HRM Resident
2024-04-21 15:14:25 UTC
A couple years back, I stumbled on a surprising reference to the
astonishing longevity of Aboriginal shamans living in the Australian
outback. Reliable birth records aren't available before the early
20th century, but government officials have noted an astounding
number of nonagenarians and centenarians. And anthropologists report
--but, of course, discount--stories of village elders living for 150
years, 200 years, or more.
There are weirder stories, incredible enough to be consigned to
footnotes in academic texts: that the shaman of Jimbilum arrived in
that community in 1872, already impossibly old, and was dispensing
advice, justice, and herbal remedies well until the late 1990s. His
cause of death is assumed to be exposure: he left the village one
night and was never seen again. Implausibly, residents of Ngunulum
claim that their shaman--who, again, departed without a word, some
time in early 1960s--claimed to have been personally acquainted with
William Dampier, a man who last set foot in Australia in 1688.
I try to be careful with extreme claims, so I'm not going to say
that every Aboriginal shaman is immortal. I will, though, go so far
as to say that there's not a single verifiable case of one of them
dying.
It gets stranger.
Like many traditional faith healers, shamans follow a number of
special rules and taboos. You have the usual prayers, incantations,
and prohibitions, and one especially odd dietary fixation: shamans
insist on drinking a broth made by boiling water and adding chunks
of koala meat.
This is not a minor rule. The departure of the shaman of Jimbilum,
for example, coincided with the Australian Department of
Environment's launching of a poaching investigation. Ngunulum's
spiritual leader left after a long drought led to the death of the
region's last remaining koalas.
There is no record of an Aboriginal shaman dying; there is no record
of an Aboriiginal shaman going a day without drinking water that's
been steeped in koala flesh and boiled.
I had to investigate.
You're familiar with the Dark Web, right? (Don't kid me--of course
you are.) I opened an account on one of the lesser-known sites, one
that ignored narcotics and credit cards, in favor of more exotic
goods. For .275 bitcoin (shipping included), I had a sample of
freshly-harvested koala meat en route.
After two weeks, I was pretty sure I'd been had. And pretty sure I
deserved it, too. How much time and money should a grown adult spend
investigating third-hand reports--and violating endangered species
laws on several continents, to boot? But then, on Monday, a package
arrived. Lumpy, misshappen, sealed with three different kinds of
tape, it felt strangely heavy and cool to the touch.
I opened it.
The roiling steam looked a lot less dramatic when I realized that,
obviously, when you ship meat intercontinentally, you pack it with
dry ice.
The koala looks smaller on your kitchen counter than it looks in
pictures. I've seen lots of pictures of koalas, and always thought
they looked cute, but never tasty. The impression doesn't improve in
person.
But it was too late to turn back. I'd already set some water to
boil. I stashed most of the koala in the freezer, and sliced off a
toe.
In 1927, anthropologist Ursula McConnel recorded a list of rituals
of the Wik Mungkan. Among them, the ceremonial boiling of a water
infused with koala bits. Exactly 1.2 liters, exactly 3 hours. I
followed her recipe to the letter.
And it was DISGUSTING. The foulest, nastiest thing I'd ever tasted.
It coats your tongue and lacerates your nostrils and the taste stays
with you for hours and the memory is with me still. If this was the
route to immortality, maybe dying was a better option.
But I wasn't finished with my research. I pored over my books and
papers, looking for more information on the ritual, and found that
it was, in fact, permissible to fiddle with the recipe. Shamans in
different regions had different spins on the concoction: as long as
you boiled the water long enough, and used genuine koala, the other
ingredients didn't matter.
After some experimentation, I've found exactly the right mix of
flavorings to make it about as tasty as any other beverage.
I guess you could say this really improved my koala tea of life.
astonishing longevity of Aboriginal shamans living in the Australian
outback. Reliable birth records aren't available before the early
20th century, but government officials have noted an astounding
number of nonagenarians and centenarians. And anthropologists report
--but, of course, discount--stories of village elders living for 150
years, 200 years, or more.
There are weirder stories, incredible enough to be consigned to
footnotes in academic texts: that the shaman of Jimbilum arrived in
that community in 1872, already impossibly old, and was dispensing
advice, justice, and herbal remedies well until the late 1990s. His
cause of death is assumed to be exposure: he left the village one
night and was never seen again. Implausibly, residents of Ngunulum
claim that their shaman--who, again, departed without a word, some
time in early 1960s--claimed to have been personally acquainted with
William Dampier, a man who last set foot in Australia in 1688.
I try to be careful with extreme claims, so I'm not going to say
that every Aboriginal shaman is immortal. I will, though, go so far
as to say that there's not a single verifiable case of one of them
dying.
It gets stranger.
Like many traditional faith healers, shamans follow a number of
special rules and taboos. You have the usual prayers, incantations,
and prohibitions, and one especially odd dietary fixation: shamans
insist on drinking a broth made by boiling water and adding chunks
of koala meat.
This is not a minor rule. The departure of the shaman of Jimbilum,
for example, coincided with the Australian Department of
Environment's launching of a poaching investigation. Ngunulum's
spiritual leader left after a long drought led to the death of the
region's last remaining koalas.
There is no record of an Aboriginal shaman dying; there is no record
of an Aboriiginal shaman going a day without drinking water that's
been steeped in koala flesh and boiled.
I had to investigate.
You're familiar with the Dark Web, right? (Don't kid me--of course
you are.) I opened an account on one of the lesser-known sites, one
that ignored narcotics and credit cards, in favor of more exotic
goods. For .275 bitcoin (shipping included), I had a sample of
freshly-harvested koala meat en route.
After two weeks, I was pretty sure I'd been had. And pretty sure I
deserved it, too. How much time and money should a grown adult spend
investigating third-hand reports--and violating endangered species
laws on several continents, to boot? But then, on Monday, a package
arrived. Lumpy, misshappen, sealed with three different kinds of
tape, it felt strangely heavy and cool to the touch.
I opened it.
The roiling steam looked a lot less dramatic when I realized that,
obviously, when you ship meat intercontinentally, you pack it with
dry ice.
The koala looks smaller on your kitchen counter than it looks in
pictures. I've seen lots of pictures of koalas, and always thought
they looked cute, but never tasty. The impression doesn't improve in
person.
But it was too late to turn back. I'd already set some water to
boil. I stashed most of the koala in the freezer, and sliced off a
toe.
In 1927, anthropologist Ursula McConnel recorded a list of rituals
of the Wik Mungkan. Among them, the ceremonial boiling of a water
infused with koala bits. Exactly 1.2 liters, exactly 3 hours. I
followed her recipe to the letter.
And it was DISGUSTING. The foulest, nastiest thing I'd ever tasted.
It coats your tongue and lacerates your nostrils and the taste stays
with you for hours and the memory is with me still. If this was the
route to immortality, maybe dying was a better option.
But I wasn't finished with my research. I pored over my books and
papers, looking for more information on the ritual, and found that
it was, in fact, permissible to fiddle with the recipe. Shamans in
different regions had different spins on the concoction: as long as
you boiled the water long enough, and used genuine koala, the other
ingredients didn't matter.
After some experimentation, I've found exactly the right mix of
flavorings to make it about as tasty as any other beverage.
I guess you could say this really improved my koala tea of life.
--
HRM Resident
HRM Resident