Bush Tucker Walk

Jarrah had been waiting all week for Saturday, because Saturday meant Uncle Kev was taking him walking along the creek.

Uncle Kev was the kind of uncle who knew things. Not book things — ground things. He knew which direction the wind would blow by the way the leaves flipped over. He knew where the goannas slept and where the best skipping stones hid. And he walked slow. So slow that Jarrah sometimes had to stop himself from running ahead, because Uncle Kev would just be standing there, looking at some ordinary bit of dirt like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

"You right, Jarrah?" Uncle Kev said as they set off from the house, the morning still cool and silver.

"Yep," said Jarrah.

"Good. Cos I'm starving."

Jarrah laughed. "We just had breakfast!"

Uncle Kev patted his belly. "That was first breakfast. The bush gives you second breakfast if you know where to look."

They followed the sandy path that wound down behind the houses and through the paperbarks. The creek was low, just a trickle of brown water sliding over smooth rocks. Dragonflies zipped around like tiny blue helicopters.

Uncle Kev walked and walked and then — he stopped.

He crouched down beside a scraggly-looking bush with small, dark leaves. He picked a handful of tiny berries, no bigger than peas. They were deep purple, almost black.

"What are those?" Jarrah asked.

"Bush tomatoes, nephew." Uncle Kev popped three into his mouth and chewed. His eyes went wide and he made a sound like mmmmm that came all the way from his boots.

Jarrah looked at the berries. They didn't look like any tomato he'd ever seen. Tomatoes were red and came in plastic boxes from the shop. These were small and dusty and had a little dried-up flower bit stuck on the end.

"You want some?" Uncle Kev held out his hand.

Jarrah wrinkled his nose. "Nah, I'm okay."

Uncle Kev shrugged, popped the rest in his mouth, and kept walking.

They crossed the creek on the stepping stones — Jarrah jumped the last one and nearly slipped, catching himself with a whoop. Uncle Kev didn't even look worried. He just waited on the other side with his hands in his pockets, smiling.

A little further on, Uncle Kev stopped again. This time he was looking up. A big old tree stretched its branches wide, and hanging from one branch were clusters of pale, waxy flowers dripping with something wet and golden.

Uncle Kev reached up, pulled a flower down gently, and tipped it over his mouth. A thin line of golden liquid dripped right onto his tongue.

"Ahhhh," he said, closing his eyes.

"What is that?" Jarrah stared.

"Nectar, brother. Sweet as anything." Uncle Kev pulled another flower and tipped it. Then another. Drip, drip, drip. He looked like a man drinking the world's tiniest cup of tea, and enjoying every single sip.

"Want to try?"

Jarrah looked up at the flowers. A small ant was crawling on one of them. And the golden stuff looked sticky. What if it tasted weird? What if it tasted like flowers smell — like his mum's hand cream? What if the ant fell in his mouth?

"Nah," Jarrah said. "I'm good."

"No worries." Uncle Kev wiped his chin and walked on.

They climbed the little ridge above the creek where the red dirt showed through and the wind came from the west, all warm and dry. Uncle Kev pointed out a wedge-tailed eagle riding a circle in the sky, round and round without flapping once. Jarrah watched until his neck hurt.

Then Uncle Kev stopped a third time.

He knelt beside a tangle of green vine crawling along the ground. He brushed the leaves aside and pulled something out — a fat, knobby root, covered in dirt. He cracked it open with his hands. Inside, it was white and wet, like a pear.

Uncle Kev bit into it. Crunch.

"Oh, that's a good one," he said, talking with his mouth full. "That's a real good one." Juice ran down his hand and he licked his wrist.

Jarrah stared at the root. It had come from the dirt. Like, actual dirt. There was still dirt on it.

Uncle Kev held out the other half. "Last chance, nephew."

Jarrah opened his mouth to say no.

But he stopped.

Because Uncle Kev wasn't trying to trick him. Uncle Kev never tricked anyone. He'd eaten every single thing first. The berries, the nectar, the root. He didn't say you have to. He didn't say come on, don't be a baby. He just ate, and enjoyed it, and offered to share.

And that crunch sound had been really, really good. Like biting into the coldest apple on the hottest day.

Jarrah looked at the root. He looked at Uncle Kev.

"Maybe just a small bit," Jarrah said.

Uncle Kev broke off a piece — a small piece — and handed it over.

Jarrah sniffed it first. It didn't smell like much. A little bit earthy. A little bit like rain.

He put it in his mouth and bit down.

Crunch.

It was cool. It was crisp. It was sweet in a way he didn't expect — not sugar-sweet, but fresh-sweet, like the air after a storm. The taste filled his whole mouth, clean and bright, and it made his eyes go wide, just like Uncle Kev's had with the berries.

"Oh!" Jarrah said.

Uncle Kev grinned. "Yeah?"

"That's actually really good!"

"Yeah," Uncle Kev said, like he already knew but was happy Jarrah found out for himself.

Jarrah chewed and swallowed and then — without even thinking about it — he said, "Can I have another bit?"

Uncle Kev laughed, a big warm laugh that scared a cockatoo out of a tree. He pulled another root from the vine and cracked it open and they sat right there on the red dirt ridge, the two of them, eating together. The eagle was still circling. The creek was still trickling below. The wind pushed the grass in long, slow waves.

"Uncle Kev?"

"Yep."

"Those berries before. The bush tomatoes."

"What about 'em?"

"Are there more on the way back?"

Uncle Kev smiled. Not a big smile. A quiet one. The kind that meant he was proud but wasn't going to make a big deal about it.

"Reckon there might be."

"Okay," said Jarrah. "I want to try those too."

They sat a little longer, letting the sun climb higher. Then they stood up, brushed the red dirt off their shorts, and headed back down the ridge toward the creek.

On the way, Uncle Kev pointed out the eagle again. It had dropped lower now, closer to the trees.

"He's looking for his lunch too," Uncle Kev said.

"Bet he's not as fussy as me," Jarrah said.

Uncle Kev laughed again — another big one — and this time Jarrah laughed too, and their laughter went up through the paperbarks and out into the wide blue sky where the eagle turned one more long, lazy circle before disappearing over the ridge.

And when they found the bush tomato plant again, Jarrah picked one himself. He held it up, looked at it, and put it right in his mouth.

It was tangy and warm from the sun and tasted like nothing from any shop anywhere.

It tasted like Saturday with Uncle Kev.