Life

by Tim Flannery

  A downhearted Lester, who had hoped to bring the lizard alive to Port Moresby, went off to do this dismal duty, but soon emerged in a state of astonishment, saying that he could see nothing but a large goanna turd adorning his pillow. When Mipi heard that the goanna had done a runner she fled to her cabin, refusing to open the door until the monster had been searched out and ejected. Despite a thorough examination of the boat, however, the goanna remained elusive. Considering the situation, Lester stood outside Mipi’s cabin and opined loudly, to nobody in particular, that it was most likely a sea-going species and had jumped overboard of its own accord and was even now swimming to land. Not entirely convinced, it was some time before Mipi emerged. But in the bustle of shipboard life the goanna was soon forgotten, and things carried on as before.

  Alcester Island is high, so it’s visible from a long way off. When first spotted, the green speck on the horizon seems delightful, but the closer you get the less inviting it looks. The island’s basalt core is all that remains of an ancient volcano. It resembles a gigantic, angular stone, flat on top with sheer sides crusted at the base with limestone cliffs. With no fringing reef to hold them back, waves beat fiercely against the cliffs, carving them into caverns and spires. They reminded me of the redoubts of the cartoon wizards of my childhood.

  Alcester’s geology is revealing of its history. The island formed when a volcano rose from the sea. Presumably, it was initially cone-shaped, like Japan’s Mount Fuji, but then erosion by waves steepened its sides, giving it a more block-like shape. As the magma chamber that fed the volcano cooled, it became heavy and began to sink into the sea, until it lay at sea level. The volcano’s summit was then planed off by the waves, forming the plateau that exists today. Then, awesome geological forces gathered strength, thrusting the island skywards once again. This would have happened in stages. The limestone cliffs were clearly once fringing coral reefs that formed as the island paused in its ascent, but which have now been elevated high above the sea. In all probability Alcester is still on the rise.

  As we sailed along the island’s northern coastline we could see no sign of human habitation, but then, in an open cove towards the island’s western end, we found a neat, if tiny, village. As we entered the calm waters of the cove and prepared to drop anchor, the Sunbird was surrounded by small outrigger canoes manned by curious women and children. The deep blue sea was so clear that we could see corals growing twenty metres or more below. But the submarine slope was only slightly less steep than the island’s cliffs, making placement of the anchor—so that we were safe from drifting onto rocks or out to sea—a matter of some difficulty and precision.

  The women in the canoes were dressed in traditional grass skirts, and were accompanied by naked children. This was very different from the situation on Woodlark, where everybody wore Western clothes—except on every second Tuesday when the schoolchildren donned traditional garments. From what I could see of this village, which was tucked away among the coconut palms, it was entirely traditional. The evident lack of Western influence made me feel a little like I’d arrived with James Cook on Tahiti. Later, the women told us that most of the men of the village had gone on a great Kula voyage, and that the few who had remained had gone to Woodlark to seek treatment for the boy with the broken arm. Alcester was thus a tropical paradise temporarily inhabited only by women and adorable, energetic children.

  As idyllic as the tiny island community seemed to us, it had its problems. When two small boys climbed aboard the Sunbird they asked for just one thing—a glass of water. It was the height of the dry season in a very dry year. The villagers had just a few litres of water in the bottom of an old tank, which they were holding as an emergency supply. They were subsisting on the juice of coconuts and they were very thirsty. We gave them some water, but our own supplies were limited, so we could not do as much as we would have liked. The villagers were delighted, however, when we produced a huge tuna from the freezer. It was enough to feast the entire community.

  I was curious to learn whether any other ships had called recently at this remote place. A woman told me that the last vessel to anchor there was a yacht hired by one of the major cigarette companies. It was, according to her, luxurious, and its crew had given away free cigarettes before screening romantic films in which the actors looked sexy, fit and powerful as they puffed on their cancer sticks. This example of modern capitalism sowing addiction and death in paradise sickened me and left me wondering just how long the traditional culture of the island might survive.

  That afternoon, after setting mist-nets and rat-traps, we rested or entertained ourselves by snorkelling and diving from the Sunbird. I had never seen water so clear, and as I dived towards the bottom my ears crackled and popped as the pressure increased. Without a weight-belt, it took most of my energy just to get down, but once there I was amazed at the abundance of tiny fish and the brilliant colours of the corals and worms. Cooled by currents sweeping up from the ocean depths, Alcester Island’s corals had remained untouched by pollution or coral bleaching. Little did I realise back then that, due to climate change and coral bleaching, I’d not see its like again.

  As evening drew near we went ashore to search for the island’s mysterious quadoi. I’d been feeling slightly off-colour all day, with pains in my legs and a headache. I knew the feeling all too well. It was the onset of malaria—a disease that had been a constant companion ever since I’d begun work in Melanesia. By the time we’d started the climb to the plateau I was sweating and finding it difficult to walk. Lester and Tish suggested that I rest in a hut in the village. Feeling frustrated and angry that my only chance to see the island had been taken away, I tossed and turned in a bush-materials bed in a pitch black hut, cursing my bad luck.

  As I began to feel increasingly nauseous and fevered, a slight click at the door alerted me to someone’s presence. Scared and not knowing who it might be, I turned my torch towards the door and saw there a girl in a grass skirt. She looked to be around fourteen years old, and to my fevered eyes appeared as if she’d just stepped off the filmset of Mutiny on the Bounty. Her innocent face was framed in a halo of curly black hair and she was carrying a fan, a bowl of precious water and a moist cloth. Without saying a word she sat down beside me and began mopping my body. In the darkness and silence I could hear her breathing quietly beside me, and as I cooled the nausea retreated. How many people, I wondered, would trust their teenage daughter to a total stranger in a darkened hut? Yet some woman, who may not have even spoken to me, had clearly told her daughter to sit with me. Overcome with gratefulness for the kindness of that stranger, I eventually drifted into a deep sleep.

  It was the small hours of the morning when Lester woke me with news of his very successful night. He had obtained samples of both quadoi and the island’s flying fox. I was feeling much better, so I helped Lester skin the catch with the intention of giving the meat to the villagers, whom the drought had placed on short rations. As I set to work, it was immediately obvious that the cuscus of Alcester Island was indeed extremely similar to that of Woodlark. But on Alcester, Lester reported, the creatures were exceptionally abundant. So much so, he said, that he had taken aim at a flying fox in a tree, and out of it had fallen both a bat and a quadoi. They must have been in line with his rifle, feeding on the same bunch of figs. Laboratory studies later revealed that Alcester’s quadoi had most likely been introduced to the island in relatively recent times—probably in the last few thousand years—from Woodlark. Archaeological studies later suggested that such inter-island transfers had been a common practice among the people of Melanesia for thousands of years, and were presumably a deliberate strategy to supplement the meagre larder of game animals found naturally on many of the islands.

  The following day Tish and I packed up the nets and traps. If the TAMS volunteers were to meet their flights in Cairns we had to depart the island by lunchtime. There was time for just one more piece of work. We had been told of a sea cave where small bats roosted, and Les
ter had set out by canoe to examine them. He returned just as we were preparing to up anchor, and was still somewhat shaken. The approach to the cave was perilous, and if the lakatoi, which was crewed by children, had capsized, the waves and jagged limestone would have turned him to mincemeat. Thankfully, the kids were expert seafarers, and he returned with news that the cave contained sheathtail bats belonging to two species. These tiny brown creatures are so named because the bony part of their tail is encased in an extensive skin membrane. They are common in Melanesia, and are often found roosting in sea caves.

  When we tallied the discoveries made during our twenty-four hours on Alcester, we realised that we’d documented six mammal species. Over the previous century of mammalogical research, just a single specimen of a flying fox had been recorded from the island. All in all it wasn’t a bad day’s work.

  As we left Alcester in our wake and set course for Alotau, the capital of Milne Bay Province, my mood was tinged with sadness. Travelling the islands of the Solomon Sea by catamaran had been a sublime experience, but in Alotau I would have to bid adieu to the Sunbird and most of my companions. We had formed genuine bonds of friendship and had shared amazing adventures. Now they would sail back to Cairns, while Tish, Lester and I went by air to explore one of the most extraordinary islands in the Pacific—Goodenough in the D’Entrecasteaux Group.

  We approached Alotau and began to sort through our piles of equipment, deciding what should follow us to Goodenough and what should return to Australia. As Lester lifted a large box of traps that had been stored just outside the head, a familiar figure emerged. It was the goanna that had left its calling card on Lester’s pillow. I was amazed that a creature over a metre long could go unnoticed for so long aboard a crowded vessel the size of the Sunbird. It was a lesson in how easily stowaways like the Pacific rat and the house gecko could travel unnoticed on outrigger canoes piloted by the ancestral Polynesians, and so spread themselves to every inhabited island in the Pacific.

  We tried to keep news of the goanna’s re-emergence from Mipi, but she noticed our attempts to catch the animal and promptly locked herself in her cabin once more. After a scramble Lester finally grabbed the stowaway, and placed it securely in a large plastic box. Matt then took pity on it and fed it with leftover chicken bones. This had an astonishing effect. The hitherto wild lizard became as tame as any lapdog, reaching up to take the bone almost from Matt’s hands. With each bone it gulped down, our captain’s heart visibly softened. Words were said about it becoming the Sunbird’s mascot, but much to Mipi’s relief Lester informed Matt that, now that Papua New Guinea was an independent nation, it was illegal to export wildlife without a permit. Then Lester announced that he too had become fond of the reptile and could not make a specimen of it. Fed and recovered, it made an assisted leap for freedom into Alotau Harbour, its skill at swimming proof that Lester’s initial identification of the beast as a mangrove monitor was correct. The species is widespread in coastal Melanesia, and it would have been quite comfortable in its new home among the Alotau mangroves.

  Memories of Robert Hughes

  2012

  AT THE AGE of twelve Robert Hughes lost his father, but in his twenties he found a father figure in the war correspondent and author Alan Moorehead. Moorehead, among the finest writers of nonfiction Australia has produced, told Hughes that the great unacknowledged story of Australia lay in its convict past, leading Hughes decades later to pen his breathtaking book The Fatal Shore. Subsequently, Hughes always understood the importance of mentorship.

  While I was living in the United States in 1998, I met him at that extraordinary pseudo-colonial relic, the Explorers Club, in New York. I was there to give a talk about my time in Papua New Guinea, which I’d written about in Throwim Way Leg. Hughes sat in a room bedecked with elephant tusks, armaments of diverse calibres, tattered flags and other memorabilia, looking not unlike an antipodean Hemingway. When the questions ceased he suggested we go to dinner. I was delighted, despite needing an early night ahead of a challenging talk I was to give the next morning at the Academy of Natural Sciences in Philadelphia.

  We went to a bar around 42nd Street, and began to discuss the human colonisation of the Pacific. What a fabulous television series it would make, Hughes opined. Indeed it was the perfect subject for him: grand, heroic, encompassing half the globe, and following on from Moorehead’s classic The Fatal Impact. As we sketched out a possible storyline, it was already past midnight. Our discussion was well lubricated, and dinner had yet to be ordered. Mindful of my morning train, I told Hughes I’d best be off. ‘Come and stay with me!’ he boomed, explaining that he lived not far from Penn Station. We got to his apartment around 5 am, still unfed. I crashed onto a sofa, hoping for an hour’s sleep, but Hughes waltzed in, stark naked and bearing two shot glasses and a bottle of whisky. Hospitality forbade refusal, so I downed a slug before getting the train. The lecture did not go well.

  We continued to meet occasionally in Australia, both before and after his near-fatal car accident in 1999. Once, I visited him at his niece Lucy Turnbull’s residence in Sydney. My old Ford was falling apart, so I was a trifle embarrassed when Hughes asked if I’d give him and an American friend a lift into the city. On William Street, a taxi pulled up beside us and the driver wound down his window. ‘Mate,’ he said, staring in disdain. ‘Your number plate’s hanging on by a pubic hair!’ Hughes burst into gleeful laughter, quipping to his American friend that the Australian idiom was alive and well.

  Hughes was famous for his wit and biting criticism, but an unexpected and delightful quality was his generosity in reading manuscripts and giving encouragement to young writers. Perhaps his greatest gift was his compulsion to say what he felt. It made him riveting company and a brilliant art critic, but sometimes when he spoke, including in public, he seemed to be baring his soul—exposing a vulnerability and fragility unexpected in such a man’s man.

  Even in his last years, when his face was about as pretty as the dark side of the moon, women loved him. Many were doubtless smitten with his sheer genius, but there was more to it than that. Maybe it was the mix of machismo and tender bruisability that appealed. Not that women always brought him happiness. When the surgeon treating him after the car crash called the family to explain that he might have to amputate Hughes’s legs, a relative affectionately enquired whether, as an act of kindness, he might remove the battered culture-warrior’s balls as well.

  I never really understood the source of Hughes’s vulnerability. Perhaps it was that, as Clive James said, ‘Sooner or later a man as smart as that will end up believing that the whole world has failed him.’ Hughes once told me how an operation on Alan Moorehead after a stroke had gone terribly wrong, leaving him confined to a wheelchair and virtually unable to speak. In 1979, Moorehead’s wife, Lucy, took him on a holiday in the Italian Alps, where their car ran into a truck. Moorehead was unharmed, but Lucy died. Thereafter Hughes visited Moorehead frequently, usually taking him to Hyde Park. One day, they stopped beside a pond where a pair of ducks was copulating. To Hughes’s astonishment, Moorehead, who had barely spoken in years, said, ‘You’ve no idea how bloody boring it is in here, Robert.’

  By the time Hughes told me this, the great Moorehead had all but been forgotten. A man as smart and sensitive as Hughes knew that we’re all leaves in the wind. Some deserve so much better.

  They’re Taking Over

  2013

  IT’S BECOME FASHIONABLE to keep jellyfish in aquariums. Behind glass they can be hypnotically beautiful and immensely relaxing to watch. Unless we are enjoying them in this way, we usually give little thought to the creatures until we are stung by one. Jellyfish stings are often not much more than a painful interlude in a seaside holiday—unless you happen to live in northern Australia. There, you might be stung by the most venomous creature on Earth: the box jellyfish, Chironex fleckeri.

  Box jellyfish have bells (the disc-shaped ‘head’) about thirty centimetres across, behind which trail up to 1
70 metres of tentacles. It’s the tentacles that contain the stinging cells, and if just six metres of tentacle contact your skin, you have, on average, four minutes to live—though you might die in just two. Seventy-six fatalities have been recorded in Australia since 1884, and many more may have gone misdiagnosed or unreported.

  In 2000 a somewhat less venomous species of box jellyfish, which lives further south, threatened the Sydney Olympics. It began swarming at the exact location scheduled for the aquatic leg of the triathlon events. The Olympic Committee considered many options, including literally sweeping the course free of the menace, but all were deemed impractical. Then, around a week before the opening ceremony, the jellyfish vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.

  Most jellyfish are little more than gelatinous bags containing digestive organs and gonads, drifting at the whim of the current. But box jellyfish are different. They are active hunters of medium-sized fish and crustaceans, and can move at up to six metres per minute. They are also the only jellyfish with eyes that are quite sophisticated, containing retinas, corneas and lenses. And they have brains that are capable of learning, memory and guiding complex behaviours.

  The Irukandjis are diminutive relatives of the box jellies. First described in 1967, most of the dozen known species are peanut- to thumb-sized. The name comes from a North Queensland Aboriginal language, the speakers of which have known for millennia how deadly these minuscule beings can be. Europeans first learned of them in 1964 when Dr. Jack Barnes, who was trying to track down the origin of symptoms suffered by swimmers in Queensland, allowed himself to be stung by one. With nobody attending but a lifeguard and his fourteen-year-old son, he was lucky to survive.