Strewth & Consequences in Bushwhacking

Of the many ways someone might go missing in the Northern Territory, I’ve yet to find one which ends happily.

Darwin, capital of the NT, is called the city of eternal summer. With its dusty streets, sunburnt beaches and banyan trees reeking of guano, Darwin is a speck of civilization between the desert, the wilderness & the abyss. Known for its gold miners, pearl divers, crocodile hunters, cattle drovers and meat packers, Darwin is a town with a high demand for beer. Historically, much of the beer consumed in Darwin has been done within the walls of the Victoria Hotel. Erected in 1890, this pub was the first building in Darwin built of stone. The Vic has enduring multiple cyclones, a rebellion against the Australian government and, in 1942, an aerial bombing by the same Japanese fleet who woke-up Pearl Harbor. She’s a sturdy pub, the Vic. 

At this late afternoon hour, the humidity has not relented despite the lengthened shadows. Bats are restless in the banyans; stretching, yawning. Darro McMichael, a renown bushman, walks into the pub wearing his typical khaki romper with a grimace atypical of him. Merriment shouted in his direction is quietly dismissed, extinguished with a murderous scowl from the bushman. Fists clenched, jugular throbbing, teeth gnashed, Darro steps to a table of travelers demanding all the blokes present to pull their heads in. He says, yous maggoted bogans needs remain quiet. Suffer in your jocks, Darro says. He only wants to hear from Emma Banerjee. Wolfie offers to pour Darro a glass from the jug of beer, but Darro silences the Brit with a glare bordering on contempt. The bushman turns to Banerjee. What the fuck happened out there, Em?, Darro asks. Banerjee, startled at the sudden prosecution, takes a sip of her beer as she mentally prepares her statement. 

“Out there” is the bush. Kakadu. The largest national park in Australia. Some of the harshest inhabited country in the world. 100 different kinds of reptiles live in Kakadu including the vicious “saltie” estuarine crocodile and its more neighborly cousin, the “freshie” Johnston’s crocodile (on par with the American alligator on the spectrum of politeness). Raised in Northern Territory and befriended by aboriginal elders, Darren McMichael has long made Kakadu his temple, his playground and his business. While plenty of travel companies will take tourists to Kakadu on photo safaris (oi!, there!, a troupe of black wallaroos!), Darro offers a more Faustian invitation. Sign the waiver and get bush-deep. Chew some grit. Learn ancient bushcraft skills without violating the sacred rituals of aboriginal tribes (unlike Paul Hogan, who has been lifetime-banned from Kakadu for committing onsite blasphemies during the filming of Crocodile Dundee 2). What Darro offers is a proper bushman’s adventure. But it comes with risk. Ergo the waiver. Sign your life away. On this most recent expedition, a pour English girl named Margaret broke her wrist during the final night at camp. Darro had to rush her back to his LandRover miles away and from there to the nearest emergency clinic. Bringing the entire group along was not an option. It would take too long. Instead, Darro decided to do the trek with just Margaret and her sister, leaving the rest of the team to fend for themselves overnight. On their own. The next morning those who remained behind would then trek to a rendezvous site where Darro arranged transport back to Darwin. Before he left with the wounded, Darro set certain rules. Stay together. No more swimming in the plunge holes without his crocodile oversight. No hunting goanna to toss on the campfire for a scaly dinner. No fishing for barramundi. For sustenance, Darro left behind snags (hotdogs), Vegemite and white bread. Mangoes for dessert. And again, stay together. No one leaves the campsite until everyone leaves the campsite in the morning. But who would Darro put in charge?

It probably should have been Emma Banerjee. 

Composed from her seat within Victoria Hotel, Banerjee begins her statement. She makes it clear she was never in favor of Darro’s decision to name Coyote the team captain. She says, after you left camp, Darro, Captain Coyote declared first order of business was drinking all the beer & wine before dawn to ease the hike back to the rendezvous. What is it you said, Coyote?, Emma asks, better to piss it than to lug it? What followed was a colossal cock-up of grog-slappy, testosterone-driven, white blokes attempting to assert dominance over each other. Bloody Lord of the Flies, innit?

Ahh, love, it weren’t so bad!, Wolfie objects from his seat at the pub table. His new bride looks at him sideways. Reminded his only duty now is to remain silent, Wolfie hunches his shoulders and sinks into his seat. Wolfie, of course, had expected Darro to put in him charge at Kakadu. He was the only team member who is military, after all. Wolfie understands duty. But he also has a spark of chaos; something Darro understood. A thrill for danger is in Wolfie’s nature. It’s how he fell in love with an outspoken anti-imperialist like Banerjee. How Banerjee in turn fell in love with him?, Wing Commander Virgil Wolfe?, a Royal Air Force flyboy?, not even she understands. Insisting on keeping her cultural ties, Emma Banerjee refused “Wolfe” as a surname. And she would not wear Wolfie’s ring. She would not be owned by this colonial descendent. The only ring on Banerjee’s fingers is the tattooed dashes around one thumb’s circumference representing her Bengali ancestors who would rather dismember themselves than continue weaving for the East India Company. She despises English Empire. And yet, here they are, Banerjee & Wolfie. It must be love because nothing else makes sense.

Darro sits in his feral mood, doing the Aussie salute of brushing flies out of his face. He is intent on listening to Banerjee, wondering how his well-intentioned walkabout had gone so tits-up. Dog’s breakfast, he would have called it. A mess to be lapped-up in the morning. The team had been such a respectful & resilient crew. Good humored. On the drive into Kakadu, as Darro played rally-driver along the twisting dirt roads and through the river streams, the team sang Men At Work songs at the top of their lungs. Can’t you hear?, can’t you hear?, the thunder?, you better run, you better take, co-ver… Certainly, they had performed admirably on the most difficult portion of the journey. After hiking through the monsoon vine forest to the top of the Arnhem Land Escarpment, Darro led them down several tiers of cascades in an unforgettable waterfall hike which required close teamwork. Darro would position the tall blokes, Dutchie and Coyote, having them hold poses in the downfall of water, allowing the rest of the team to climb down them like scaffolding. Everyone had to step exactly where Darro told them to step (…left foot to shoulder, right foot to shoulder, left foot down to thigh, right foot over to ledge…). There would be no rescue helicopter coming to save them. And everyone fell in line. Figuratively. The only thing actually falling was the river water. It wouldn’t be until evening when disaster struck. Margaret, after an afternoon of drinking from the goon-bag of boxed-wine, lost her balance while urinating at a camp latrine. Her thin wrist snapped when breaking her fall. Darro had no other choice but prioritize Margaret’s injury and leave the camp. The bush guide hadn’t expected the lads to go troppo. 

It wasn’t just the blokes who’re off their trolley, Banerjee continues her story. She says, Caroline and Bets had brought party drugs from Darwin. Not to mention Dutchie, who had his own dope. When the teacher is away, the children will blaze, Banerjee says without a hint of humor in her voice. And Captain Coyote turned a blind-eye, she says. If he even noticed… Coyote and Wolfie were busy fighting each other to submission, wrestling in their trousers like dogs. Two of the daftest gladiators ever. You’d think I’d find it more stimulating, yeah?, Banerjee says, but I was more enthralled watching Bets and Dutchie fire dance on MDMA. 

Fuckin’ Christ, Darro shakes his head. 

Eventually, Banerjee says to Darro, Captain Coyote and Wing Commander Wolfie called truce. Mutually assured exhaustion, what? Best mates were they, laughing boys, oblivious to their fresh scrapes and cuts, crushing tins of beer for hydration. And it was then Dutchie announced his mutiny. 

Well, first…!, I say to interrupt Banerjee. Don’t forget Caroline and Dutchie got into a spat, I tell her. The faces at the table turn towards my words with malice. I put up my hands, guilty, and made the motion of zipping my mouth shut. 

Fucking Dutchie…, I think, stewing in my silence. If it weren’t for me, he would have never been included in the expedition. I should have known better than allow him to tagalong. We met a week ago, at a Darwin hostel; two backpackers: an American mythologist and a Dutch freelance photographer. We formed an ill-fated fellowship over Bunderberg rum. The next day Dutchie and I met Darro. Oi!, Darro greeted us with enthusiasm. If yous blokes are looking for the root & toot tours, where it’s all snog & grog, get your dick wet or your arse upped, you’ve come to the wrong place. If your priority is pulling-in heaps of sheilas, yous need go down the road to the poof tour companies. However!, if yous blokes are looking for proper adventure. If yous blokes want up close & personal with salty crocs. If yous blokes wants to get bush-deep then Darro’s your guide! 

On day one of the expedition, as Darro was getting to know his team, he said to Virgil Wolfe, shit, mate, if you’re calling yourself Wolfie then I’m Dingo Darro! And Victor, the Yank there, he’d be Coyote. Doh!, Dutchie said with his big Dutch smile, what am I? Oi, mate!, Darro laughed. You’re just Dutchie. No needs muck-up a good thing, mate! 

As Wolfie refills his bride’s beer glass, Banerjee admits, yes, first there was the argument. Before Dutchie’s mutiny, he feuded with Caroline. Banerjee explains to Darro, Dutchie claimed to be the United Nations ambassador of joy and kept trying to tickle Bets. And he was telling those awful jokes, Banerjee says. Always with the dead babies. Every bird cry, Dutchie would say, sounds like dead baby! Every rustle of bush, Dutchie would say a dingo must have it a baby. Coyote kept telling Dutchie he wasn’t funny and Dutchie would insist he was actually very funny. Americans are not funny, Dutchie said. Americans have stupid humor. And then Dutchie went back to his Anne Frank jokes. What’s the difference between Anne Frank and a squirrel in the attic…? Caroline couldn’t stand it and began screaming to drown-out Dutchie’s punchlines. Coyote pushed Dutchie against a tree, Banerjee says, then Dutchie pushed back and then my dear, daft, beautiful husband went to Coyote’s defense and tackled Dutchie’s legs. Coyote and Wolfie held Dutchie down and threatened to tie him up if he didn’t stop being an arse. They let Dutchie go and Dutchie began yelling how he refused to be governed by an American tyrant. He said he was taking command of the team. Coyote said let’s vote on it and we did. Dutchie lost 1 vote to 5. Dutchie grabbed a case of beer and his sleeping bag and declared he was separating to start his own tribe. Wolfie seized the beer back. The lads tossed Dutchie a couple cans of beer and Coyote told him if he’s going to fuck-off on his own, he might as well get lagered. 

Darro turns to me. What was the first rule, Coyote? Keep the team together, Darro says. And you send Dutchie off into the bush alone? You know how many fucking ways a tourist can die in the bush, mate? Nevermind the dehydration, the crocs and spiders, the death adder and taipan snakes! You run into a dodgy ‘roo and it’ll kick the pelvis right out your arsehole. Or if a particularly feral gronk comes across you, he might drugs ya, have himself a barbeque & a sing-song before shagging ya in your drugged sleep. Then bury ya alive to be dug-up and shagged later. Then feed your bones to his kelpie. 

This isn’t the end of it!, innit?, Banerjee says to Darro. She says, after Dutchie charges off, Caroline came to tell me he took the drugs. Not sympathetic, am I? Banerjee says, we could all see Caroline had had enough drugs. Certainly Bets was banjoed. I tell Caroline we will find Dutchie in the morning, get her drugs back, yeah? Caroline said I weren’t understanding, like. Caroline said Dutchie took all the drugs. He took them. All. He’s on them. I asked Caroline how much drugs is Dutchie on and Caroline says all drugs. 

Captain Coyote made the decision, Banerjee continues, for the sake of the community at large, let the Dutchman go rogue on his wanker-quest. Everyone is keen, except Wolfie, Banerjee says to Darro. Sweet, silly, Wolfie. My Virgil, she says with a slight smile. Wolfie stayed up waiting for Dutchie’s return. When Dutchie didn’t come back, Wolfie woke Coyote and the two of them went stomping into the bush, yelling cooee! like you taught them. I stayed behind to tend to Bets who was chundering her dinner into the fire. Filthy stew, what? The lads came back without Dutchie. We decided to look again in the morning but when morning came…, Banerjee said, we didn’t have much time to look before we had to get to the rendezvous point. Coyote figured we needed a larger search party. Get to rendezvous and find help. We left camp without Dutchie. 

There is silence at the table. The open-mic didjeridoo contest in the next room is unsettling. Banerjee, Wolfie and I watch Darro’s face as he mulls over the story. When I cannot wait any longer, I burst with my beer-buzzed rationale justifying my actions. I say to Darro, there’s a pirate code and the punishment for mutiny happens to be desertion… 

A real champ of a twat you are, Coyote, Darro says. Not a pirate, are you?, you fucking dick-knuckle. 

Darro, needs must ask, bruv…, Wolfie says with wide-eyes. Any sight or sound of the Hollander?

Darro pauses, his eyes dramatically going from each of our faces to the next. Darro asks of us, when Dipshit van Gogh left the camp, was he wearing any clothes? …

What?… Why?, I mean, yes!, I say. Dutchie was wearing his stupid Freddy Krueger Holland Postal Service shirt and his stupid Freddy Krueger hat. 

Darro nods and says, oi, too right there’s been sight or sound, Wolfie. Too much sight, mate. Dutchie stumbled into one of the poof camps in the nuddy, only a tarp around his shoulders, interrupting their brekkie with his own snag & eggs. No!, Banerjee gasps. Strewth, Darro says. Dutchie told the tour guides his camp had been attacked by dingoes and there were no survivors. No reason to look for them. Dutchie asked for chocolate and a ride back to Darwin. Yous blokes, Darro says and points at Wolfie and me, yous blokes are lucky. Dutchie’s no worse for wear, is he? Amsterdamned, but nowhere he wouldn’t be if he were to chart his own course. And yous blokes smell rosy by comparables. You’ve been out-arseholded by a true champion. 

Fuckin’ Dutchie, Banerjee scoffs.

The heat of argument has left Darro’s sails as he leans into his chair-back. Wolfie wisely fills the spare mug full of beer for the bushman. Who’s hungry?, I ask joyfully and offer to run out and procure some savory meat pies.   

Ain’t a picnic, is it, Coyote?, Darro says. A grumble of anger returns to his voice. Dutchie’s left a nasty review for my bizzo. Interwebs abuzz with dirty comments. Tracked him down at his hostel. Had a chat with the Dutchman. He says he’s not removing his comment until he hears from you, Coyote. Me?, I ask. He wants an apology, Darro says, from you, mate. You needs find the lousy Dutchie and apologize to the bloke. Give ‘em a hug & a wristy if he wants. Sort it out, mate. Me fuckin’ livelihood’s at stake, Coyote, Darro says.

…Where would I even start? How does one find a missing Dutchman on the Top End of Australia? Is there a phonebook listing the opium dens? Is there a Netherlands Embassy I can ring? 

Easy to sort, innit?, bruv, Wolfie says to me. Have a wander in the street and ask yourself, what’s the dodgiest thing a twat might get up to? Put your mind in the Dutch oven of his head. Think dead baby thoughts. You’ll find the slag in no time.