Smyth’s “alligator” could only have been a goanna. It was a case of mistaken identity in fearful minds.
Gum trees in Australia are often identified by their bark type. Stringybarks and ironbarks are fairly straightforward, and bloodwoods have a bark filled with gum pockets that spray out at you when you hit them with an axe. Other gum trees have smooth barks which are kept that way because the outside layer of bark dies and peels off regularly.
In some cases, the bark lies thick on the ground, keeping
down other plants that might compete for precious water, but the smooth-bark
habit has another advantage. It keeps a nice clean surface on which animals may
leave their tracks, on which animals must
leave their tracks, if they are to climb the tree.
One of my favourite picnic haunts is a clearing, close to a
stream, surrounded by smooth-barked apples. At least half of that name is
self-explanatory, although the tree is a relative of the gum, and certainly
bears no apples. The smooth pale bark of these trees is a perfect place to go
detecting, looking for signs of previous climbers. No possum can climb up to
its nesting hollow without leaving scratches, no bird can perch on a low branch
without leaving claw marks, and no goanna can climb, looking for eggs, without
leaving signs of its passing.
Goannas are varanid lizards, members of a group that is mainly in Australia, but found also across Asia and Africa. Their most famous member is undoubtedly the Komodo dragon of Indonesia, which is about 3 metres long, and able to attack children or sleeping adults. We used to have an even bigger giant varanid in Australia, up until 30 000 years ago, about 7 metres long, but the biggest Australian varanid today is only about 2 metres in length, and much less fearsome.
Mind you, that was enough to convince the early white
settlers that there were ‘alligators’ around Sydney, and just recently, an
alarmed tourist claimed to have seen a ‘crocodile’, probably at my favourite
picnic site, but it was only a goanna, an old friend that we greet each time we
stop by there. Goannas are carrion eaters, and I suspect that it makes quite a
good living from discarded scraps and from people like us, who feed it
deliberately.
The goannas are supposed to get their name from a fancied
resemblance to iguanas, a completely unrelated bunch of reptiles, but they are
themselves, all 25 species in Australia, along with the other fifteen or so,
scattered around the world. You can find them living right across Australia.
A perentie, near Uluru, central Australia.
A goanna on the prowl has a slightly evil look to it. They
walk with their upper leg joints held out horizontally, and there is an almost
calculated threat in the way each foot is lifted, rolled around, and placed on
the ground, like a sailor swaggering down the street. The goanna holds its head
high, then lowers it to the ground, moving it from side to side, and it flicks
its tongue in and out, tasting the air to see what may be on offer.
For a slow-moving menace, the goanna has an amazing turn of speed
when it is threatened. It rushes at the nearest tree, and hurls itself up the
trunk, moving quickly to the far side of the tree. Walk around to the other
side of the tree, and the goanna will move with you, keeping a handy barrier of
timber between you and it. Goannas do not trust humans more than they have to. Except
in open country that is. Frighten a goanna on a treeless piece of ground, and
you may find yourself playing the part of a tree. Avoid this if you can, for
all tree climbing animals have sharp claws.
A treed goanna may be persuaded to leave its shelter,
provided a reasonable offer is made to it. Anybody who has ever kept poultry in
Australia will know that there is one thing a goanna cannot resist: the chance
to get its muzzle dripping in egg. Put a hen's egg at the bottom of the tree,
stand back about six to eight metres, and hunger will soon overcome its sense
of distrust.
Turning around on a narrow tree trunk ought to be something
of a challenge for something as long as a human, but not for the goanna. Deftly,
it turns from head-up to head-down, and stealthily approaches the egg, watching
its watchers as it comes.
Goannas use their tongues only to sense things, and never to
eat, so the feeding goanna needs to slip the egg into its mouth before crushing
it. If ever a reptile could be said to exhibit sheer sensual pleasure, it would
have to be a goanna, sitting at the base of a tree, with traces of egg white
and yolk dribbling down from its mouth.
Many Australians accept without question that the goanna is
an evil animal. They will assure you that goanna bites ‘come back’ each year
for seven years after you have been bitten, that they are venomous or worse. Some
Australians will make every effort to run over a goanna, believing that they
are protecting the cuddly birds by doing so. They have been conditioned to this
by children's stories, and by a judgement based on appearances rather than
knowledge.
In truth, a goanna bite might go septic on you, for they are
great eaters of carrion. Certainly they take a few eggs, but they also take
lizards, snakes, and other invertebrates. However you look at it, their
reputation for evil is greatly exaggerated.
Many years ago, I worked as a ranger in a local National
Park. There was a large goanna in the park which was in the habit of basking on
a rock, just below a lookout. We park workers would often time our labours so
that we were near the lookout at lunchtime, so we could take our break there,
looking out over the sea and admiring ‘our’ goanna. Looking back, it was
unwise, but we got into the habit of sharing our sandwiches with our friend the
goanna. We would show our goanna to people, and encourage them to share
suitable food with it as well. After all, it was a carrion eater, so a dead
sandwich would be no worse than any other dead thing, we thought.
That argument was even more misguided. One Sunday, I arrived
to find some distressed people at the lookout. A lout had proven his heroism by
dropping down onto the warm rock, and smashing the goanna's skull with a stone
before driving off. Sadly, I picked up the body and I carried it around with me
for the next hour or so, while I was on duty in the area.
Our goanna did not die entirely in vain, for I managed to
explain in gentle factual terms to any questioners that this was an old friend,
done to death most foully, and to no purpose. I would add that we would at
least be able to investigate its stomach contents to see what it had been
eating, and I probably won a few hearts and minds that day. I did not mention
that we would probably find sandwiches as a major item.
I like winning hearts and minds to good causes. It is
something I do well, and I have no qualms about using whatever subterfuges and
histrionics are needed to achieve my ends. And while I feel that the ends
properly justify the means, looking back, I cannot help wishing that I had not
had the necessary means that day.
Another way: use the index!
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