Salty Plums (Excerpt)

by Spandana Pillarisetty

Sweet Potato and Chicken Salt

The fallen branches in the dry riverbed are good for slow burning coals.

There’s already smoke in the sky. We look up and see the hills towards Ntaria road

have small fires burning quietly on them. I forget to turn the hubcaps on the Toyota

but the sand trails are well worn after a few months of fresh water at Honeymoon

gap, so we don’t sink in. The water is still there, a bit green in the shady parts and

smaller than before, but deep enough so we can’t touch the bottom. The sun hits

the edges of the red rock and flickers on the surface of the water. It sits gently.

The coals are hot. Silver paper goes around sweet potato. Roo tails are already on

the fire and we can start to smell them cooking from the water. We are all hungry

again.

Cordial is cool, the sun is hot and the sand is soft as I trudge back to the group. I sit

down and start to daydream. There are a couple of rock wallabies hiding in the hills.

There are at least two large birds flying above us. Some young people yell out and

we see that a friend’s dogs have climbed high up on the rocks and are looking down

at us. We are moving black coals and ash until the silver paper glints.

I eat one sweet potato, slowly peeling the skin and get told off because I don’t put

chicken salt on it. Everyone watches as I shake some on before I eat the next bite.

It’s really good. We take a couple of selfies before the sun goes down and then drive

back towards town, little fires burning on either side of the road.

Bone Broth

There are three cars. Two cop cars, one Mitsubishi Mirage.

People are having a feed. A big batch of bone broth and rice has been shared

around. There are a couple of older ladies coming out from the library, coming to sit

down in a good spot. The river is quiet, dry and calm.

“Next time can you bring salt?”

The car smells like hot food soaking into compostable paper.

“One for my aunty, my big sister and one for me”

Three Tupperware. Slow cooked, tender meat that falls off the bone.

The cops stir wondering if this is a gathering.

There is food, family and flies circling around us lazily.

The Mirage glows as the sun fades.

People eat and disappear, the bridge falls into shadow.

Car engines start, the sky is pink and blue and my mind is circling lazily.

Who is going to eat a hot feed tonight?

Ants move quickly, cleaning up fallen rice grains.

The cop cars begin circling around us lazily.

The buffel grass is silent and unhelpful in the growing darkness, as we scatter in

different directions, self-consciously into the night.

Salty Plums

When I moved to Arrernte country, I learnt

a packet of salty plums was treasure

There was a lot of yelling the first time someone offered me one

while I was driving

It sat in my mouth

soaking in the moisture

exploding salt and sweet

as I turned street corners

Paan stains on white washed walls

on the corners of streets that grew me up

“katha paste mixed with lime (with or without tobacco)

causes profuse red discolouration” I read

almost 24 years later

sucking on a salty plum

“Straight up” they said

“You can get it here”

That red colour is banned

from public places where I was born

I think of this when I see people

sharing them around

orangey red fingers

preserved in my memories

It makes them saltier

my feelings sweeter

preserving stories

between my teeth

“Try this seedless salty plum”

I ask where it’s from

“came from Darwin”

I think of how

they travel so far to make me remember

These writings were edited by Laurie May and was presented in partnership with Watch This Space. If you would like to purchase a copy of the Salty Plums zine, please reach out to Spandana at @land_mullett on instagram.