The moment before a ‘salty’ lunges, you suspect an attack is imminent and are scanning for clues in the creature’s body language. Our cat Nellie lowers her head into the grass, fluffs her tail and raises her butt with a wiggle. Three sure signs that a small bird or threatening butterfly is about to be rushed. Consistently fruitless but nevertheless a great game. For Nellie there’s always the magic food bowl to rely on. So the stakes aren’t high.
The salty gives no such clues. Not across one millimetre of that 5500 mm body, and certainly not in those fixed yellow eyes. Ice-cold eyes which at the same time appear to be looking both nowhere and everywhere. You’re hoping he might not be focussed on you, but trust me he is. He knows you, each tiny piece of you, he planned his game a long time ago and he’s reading your clues across every square millimetre of your nutritious body. He knows your next move before it enters your consciousness.
Wendell’s first strike was swift and unreadable. His jaws smashed into our transparent underwater cage. The walls held out but Francesca’s composure didn’t. Shooting backwards in a reflex foetal position, she shrieked in a way that shouldn’t have been possible underwater. OMG! Unicorns don’t behave like this.
The predator’s composure however seemed rattled by the unexpected transparent barrier. And so his second assault, whilst as determined and powerful as the first, was more readable. Only by a split second, but long enough to glance deep into his pure white wide-open jaws and down his milk white throat. This intrigued me. I expected to see a darting pink muscular tongue inside a blood-stained mouth. So I instinctively (and of greater importance) unflinchingly, inspected the finer detail of this estuarine crocs eating machinery. Whether it was my apparent indifference to his threat, or my lip syncing “That mouth is f—— awesome”, Wendell for some blessed reason withdrew from a third strike. The unbeaten champ retreated, settled to his shelf nearby and, indifferent to the crowd’s chants, refused to leave his corner. Ken is a croc whisperer – and fate is inexorable.
The Northern Territory covers an area over twice the size of France. Its population of 244 000 is only one third of that of the city of Leeds. So space is not at a premium in the NT. However one half of that number are residents of Darwin. Situated nearer to Jakarta than Sydney, and at the entrance to the Timor Sea, Darwin’s strategic significance is both economic and political. When Australia enthusiastically responded to British Empire ‘requests’ for help in WW1, the majority of the 330 000 troops dispatched overseas, left their home soil through Darwin. Of those, over two-thirds (68.5%) of Australia’s ‘diggers’ were casualties. Over 70 000 perished in the trench warfare of northern France and many thousands in the horrors of Gallipoli. Most survivors returned home through Darwin, many disembarking from their boats displaying horrific, life-changing injuries. The Pogues’ haunting ‘The Band Played Waltzing Matilda’ describes the return and plight of a damaged generation of young men as they arrive home to resume lives that could never be the same. Really worth a listen – but trust me – on your own in a locked room. The young country paid an enormous price.
In 1942 Japanese warplanes bombed Darwin harbour and destroyed vulnerable and critical oil tanks. The death toll (243) was greater than at the infamous attack on Pearl Harbour. Although no Hollywood movie has, to my knowledge, been made in its name. Francesca’s ‘Darwin Discovery Day’ therefore commenced at the underground oil storage tunnels commissioned immediately after the Japanese assault. It was essential to be able to fuel the US and Australian airforces in the war that had now extended to the Pacific basin. Digging out and constructing these enormous subterranean tanks, some over stretching to almost 200m in length and over 5m high, was a challenge of gargantuan proportions. Especially as it meant manually hacking out thousands of cubic metres of earth and rock from a cliff face, in the unforgiving tropical heat and humidity of Darwin, bedevilled by sand flies, earth collapse and the continuous threat of further attack. Whilst the project was top secret, inexplicably the earth removed was piled high by the entrances to the tunnels. Any Japanese reconnaissance would have known immediately what was going on. The project was not completed in time to contribute to the war effort, although in the 1950s the tunnels stored fuel for RAF and Australian forces aircraft involved in reconnaissance over ‘troubling’ Indonesia. However over time the tunnels steel walls corroded and hazardous leaks became common place. The vast network of underground tanks was closed for good.
Our next stop on Francesca’s educational tour was the new and impressive National Territory Parliament Building, which also holds the city’s library. A co-location which seems designed to facilitate a closer relationship between the people and their elected representatives. The student running in to make a last minute dissertation printout, or job-seeker building her cv can walk the same corridors and rub shoulders with those whom NT’s democracy has charged to look after them. Now there’s an idea to reconnect the UK’s people and its political class – a public library and information hub in every town hall, seat of regional government and of course, Westminster. The fact that such a notion may, for many reasons, seem impractical or unsafe, indicates to me just how divided our own country has become and how dysfunctional our political structures are for healing it. Meanwhile when the NT parliament sits, the mace is placed at a centre table, mimicking practice in our House of Commons. However in a delicious symbol of NT identity, across that same table is stretched an entire skin of the ubiquitous salty. Perhaps a subtle ‘Top End’ message to what just might happen to the people’s representatives if they forget those they serve.
Francesca’s finale to our edifying experience was the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory. This place is a must and don’t rush it. There’s so much to see and so much to think about. Another bonus, as with the Parliament Building – it’s absolutely free. Francesca’s Frugal Shoestring Tours. Super. Her father’s daughter!
The exhibitions relating to the indigenous peoples and their culture are extremely thought provoking, however I think this difficult subject deserves deeper attention in what will be a challenging future blog. For now I’ll just highlight the enthralling exhibition on Tropical Cyclone Tracy, who chose late Christmas Eve of 1974 to wreak her havoc across the city. Santa had no chance. Few children awoke to find presents under the tree, or more to the point, able to find the tree. Too many parents were unable to find their children.
The mainly sub-standard houses, sitting on stilts in a futile attempt to protect from oppressive heat and critters, were no match for Tracy. She hadn’t been expected, and certainly not with the ferocity she showed. Whilst kiddies feigned sleep, keeping one eye on the stocking laid out for the magical man in red, adults continued to party for Christmas, at a time when LP albums by Neil Diamond and Suzi Quatro occupied the population’s turntables. In a few hours Darwin was entirely devastated. 80% of buildings destroyed by Tracy’s 175mph winds. The exhibition has one darkened room in which we listened to a haunting tape recording of Tracy at her worst. The monstrous roar of hundreds of sheets of corrugated iron wrenched from their housing is truly frightening. Sixty-six Darwin residents didn’t see Christmas Day that year, and very few enjoyed a Christmas dinner. The city was officially evacuated, and after the dead were put to rest, the rebuilding job began. A not inconsiderable task given that few buildings were left standing. One such Tracy beater was the Hotel Darwin and another the old police station. The latter is now the site of the high-end Char restaurant. The Char is reputed to serve the best steaks in the NT, and to provide the highest quality of service. The efficiency and personality of their staff being of particular note. Francesca says so, and she should know. When not out riding unicorns, Francesca waits on tables at the Char.
Where we ate:
Breakfast – Fannie Bay Cool Spot. A fantastic breakfast – eggs benedict with wild Tasmanian salmon. Just out of town but what can I say. No cooler place for breakfast.
Dinner – Lola’s Pergola Bar, Cullen Bay Marina. A lively and fun bar overlooking the marina. Wide choice of ales and more than adequate menu. The tomahawk steak would challenge a salty’ appetite. However exceptionally tender and definitely for sharing!
Lunch: Darwin Trailer Boat Club
Another blessed mix of (very reasonably priced) seafood, crisp ales and sea view. Over lunch we were entertained by the club’s annual fishing competition weigh in. Learned to tell my Tricky Snapper from my Spanish Mackerel.
Where we stayed: The Adina Vibe, Darwin. As good and consistent as on day 1.
Ken's Eye 