Mutant Message Down Under

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Overview

Mutant Message Down Under is the fictional account of an American woman's spiritual odyssey through outback Australia. An underground bestseller in its original self-published edition, Marlo Morgan's powerful tale of challenge and endurance has a message for us all.

Summoned by a remote tribe of nomadic Aborigines to accompany them on walkabout, the woman makes a four-month-long journey and learns how they thrive in natural harmony with the plants and animals that exist in the ...

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Overview

Mutant Message Down Under is the fictional account of an American woman's spiritual odyssey through outback Australia. An underground bestseller in its original self-published edition, Marlo Morgan's powerful tale of challenge and endurance has a message for us all.

Summoned by a remote tribe of nomadic Aborigines to accompany them on walkabout, the woman makes a four-month-long journey and learns how they thrive in natural harmony with the plants and animals that exist in the rugged lands of Australia's bush. From the first day of her adventure, Morgan is challenged by the physical requirements of the journey—she faces daily tests of her endurance, challenges that ultimately contribute to her personal transformation.

By traveling with this extraordinary community, Morgan becomes a witness to their essential way of being in a world based on the ancient wisdom and philosophy of a culture that is more than 50,000 years old.

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Editorial Reviews

Wayne Dyer
A powerful message for all of us.
Marianne Williamson
A beautiful tale of a woman's mystical journey.
Wayne Dyer
A powerful message for all of us.
Marianne Williamson
A beautiful tale of a woman's mystical journey.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780060723514
  • Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
  • Publication date: 5/25/2004
  • Series: Harper Perennial
  • Edition description: Tenth Anniversary Editon withn New Intro
  • Pages: 224
  • Sales rank: 99,031
  • Product dimensions: 5.31 (w) x 8.00 (h) x 0.50 (d)

Meet the Author

Marlo Morgan is a retired health-care professional. She lives in Lee Summit, Missouri. Her first novel, Mutant Message Down Under, was a New York Times bestseller for thirty-one weeks and was published in twenty-four countries.
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Read an Excerpt

Honored Guest

It seems there should have been some warning, but I felt none. Events were already in motion. The group of predators sat, miles away, awaiting their prey. The luggage I had unpacked one hour before would tomorrow be tagged "unclaimed" and stay in storage, month after month. I was to become merely one more American to disappear in a foreign country.

It was a sweltering October morning. I stood looking down the drive of the Australian five-star hotel for an unknown courier. Contrary to receiving a warning, my heart was literally singing. I felt so good, so excited, so successful and prepared. Inwardly I sensed, "Today is my day."

A topless jeep pulled into the circular entrance. I remember hearing the tires hiss on the steaming pavement. A fine spray of water leaped over the bordering foliage of brilliant red bottlebrush to touch the rusty metal. The jeep stopped, and the driver, a thirty-year-old Aborigine, looked my way. "Come on," his black hand beckoned. He was looking for a blond American. I was expecting to be escorted to an Aboriginal tribal meeting. Under the censoring blue eyes and disapproving manner of the uniformed Aussie doorman, we mentally agreed to the match.

Even before I made the awkward struggle of high heels into the all-terrain vehicle, it was obvious I was overdressed. The young driver to my right wore shorts, a dingy white T-shirt, and sockless tennis shoes. I had assumed when they arranged transportation for the meeting, it would be a normal automobile, perhaps a Holden, the pride of Australia's car manufacturers. I never dreamed he would arrive in something wide open. Well, I would rather be overdressed thanunderdressed to attend a meeting--my award banquet.

I introduced myself. He merely nodded and acted as if he were already certain of who I was. The doorman frowned at us as we propelled past him. We drove through the streets of the coastal city, past rows of veranda-fronted homes, milk-bar snack shops, and grassless cement parks. I clutched the door handle as we circled a roundabout where six directions merged. When we exited, our new heading put the sun at my back. Already the newly acquired, peach-colored business suit and matching silk blouse were becoming uncomfortably warm. I guessed the building was across town, but I was wrong. We entered the main highway running parallel to the sea. This meeting was apparently out of town, further from the hotel than I anticipated. I removed my jacket, thinking how foolish it was not to have asked more questions. At leastI had a brush in my purse, and my shoulder-length bleached hair was pinned up in a fashionable braid.

My curiosity had not subsided from the moment I received the initial phone call, although when it came I couldn't say I was truly surprised. After all, I had received other civic recognitions, and this project had been a major success. Working with urban-dwelling, half-caste Aboriginal adults who had openly displayed suicidal attitudes, and accomplishing for them a sense of purpose and financial success, was bound to be noticed sooner or later. I was surprised; the tribe issuing the summons lived two thousand miles away, on the opposite coast of the continent, but I knew very little about any of the Aboriginal nations except the idle comments I heard occasionally. I didn't know if they were a close-knit race or if, like Native Americans, vast differences, including different languages, were common.

What I really wondered about was what I would receive: another wooden engraved plaque, to be sent back for storage in Kansas City, or perhaps simply a bouquet of flowers? No, not flowers, not in one-hundred-degree weather. That would be too cumbersome to take on the return flight. The driver had arrived promptly, as agreed, at twelve o'clock noon. So I knew, of course, I was in for a luncheon meeting. I wondered what in the world a native council would serve for our meal? I hoped it would not be a catered traditional Australian affair. Perhaps they would have a potluck buffet, and I could sample Aboriginal dishes for the first time. I was hoping to see a table laden with colorful casseroles.

This was going to be a wonderfully unique experience, and I was looking forward to a memorable day. The purse I carried, purchased for today, held a 35-mm camera and a small tape recorder. They hadn't said anything about microphones or spotlights or my giving a speech, but I was prepared anyway. One of my greatest assets was thinking ahead. After all, I was now fifty years old, had suffered enough embarrassment and disappointments in my life to have adopted plans for alternative courses. My friends remarked how self-sufficient I was. "Always has Plan B up her sleeve," I could hear them saying.

A highway road train (the Australian term for a truck pulling numerous full-sized trailers in convoy style) passed us heading in the opposite direction. They came bolting out of fuzzy heat waves, straight down the center of the pavement. I was shaken back from my memories when the driver jerked the steering wheel and we left the highway, heading down a rugged dirt road, followed for miles by a fog of red dust. Somewhere, the two well-worn ruts disappeared, and I became aware there was no longer a road in front of us. We were zigzagging around bushes and jumping over the serrated, sandy desert. I tried to make conversation several times, but the noise of the open vehicle, the brush from the underside of the chassis, and the movement of my body up and down, made it impossible. It was necessary to hold my jaws tightly together to keep from biting my tongue. Obviously the driver had no interest in opening the portals of speech.

My head bounced as if my body were a child's cloth doll. I was getting hotter and hotter. My pantyhose felt like they were melted on my feet, but I was afraid to remove a shoe for fear it would bounce out into the expanse of copper-colored flatness surrounding us as far as the eye could see. I had no faith the mute driver would stop. Every time my sunglasses became filmed over I wiped them off with the hem of my slip. The movement of my arms let open the floodgate to a river of perspiration. I could feel my makeup dissolve and pictured the rosy tinge once painted on my cheeks now streaking as red trails down my neck. They would have to allow me twenty minutes to get myself back in order before the presentation. I would insist on it!

I studied my watch; two hours had passed since entering the desert. I was hotter and more uncomfortable than I could remember feeling in years. The driver remained silent except for an occasional hum. It suddenly dawned on me: He had not introduced himself. Maybe I wasn't in the correct vehicle! But that was silly. I couldn't get out, and he certainly seemed confident about me as a passenger.

Four hours later, we pulled up to a corrugated tin structure. A small, smoldering fire burned outside, and two Aboriginal women stood up as we approached. They were both middle-aged, short, scantily clad, wearing warm smiles of welcome. One wore a headband that made her thick, curly black hair escape at strange angles. They both appeared slim and athletic, with round, full faces holding bright brown eyes. As I descended from the jeep, my chauffeur said, "By the way, I am the only one who speaks English. I will be your interpreter, your friend."

"Great!" I thought to myself. "I've spent seven hundred dollars on airfare, hotel room, and new clothes for this introduction to native Australians, and now I find out they can't even speak English, let alone recognize current fashions."

Well, I was here, so I might as well try to blend in, although in my heart I knew I could not.

The women spoke in blunt foreign sounds that did not seem like sentences, only single words. My interpreter turned to me and explained that permission to attend the meeting required I first be cleansed. I did not understand what he meant. It was true I was covered with several layers of dust and hot from the ride, but that did not seem to be his meaning. He handed me a piece of cloth, which I opened to discover had the appearance of a wraparound rag. I was told I needed to remove my clothing and put it on. "What?" I asked, unbelieving. "Are you serious?" He sternly repeated the instructions. I looked around for a place to change; there was none. What could I do? I had come too far and endured too much discomfort at this point to decline. The young man walked away. "Oh, what the heck. It will be cooler than these clothes," I thought. So, as discreetly as possible, I removed my soiled new clothing, folded it neatly into a pile, and donned the native attire. I stacked my things on the nearby boulder, which only moments before had served as a stool for the waiting women. I felt silly in the colorless rag and regretted investing in the new "making a good impression" clothing. The young man reappeared. He, too, had changed clothing. He stood before me almost naked, having only a cloth wrapped around in swimming trunk fashion and barefoot, as were the women at the fire. He issued further instructions to remove everything: shoes, hose, undergarments, and all my jewelry, even the bobby pins holding my hair. My curiosity was slowly fading, and apprehension was taking over, but I did as told. Mutant Message Down Under. Copyright © by Marlo Morgan. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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First Chapter

Mutant Message Down Under
Honored Guest

It seems there should have been some warning, but I felt none. Events were already in motion. The group of predators sat, miles away, awaiting their prey. The luggage I had unpacked one hour before would tomorrow be tagged "unclaimed" and stay in storage, month after month. I was to become merely one more American to disappear in a foreign country.

It was a sweltering October morning. I stood looking down the drive of the Australian five-star hotel for an unknown courier. Contrary to receiving a warning, my heart was literally singing. I felt so good, so excited, so successful and prepared. Inwardly I sensed, "Today is my day."

A topless jeep pulled into the circular entrance. I remember hearing the tires hiss on the steaming pavement. A fine spray of water leaped over the bordering foliage of brilliant red bottlebrush to touch the rusty metal. The jeep stopped, and the driver, a thirty-year-old Aborigine, looked my way. "Come on," his black hand beckoned. He was looking for a blond American. I was expecting to be escorted to an Aboriginal tribal meeting. Under the censoring blue eyes and disapproving manner of the uniformed Aussie doorman, we mentally agreed to the match.

Even before I made the awkward struggle of high heels into the all-terrain vehicle, it was obvious I was overdressed. The young driver to my right wore shorts, a dingy white T-shirt, and sockless tennis shoes. I had assumed when they arranged transportation for the meeting, it would be a normal automobile, perhaps a Holden, the pride of Australia's car manufacturers. I never dreamed he would arrive in something wide open. Well, I would rather be overdressed than underdressed to attend a meeting--my award banquet.

I introduced myself. He merely nodded and acted as if he were already certain of who I was. The doorman frowned at us as we propelled past him. We drove through the streets of the coastal city, past rows of veranda-fronted homes, milk-bar snack shops, and grassless cement parks. I clutched the door handle as we circled a roundabout where six directions merged. When we exited, our new heading put the sun at my back. Already the newly acquired, peach-colored business suit and matching silk blouse were becoming uncomfortably warm. I guessed the building was across town, but I was wrong. We entered the main highway running parallel to the sea. This meeting was apparently out of town, further from the hotel than I anticipated. I removed my jacket, thinking how foolish it was not to have asked more questions. At leastI had a brush in my purse, and my shoulder-length bleached hair was pinned up in a fashionable braid.

My curiosity had not subsided from the moment I received the initial phone call, although when it came I couldn't say I was truly surprised. After all, I had received other civic recognitions, and this project had been a major success. Working with urban-dwelling, half-caste Aboriginal adults who had openly displayed suicidal attitudes, and accomplishing for them a sense of purpose and financial success, was bound to be noticed sooner or later. I was surprised; the tribe issuing the summons lived two thousand miles away, on the opposite coast of the continent, but I knew very little about any of the Aboriginal nations except the idle comments I heard occasionally. I didn't know if they were a close-knit race or if, like Native Americans, vast differences, including different languages, were common.

What I really wondered about was what I would receive: another wooden engraved plaque, to be sent back for storage in Kansas City, or perhaps simply a bouquet of flowers? No, not flowers, not in one-hundred-degree weather. That would be too cumbersome to take on the return flight. The driver had arrived promptly, as agreed, at twelve o'clock noon. So I knew, of course, I was in for a luncheon meeting. I wondered what in the world a native council would serve for our meal? I hoped it would not be a catered traditional Australian affair. Perhaps they would have a potluck buffet, and I could sample Aboriginal dishes for the first time. I was hoping to see a table laden with colorful casseroles.

This was going to be a wonderfully unique experience, and I was looking forward to a memorable day. The purse I carried, purchased for today, held a 35-mm camera and a small tape recorder. They hadn't said anything about microphones or spotlights or my giving a speech, but I was prepared anyway. One of my greatest assets was thinking ahead. After all, I was now fifty years old, had suffered enough embarrassment and disappointments in my life to have adopted plans for alternative courses. My friends remarked how self-sufficient I was. "Always has Plan B up her sleeve," I could hear them saying.

A highway road train (the Australian term for a truck pulling numerous full-sized trailers in convoy style) passed us heading in the opposite direction. They came bolting out of fuzzy heat waves, straight down the center of the pavement. I was shaken back from my memories when the driver jerked the steering wheel and we left the highway, heading down a rugged dirt road, followed for miles by a fog of red dust. Somewhere, the two well-worn ruts disappeared, and I became aware there was no longer a road in front of us. We were zigzagging around bushes and jumping over the serrated, sandy desert. I tried to make conversation several times, but the noise of the open vehicle, the brush from the underside of the chassis, and the movement of my body up and down, made it impossible. It was necessary to hold my jaws tightly together to keep from biting my tongue. Obviously the driver had no interest in opening the portals of speech.

My head bounced as if my body were a child's cloth doll. I was getting hotter and hotter. My pantyhose felt like they were melted on my feet, but I was afraid to remove a shoe for fear it would bounce out into the expanse of copper-colored flatness surrounding us as far as the eye could see. I had no faith the mute driver would stop. Every time my sunglasses became filmed over I wiped them off with the hem of my slip. The movement of my arms let open the floodgate to a river of perspiration. I could feel my makeup dissolve and pictured the rosy tinge once painted on my cheeks now streaking as red trails down my neck. They would have to allow me twenty minutes to get myself back in order before the presentation. I would insist on it!

I studied my watch; two hours had passed since entering the desert. I was hotter and more uncomfortable than I could remember feeling in years. The driver remained silent except for an occasional hum. It suddenly dawned on me: He had not introduced himself. Maybe I wasn't in the correct vehicle! But that was silly. I couldn't get out, and he certainly seemed confident about me as a passenger.

Four hours later, we pulled up to a corrugated tin structure. A small, smoldering fire burned outside, and two Aboriginal women stood up as we approached. They were both middle-aged, short, scantily clad, wearing warm smiles of welcome. One wore a headband that made her thick, curly black hair escape at strange angles. They both appeared slim and athletic, with round, full faces holding bright brown eyes. As I descended from the jeep, my chauffeur said, "By the way, I am the only one who speaks English. I will be your interpreter, your friend."

"Great!" I thought to myself. "I've spent seven hundred dollars on airfare, hotel room, and new clothes for this introduction to native Australians, and now I find out they can't even speak English, let alone recognize current fashions."

Well, I was here, so I might as well try to blend in, although in my heart I knew I could not.

The women spoke in blunt foreign sounds that did not seem like sentences, only single words. My interpreter turned to me and explained that permission to attend the meeting required I first be cleansed. I did not understand what he meant. It was true I was covered with several layers of dust and hot from the ride, but that did not seem to be his meaning. He handed me a piece of cloth, which I opened to discover had the appearance of a wraparound rag. I was told I needed to remove my clothing and put it on. "What?" I asked, unbelieving. "Are you serious?" He sternly repeated the instructions. I looked around for a place to change; there was none. What could I do? I had come too far and endured too much discomfort at this point to decline. The young man walked away. "Oh, what the heck. It will be cooler than these clothes," I thought. So, as discreetly as possible, I removed my soiled new clothing, folded it neatly into a pile, and donned the native attire. I stacked my things on the nearby boulder, which only moments before had served as a stool for the waiting women. I felt silly in the colorless rag and regretted investing in the new "making a good impression" clothing. The young man reappeared. He, too, had changed clothing. He stood before me almost naked, having only a cloth wrapped around in swimming trunk fashion and barefoot, as were the women at the fire. He issued further instructions to remove everything: shoes, hose, undergarments, and all my jewelry, even the bobby pins holding my hair. My curiosity was slowly fading, and apprehension was taking over, but I did as told. Mutant Message Down Under. Copyright © by Marlo Morgan. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Reading Group Guide

Introduction

An American woman is summoned by a remote tribe of nomadic Aboriginals, who call themselves the "Real People," to accompany them on a four-month long walkabout through the Outback. While traveling barefoot with them through 1,400 miles of rugged desert terrain, she learns a new way of life, including their methods of healing, based on the wisdom of their 50,000-year-old culture. Ultimately, she experiences a dramatic personal transformation.

Mutant Message Down Under recounts a unique, timely, and powerful life-enhancing message for all humankind: It is not too late to save our world from destruction if we realize that all living things -- be they plants, animals, or human beings -- are part of the same universal oneness. If we heed the message, our lives, like the lives of the Real People, can be filled with this great sense of purpose.

Discussion Questions

  1. Mutant Message Down Under opens with an ominous prediction: "I was to become merely one more American to disappear in a foreign country." What were your expectations as you began reading this book? When the narrator leaves her hotel and goes off in a Jeep into the Outback, what did you imagine would happen to her? Were you surprised by her willingness to relinquish her clothes and all of her material possessions?

  2. Who is Ooota? How does he mediate between the narrator and the Aborigines? When he tells her that they are going on walkabout, how does the narrator respond? What explanations does Ooota give for why she must follow?

  3. What did you think of the palm reader's revelation that the narrator was destined to come to Australia to meet someone who wasborn at the same instant as she was? "The pact was made on the highest level of your eternal self." How is this fortune borne out in the narrator's experience? Who is the person she was destined to meet, and how is this same destiny foretold by the Aborigines she accompanies on walkabout?

  4. What aspects of discrimination against Aborigines does the narrator witness prior to her adventure? How does the narrator strive to improve employment opportunities for young, urban Aborigines? To what extent do her good works gain her recognition in the Aborigine community at large?

  5. Why do the narrator's Aborigine companions call her Mutant? How do the members of the Real People tribe treat her at the beginning of their journey? Were you surprised by the living and traveling conditions the narrator describes? How would you characterize the relationship the Aborigines have with nature?

  6. How do the Real People communicate with one another when they are separated by long distances? Were you impressed by the sophisticated techniques they have learned over time for healing? How was their collective healing knowledge put into practice in the case of the injuries sustained by Great Stone Hunter?

  7. The narrator writes of the Real People: "They believe how you feel emotionally about things is what really registers. It is recorded in every cell of the body, in the core of your personality, in your mind, and in your eternal self." Did you find this vision of human experience resonated for you? What other aspects of the Real People's spirituality appealed to you?

  8. The narrator writes of the Aborigines: "It is truly amazing that after 50,000 years they have destroyed no forests, polluted no water, endangered no species, caused no contamination, and all the while they have received abundant food and shelter." What are some examples of the way in which they respect their world? Were you surprised by their knowledge of life outside of the Outback?

  9. When the narrator is escorted into the sacred underground area, what does she experience? How does her exposure to the history of the Real People reveal her own role in their development as a people? Why do the Real People conclude that they must leave the Earth in order to save it? What is the narrator's responsibility for securing their legacy?

  10. How does the narrator change over the course of Mutant Message from Down Under? Which of her attitudes change? What kinds of experience is she willing to embrace? Would you describe her transformation as total?

About Marlo Morgan

Marlo Morgan is a retired healthcare professional. She lives in Lee Summit, Missouri. Her first novel, Mutant Message Down Under, was a New York Times bestseller for 31 weeks and was published in 24 countries. She is also the author of Mutant Message from Forever.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4.5
( 60 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(42)

4 Star

(8)

3 Star

(2)

2 Star

(4)

1 Star

(4)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 60 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 16, 2003

    CAUTION

    I should say that this book seemed important to me for some time. It did change my perspective of relationships to other people and caused me to be more open and honest with my closest friends and relatives. That is why it hurts so much to find out about the blatant misrepresentations and inaccuracies in the book. I am deeply hurt by this literary hoax and even the valuable meaning of it for me is lost in the manipulative and exploitative spirit in which it was written. Marlo Morgan should be ashamed of herself. The plight of Aborigional Australians is made worse by her effort in this farse of natural spirituality. I even feel sorry for the poor consumers who actually spent money on the book in its origional self-published form. You have been deceived.

    3 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 12, 2012

    Wonderful book.

    great book. nook cover picture is the wrong one and gives an incorrect impression.

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2003

    The Impossible Dream

    At first, I really got into this book. There's a lot of New Age and spiritual 'stuff' that reminded me of a stage I went through in the '70s. There is a lot of spiritual 'truth' to what the author wrote -- but the Aborigines have been fighting this book since 1994 because of the misrepresentations of the facts about Aboriginal culture. You'll learn more from 'Rabbit-Proof Fence' and any one of the Arthur Upfield mystery books (originally published from the 1930s thru the '60s, some of the titles have been recently reprinted).

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 9, 2012

    Number 15

    Shut the hell up u obviously dont n wut ur talking bout i read this book wen i was in eigth grade an i understood it she shudnt b ashamed of herself for doing wut ever the hell she did to piss u off. An guess wut niw im a sophmor an i still understand it so mayb u shud jus go an re read it an mayb ull understand it mor

    1 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted March 30, 2012

    Great message!

    There is a very powerful message in this book. Her experiences during her walkabout are remarkable. This book gives us mutants something to consider about how we live our lives.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Posted September 11, 2011

    This ifor the person who wrote the review CAUTION

    This was a great book you dork! Who cares if the author isn't correct about the austrailians! MY DOG IS SMARTER THAN YOU AND THATS SAYIN SOMETHING!! DONT LISTEN TO THE REVIEW CALLED CAUTION ITS A BUNCH OF POOP

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted May 28, 2010

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    A Powerful and Compelling Message

    It was my son who gave this book to me for Mother's Day one year. What a switch. All his life I have been speaking to him of spiritual matters and, to my great joy, this was a reflection of his heart. A huge round of applause to the author who is reaching so many people with such honest, soul-transforming words. This is the book for those who like to dream and imagine themselves traveling to places they are assured never to go. Not for the timid, however, this book is as point blank and revealing as your inner most thoughts. You are definitely on a journey to the center of the Outback with the author, who was called to listen and learn while a small procession of Aboriginals guided her ever inward. Not by plane or even horse and wagon, but by walking and eventually shedding everything as she went. She humbly removes her dignity, layer by layer and you feel her discomfort with every briar she walks on. She has been beckoned by the nomads not only to hear their distress signal but to take up the drum and beat the rhythm with them.until the world stops to listen. The effect is profound and leaves the traveling reader with a sense of urgency to join in. This book is a wonderful road map to compassion.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted July 11, 2009

    This is Fictional

    This story is a complete fabrication. It has very little resemblance to Australian aboriginal culture

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 3, 2001

    OK Philosophy, but Clearly Fictional

    The frustrating thing about this book is that the author admits that it is fictional, but claims that it is based on a true story. So while reading it, I kept being annoyed trying to figure out what parts were actually true. It's pretty clear that she made a lot of stuff up. As for the philosphies and spiritual teachings of the book, there's nothing really new here. Same themes that you get in accounts of Native American religion or other pre-Western cultures. All in all, a yawner.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 20, 2001

    complete fabrication!!!!

    as a book of fiction it is ordinary, as a book of fact... it is pure fiction!! '....in 1996 a delegation of Aboriginal elders went to the United States to express their horror and hurt.... that the this book was being portrayed as a 'true' story. A week later Morgan admitted that she had lied about the authenticity of her story.'

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2014

    Alec

    Same.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2014

    Delightful Book

    Yeah. Gtg bbd.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2014

    Alex to aria

    Hi.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 23, 2014

    Chartreuse

    Chartreuse nods. "I agree." She bandages Aria's arm and sigs back on her heels. "How's that?"

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 24, 2014

    Postpostgoddam.nit aria

    "I'mm alll alone!"

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 21, 2014

    Hunters board

    Here

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 29, 2008

    Eye-opening

    I was amazed by the revelations in this book. I realized that I had very limited knowledge of the Outback and what a walk-about was all about. I was awed by the author's stamina to live under such primitive conditions. The overall message was enlightening and very profound. I have already passed this book on to several friends.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 25, 2007

    Amazing!

    I highly recommend this to all who have ever wonder 'what, where, and why?' A strong life changing book. If it does not at least change your personal thinking,and beliefs, I don't know what will.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 28, 2006

    spiritual and awakening

    The aboriginal people should be converting US with THEIR wisdom...

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 10, 2005

    active, male

    Wow, is all that comes to mind for this book!!!

    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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