The Kakadu National Park has World Heritage status. It’s the size of Wales and is home to a quarter of Australia’s freshwater fish, 300 types of birds and 75 species of reptile. And then there’s the ubiquitous wallaby, the various species of which are adapted to forest, billabong, grassland, rocks and the more arid desert areas. The park is rich with over 1000 types of plant, each which not only appear to have their favourite time of year, but also time of day. As a consequence the entire ‘park’ is a naturalist’s dream.
Wildman Wilderness lodge is a small and most welcome oasis on the edge of Kakadu. As with relief, you turn off that aggressive red earth track, you’re greeted by a suddenly watchful mob of wallabies. Yes that is the collective noun. There’s a co-ordinated freeze – a sort of marsupial ‘mannequin challenge’. But all eyes (and ears) are on you. After risk-assessing our threat, which quite clearly was on the low end of their scale, they relax and resume their daily routine in the mid-day heat of this remote place. I suspect they recognised our slow disoriented exit from the essential 4×4, the awkward stumble and uncertain step, and the discernible quiver as contact with firm ground gradually damped the natural frequencies to which our bodies, for the last two hours at least, had been compelled to vibrate. ‘Yep, no threat from this lot boys. As you were.’
The strict condition and deal breaker for persuading Jacky to camp out in the wilderness was a level of luxury and bush tucker cuisine not normally demanded by those seeking to be at one with nature and its rough edges. Fortunately the Wildman Wilderness Lodge had recognised this niche demand. En suite tent, gourmet restaurant and infinity pool allowing you to observe Mother Nature and her diverse variety of unfamiliar children at play, the latter enjoyed of course whilst drinking prosecco, or depending on your palette, a chilled Coopers Pale. The sort of place I suspect Bear Grylls and his team enjoy between shoots.
That afternoon we ventured out to various spots in the Mary River wetlands. In each location the range of flora and fauna on display, getting on with their individual and collective business, was immense. Whilst watching a couple of large black-necked storks on the riverbank opposite, we spotted a ‘salty’ in the mud. Jacky observed that it appeared to have its mouth wide open; a trick crocs do in the process of managing temperature. However the binoculars revealed a very different story. This was late October, the salty’s mating season. The distant open-mouthed croc was in fact two having a ‘humpy do’. And it clearly wasn’t going to be snappy. Starting to feel uncomfortable at our resulting voyeurism, we withdrew. An action I guessed wasn’t going to happen across the water for some time yet.
Early evening, back at ‘camp’, we sat on the decking at the rear of our tent and sipped chilled Squealing Pig whilst the sun obligingly set over the vast red plain conveniently laid out before us. Nature’s various antipodean children gathered as the shadows slowly lengthened and the heat began to leave the day – just a little. Some for a final forage and, depending on age, some to play before bed. My own mother would call it ‘their mad half hour’. The wallabies were top performers. A hopping, bouncing mob of around 60-70 joeys, jacks and jill’s. That’s right, whilst the term ‘joey’ is common parlance for a young kangaroo or wallaby, a ‘jack’ is an adult male, and of course therefore, you can work out the ‘jill’. The older joeys were particularly entertaining. They actually do kick-box. Holding one another by the shoulders and then launching the best blow they can release from those developing and crucial hind legs. And I can tell you they don’t hold back! My own eyes were watering just watching. Part mirth, part empathy. Then there were the vast flocks of white yellow-crested cockatoos, surging and circling in a cacophony of threatening squawks and cries. Magpie geese trailed giant ‘v’s’ across the sky above us. Other birds of various sizes, colours and calls came and went, each knowing when it was their turn in the daily sunset pecking order. And as the sky took on a deeper red hue, so did our wine. A very special bottle of soft deep Rusdens Good Shepherd from the Barossa Valley. A bottle brought along especially for the occasion by Francesca. My daughter having won it in a reckless wager with her manager on the outcome of another boxing bout, the Mayweather – McGregor ‘event’. A pointless farce compared to which the adolescent scuffles of the wallabies in front of us had far more purpose.
The sun below the horizon, it was the turn of the bats, not that jumpy darting tiny pipistrel type we have in the UK. Those that fly as if excited mice who’ve just discovered they’ve been given a pair of wings. But large dark majestic creatures which fly slowly and assuredly with long fingered wings which beat an easy rhythm. It was all glorious, truly glorious. As was the Rusdens Cab-Malbec.
And so to dine.
Our quartet represented one half of the reservations at the Lodge that evening, rendering the entire experience especially exclusive. So it was at our feeding time. Having enjoyed our own ‘mad half hour’ (or so) on the Squealing Pig and Rusdens, we settled down for our own end of day forage. This began with a truly bush tucker tray of grilled crocodile, buffalo and kangaroo. Whilst all were quite delicious, the kangaroo was exceptional. Which makes me wonder why so many of these big fellas are still hopping around across this blessed country. Then on to a stunning ‘main’ of wild barramundi. As caught truly wild, this thick, white muscular fish was as succulent as it was flavoursome. The very best wild sea bass ‘squared’. Dessert was a perfect NT mango and vanilla panna cotta, which as well as tasting quite delightful, held perfect texture and cleared the palette superbly. What a meal.
At this point it was time for me to pay a call. And I don’t mean of the communications type. The wilderness doesn’t do comms that well – although I was a tad disconcerted to note how much my iPhone ‘maps’ knew of the tracks across it. I wonder if there’s anywhere left in the world not covered by iPhone maps? Please tell me there is. There was a single loo outside, a short walk from the small central dining room. I part-jokingly advised the table that I would be ‘checking under the seat’. As I walked out into the now dark night, a small wallaby mob instinctively went into mannequin challenge mode. On this occasion however, they appeared to be communicating a collective ‘He’s not really going in there is he? This should be fun boys’.
On entering the outdoor closet I firstly checked for any immediate signs of wildlife. Such as the poisonous butt-eating spider of the ‘furry fanged scuttler’ genre, awaiting my arrival from corner web, or the bored snake coiled around pedestal base. As you do. After giving myself the all clear on that one, I tentatively lifted the toilet lid. Peering up from the depths of the pan, sitting at the point where water meets air, long-fingered hands stretched upwards on white porcelain, was a frog. Large glassy boggle eyes fixed on me, not menacingly but almost pleadingly. Now I admit to not being an expert on frogs of the NT wilderness, and what little I did know I certainly wasn’t going to put to the test by helping this little fellow from what I viewed as his (or her) unfortunate predicament. Come on, you’re currently digesting the most gorgeous meal prepared in the most unlikely of places. Would you seriously stick your hand down a ‘public’ loo on the edge of the wilderness, to pick out an unknown species of frog which may or may not have the potential to render you comatose within half an hour? Such a reckless action firmly rejected, having locked eyes with the peering amphibian, I just couldn’t bring myself to use the facility in the manner I’d intended. I couldn’t do it to the little fella. Not even a fall back number 1. I resigned to take the long walk back to our canvas and use the much-ridiculed en suite facility, but not before taking a pic of the boy. Once more, the shared selfie just wasn’t going to happen!
Whilst we savoured the fine panna cotta, our genial hosts prepared a fire pit outside around which they’d positioned deep-cushioned sofas. Was this for real? We spent the remainder of this most perfect evening basking in the glow of that fire, listening to the night orchestra and watching lightening crack the skies high above very distant Darwin. All whilst sipping a nightcap of Aussie Bundaberg dark rum, prepared of course old fashioned style “with a sprinkle of bitters and just the faintest scent of lime skin run around the rim please – if you’d be so kind”. Oz’s own dark rum, or ‘Bundy’, is good whilst not quite in the same league as the Caribbean El Dorados or Diplomaticos, but hey ho sometimes you just have to compromise. Pinch me and tell me I’m not dreaming, what a special, unique and mesmerising day.
And so to bed, and to sleep above wallabies doing the very same under the stilted floor of our tent. Goodnight little Skippy.
Fate is inexorable – and lead us to this glorious place.
Ken's Eye 