bennett, who is a National Park Ranger, late this morning. Bennett told me that Nana, her sister Judy and I had an important and special afternoon ahead of us.
“Have you ever seen a Bouncing Stone, mate?” he asked. “They’re special stones—part of a women’s sacred site. We get boxes and boxes of these returned to us. People who don’t understand the Aboriginal culture wander into places where they shouldn’t go and muck around with the sacred sites. Oh, they do things there they shouldn’t do, and take things from these places. All of their actions damage our culture, mate. After they take things, or ruin a place, bad things happen to them and eventually they trace it back to the stones.”
“What kinds of things happen?”
“Here, read the letter, mate. You’ll see what I mean. And take this. I don’t want to touch these things, even if they are in a box,” he said, handing the package to me and pointing to the white envelope that stuck out of it.
Dear Daintree National Park Rangers,
My husband and I vacationed in the Daintree National Park in 1975. We visited the Bouncing Stones Site not knowing what it was and took these stones as souvenirs. Ever since then, my husband has had recurring nightmares of spirits telling him to “put them back or he would suffer.” We had no idea what was causing these dreams until we saw a T.V. special that explained the importance of the sacred sites in Aboriginal culture. We are very sorry for taking these stones. Please return them. We took them from the right side of the beach by the cave. We had no idea how powerful they are.
I took one out of the box, turning it over in my hands. The brown stone, about the size of a silver dollar, was soft and smooth. It reminded me more of a seed than a rock. These stones, they told me, bounce.
Despite the grueling intensity of the mid-afternoon Australian sun, Nana wears a long-sleeved white blouse. Her near waist-length silver hair hangs raggedly in her brown wrinkled face, and her eyes tell years of stories.
Judy reaches the bottom not far in front of Nana and me. I’m not sure how old Judy is—at least mid-eighties—but she moves swiftly and confidently down the trail.
The waves of the Coral Sea roar against the rocks as they spray saltwater. With the dirt trail to my back, I look down at the beach tucked in between the vastness of the sea, whose waves are calmed by the Great Barrier Reef, and the lushness of the tropical rainforest. I follow Judy in the direction of the caves mentioned in the note. The length of the entire beach is covered with the brown stones.
Nana needs me to hold her hand as we walk along the shore, and Judy picks up a stone and skips it across the beach like how I used to skip rocks on the pond by my house when I was little. Only now, instead of splashing against the water and causing a few ripples to flow out to the lake’s center, the Bouncing Stone slaps against the beach and flies three meters in the air like a bouncy ball. It’s okay to touch the Bouncing Stones as long as you’re a woman. Nana explains to me that the secretiveness of the sacred sites builds respect among the sexes. It is the way life has always been, and the way the Elders want it.
As we walk along the beach, bouncing the stones off one another, Nana tells me about this place. Her voice sounds far away, like the wind is sweeping it out to sea. She tells me the creation story, how this place came to be, what the women do here, what her Elders told her when she was young and things she has learned from this place. Nana tells me that many years later the words of her Elders became truths.
“Nobody wants to know anymore,” she says. I stare at Nana with great respect and admiration. She tells me that if they were taking me here to use this sacred site, they would have to smoke me first.
One of them would build a fire on the ground with the resin from a gum tree. They would take a stick, usually from a gum, and, rubbing the sticks together, make fire. Then they would run the smoldering stick along my body. In their native language, they would speak to their Elders and cleanse me of any evil spirits. Nana and Judy are the only Elders left in Mossman who have the wisdom and permission to perform this tradition. Nana sits her frail body on the massive metamorphic rock and Judy tells me what she’s about to say. I watch as Judy scatters the Bouncing Stones on the beach where they belong and asks her Elders to please allow for them to be returned to their rightful place. The sea drowns her words, which my ears don’t have the knowledge to understand. And then it’s over. No earth shattering moment, but then, I guess I didn’t expect one.
Nana and Judy tell me that I am allowed to come here whenever I like. But I must come alone and I must not bring anything along. No reading, no writing. Just sitting, thinking and listening.
I marvel at the amount of respect, honor and secrecy this portion of beach has been given. Where did these small brown stones that spring up in the air come from? Are they the reason the Kuku Yalangi women were drawn here centuries ago? As we slowly wind up the rocky incline, I turn back to the sea and the Bouncing Stones, Nana’s words echoing in my ears. “This place has taught me many great things.”
At the time this article was printed this bio was accurate: Jenna Kochmer lives in Missoula, Montana where she enjoys outdoor activities and is pursuing a master’s degree in Environmental Writing from the University of Montana.