Manna for the cassowaries
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 35: Surviving
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Rod Owens
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Rod Owens’ biography and other articles by this writer
IN February 2011 Cyclone Yasi crashed, like Thor's hammer, into Far North Queensland's (FNQ) Cassowary Coast. Yasi was classified as a Severe, Category Five cyclone. The last event of such magnitude in this region was in 1918 when one hundred people perished and the sugar town of Innisfail was flattened.
When Yasi struck, Mission Beach's cassowary population was still convalescing from Cyclone Larry's 2006 unbridled assault. Larry cut a swathe through the rainforests, decimating both the cassowaries' habitat and its larder of fruits. Some seventy birds lost their lives, reducing the population to around one hundred and forty. Five years on and Yasi inflicted similar catastrophic damage. It was a tragedy of epic proportions for the beleaguered cassowary population.
Seduced from England's inclement climes by the allure of turquoise seas and year-round warmth I have lived in the tropics for forty years, thirty of them in Cairns. When in 1970, at twilight, I first witnessed giant ghost gums edged with phosphorus, I knew I would never leave. Since those distant days cyclones have been a recurring theme of my life; from my first experience in the tropical islands of Papua New Guinea's Bismark Archipelago to now, their lethal power never ceases to chill my soul.
When Yasi first appeared near Fiji, I was working with the non-governmental organisation FNQ Volunteers. Once Yasi left for Mt Isa, we were in the vanguard of the recovery effort. Our office fielded some five hundred calls seeking and offering help. Tourists and interstate visitors battered on our doors desperate to assist. Mission Beach, Tully and Cardwell - those tiny Cassowary Coast towns that bore the execrable consequences of Yasi's fury - were inundated with a human flotilla of helpers. Teams of tradies sallied forth to repair fractured homes, rendering assistance wherever possible. A masseuse transported her massage couch and aromatic oils, delivering comfort and solace to traumatised victims.
Of the five hundred calls, one was from an Adrian Walker at Mission Beach. He was coordinating a Wildlife Care and Rescue program to feed starving cassowaries. A concerned Cairns school had donated fruit and now it awaited transportation.
‘Ellen, I'll take it down tomorrow morning,' I said to our volunteer coordinator.
‘Good, I thought you would jump at the opportunity. I'll tell Adrian,' she replied. Ellen knew I would be keen, for I was writing a tale about Yasi's aftermath.
I have a long-standing interest in cassowaries, dating back to the 1970s when the documentary maker, David Parer, arrived in Papua New Guinea's Southern Highlands to film a documentary for the ABC. Titled Bird of the Thunder Woman, it explored the Wola people's ceremonial exchange of cassowaries. In the Southern Highlands, possession of cassowaries is perceived as a symbol of wealth. I provided assistance to Parer in moving his cameras and crew high into the montane rainforests.
ACCEPTING MY 'MEALS-ON-WHEELS' commission, I rose early to be greeted by a Rubenesque sky and a polystyrene box gift-wrapped in masking tape waiting for me at the Environment Centre for my one hundred fifty kilometre journey south.
The road sign announcing the turn off to Mission Beach was buckled; its stanchions had bowed submissively to Yasi's fury. What should have been a fifteen minute drive to Mission took thirty. The images of the torn and ripped forests were so powerful they seemed to bruise my eyes. Opening my car window, a blast of scorching air scuttled in. I listened for signs of bird life but silence prevailed. As Yasi had approached, all varieties of birds had fled to the west. One lorikeet which had arrived in Alice Springs was returned home by a caring airline. Triangular yellow warning signs, perched by the roadside, indicated recent cassowary crossings and pleaded with me to drive carefully.
Entering Mission Beach evoked memories of Darwin's Cyclone Tracy. Bulging blue and silver tarpaulins clung to roofless buildings. The shopping complex was boarded up, its windows criss-crossed with beige masking tape. The advertising signs around the town had all been whisked away. So too those backpackers who enthusiastically follow Lonely Planet's prescribed route. They had vanished as quickly as a perfect rainbow. The main streets' souvenir shops, usually brimming with faux trophies of the tropics, were closed ‘until further notice'.
Turning inland away from the battered town, I followed the potholed bitumen for two kilometres. It was bordered by needle-thin broken trees and banana palm stumps which lacked ‘hands'.
Adrian's house was off the main drag, along a gravelled road that had not witnessed a chastening grader for some time. In the unkempt guinea grass bordering the road, a drove of abandoned car wrecks evoked images of hippie communes. Here, the forest was short in stature and the trees no longer wore crowns; they were headless stalks. It was as if sharia law had briefly prevailed and Yasi, nature's scimitar, had beheaded the offending trees.
I turned into a crusher-dusted driveway.
‘Hi, does Adrian Walker live here?' I asked a bespectacled woman, clad in a dress unbefitting for a CWA meeting.
‘Yes, this is Adrian's house. Hold on - I'll get him,' she said, reversing into a cluster of khaki-camouflaged buildings.
A stooped, tall man materialised from a dark alcove. ‘Hi, Rod is it?' He was ubër-white, with long yellowing hair and red glowing eyes as if he'd been ‘spotlighted'. His handshake was welcoming. I took an instant liking to him.
‘Yes, I'm your fruit bearer, Adrian.'
Opening the hatch, we unloaded my cargo into his readied Nissan.
‘I'll distribute it this afternoon. Come inside. Mind the spiders' webs,' he ordered, pointing gently. I suspected they were family. ‘Would you like something to drink?'
I declined; I was keen not to impose. The gut-tightening shock of being in a war zone was overwhelming.
Taking up my designated position in an olive-coloured cane chair I scanned the surrounding tapestry. The dwelling was a series of rooms mounted on a timber decking perched a metre above the forest's floor. Gazing along the decking I was greeted by a web of jade-green vines bordering the rainforest. A cluttered coffee table stacked with sepia-brown newspapers and an overflowing ashtray divided me from my host.
Adrian turned out to be a renowned snake expert and author. One of his books, Diary of a Snake Whisperer, lay on the table before me.
‘Is it okay if I take notes? I asked.
‘Of course,' he replied, sweeping a lock of yellowing hair from his forehead. He offered me a synopsis of the cassowaries' plight.
‘While they are omnivores they mostly rely on rainforest fruits for survival. With the help of Woolies and of course the community we have set up feeding stations. Department of Environmental Resource Management (DERM) are involved but they only have two field officers so it is very much up to us.'
An hour later I was becoming an authority on Mission Beach fauna and the minutiae of local politics.
‘Yasi brought with it twelve hours of 300 kph winds,' he continued. ‘For six hours trees crashed like runaway trains in the forest. Then magically, the winds ceased and an eerie silence prevailed. Our giant silky oak, which had shaded the bathroom and toilet block, had fallen,' he smiled sadly, pointing; I spied a bleeding stump peeping through a wooden aperture.
‘While Yasi's eye was over us we went outside and had a squizzy but we were powerless. Then the eye passed and the winds returned with renewed vigour. This was all rainforest here,' he pointed to the broken sticks of timber bordering their veranda. ‘Now we get direct sunlight onto this veranda - amazing.' Raising his eyebrows, he pursed his lips in disquiet.
I nodded.
‘The damaged Alex [palms] are beginning to throw spears again. And look at the new berries - see the clusters?' I had. Bouquets of vibrant pink growth and reddy-brown fruit were springing from broken and twisted boughs. The urge to touch their waxy texture was almost irresistible.
‘We are unsure yet just how many cassowaries we're feeding but we're monitoring the feeding stations and should have some stats soon,' Adrian said.
I tarried for more than an hour before reluctantly waving farewell. Driving back down the hill, the dishevelled landscape of skeletal trees offered a startling contrast to the tropical blue sky.