OLD WORLD STORIES · KIMBERLEY, WESTERN AUSTRALIA
The Land That Was
The Land That Was
Sung Into Existence
Ancient Australia and Lemuria — Part Two
Ancient Australia and Lemuria — Part Two
Not in obvious ruins. Not beneath the ocean. But hidden in plain sight among the red stone formations of the Kimberley.
While living and working there, I encountered places so unusual that even today I struggle to explain them. A landscape in North Western Australia that felt so alive and aware. Rock formations that resonated like bells. Sacred springs unlike anywhere else I have experienced. And eventually, the words of an Aboriginal elder who spoke of ancestors singing the land into existence.
Today I invite you on a journey into the Kimberley — a land of turquoise thermal springs, dreamy white sand beaches, sacred waterholes, ancient plateau mountains, mysterious red glowing stone formations, and a frequency unlike anywhere else I have experienced.
I enter this story with respect. With gratitude. With love for that land. This land is deeply sacred to its original people, and I share what I am aware of with great respect for the culture and custodianship of those who have belonged to this country since time beyond memory.
I arrived in Kununurra, in the East Kimberley, for work. The drive from Broome is over a thousand kilometres, and somewhere around the halfway point something shifted. Majestic plateau formations. Red earth so vivid it seemed to pulse. Families of boab trees — grandmother and grandfather trees standing with their young in small circles, like tribes, like families holding council.
The land was announcing itself before I had even arrived. We pulled into the caravan park where we would make our temporary home. I stepped out of the car, touched the ground, breathed in the air — and stopped. It was love at first sight. Immediate, complete, unmistakable.
Just metres from our site sat the boundary of a small national park called Mirima. And here is something I have never forgotten — Mirima, in my Serbian language, means “it has a peace.” Quite literally. Peace. If any place on Earth has earned that word, it is this one.
As soon as we had the basics set up, I ran straight into the park. Moving among gum trees that bent toward me in almost Monet colours — soft, luminous, gentle — I felt them saying hello. The land was aware of me. I was aware of it. Something was already in conversation.
Then I came to a gap in the red rock formation. I stopped. I knocked with my heart and asked permission to enter. I felt, immediately and without question, that I was standing at the threshold of something very old, very sacred, and very deliberate. So I entered.
Inside was a natural red rock amphitheatre. I stood there and simply stared. Into the beauty. Into the magnificence. Into my own disbelief. And beneath the disbelief, something quieter and more certain — a feeling of having come home.
The caravan park sat just a hundred metres away — busy, full of life. And yet the moment you crossed an invisible line into Mirima, it was as though a curtain fell. A veil. A threshold between one world and another. Not quiet. Silence. The kind that has age and weight and presence. The kind that asks something of you.
I tested them myself. I touched them, played with sound around them, and felt them vibrate almost like bells. The circles, the acoustics, the quality of the field among them — too considered, somehow, to be entirely random. I saw things not of this dimension. I heard sounds in unusual moments that had no ordinary explanation. The veil between worlds is genuinely thin there.
Human eyes can perceive approximately 0.0035 percent of the full electromagnetic spectrum. That is not a spiritual claim — that is physics. Reality is almost entirely invisible to us, not because it isn't there, but because we do not have the capacity to see most of it.
Sometimes I think those ancient worlds are not gone. I think they are still alive — functioning, present, intact — simply existing at a different density. Not gone. Just hidden. Waiting, perhaps, for enough of us to become quiet enough to remember how to look.
My job brought me to a sandalwood plantation — long days, sometimes ten or eleven hours, often alone in the bush among freshly cut trees. Sandalwood is one of the most sacred trees on Earth; ancient traditions reserve it for their most sacred rituals and ceremonies.
In the Kimberley heat, the essential oils would merge with the aromas of the native plants around me, and together they would create a natural altered state. Not dramatic, not disorienting — gentle, expansive, opening. I would come home glowing, as though I had completed a yoga retreat rather than a full day of physical work in forty-degree heat.
And then there was Zebedee Springs, inside the wilderness of El Questro. Warm thermal water at thirty-five degrees. Turquoise and green pools. Natural cascades acting as spa jets. It became my favourite place in the world.
Visions. A persistent, quiet certainty that this land is not only what it appears to be. That something much older, much more alive, much more intentional is woven into it.
The more I looked, the more I saw shapes that felt deliberate. One formation stopped me completely — a rock in the precise shape of a crocodile, sitting atop a waterfall. One day, sitting on its back, I found myself looking at a face in the rock nearby. A face that could have been Mayan. Could have been Egyptian.
Certain formations rise in groups of three and four in shapes that unmistakably resemble pyramids. And the dome formations of Mirima reminded me of Angkor Wat, or the great temple complexes of India — places where beauty and function are inseparable. Sacred architecture, whether ancient Cambodia or ancient Kimberley, does something to us. It reminds us of something we almost know.
The Kimberley is one of the most mineralogically extraordinary regions on Earth. The East Kimberley was home to the Argyle Diamond Mine — for decades the world's primary source of rare natural pink diamonds. The Ellendale field produced exceptional fancy yellow diamonds.
Across the wider region the ground holds vast stretches of quartz-rich outcrops, gold-bearing quartz veins, garnets, andalusite, amethyst. Quartz is piezoelectric — it generates an electric charge under pressure and responds to electromagnetic fields. High concentrations of quartz in the ground create measurable effects on the electromagnetic environment above it. That is established physics.
This mineral richness creates a field of unusual potency — a natural amplifier. I believe this is part of why the Kimberley feels the way it feels. Why the silence has weight. Why the dome formations resonate when you touch them.
This energetic potency creates the conditions for what I can only describe as portals — doorways of perception toward what I understand as Lemurian lore, the New Earth, and the 3-6-9 timeline that runs through my work with Nikola Tesla's consciousness. I believe these are not separate things but different names for one underlying reality — a timeline based on symbiosis, on life in genuine support of life.
Australia's wilderness is vast and largely pristine. Its ancient geology holds memory in ways that younger, more disturbed landscapes cannot. And most importantly — its indigenous people have never stopped living and telling the story. Through their Songlines, their ceremonies, their law, they have preserved the Lemurian memory not as archive but as living practice. Breathed, walked, sung, daily.
I was so moved by what I was experiencing that I wanted to create videos about this land. I posted in Slovenian on my Facebook, looking for someone to help with editing. A visual artist named Anna responded. She didn't know I was in Australia. When I told her, she said — oh, I was just there a few years ago. She had started in Melbourne, travelled to Darwin, and stopped in Kununurra. And stayed. For months.
I asked her — did you visit Molly Springs? It was one of her favourite places in all of Australia. I had always sensed that Molly Springs was a feminine place — something in the quality of it, the healing, the intimacy. Anna told me she had stayed with local elders, and that the women — the original custodians of that country — had told her directly: this was always a female sacred site.
I had felt it without knowing. The land had confirmed it through a woman from Slovenia, drawn to the same tiny, little-known waterhole on the other side of the world.
Then I found the words of Bill Yidumduma Harney — a Wardaman elder, respected lawman, and keeper of deep lore, born just across the border in the Northern Territory. He speaks of the Creation Time — Buwarraja — when the Great Spiritual Ancestors sang the land and all of life into being.
Before creation, he says, there was only bare land. The ancestors created not only the landscape but language, ceremony, medicine, law, animals, plants, and Songlines. The songs became the map of the country — and that map has never stopped being sung.
We're linked in together — the rock paintings and trees and the stars and everything all connected together. Yidumduma Bill Harney, Wardaman Elder
This was the confirmation I had been waiting for. That the great ancestors who shaped this land with love and precision and sacred intention are still present. Patient. Waiting for this era of forgetting to pass.
Every year, Antarctic whales pass the shores of southwestern Australia where I now live. Every year, we go to meet them — at sacred sites along the coast, at quiet places by the water where the meeting feels right. And every year, they bring with them something I can only describe as the song of the Kimberley — traces of those northern waters carried south in their bodies and their sound, exchanging information with Antarctica.
Whales communicate across thousands of kilometres. That is not poetic — it is documented fact. These great patient animals swimming their ancient routes with their young ones beside them represent something the Lemurian framework understands naturally — that every creature carries purpose beyond the biological. They are not simply migrating. They are connecting.
One Saturday, we drove to Zebedee Springs with my work crew — a jolly, mostly Irish and French forestry team. Wonderful people. Loud, funny, always talking, never quiet. We drove underneath the plateau mountains, and everyone went silent. For fifteen minutes, not a word. Just the road, and the land, and those ancient formations rising on either side of us.
In all my time in the forestry industry, I had never known that crew to be quiet. The land silenced them. Without asking. Without explanation. We all felt it. Nobody needed to say what it was.
Indigenous oral traditions across the Pacific carry stories of lands swallowed by the sea — among the oldest continuous oral histories on Earth. It has always struck me that the ocean between these ancient lands is called the Pacific — from the Latin pacificus, peaceful. And on the other side of the world sits the Atlantic — named for Atlantis, whether by memory or by intuition.
Two oceans. Two civilisational principles, perhaps, that have always existed in tension — the symbiotic and the extractive, the Lemurian and the Atlantean. We see the Atlantean principle operating clearly in our world today — in the buying of sacred coastlines to build private resorts, in the hoarding of resources, in the reduction of ancient living cultures to tourist attractions.
But the Lemurian memory has not been erased. It is stored in the rock. It is sung in the Songlines. It is felt by those who arrive quietly, with open hearts and quiet minds.
The Kimberley is home to the mighty saltwater crocodile, along with its freshwater cousin — true guardians of these waters. Knowing the extraordinary beauty of this coastline, I sometimes find myself smiling at the thought that if these rivers and beaches were not inhabited by some of the largest crocodiles on Earth, they might already be lined with resorts and hotels. The crocodiles do not care about our plans. And perhaps, in their own way, they help protect something precious.
Not because we need to prove the existence of Lemuria. Not because we need to agree on every interpretation. But because places like the Kimberley are real. The rivers are real. The sacred sites are real. And many of them are under increasing pressure — from large-scale development, water extraction, and industries such as fracking and intensive agriculture along the Fitzroy River, the lifeblood of the Kimberley.
Is a sacred site simply a location? A cultural monument? A geological formation? Or is it something more?
In Part Three, we will continue our journey into Ancient Australia and explore this question — what are sacred sites, and why have they mattered to human beings across thousands of years?