Bush Tucker: The Indigenous Superfood Fighting Food Insecurity in Remote Australia

The aroma of sizzling sausage and a delightful vegetable curry wraps the playground at Warakurna School in a warm embrace that could quiet even the most boisterous of gatherings. After days spent at one of Australia’s most remote and lively school carnivals, 200 weary children sink into deckchairs, savoring the sight of hearty meals served with love. For Daisy Tjuparntarri Ward, both an elder and educator, the anticipation for the Dust Up festival—located a staggering 1,700 kilometers northeast of Perth—brings joy akin to a child’s glee on their birthday. Yet, there lingers a wistful wish for fresh, healthy food to be an everyday luxury, not just a festival treat.

The stark reality for many families in Australia’s remote communities is a bittersweet tale of scarcity and high prices. With nutritious food often costing double what one would find in the city, Native Australians grapple with alarming rates of diet-related ailments. Ms. Ward’s heart aches for the children who grow up in a world where health is compromised daily. “We have so much sickness,” she comments. “People living on tablets all the time. We need to help our young kids.”

Food insecurity has been a long-standing adversary for those in Australia’s outback, leaving over half of First Nations people in remote areas living below the poverty line. The situation has only worsened, with the pandemic, rising living costs, and extreme weather steering many to the cheaper—and generally less nutritious—options. Fresh produce, after all, often travels thousands of kilometers to reach these isolated communities. It’s no wonder that in Central Australia, Aboriginal people over 30 now boast one of the highest diabetes rates worldwide and face kidney failure at rates twenty times higher than the general population.

Meet Catherine MacDougall, the heart and soul behind the non-profit Prepare, Produce, Provide (PPP). For years, her culinary brigade has been feeding the spirit of the Dust Up carnival, where WA children come to discover sports, arts, and culture. “Food is a basic right,” she asserts with a fierce determination, recognizing that the limited access to fresh produce directly impacts not just health, but education too. After all, how can a child learn with a grumbling belly?

Bundjalung woman Mindy Woods, who achieved fame as a former MasterChef contestant and now runs a native foods restaurant in Byron Bay, emphasizes the shocking truth about the food landscape in remote Australia. “You go into these little community stores and there’s barely a fresh fruit in sight,” she laments. “It’s actually a human rights issue.”

As the Australian government prepares to unveil a national strategy for food security in remote First Nations communities, hope flickers on the horizon. They’re recognizing the historical barriers imposed by colonization and climate change that have disconnected these communities from the 6,500 native ingredients—many viewed as “superfoods”—that have nourished and sustained them for millennia. “Kangaroo, for instance, used to be restricted for human consumption, but thankfully, we’re changing that,” the discussion paper notes enthusiastically.

Ms. Woods champions the idea of native foods—like saltbush, kampurarrpa, and bush tomatoes—being integrated into daily diets. “These are superfoods without the trendy hashtag,” she quips, illustrating how these traditional foods offered the sustenance necessary for thriving, rather than just surviving. Her vision extends to bush tucker gardens in schools, where children can learn about these indigenous ingredients and perhaps, one day, step into a burgeoning native food industry.

In Wanarn, just 100 kilometers west of Warakurna, refreshing rays of hope are already shining. Locals have revived an old community garden, cultivating a veritable feast of fruits and vegetables that promise to bridge gaps in nutrition. Ms. Woods envisions a future where the beauty of these native ingredients becomes as common as a roast Sunday dinner on every table across the country. “When people taste this exquisite food, they’ll want to know more about our First Nations communities,” she muses.

As a bright Sunday unfolds, Ms. Ward strides down the Great Central Road, rake in hand—a metaphorical lighthouse in a stormy sea, guiding children towards knowledge of both western education and traditional practices. She spots kampurarrpa, one of her cherished bush foods, and the simple act of popping it into her mouth builds a bridge between her culture and the youth she longs to teach. Ms. Ward champions the idea of “two-way learning,” emphasizing how gathering bush foods teaches not just about nutrition, but also connectivity to their land and cultural heritage.

With her harvest, she dreams of sharing the experience with eager students, couple lessons of healthy eating with the stories of their ancestors. “Bush tucker is vital,” she says determinedly. “It keeps our kids away from the sugars that lead to diabetes. And it teaches them about their country.” Ms. Ward ventures down the red dirt highway, her bucket brimming with nature's bounty, hopeful for a future where children grow up nourished, empowered, and proud of their heritage.