Professional Documents
Culture Documents
You’ll Come a Wand’ring
Down Under with Me
Rick Trebino
Georgia Institute of Technology
School of Physics
Atlanta, GA 30332
rick.trebino@physics.gatech.edu
www.physics.gatech.edu/frog
After a lifetime as the boss of a vast eighteenth‐
century criminal empire, the notorious English mobster,
Jonathan Wilde, was finally hanged in 1725.
A few minutes afterward, Wilde’s hangman realized
that his wallet was missing and Wilde’s back pocket was
bulging suspiciously. It had become apparent that Wilde’s
last act on earth had been to pickpocket his executioner.
People just don’t change.
In fact, it was in this belief in 1788 that England
abandoned all efforts to rehabilitate its criminals and began
transporting its growing convict population as far away as
possible, that is, to Australia. And while, even today, social
scientists debate whether criminals can change their evil
ways, it’s generally agreed that criminal tendencies don’t
survive into succeeding generations. Indeed, the modern
descendants of these early Australian convicts have
developed a genteel, delightful culture that places a high
value on honesty and is known more for its opera houses
than its jailhouses. Analogously, the United States was first
settled by pilgrims, puritans, and other religious fanatics,
and if, God forbid, American culture today remains
dominated by such folks, may I burn in Hell for all Eternity.
So it was to Australia that England sent its convicts.
And it would be to Australia that I would take my wife
Linda to celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary.
Actually, I was hoping to show that I could change.
Specifically, my hope was that this anniversary celebration
would be a much‐needed change from the previous year’s,
which we spent stranded in a primitive unheated cabin in a
remote region of Siberia as winter descended, and which
was a tad low on the romance scale. It would also be a
welcome change from our fifth anniversary, which occurred
during a no‐one‐over‐age‐thirty‐allowed bus tour of Europe
and which happened to fall on the tour’s wild evening in
Amsterdam’s red‐light district. Again, romance was
probably not the operative word.
Now, Linda is a content person by nature, and she
never complains about these trips. This is partly because of
an infamous incident in her family in which her uncle
actually bit her aunt during a heated argument on their
twentieth anniversary over who had been the worse spouse
during their troubled marriage. So Linda has always
insisted that, as long as I don’t extract a chunk of her flesh
on such days, she’s happy.
In fact, her ideal anniversary celebration simply
involves sleeping until noon, relaxing all afternoon, and
then going out for a romantic dinner, perhaps with some
close friends—something we do essentially every weekend.
So I could easily ignore our anniversary and get away with
it. However, studies show that women’s most common
complaint about their men is that they never take them
anywhere, so I decided to stick with the exotic anniversary
trip approach. Nevertheless, it was clear that a little change
in anniversary celebration style was probably not a bad
idea.
This year, there would be a little less adventure and a
lot more romance. There would be no more reversions to
the primitive state, as had happened in Siberia. And, unlike
Amsterdam, well, there would be no more reversions to the
primitive state.
I would prove that people can change.
I explained to Linda that, admittedly, most of our
upcoming trip would be in the infamous Australian desert,
the Outback, an environment so harsh that escapees from
Australia’s eighteenth‐century prison colony who managed
to survive there for more than a few days generally
returned to the prison, begging to be let back in.
Okay, I didn’t actually mention that.
But I did point out that, on the day of our
anniversary, near the end of the tour, we’d have the most
hostile part of the Outback well behind us, and we’d be
staying in a luxury hotel at Kakadu National Park in
northern Australia, a park famous for its exotic wildlife.
Really cool species, like kangaroos, wallabies, koalas, duck‐
billed platipi, emus, wombats, echidnas, skinks, bearded
dragons, and frill‐necked lizards. (Of course, the United
States also has exotic species, but they’re mostly lower
forms of life, like flesh‐eating bacteria and tobacco company
presidents.) And it could be argued that a bevy of
Australia’s cute little critters would add considerably to the
romance to the day. So we envisioned sleeping until noon
on this most romantic of days and then relaxing on the
terrace, watching cute cuddly kangaroos and koalas
frolicking about in the distance. And when we found that
this hotel also featured a fine restaurant, we could almost
see Linda’s ideal anniversary unfolding. So Linda agreed to
go to Australia.
She had committed no crime.
Just in case we didn’t encounter a shopping mall in
the Outback, we bought our anniversary presents in
advance, so we’d be sure to have presents to exchange (yes,
I could just feel the romance oozing out of every one of my
pores). And I persuaded Linda to give me my present in
advance. It was a pair of $120 all‐black Nike cross‐trainer
shoes that I’d wanted specifically for this trip. The
culmination of years of research into the foot‐ground
interaction, these shoes were designed for running, hiking,
walking, and climbing—in short, whatever trouble my feet
could get into in the Outback. Indeed, I could even wear
them during my talk to the world’s most distinguished
laser scientists at the International Quantum Electronics
Conference that would take place in Sydney after the tour at
the end of the trip. After all, the shoes were entirely black,
and, if I wore a suit and tie in addition, no one would
suspect that lurking in the shadows beneath my pants cuffs
were anything but elegant dress shoes. As a result, there
was no need to carry any other shoes with me. You’ve got
to travel light in a place like the Outback. Certainly, those
early Australian convicts, who had been packed away with
only the clothes on their backs, traveled light.
Not counting the shackles.
* * *
Arriving in Australia, we hiked a bit in the rain forest
on Australia’s northeast coast before heading to the
Outback. In response to our questions there, an Aussie
guide explained that the Australian rain forest was one of
the most wonderful places in the world, but that we should
be careful not to touch anything because plants in Australia
can be quite nasty. He gave no details. We wondered how
a place could simultaneously be wonderful and nasty. Our
guide instead lectured us on the numerous unfriendly
plants native to the area. For example, just brushing up
against a “Stinging Tree” gets you an agonizing sting that
lasts for days. And the vicious “Wait Awhile” fern grows
long sturdy tentacle‐like appendages with sharp barbs,
which extend for many feet and are difficult to see as you
hike. If you bump into one and fail to stop and remove it
before continuing, it will cut a trench through your chest a
quarter of an inch deep. Hence the name “Wait Awhile.”
Indeed, cute critters were nowhere to be found, but
Wait Awhiles criss‐crossed the trail in every direction. I
failed to avoid one and tore my T‐shirt in several places but
luckily drew only a little blood, which the T‐short absorbed.
I became preoccupied with the ubiquitous Wait Awhiles
and forgot that there might be other villains of the plant
kingdom lurking about. It was then that I unknowingly
brushed against one.
That evening I noticed a naggingly itchy and quite
ugly, bumpy red rash on my left ankle. When I asked an
Aussie about it, he took a look at it and concluded that it
could be due to one of two different poisonous plant
species, and, depending on which one it was, it would
either go away by itself in a few days or spread over my
whole body, and within a week I’d die a horrible, agonizing
death.
It was rapidly becoming apparent that Australians
are not big on straight answers. It is said that Eskimos, for
whom snow is the important issue, have nineteen different
words for the frozen white stuff. Similarly, Australians
have several expressions, not in other English‐speaking
countries’ vocabularies, for “Honest, this time I’m really
telling the truth.” One such expression is “fair dinkum,” as
in: “Fair dinkum, the check’s in the mail.” Or “Fair
dinkum, I do plan to pay my bar tab.”
“I’d say you’ve got a fifty‐fifty chance,” the Aussie
continued, “Fair dinkum.”
As it happened, dealing with the rash would have
wasted valuable sightseeing time, so I decided to ignore it
and proceed into the desolate Outback, where medical care
is virtually nonexistent. All you can do if you fall ill there is
to wait until you’re near death and then call Australia’s
famous Royal Flying Doctor Service, which will airlift you
to a city a thousand miles away where you can spend your
final moments connected to considerably more expensive
equipment than is available in the Outback.
The Outback is a blisteringly hot desert of deep
orange‐red sand, punctuated by unsatisfying scrub and an
infrequent Eucalyptus tree. But we learned that it’s actually
full of life that has evolved to cope with its harsh
conditions—but isn’t necessarily happy about it. Indeed,
most life there is downright angry. The Outback hosts over
twenty species of highly poisonous snakes, including the
copperhead, the western brown, the tiger snake, the
appropriately named death adder, and the taipan, in fact
the world’s deadliest. It is also home to nearly 10,000
species of ants, most of which bite and don’t let go.
Difficult to miss there are the world’s most voracious and
destructive termites, which build hard‐as‐rock fort‐like
mounds up to twenty feet high. Also thriving there is a
huge array of ticks, mosquitoes, midges, leeches, scorpions,
and biting mites, and, without question, the planet’s most
irritating flies. And we shouldn’t forget the numerous
highly poisonous spiders that also make their homes there.
The funnel web spider is the world’s most poisonous, and
the red back spider likes to stalk its prey under toilet seats,
making a bite from this fiend not only deadly, but also the
source of cruel jokes at your funeral. Some spiders that we
saw were so big that you suspect you’re watching a horror
movie until they crawl at you and you realize that you’re
not just watching it. Even turtles in the Outback are
belligerent: the snake‐neck turtle projectile‐urinates at
suspected predators up to several feet away. And the
Australian wild dog, the dingo, is the mass‐murderer of the
animal kingdom, killing for sport as often as for food. In
fact, Australians have built a 3300‐mile‐long coast‐to‐coast
fence to keep the dingoes away from the sheep ranches and
heavily populated cities of southeastern Australia. This
fence is electrified and poisoned and, so far, has
successfully prevented packs of marauding dingoes from
invading civilized Australia. Indeed, in the Outback, while
the roads run straight for hundreds of miles because there’s
nothing to go around, the one stop you need to make is at
the dingo fence. I made a mental note not to forget to close
the gate behind me; it wouldn’t look good on my record if I
was the one responsible for destroying Australian
civilization as we know it.
The roads do make one detour from their linear
paths, and that occurs at Ayer’s Rock, near the geographical
center of Australia. This huge rock monolith extends from
the flat, almost featureless desert to a height of a thousand
feet and a width of three miles. As soon as you see it off in
the distance, you can’t take your eyes off it; you could say
it’s like a huge wart on the butt of the earth, but I always
avoid such unpleasant and wildly inaccurate images, so I
won’t.
We flew to Ayer’s Rock, where, amazingly, there’s
not only an airport, but also several luxury hotels, so
everyone can see this beautiful sight from air‐conditioned
rooms and with a belly‐full of gourmet food. We elected to
see it up close, however, and our hotel arranged a tour for
us by an Aborigine, one of the native people of Australia,
who have inhabited the Outback for over forty thousand
years.
The Aborigines know this arid landscape very well,
hunting and gathering from the seemingly worthless land
all the food and supplies they need to live on in a mere five
hours a day. The rest of the day is spent at leisure,
perfecting hunting skills, playing games, wandering off on
their famed “walkabouts,” and having large parties, called
“corroborees.” Aborigines are also very artistic, having
painted Man’s first cave paintings, and they also have
colorful names, such as Djajaradi Naganjirra,
Nabardawayal Nadjonjarek, and Bardjiwada
Nadjamjargorle.
A woman introduced us to our Aborigine guide, a
scruffy and bare‐foot, but jovial, very‐dark‐skinned fellow
with a long uneven graying beard and rather fit physique
for his age, which I estimated to be about fifty. She
explained that he spoke no English, so she’d interpret for
him. She also said his name was Reggie. Reggie the
Aborigine.
As we walked toward the rock, Reggie mumbled a
few syllables that sounded like “ubba dubba.” The woman
translated this into an incredibly detailed and interesting
treatise on the creation myth of the local Aborigines, which
involves numerous mythical creatures, such as the rainbow
serpent, in which every detail of Ayer’s Rock (which
Aborigines call Uluru) played some role.
Meanwhile, Reggie lagged behind and admired some
scantily clad female tourists off in the distance.
The translation continued with fascinating details of
how the Aborigines extract food from the local flora and
fauna. For example, a major delicacy is the honey ant, a
local ant with a large honey sack at its rear, which they pop
into their mouths whole, like an M&M.
Then Reggie emerged from his silence and uttered
something that sounded like “klaatu barada nikto,” and the
woman explained that the tour was over.
We returned to our bus, and, as we drove off, I
happened to look back and notice Reggie with the young
women he’d been admiring and saying quite clearly,
“Ladies, let me show you some of the rock’s secret places.”
It was evident that Aborigines have adapted
beautifully to their harsh environment. They had workdays
about half as long as ours, with none of the miseries of our
lives, like traffic jams and bureaucracy (Reggie’s day
seemed even shorter and was undoubtedly more
satisfying). They did have to contend with things like
spells, which an enemy tribe could cast on anyone at any
time and for any reason, and it could take several days for
the tribe medicine man to remove a particularly vengeful
one. But dealing with a spell was significantly simpler and
less expensive than the equivalent custom in our culture—
the lawsuit. Aborigines have also had the wisdom to
outlaw all communication between a man and his mother‐
in‐law. They’re rugged people who actually walk bare‐foot
in this pebble‐infested land.
Impressed, we decided to adopt some Aborigine
customs, and, that evening, at our hotel’s all‐you‐can‐eat
gourmet buffet, in a mere three hours, we hunted and
gathered the available foods from the natural luxury‐hotel
landscape: roast beef, almond‐encrusted salmon, various
chicken and pasta dishes, numerous gourmet salads and
soups, several fine wines, and a spectacular display of
chocolate tortes, cakes, and pies.
As we departed Ayer’s Rock to begin our journey
northward through the Outback, I noticed that the rash had
spread to my other ankle. But there was too much to see to
worry about it, and, besides, what was I going to do about it
in the middle of the Outback?
Aside from the tourist village at Ayer’s Rock, there’s
very little civilization in the Outback, just a small frontier
town every two hundred miles or so and an occasional gas
station. Well, not exactly a gas station. Actually a bar with
a rusty old gas pump outside and numerous large full‐color
signs advertising the various beers available in large supply
inside and, almost as an afterthought, a small hand‐written
cardboard sign that says meekly, “fuel: inquire at the bar.”
Inside the bar, a wise‐cracking bartender with a scruffy
beard and scruffier clothes makes sure that, no matter what
time of day, everyone has a beer in his or her hand. Beer
stains are everywhere, including the ceiling. And any
requests for gas to be pumped have to wait until all drink
orders are filled, which, we were told, can take up to an
hour on occasion. The interiors of such places are
invariably wallpapered with women’s underwear of all
sizes, colors, and styles. Our guide and driver, Sal, a
heavily bearded, fifty‐year‐old version of Crocodile
Dundee, said that, fair dinkum, one day he offered a beer to
any woman who’d add her underwear to the walls, and
he’d left the bar broke.
Sal turned out to be an interesting fellow. He’d lived
in the Outback for most of his life, herding cattle and roping
camels (camels had been brought to the Outback when it
was realized that horses couldn’t survive the climate). Sal
had had numerous interesting experiences in his lifetime,
none of which had actually happened. For example, he told
us of the time that his cattle‐truck brakes failed on one of
the few downhill sections of Outback road. When the
transmission also failed, he realized he had only one
possibility remaining. He cleverly broke the speedometer
glass and manually dragged the needle back to zero. On
another occasion, Sal mentioned that he had finally come
up with a true story to tell us but then immediately forgot
it.
Further up the road, we visited a camel farm, where a
rugged‐looking fellow, dressed like a cowboy, described
camel ranching. In the middle of his spiel, he paused,
pulled out a rifle, and took a shot at what he said was a
dingo off in the distance. “Missed!” he exclaimed, cussing
loudly. He talked affectionately about his camels, even
kissing one, and then mentioned that camels were highly
nutritious and low in saturated fat. We were prepared to
eat camel for lunch but instead were served ham
sandwiches. Then, for dessert, the cowboy mentioned that
we’d be having something called “damper with cocky’s
joy.” Still expecting camel meat, we asked the Australians
nearby what this odd‐sounding dessert actually was, and
they refused to tell us, simply asserting with smart‐alecky
looks on their faces that, fair dinkum, we’d like it. Now,
damper sounds a little too much like “diaper” for my tastes,
and even I am too polite to speculate as to what part of a
camel comprised “cocky’s joy.” So we decided to pass on
this Outback delicacy. Unfortunately, this was taken as a
serious insult by the Australians sitting near us.
Now, you can decline apple pie or hot dogs in the US
and nobody minds. And we were even able to decline vodka
in Russia without incident. But not so in Australia, where
we’d been more than willing to drink the national beverage
(beer), experience the national emotional state (the
hangover), and taste the national slime mold (Vegemite).
Well, damper with cocky’s joy turned out to be quite
reasonable: a biscuit with whipped cream and treacle
(syrup made from sugar cane) on it. But it was too late; by
the time we’d found this out, we’d already offended
everyone.
Things got even worse later in the day, when we
watched a documentary about the Japanese bombing of the
northern‐most Australian city, Darwin, in World War II,
during which an American soldier mentioned that, in the
confusion, he’d been fired upon by Australians. At this
point, one of the Australians said to me, “See, we didn’t like
you even then.”
And it didn’t help at all when I responded, “Luckily,
you were lousy shots even then.”
An international incident was clearly brewing.
Fortunately, I suppressed the urge to mention another
recent insightful observation I’d thought of, which was that,
while it’s well‐known that Australia was first settled by
criminals, it was actually only the ones dumb enough to get
caught.
Editor’s note: Linda has forced me, in the interest of
maintaining reasonable international relations with the fine
country of Australia, to include the following disclaimer.
Social scientists believe that intelligence, like criminality, is
not inherited. And, just in case that’s not sufficient, she has
also suggested that I point out that, while I’m clearly a
smart‐ass, some of my relatives are as‐dumb‐as‐dirt
religious‐cult types, who believe every word of their crazed
cult leaders and are waiting to be transported to space ships
lurking behind comets.
So things were starting to sour. And when I awoke
the next morning, the rash had spread up both of my legs
and had reached my knees. Expecting no useful advice—
and certainly no sympathy—I elected not to mention it to
anyone.
As we progressed northward, we hunted and
gathered Aborigine art, purchasing some umbrellas with
Aborigine paintings on them, an odd combination since it
almost never rained in the Outback. I also purchased a
didgeridoo, the native Aborigine musical instrument, which
is simply a tree branch that has been hollowed out by
termites (although, according to one Aborigine, an equally
good didgeridoo is a piece of PVC pipe, which he then
proceeded to produce and play quite nicely). I learned how
to play my didgeridoo by blowing into it while making a
raspberry sound (something that seemed to come quite
naturally to me). I was able to successfully achieve the not‐
so‐elegant sound of a well‐tuned didgeridoo: something
like the simultaneous digestive gurgles of an entire rugby
team just after the big game celebration. In order to
continue, however, I needed to learn “circular breathing,”
which involves breathing in through the nose and
simultaneously blowing out through the mouth into the
didgeridoo. I failed to learn this technique and never
learned to play more than one breath’s worth, which,
coincidentally, is exactly how much of my didgeridoo‐
playing most people can tolerate. When I later asked an
Australian about circular breathing, he told me that, fair
dinkum, the trick is to breathe in through your ears.
This fellow then explained to me that to truly have
the Australian experience, I needed to learn to drink beer
using a method he called “circular drinking,” which, well, I
don’t think you want me to describe.
As we drove through the Outback, we encountered
very few of Australia’s interesting beasts in the wild. It had
been a dry year, said an Aborigine we met, and most
animals had migrated away toward the few waterholes.
We wanted to see a goanna, a wallaby, a wombat, a duck‐
billed platypus, an echidna, a skink, a bearded dragon, and
a frill‐necked lizard. We were also looking forward to
meeting some koalas, which, we learned, are actually
difficult to see in the wild due to their sedentary lifestyle—
evidently the result of a bad diet consisting entirely of not‐
particularly‐nutritious Eucalyptus tree leaves, the animal
version of junk food. Not to mention the Eucalyptus tree
leaves’ natural barbiturate (evidently, koalas are cranky
because they’re hung over). We even saw very few
kangaroos, which was odd because the kangaroo has
thrived to the point that in some areas it’s classified as an
agricultural pest (making Australia the only country in the
world with an agricultural pest as the national symbol).
Indeed, the kangaroo’s taste for lolling about on roads in
the night makes it a nuisance to drivers as well. You might
say that the kangaroo’s inability to change with the times
and adjust to the development of the internal combustion
engine has made it even more of a nuisance. It’s also made
it lunch: kangaroo meat is widely available in Australia,
and supermarkets routinely display at their meat counters
whole kangaroo tails.
On one occasion, however, we encountered a large
colony of bats, all screaming loudly due to the presence of
an eagle among them. When asked about the situation, the
guide explained that the bats were seriously overreacting
because eagles didn’t eat bats.
At this point, Linda turned to me and said, “Hey, a
straight answer from an Australian!”
I had to agree. There wasn’t a trace of ambiguity in
his statement.
Just then the eagle grabbed one of the bats in his
talons and flew off to eat it.
Mainly, however, we saw flies—zillions of them. All
day long, huge hordes of flies swarmed around us,
frequently biting. In response, our Aussie co‐travelers all
donned hats with numerous corks attached to the brims by
short pieces of rawhide, which they claimed repelled the
flies. (A better explanation appeared to be that the corks
dangling in front of their eyes simply distracted them from
the flies—and, in addition, from rational thought.)
And when the sun went down each night, always
audible, but never visible, were the ever‐present dingoes.
Their sound was nothing like the familiar barking dog; it
was more like an eerie high‐pitched cross between a howl
and a scream.
As we traveled northward, we saw little more than
flat uninhabited desert for hundreds of miles. Occasionally,
a small hill or a valley would appear, and we learned that,
in Australia, such pimples and dimples in the otherwise
simple, featureless landscape are referred to as “National
Parks,” evidently to break the boredom. We stopped at a
few of these minor geographical wrinkles and hiked a bit,
occasionally taking a few extra steps to climb a “mountain,”
and on other occasions, being careful not to fall the several
feet into a “gorge.”
Eventually, the climate became wetter and more
tropical, and the hordes of flies gave way to swarms of
mosquitoes.
When I proposed avoiding the voracious mosquitoes
by spending as much time as possible under water, Sal
lectured us on water safety in Australia. While he
acknowledged that Australian air and land were both
fraught with danger, he warned that, in Australia, it’s never
safe to go into the water. Sharks, water snakes, moray eels,
and stingrays patrol the ocean waters. And the highly
poisonous box jelly fish, whose powerful neurotoxin
induces paralysis and death in seconds, has taken more
human lives than any other ocean predator and is
responsible for a ban on ocean swimming for the warmer
six months each year (and which nearly all Australians
simply ignore). The puffer fish and blue‐ringed octopus are
equally toxic. Even the lowly sea snail is a threat to life and
limb: the cone‐shell sea snail actually fires a deadly
poisonous dart that has killed numerous humans. And the
stone fish is not only ugly, but it’s evidently bitter about it,
having evolved toxins more deadly than any other fish
known.
The most dangerous water‐dweller, by far, however,
is the salt‐water crocodile. It’s 2000 pounds of armor‐plated
muscle and teeth, with jaws that can crush a skull like an
egg shell. It even has particularly virulent bacteria in its
saliva, so, if you somehow survive a croc attack, you’ll die
anyway from the infection. And the safety of a boat is
misleading; crocs frequently mistake small boats for rival
crocs and attack. Crocs also have a layer of light‐reflecting
crystals at the back of the retina, which acts like an image‐
intensifier. As a result, crocs see you long before you see
them. At night, you can tell there’s a crocodile nearby
because, if you count your legs, you’ll have one less than
you had when you awoke that day.
Australian crocodile mating rituals are so violent that,
in the battles for mates, male—and female—crocs can rip
legs off bodies and jaws off skulls. Most baby crocs die at
an early age—they’re eaten by bigger ones. Australia’s salt‐
water crocs are the largest crocodiles in the world, but,
despite their size, they’re amazingly agile.
They’ve even invaded the Australian city of Darwin,
where there are now as many crocs as people. Each year
hundreds of crocs must be removed from Darwin harbor.
A visit to a crocodile farm showed us just how
dangerous Australia’s infamous salt‐water crocs could be.
Most were heavily scarred from battles with other crocs. At
feeding time, someone would throw a dead chicken over
the fence into the pen, and it would invariably land in the
open mouth of one of these very quick reptiles, which
would immediately swallow it whole and then, without
delay, be ready for another. I noticed Linda cringing a bit
every time one of these awesome animals lurched or
chomped. These were indeed scary beasts, much fiercer
than American alligators.
For lunch, the snack bar served “crocodile
croquettes,” a pair of small spherical objects, ostensibly
derived from some part of the crocodile. When we asked
the chef exactly which part of the crocodile was involved,
he responded, “What part does it look like?”
This triggered a lively, but still unresolved,
discussion of crocodile reproductive anatomy, with the
result that we turned down this Australian delicacy. This
further offended our already irritated Australian co‐
travelers, one of whom made a crack about needing to eat
crocodile to prove humans’ position on the top of the food
chain. So I pointed out that, here in Australia, the species
on top of the food chain was the mosquito. And then one
bit him to facilitate his absorption of this important fact.
I soon noticed that the rashes on my left and right
legs had both spread further upward, now reaching my
hips and threatening to meet in an inconvenient spot. I
began to experience precursor symptoms of the predicted
horrible, agonizing death, such as a desire to try to figure
out how our HMO deals with reimbursement for medical
care in a foreign country. An Aussie pointed out that this
was clear proof that I was already in the early phases of a
death spiral, but that a few beers would pull me out of it.
Further proof was the fact that I couldn’t decide whether
this was a straight answer or not.
A few miles down the road, I revived enough to go
swimming with a hundred or so locals in a pond with two
beautiful waterfalls cascading into it. I didn’t notice until
afterward a rather small and unobtrusive sign warning that
the pond was actually crocodile infested. It turns out that
salt‐water crocodiles are misnamed; they also live—and
thrive—in fresh water, such as this pond. I survived this
brush with death, but Linda was starting to worry that,
given the lack of warning signs, the tendency of tourists to
steal the few existing signs for souvenirs (the signs show a
human bottom and a croc biting it, the perfect artwork for
any living room), and Australians’ general disregard for
danger, crocodiles were going to be a serious problem on
this trip.
It was at this time that we learned that, in fact, the
wildlife that Kakadu National Park is famous for is, not the
cuddly types, but instead the seriously not cuddly salt‐water
crocodiles.
As I changed out of my bathing suit and into my
clothes, I also noticed that my brand‐new Nike shoes were
gone—evidently stolen. Despite the obvious human role in
this theft, rumors immediately arose that they’d been eaten
by a crocodile. And, of course, it now had my scent. Just to
be on the safe side, Linda took this particularly seriously
and got out of there fast, dragging me hobbling along
barefoot after her.
I didn’t have another pair of shoes. And since
Aborigines didn’t wear shoes, it didn’t occur to them to
make or sell them. Sure, they made umbrellas, which they
also didn’t need, but, unlike shoes, umbrellas made good
canvases for painting. So I went barefoot and complained
loudly every time my virgin urban feet stepped on a pebble.
And it was then that I discovered that, if there was one
quantity the Outback had in abundance, it was pebbles.
The next day we visited an Aboriginal cultural center,
one of the few commercial enterprises in the world you can
actually visit barefoot. Indeed, the Aborigines there said
that they preferred going entirely naked but wore clothes to
accommodate westerners’ tastes. After learning to throw a
boomerang, we watched an Aborigine medicine man
demonstrating how Aborigines extracted medicines from
plants. As this was undoubtedly the closest I would ever
get to medical care in the Outback, and the bureaucracy
involved was refreshingly nonexistent, I asked him what he
could do for my rash. And I showed him the splotchy mess
that the skin on my legs had become.
“No worries,” he responded cheerfully as he reached
for a blue‐green plant by his feet, which I could have sworn
was the same one he’d demonstrated a few minutes earlier
as a treatment for chronic constipation and which he’d
called “thunder grass.”
“This plant is called ‘blue tip,’” he said. “Mash it in
your hand, and rub it on your legs. And cover nearby
unaffected areas as well,” he continued, noticing that the
rash continued up into my shorts and clearly knowing
exactly what his instructions required. I wondered whether
the plant was really called “blue tip” or whether this was an
example of Aborigine humor. He would undoubtedly get
big yucks with this story at the next corroboree.
I did as told, watching for even the slightest chuckle
or smile from this fellow. But he maintained a straight face,
and the bottom half of my body evolved from a sickly red
and white to a deathly blue‐green. The Aborigine tried to
put a positive spin on the situation and pointed out that the
blue‐green stuff had the additional advantage of repelling
mosquitoes. Unfortunately, it also smelled like a dead
skunk and so also repelled people.
As we had proceeded northward, hotel quality had
deteriorated significantly. By this time, they’d become little
more than shacks with beds. And somehow we had
miscalculated; we wouldn’t arrive at the luxury hotel in
Kakadu until the afternoon of our anniversary, rather than
the day before, as we’d hoped.
So, on the morning of our anniversary, we awoke in a
hotel that might have been a converted animal shelter, but
the general opinion was that no animal would have stood
for it—even after the conversion. There was little more than
a bed in the room, and the bathroom was a communal
shack a considerable walk away on an unlit, unmarked path
with numerous dingoes howling nearby. The floor of our
room tilted at an angle, and the bed had its own tilt, so we
kept falling off. Fortunately, we’d arrived after dark and
were departing before sunrise, so we never got a good look
at it.
Sal awakened us at 3:30 AM, so we could take a dawn
cruise down the Yellow River. We asked if the Yellow River
was really yellow, and if so, why. He responded it didn’t
really matter since one look at us told him that we’d be too
tired to tell. While this was clearly intended to be anything
but a straight answer, it turned out to be fairly accurate.
We arrived at the Yellow River just before dawn, and
Sal brought us over to a small shack on the edge of the
river. We could just make out the words, “Rivr cruzs,”
hand‐painted on it at an odd angle; the letter “s” was
backwards. Large gashes of some sort scarred the shack’s
surface on all sides up to a height of about three feet. A
flimsy‐looking rusty motor boat, about the size of a large
crocodile, lay nearby on the riverbank, near a make‐shift
pier missing most of its planks.
Sal introduced us to our guide, a heavily bearded,
bare‐foot fellow, dressed in what appeared to be rags,
named Murray, who, Sal proudly informed us, had been
giving Yellow River tours since he was a small child. Even
more proudly, Sal pointed out that Murray’s several
missing fingers were the results of encounters with crocs,
and the fact that they were all he’d lost was proof that
Murray knew his stuff. Murray smiled, revealing several
missing teeth, proof that Murray knew no dentists.
Murray pushed the boat into the water and herded
Linda and me onto it. We glided for a few minutes in the
quiet of the pre‐dawn morning. We waited for Murray to
tell us all about the Yellow River and its wildlife, but Murray
just quietly guided the old boat, saying nothing. I asked him
what we should expect to see, and he just smiled and said,
“Lots.”
Linda asked him where he got his boat, and he
responded simply, “Here.” It had become apparent that
Murray was a man of few words—not because he was
contemplative or thoughtful; he just didn’t seem to know
that many.
A few minutes later, after yawning several times,
Murray uttered the longest sentence we would hear from
him, pointing out that it was still too early for most animals
to be up, but that we should see lots of crocodiles.
Indeed, we could now see that the water was teeming
with crocodiles, their jagged outlines ominously glowing
yellow in the slowly rising sun. About a dozen of them
eyed us hungrily and followed our little boat downstream.
We asked Murray why the crocs were up so early when
there was evidently nothing yet to eat. He responded,
“There’s us.”
The motor of the old boat struggled, and I worried
that, even with the mild current, returning upstream might
be a challenge for it. Worse, the boat had several leaks, and,
when we pointed them out to Murray, he just shrugged,
saying that it’d had them for years. As I struggled with the
logic of his comment, Linda noticed that the holes that
leaked resembled crocodile‐teeth impressions (and come to
think of it, so did the gashes on the shack we’d seen earlier).
She suggested with some conviction that we return to the
pier, which seemed at least a marginally safer place.
Murray ignored Linda’s suggestion, and instead proudly
alerted us to several crocodiles approaching more closely,
now fully encircling the flimsy boat, distracting us from the
fact that the water level in the boat now approached the
tops of our feet.
As the sun rose, the glare dimmed, exposing a huge
battle‐scarred crocodile, swimming beside us, its mouth
wide open as if expecting a meal. Anticipating the obvious
question, Murray actually volunteered, “He’s just yawning.”
We considered this “explanation.” We couldn’t recall
ever hearing anything about crocodiles “yawning.” We
only knew about crocodiles eating.
Murray revved the pitiful engine and we gained a
little speed, and, eventually, the croc backed down,
allowing us to refocus our attention to the water in the boat,
which by now had reached our ankles. Murray reversed
the boat for the ride back upstream back through the crocs
we’d temporarily left behind.
Now struggling against the current, the engine
sputtered and stopped for a few seconds before restarting.
Murray remained oblivious to this and instead alerted us to
an exciting event taking place on the other side of the boat.
Two crocodiles were fighting, each croc’s huge jaws
attempting to envelope the other, as they thrashed in the
water. The violence of it was impressive. We excitedly
watched this event while Murray explained its purpose,
“The winner gets to eat us.” I took a quick glance at Linda,
and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so scared. Our flimsy
boat wouldn’t stand a chance in the face of such massive
violence.
The croc fight continued and had the fortunate effect
of distracting the other crocodiles as well, allowing us to
float by, unnoticed by most of them. The boat engine
continued to sputter, but we continued to make slow
progress up stream. Water continued to pour into the boat
through the holes, and, just as it reached our shins, we
could see the pier from which we started.
Our boat ride ended without serious incident, and we
returned safely to the bus, having been eaten only by the
usual hordes of mosquitoes. As we left, Murray
nonchalantly baled the water from the boat, in preparation
for his next tour.
Sal then drove us toward the long‐awaited luxury
hotel, the Gagadju Hotel. He also reminded us that this
was still crocodile country—indeed, it was the center of it—
and that crocs had frequently been seen wandering the
streets in the area, so we should be careful. I then had to
spend twenty minutes reassuring Linda that Sal was
probably just exaggerating again.
A few minutes later, when Linda began to look a bit
more relaxed, someone asked Sal what the Aborigine word
“Kakadu” meant, and he responded “Jurassic.” I then had
to spend another twenty minutes reassuring Linda.
I finally promised Linda that, at the luxury Gagadju
hotel, crocodiles would be the last thing on her mind.
This helped and, when we arrived at the Gagadju
Hotel, a couple of hours later, Linda had finally achieved a
fairly calm state of mind.
Unfortunately, it was precisely then that we
discovered that the Gagadju Hotel is built precisely in the
shape of a gigantic—what else—crocodile.
We entered through the mouth. The check‐in desk
was in the head. We maneuvered through the throat and
its esophagus and down its digestive tract to our room,
located, naturally, in its belly.
We sat down to consider what had become of this
anniversary. We’d awakened before dawn in a converted
animal shelter after only three hours of sleep, so we could
risk drowning and becoming breakfast for crocodiles.
Worse, it turned out that I’d accidentally left the suitcases
containing our clothes on the (now locked) bus and instead
had grabbed two suitcases full of Aboriginal art that I’d
purchased—mostly paintings of crocodiles. The present I’d
bought Linda (an evening gown) remained locked in the
bus, and my anniversary present—my shoes—had been
stolen. The hotel restaurant didn’t allow barefoot diners, so
the romantic dinner was out. I changed out of my sweaty
T‐shirt, emblazoned with the logo, “Hard Croc Cafe,” (it’d
seemed witty when I’d bought it at the croc farm) into the
only other shirt available, the bloody T‐shirt that had been
ripped to pieces by the Wait Awhiles, which I’d been using
to wrap my didgeridoo. In addition, all the Australians on
the tour disliked us, and a potentially deadly rash was
taking over my body. The only “good” news was that I was
under the care of an Aborigine witch doctor and, as a result,
was blue‐green from the waist down and emanated the not
so delicate scent of road‐kill.
Always optimistic, however, Linda said, “At least,
this is better than our anniversary in Siberia,” clearly
forgetting that, for all its flaws as a honeymoon resort,
Siberia at least lacked large carnivorous reptiles roaming
the streets.
To find a restaurant for our anniversary dinner, we
decided to take our chances in the streets, and, fortunately,
were only eaten by the usual hoards of mosquitoes, which
were even more voracious than usual, seemingly extracting
large chunks of flesh with each bite.
We found a shack nearby that turned out to be a pub
that also served food. It was decorated in the usual
women’s‐underwear décor, and that evening its patrons
comprised mainly a motorcycle gang. I asked if a torn shirt
and bare feet were okay, and the bartender said, “As long
as you pay your tab, mate.”
“Fair dinkum,” I responded.
“You pay in advance,” the bartender decided.
“Agreed,” I said, a bit distracted by the particularly
uncomfortable‐looking crocodile‐skin crotchless panties
decorating the wall by my head.
We ordered the “Overlander Special,” a meal of
traditional Australian foods eaten by “overlanders,” people
who had braved the Outback long before the advent of even
primitive hotels. The meal included such Outback favorites
as camel bourguignon, emu stir fry, buffalo in plum sauce,
crocodile a la king, and teriyaki kangaroo kebab. Some of
these dishes, especially the last one, seemed a tad
nontraditional, but asking about them didn’t seem a
promising avenue for resolving the issue.
“Happy anniversary,” I said to Linda between bites
of crocodile a la king and toasting with a mug of native
Australian beer, called “XXXX.” I noticed a tear in her eye,
which I decided to interpret favorably, although,
considering the day we’d had, I was well aware of an
alternative explanation.
Just then I noticed tears in the eyes of all the other
patrons, also, but for a very different reason. The pub juke
box was playing a favorite Australian folk song, a sad
lament that never fails to bring tears to every Australian’s
eyes, about an unfortunate fellow who walks “fifty flamin’
miles” to a pub, only to discover that it has no beer.
As we prepared to leave the pub, another patron, a
seasoned old biker in camouflage clothes and a black
leather jacket, who’d clearly not seen a shower in weeks
but, on the other hand, had clearly had seen the bottom of
his beer mug more than a few times that evening, staggered
over to our table. Drooling on it, he looked lasciviously at
Linda and suggested that she contribute her underwear to
the pub’s walls. Linda politely declined, but the old biker
then leaned on the table a few inches from her face and
reiterated his suggestion, this time offering his assistance.
Thinking quickly, however, Linda reached into her purse,
and, finding some dental floss, fashioned from the floss
something she called a “California thong bikini,” and gave
it to the fellow. As he pondered this exciting concept, we
departed peacefully.
Grateful for her quick escape, Linda once again
demonstrated her optimistic side, pointing out, “At least
this is better than our anniversary in Amsterdam,”
evidently forgetting that similar outfits had been in
abundance there, but that women had actually been
wearing them (although we differed as to whether this
represented an advantage or not).
We found our way home through the usual haze of
mosquitoes, but without meeting a single crocodile, and,
after a short, but not particularly romantic, didgeridoo
serenade by me, went to bed scratching our mosquito bites
to the sound of the dingoes howling off in the distance.
Without doubt, we had just spent another
anniversary almost completely reverted to the primitive
state.
* * *
The next day, we overslept our alarm, missing Sal’s
dawn display of Aborigine food, consisting mainly of edible
insect grubs, and we slept until noon. When I arose and
showered, I noticed that, not only had the stench and sickly
blue‐green color disappeared from the lower half of my
body, but the rash was gone, too. Either the Aborigine
remedy had worked, or the rash had simply chosen this
time to disappear. It didn’t really matter which.
I retrieved our clothes from the bus, and Linda
discovered a golf shop in the tail of the crocodile that was
our hotel, which actually sold shoes, and she bought me a
pair. They weren’t black, but instead a gaudy combination
of white, blue, green, and turquoise (after all, it was a golf
shop). But it didn’t matter (at least, that is, until a few days
later when we visited a sanctuary for tropical butterflies,
and several attempted to mate with them).
When we met with the Australians on the tour, we
told them about our meal the previous evening, most of
whose dishes they’d never had. They were impressed.
They also confessed that they had been completely unable to
get themselves to taste the slimy grubs Sal had served up for
breakfast. And now they couldn’t remember why they’d
been such “drongoes” back at the camel farm. We all
became lifelong friends and couldn’t imagine how we could
have endangered the wonderful relationship between our
two countries, so effectively consummated in film several
years ago by Crocodile Dundee and his American reporter
girlfriend. We all relaxed on the terrace (safely above the
croc‐infested ground), watching the exotic birds that
inhabited the area and telling stories that couldn’t possibly
have happened.
Later on, we and our new‐found Australian friends
had dinner together at the hotel restaurant, with Linda
wearing her new gown, and we all toasted to our
anniversary, albeit a day late.
As we prepared to turn in for the night, we turned on
the TV, something we hadn’t done in a few days. Tuning to
an American news broadcast, we watched a discussion of
cloning, inspired by the recent breakthrough by Scottish
researchers, who had cloned a sheep a few months earlier.
Of course, the issue of the possible cloning of humans
immediately arose. Most people are just not comfortable
with the notion of identical human offspring; we like the
inevitable change that occurs from generation to generation.
Despite some important potential uses for cloning,
powerful American religious leaders were quick to
condemn cloning, especially of humans, and they
successfully lobbied for a presidential ban on such research.
The news program continued with a minister explaining
that a human clone could have no soul, because the DNA,
and hence the soul, was already owned by the original
individual. And when the interviewer pointed out that
identical DNA is also shared by identical twins, the minister
thought for a moment and then responded that this
explains the well‐known phenomenon of the “evil twin.”
The news broadcast concluded by casually
mentioning the date, and we realized that, in the United
States, it was a day earlier. Because the International Date
Line separates Australia from the United States, it was the
day after our anniversary in Australia, but it was actually
still our anniversary in the United States.
Indeed, our wedding had been in the evening, so the
precise moment of our anniversary was actually the time
we’d awakened at noon on this day—and not the previous
day. We’d celebrated our anniversary on the wrong day.
Like Phileas Fogg, who had actually gone around the world
in just over 79 days—not 80—we’d forgotten to take the
International Date Line into account in calculating a
duration of time.
More importantly, while the previous day had been
disastrously unromantic, this day—our actual
anniversary—coincidentally, had been precisely the ultra‐
romantic, 100%‐crocodile‐free anniversary celebration
Linda had hoped for (with only the very minor exception
that we happened to be living in the belly of one).
It had been a miraculous recovery from the primitive
state.
* * *
We flew to Sydney, I gave my talk at the conference,
and no one noticed my colorful shoes. Using a new skill that
I’d acquired in Australia, I was able to distract the audience
with confusing, ambiguous answers to their questions.
Despite the adverse circumstances surrounding our
Overlander meal in the Outback, Linda had developed a
taste for kangaroo meat. That is, until the day in Sydney
when the waitress arrived with Linda’s “roo burger,”
saying, “Enjoy Skippy. We’ll miss him.”
Also in Sydney, we found a restaurant that actually
served damper with cocky’s joy (unusual for the city), so we
ordered some. Overhearing our order, some urban
Australians at the next table asked us about this Outback
delicacy. When they wouldn’t order any without knowing
its ingredients, we refused to describe it and just suggested
that they instead order the quiche with white wine.
Eventually, we managed to see all the cool, cute
Australian critters: wallabies, koalas, duck‐billed platipi,
emus, wombats, echidnas, skinks, bearded dragons, and
frill‐necked lizards, to name a few.
It was quite easy, actually. We went to a zoo.
I suppose that makes sense: with all the vicious
beasts running loose in Australia, the nice ones have to be
kept behind bars, in protective custody.
With our driveabout at an end, it was clear that I had
learned nothing of what it had been like to be in the shoes
of an eighteenth‐century Australian criminal. But, on the
other hand, a twentieth‐century Australian criminal knew
precisely what it was like to be in mine.
Despite my brush with Australian petty crime, it
must be emphasized that Australians are quite law‐abiding,
and their crime rate is quite low. But maybe Australian
culture—especially in the Outback—isn’t quite so genteel or
delightful, and maybe Aussies have some fun being a bit
misleading on occasion. After two hundred years, by God,
Australians undoubtedly retain much of their ancestors’
wildness.
At our last dinner down under, we ordered
barramundi, a native Australian fish, which, at age six,
changes its gender from male to female. We had to admit
that this characteristic made the barramundi the
undisputed Master of Change.
This naturally raised the issue of human change on
such short time scales. People can change, but usually only
in response to a change in environment, just as species
change in response to a change in theirs, albeit over a much
longer time scale. The eighteenth‐century Australian
convicts had learned to co‐operate in order to survive. The
Aborigines, having adapted beautifully to the harsh
Outback, are now adapting to western culture. Even our
short stay in the land down under had changed us (just ask
me a question, any question...). Of course, the crocodile,
having already achieved perfection for all possible
environments, hasn’t changed in a hundred million years.
But had I been able to change my anniversary
celebration style from primitive to romantic? Well, I had
changed time zones, and that had been enough.
In fact, you can be sure that next year’s anniversary
trip to the Amazon River jungle will be even more
romantic. Fair dinkum.
Epilog: I thought you’d want to know, so I asked my mother
how she and my father celebrated their wedding anniversary,
and she said, “You mean people celebrate that day?”
This story is one of about a dozen that will soon appear in a book by
Rick Trebino, entitled, Supermodels in the Jungle and Other Ill‐Advised
Adventures.
Supermodels in the Jungle
and other ill-advised adventures
Rick Trebino is about as close as it gets to a real‐life Indiana Jones. He’s a
scientist, professor, and adventurer, whose exciting—and very funny—
accidental real‐life adventures include wandering a tropical jungle with a
suitcase full of money, traversing a crocodile‐infested swamp in a rapidly
sinking boat, nearly getting arrested for smuggling primitive blowguns into
a nuclear weapons lab, sharing a small plane badly overloaded with the
booty of a gold smuggler, and almost being forced to abandon his loving
wife in an uninhabited region of
Siberia as winter descends. These
ill‐advised adventures are the
result of a logical, civilized
individual encountering the
illogical, idiosyncratic, and
utterly uncivilized world of such
places as the Amazon River
jungle, the Australian Outback,
and Siberia. These are the stories
of his adventures, told with a
sense of humor that’s rare in
popular literature today.
After receiving his B.A. from Harvard and Ph.D. from Stanford, Rick Trebino
spent over twelve years as a research scientist at a top‐secret nuclear‐
weapons lab in Livermore, California. He is now a Professor of Physics at
Georgia Tech.
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