Jack Thompson farewells the Burke and Wills Environmental Expedition at Royal Park on 20 August 2010.

Jack speaks of the scientific research carried out during the original expedition, the assistance provided to the explorers by Indigenous people, and reads his father’s poem.

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TRANSCRIPT

-But here we are retracing the steps of an extraordinarily well-documented expedition. Becker the artist who sent back hundreds of samples back to the Royal Society of plants and little dried up animals and insects, and the surveying done by John Wills with his sextant that was so accurate, that you can go back directly to the spot where he was. A veritable GPS was Mr. Wills. And we're going back along that track. Everywhere that we are along the track, you'll find yourself looking at the original records and comparing their meticulous notes with what we now have in front of us. I think this environmental audit will be a real eye-opener.

It really brings to me the story that is behind a fabulous poem that my father, who was born in Melbourne, John Thompson, wrote this poem in the late '40s. It's called "To the Interior"

"To the Interior"

"Trust us to the truth, they said. The lay of the land, its soil, it's vegetation, it's watersheds and waterways. And thus with assurance, shouting at their camels, rearing their proud horses, they started off, and all that day, the red cloud of their going was pointed was pointed at across the dusty plain, by those who stayed behind, and envied them. Their creatures bore them patiently into the thirsty waste, which, as it widened became more niggardly and promised less. The streams narrowed, and the ponds were smaller, the bushes dwindled, the trees were spindlier, the sparse grass hissed and rattled. This they noted in their journals, also the hot white sun, the wildernesses of stone, the tracts of sand, the dryness of the air, the flat horizons, the blind white lakes of salt. Onward through melting curtains of mirage, far past their lean provision for return, they rode the endless level, stone, sand, salt. Until at length they cried, soon it must change, must end, they cried, must soften, and so with a desperate belief, they hurried to reach the first oasis, vale or foothill of whatsoever gracious and green region must lie before them. Urgently they peered for frontier tents, or huts, for border trails of whatsoever strange unheard of people, lovers of dance and feasting, faithful keepers of farms, roads, markets, hostelries, and temples must dwell beyond the desert. Surely a kingdom thriving and fruitful, crowned with palaces of languid Rajahs, dangling crimson birds, of passionate noble men, decked with gold. Surely a singing realm of waterfalls, of friendly woods, orchards, , and pleasances beyond this loneliness through which they labored, blearing at each other, unable to croak farewell among the stone, the sand, the silences, their horses dying, and their camels lost. Until the silences, the sand, and the stone possessed them all, and took them, and absorbed them into the truth, which they had dared to seek."

[APPLAUSE]

Had they recognized as Wills did occasionally in his journal, that they were in fact surrounded by those people, those lovers of dance, the aboriginal people, had they known that they were surrounded by people who lived in plenty in the middle of this sand, stone, salt, blind white lakes, they would have returned easily.

Had it not been for the hospitality, kindness, and intelligence of the aboriginal people at Cooper Creek, the last survivor, King, would not have been there to crawl from the world in which he was made welcome to say to the rescue party, I am King.

Thank you.