where the are Story Trent Dalton Photography Russell Shakespeare Four years on, how does Steve Irwin’s family cope with missing him? They go crocodile hunting on Cape York. BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 10 27/08/2010 3:48:42 PM conservation BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 11 27/08/2010 3:49:09 PM B indi Irwin props her right leg on a rock in the river bank, cringing as her mother details the moment of her conception. “Bindi was conceived after an awards show in LA,” Terri is saying. “We both didn’t want to go to the after-party …” “Oh great,” says 12-year-old Bindi, balancing on the rock now. “I’m gonna have to wear a paper bag over my head for the rest of my life.” “Hey, we’ve sexed crocodiles together, we can share anything,” says Terri. I have just inserted the middle finger of my right hand into the posterior opening of a Cape York crocodile, a watershed moment in a fourday croc research tour with the khaki-clad Irwins and a 30-strong team of scientists, animal wranglers, cooks and several bushmen with unnerving knives. There is no obvious organ rising inside the croc’s cloaca so I proclaim it a girl. “Spot on,” says Professor Craig Franklin. The University of Queensland zoologist is two years into a ten-year study of crocs in the pristine river systems of the Steve Irwin Wildlife Reserve, a 135,000ha Cape York sanctuary created by the Howard government in 2007 and run by the Irwin family as a living tribute to the late crocodile hunter. Wrestling the croc’s jaws shut, Terri smiles proudly as the beast covers my hand in a gush of slimy white fluid. Nothing brings people together like a crocodile sexing. Six-year-old Robert laughs hysterically at his mother’s recollections of Bindi’s conception. He throws a handful of dry leaves in the air. “That’s yuck!” he screams. Terri smiles at her son. “Wes helped us with your conception,” she says, referring to Australia Zoo director Wes Mannion, who was Steve’s best friend. Robert drops his head, hands over his ears. Terri explains she was working to a strict biological clock, endeavouring to have a boy. The family was camping on one of their North Queensland conservation properties. “The time came and we asked Wes to take Bindi for a walk to find some snakes,” she says. “Seven minutes later … ” “Oh, please?” begs Bindi. The Irwins got their boy, an irrepressible tearaway with dirt on his face and cuts on his legs. He seems less the product of a man and a woman than something grown from a seed dropped by a bushlark in the red outback dirt; a boy made of soil and saltwater. His resemblance to his father, who died on September 4, 2006, is as unsettling as it is profound: the way he skids down the steepest incline of a ridge while others walk around it; the way he converses in private with stink bugs, or hides in trees for hours just to capture nature’s endless pantomime from a gallery seat. He seems deeper than his dad, BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 12 smarter. But I only saw Steve Irwin on television. “No, he was extremely intelligent,” says Franklin. “He was such a complex man. He was one of the best naturalists I’ve ever worked with. People only saw that image of him. And he was fully aware of that image and what it meant.” “Hi Mum!” Robert calls, high up a tree and reaching for a distant branch. “He is Steve,” says Terri. “It’s amazing. Bindi is so much like Steve with this empathy that she has. She’s hard on the outside and very soft on the inside. Robert just is Steve. Even the style of his writing, the mannerisms with his hands, the way he walks. It’s a really interesting study in nurture versus nature. There are little things about him that are so much like Steve that he couldn’t have gotten from mimicking his dad because he was only two when he lost his dad.” Robert hangs from a branch, sloth-like. His blond bowl-cut hair falls from his forehead, his eyes roll back inside his head. He’s chewing on something. “I’m just eating green ants,” he says. “You can eat green ants?” I ask. “Yeah, if their bums are big enough.” “What do they taste like?” Bindi kindly answers for her brother: “Like a sour lolly.” The kids are home-schooled. Robert briefly tried mainstream primary schooling but four walls and a whiteboard weren’t going to work for Steve Irwin’s son. “I’m glad we’re doing distance education,” says Terri. “He would have been the naughty kid because he would have been bored. When he got bored in school we had him tested and the teachers said, ‘You know, you have someone who is very gifted, he’s like a 98.6 percentile in his age group’. They recommended that he just learn at his own level. He’ll be starting fourth grade this month and he’s six years old. It’s not off-thecharts amazing but it is amazing.” Terri has the stance of an explorer; a hardy frontierswoman. She always seems to be marching uphill, pressing forth. Onward and upward. An optimist. She doesn’t read bad press. Don’t engage, she says. She doesn’t let her daughter Google her own name. If Bindi did she’d find, among fan pages from around the world, barbs of criticism from parents who think she’s too young to stand under the spotlight. She might find the new single from Australian singersongwriter Dan Kelly, Bindi Irwin Apocalypse Jam, a bizarre fantasy about Bindi helping save Kelly from flaming tornadoes ravaging the Earth. She might find comedian Fiona O’Loughlin’s controversial comments on ABC TV in March suggesting Bindi needed a slap in the face. Pouring scorn on a 12-year-old girl seems a cheap way to mine a laugh. To see Bindi in person – a deeply contemplative, sometimes Free spirit … The image of his father, six-year-old Robert has been protected from the media, not the natural world. sorrowful, unfailingly polite, extremely welladjusted and, yes, natural, young girl – such comments seem careless and ugly. Then there’s a moment – nothing stage-managed, just a little moment by a tree – when she looks you in the eye and says she wants to carry on the family business because it means she might save a few hundred thousand animals; because she thought her old man was the greatest thing in this world and following in his footsteps helps her feel close to him again, and you believe her. She knows the game because she learned it from her dad. The spotlight keeps the money rolling in and the money – millions of it – rolls on to the animals. “Don’t engage with the bad stuff,” says Terri. “I teach that to Bindi. If there’s something about us in a magazine I’ll look at it first before I let her read the magazine. One time I missed an article. It was a story about a man who was stalking the family. This man ended up going to jail. She didn’t know anything about it and I wanted to keep it that way. And she reads the magazine and she goes, ‘This guy went to jail for stalking us!’ If she hadn’t read that she never would have known and a 12-year-old girl shouldn’t go through life fearful. You should go through life being optimistic and having fun and being a kid.” Robert slides down the tree trunk and zips past his mother toward an aluminium boat tied down at the edge of the Wenlock River. “C’mon, we’ve got crocodiles to catch,” he says. 27/08/2010 12:43:55 PM conservation His sister follows. In the boat, Bindi adjusts her brother’s life jacket. She picks a blade of grass from his hair, rests a protective arm across his shoulders. Her best friend. Terri’s eyes linger on her children. She sees the past and the present. She sees the future of conservation in Australia. And she can’t help thinking something’s missing. ULYSSES IS WAITING. The smell of death You should go through life being optimistic and having fun and being a kid. ▲ drifts downriver from a bend in the Wenlock they call “Chicane”. Franklin eases the throttle on the outboard motor. “That’s about as close as you’ll come to what a dead body smells like,” he says. It’s a crocodile bait: half a wild pig, what local bushmen call research “volunteers”. Rampant pigs are one of the greatest threats to ecological stability in the reserve. The greatest threat is mining. Cape Alumina has proposed to strip-mine 12,300ha of the reserve in a project Cape Alumina chief executive Paul Messenger says would generate $4 billion and 1700 jobs for locals, many of them indigenous. The reserve, or “Steve’s Place”, as Terri calls it, is Aboriginal land. She faces the daunting task of convincing Cape York traditional owners, representing some of the most disadvantaged people in Australia, to resist the economic benefits bauxite mining might represent and help her fight for legislation that guarantees the reserve’s protection “in perpetuity”. In June, Natural Resources Mines and Energy Minister Stephen Robertson declared the Wenlock the tenth river protected under the Bligh Government’s Wild Rivers conservation scheme. But he added that “mining, tourism and other developments can still occur where they do not threaten the river”. Queensland Senator Mark Furner was at our campsite last night. He’d brought his daughter, Sally, to see what he considers the most precious and untapped wildlife reserve in Queensland. Over camp burritos, he called the mining project “absurd”. “Absolutely disgraceful,” he said. This morning, wildlife ranger Cecil Arthur, a traditional owner from the local Taepathiggi people, said he was offered $3.5 million to sign over his claim on the land. “My heritage isn’t worth that,” he said. “My stories, my ancestors aren’t worth that. I can’t act soft. If I act soft they will steamroll me. What structure do they have for developing my people? Where’s the daycare centres? Where’s the cultural centres? This runs out in 15 years with the mining. Then we’ll be left with another Napranum.” That community, in what is known as Weipa South, was a ghetto, he said, a place where children Bindi’s age were having abortions. “Forty years we’ve had people mining our land. We should have golden pathways for our kids to walk on.” I fill my water bottle straight from the river. I can’t see a single impurity through the plastic. “There are more fish species in these river systems than anywhere else in Australia,” Franklin says. So far his team has discovered 157 bird species on the reserve, 43 reptile species, 19 amphibian species, a growing list of rare and threatened native species. And the research is in its infancy. “We don’t even know yet what we stand to lose,” the professor says. Terri has started a petition called “Save Steve’s Place”, to which she has attracted 300,000 signatures from around the world. When someone asks for an autograph, she asks for a signature. Terri versus the power men in suits. There’s a story in the Bindi Wildlife Adventures book series in which a team of bauxite miners visit the reserve and fall so in love with the place that they reverse their mining plans. The real world doesn’t work like that. If Terri wins today, the miners will wait till tomorrow. Four boats tie off at a river bank near a weighted rope-bag trap. The air is hot and sticky. Hundreds of flies buzz around the pig bait. Inside the trap is a 4m crocodile behemoth named Ulysses, a huffing and puffing “apex” predator who, one can only presume, won’t take kindly to scientists fixing a satellite tracking system behind his head. He’s dangerously rested. He will emerge scoring for a scrap, desperate to return to the river. Terri enters the trapping area, singing: “Take me to the river, drop me in the water.” She stops suddenly: “Oh my god! Look at the size of that thing.” The core crocodile team of eight men, led by a rugged protégé of Steve’s called Briano, feed a looped rope around the croc’s upper jaw. Briano has a swag full of riveting campfire tales about Steve, like the time they went to Indonesia and saw a croc eating human remains in the wake of the 2004 tsunami; like the time Steve went to wartorn East Timor to fish a maneating crocodile out of a toxic water tank. The team includes Chris Hanna, whose Scottish family donated $12,000 to wildlife conservation and in turn got to accompany the researchers upriver. His parents, Gordon and Iris, watch from behind a fallen tree trunk. Gordon recently recovered from a massive brain haemorrhage that doctors said would kill him or, at best, leave him in a vegetative state. “He walked out of the hospital six days later,” Iris says. When Chris told his father he wanted to go to Australia to rescue animals, Gordon didn’t hesitate to say, “Do it. Life’s short and frighteningly random. Live your dream.” “Pull!” says Briano. It takes the full strength of eight men to drag Ulysses out of the trap. He growls – a deep, guttural, prehistoric rumble. They need to jump the crocodile to tape his | 13 BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 13 27/08/2010 12:44:14 PM conservation deadly mouth shut. But the setting is not ideal. The area is tight, too many trees for ropes to get caught in; too many roots to trip on. A silent tension fills the scene. Ulysses could crush a boar’s head in one bite. “His head’s like concrete,” whispers Franklin. “Don’t go anywhere near the head. If he got a chance to swipe at you he could snap your legs.” Crocs can whiplash, leveraging from the tail. Snap. Briano assembles the jump team. “Terri will go first,” he says. “And then the rest of the jump team. You will go like a stack of dominoes. Bang, bang, bang, bang. You’ve got to get in there and get those back legs off the ground so he can’t push off.” The team lines up behind Terri. It will take six people, maybe more, to keep Ulysses at bay. Standing nervously at the back of the jump team are two teenage surfers from Los Angeles, Zeke and his best mate Dylan. Zeke is the son of actor Beau Bridges, but he never mentions it. Beau stars alongside Bindi in this year’s Free Willy 4: Escape From Pirate’s Cove, her first lead role in a feature film. “She’s a natural,” said Beau, a passionate conservationist who leapt at Terri’s offer to take his son crocodile hunting in the deepest wilderness of Cape York. Not that long ago Zeke’s uncle, Jeff, was in the Kodak Theatre accepting an Oscar for Best Actor. Nobody says it out loud in camp, but it’s widely acknowledged how cool it is to share a cup of Bushells with the nephew of The Dude from The Big Lebowski. And here’s Zeke now, sharpened bowie knife strapped to his belt, about to leap onto a giant croc. Ulysses is furious. He begins to death roll in the air, making great twisting leaps, arching, heaving, every muscle pulling the ropewielding scientists closer to his snapping jaws. Short, sharp directions are given. “Too much rope.” “Coming round, coming round.” “Back, back, back.” The ground thunders when Ulysses lands. Dr Hamish Campbell, working alongside Franklin, will later study the video footage of the scene and count the number of death rolls at an incredible 32, unheard of for a scientific catch. Bindi taps my shoulder. “Just remember where you need to run if you have to run,” she says, pointing behind us. “Stick to a path. You don’t want to fall over yourself.” Ulysses rolls again, whipping his body in mid-air, pulling a rope from Hanna’s hands and bringing the young Scot’s rear end frighteningly close to his teeth. A stray rope catches briefly on a tree. Panic ripples through the team, but Briano remains calm. His relaxed voice steadies the situation. If he berates someone at this point, the whole operation falls apart. People freeze when screamed at. The split second it takes for someone to digest BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 14 Like father, like … Robert and Bindi jump their first crocodile in the Cape York wildlife reserve named after their dad. embarrassment or regret is the split second that Ulysses drives the back of his head into theirs. The beast lands flat on the ground and Briano spots his moment. “Okay, jump team, wait for my call. On this death roll … ” Terri breathes deep, hunches down. “Terri, go!” And the 46-year-old widowed mother of two dives face-first onto the head of the 4m crocodile. She says she goes into a dreamlike state during a jump. Slow motion. Tunnel vision on the crocodile’s eyes. Her elbow pushes down on its mouth as the rest of the team secures its long, thick body. Its mouth is secured by tape. A calming wet blindfold is placed over its eyes and a shade canopy is erected above it. And Briano takes a breath. “Oh my god!” shrieks Terri. “This is one seriously Olympic crocodile!” Wrangler Stuart Gudgeon, Head of Crocodiles at Australia Zoo, smiles. “He’s pound for pound the toughest fighter I’ve ever caught,” he says later. Terri nods me closer: “Put your hand on him.” I place a gentle hand on Ulysses’ head. For reasons I don’t know, maybe something about age and wisdom, I’m immediately struck by an image of my late grandfather. The crocodile’s skin – soft and warm and alive – has got me thinking about loss and time and meaning. The beautiful killer has saddened me. “You’re in the presence of a dinosaur,” whispers Terri. Some families picnic … the Irwins wrestle crocs. The croc breathes deep and his breath lifts my hair. It’s fresh, like a sea breeze. “We still know so little about them,” Terri says. “You get up close and they’re soft and chubby like a baby’s skin and then you learn that they’re great mothers and fathers, extremely protective and intelligent parents and they’re affectionate lovers and all the myths just fall away.” Franklin and Campbell quickly and painlessly fix the satellite tracking unit to the back of Ulysses’ head. More than a hundred crocodiles will be tracked in this river system using world-leading technology developed uniquely by this team. Franklin then makes a small incision in the croc’s side and inserts an acoustic tag that will allow the team to track his movements underwater for about ten years. 27/08/2010 12:44:34 PM TERRI IRWIN IS WEARING Ellen DeGeneres’S It was this team that discovered crocodiles can stay underwater for seven hours. This team that tracked a crocodile as it made a 900km overland odyssey to return to its home. They take blood samples, temperatures and body measurements from Ulysses. They want to know: where do the crocodiles go? Why have their numbers stabilised? What more can they tell us about life? Robert lifts the crocodile’s tail. He counts the number of scutes, or bony plates, running down it. He speaks like a scientist giving a tutorial. “There’s some unusual scute patterns here. Double scutes, single scutes. They’re hard-ish. Soft-ish.” He flexes the tail as if it were moving through water. “The individual bits of the tail are fitted together like armour.” A thought strikes him like lightning and he bounces on his backside. “I remember this one crocodile, he was so big he sank the boat! His name was Stevo. Not, like, my dad, but another crocodile named Stevo.” Everybody remembers Stevo, a monstrous crocodilian wonder caught a year after Steve Irwin died and named in his honour. Terri turns to her boy: “You know, Robert, your dad used to do this all by himself?” Robert looks up, awestruck. “Yeah?” “Yeah.” Bindi looks over to her mum. Then she drops her head, waving a long blade of grass around like a conductor’s baton. underwear. She tells us this. It’s what she does. She makes jokes. Edgy, risqué jokes. The underwear was given to her by DeGeneres after Terri appeared on her TV talk show. She also has gifts from Letterman, Leno, Larry King. The jokes are a coping mechanism, she says. “I’ve been thinking about Steve on this trip. It feels like he’s still here. It’s been really, really hard. And I tend to diffuse that with humour. The more emotional it becomes, the sillier I get. Rather than just sit there and cry, I go, ‘Let me tell you where Bindi was conceived.’ It diffuses it for me.” She was 27 when she met Steve. Before then she had all but given up on finding her soulmate. She doubts she’ll ever find another. “People always ask me, ‘Have you started dating?’ And I don’t know what to say. I mean, ‘for as long as we both shall live’, you know? And, I’m still here. My heart is still with him.” Two months before losing Steve, she says, the family completed a ten-year business plan. That plan was prolonged by Steve’s death. But big plans remain: Australia Zoo Las Vegas; and a resort at Australia Zoo, their home near Beerwah on the Sunshine Coast. The purses of cashed-up American holidaymakers just might help their campaign to protect the Australian wilderness forever. “Once this land is protected,” says Terri, “I don’t think we should look at it 50 years from now and go, ‘Now, let’s mine it’. There’s protection in perpetuity. That’s how I feel.” She turns to her children, who are lost in a game. Bindi is pretending to be a news cameraman and Robert is a star gracing the world with an interview. “The challenge for me is that I’ve always enjoyed being the sidekick while Steve was the front man. I do find it awkward getting out there and saying, ‘Look at me, I have a message’. Steve did that so naturally. If I can bring that message to the masses, then I will have left the world a better place when I die. And then Robert and Bindi will be stuck with it. They’re gonna have to continue.” Robert bounces around the team scientists pretending he can’t talk. He mouths long sentences, but no sound comes out. “Initially, after losing Steve, I didn’t want to eat or sleep,” says Terri. “I could care less. But Bindi and Robert … ” She pauses for a long moment. “It’s a daily journey. It really is. A lot of people are awkward about approaching me, ‘Do I mention Steve, do I not mention Steve?’ I just say ‘carry on as if he was still here’. “With Robert and Bindi we watch Steve’s DVDs. We talk freely about him. They want to keep his work going. It’s about nurturing that. That’s why this trip is so important. For a lot of kids who have lost their dads, if they’d been fishing with their dad or they’d been surfing, if they can keep doing that, it feels good.” Some families picnic, others play board games. The Irwins wrestle crocodiles. Deep into the Wenlock River, the research team drags a 2m crocodile onto an oval sandbar of the finest, softest yellow sand. The setting is surreal, dreamlike. It feels like we’ve crossed some invisible line between civilisation and a remote and fantastical land of the crocodiles, something straight out of Robert’s imagination. Grey clouds shift over exotic trees that grow for 60 years, flower once and die. The tide is coming in, threatening to submerge the entire sandbar and leave us all wading in a river full of crocodiles. The team must work quickly. “Robert, you will be jumping the head,” says Terri. The boy hustles into position. “Bindi, you will come in behind him.” It’s Robert and Bindi’s first jump together, a big occasion for the family, a crocodile hunter’s holy communion. “I’ve got butterflies flying around inside me,” Robert says. “Excited butterflies.” He hunches down, adopting that famous stance of his father’s, hands out in front, knees bent in readiness, equally propped to attack or defend. “Patience, Robert,” his mum says. “Focus.” The croc lays eyes on the boy, turns, raises its head. The team leader makes the call: “Robert … go!” And Steve Irwin’s six-year-old son dives on the crocodile, his teeth gritted, elbow in front, head to the side. He’s in there with every fibre of his being. He puts his full weight on the croc’s head as Bindi follows in hard, tackling the crocodile with her right shoulder. A perfect jump. Briano and his team stand stunned, passing looks between themselves, each acknowledging the moment that somehow brings them that little bit closer to their old friend Steve. The boy beams. The crocodile is secured and the team takes a breather. Terri and Bindi pass their hands along the creature’s back. “One day he’ll be 14 foot long and owning this river,” Terri says. “Yeah,” says Bindi. “The next generation will step forward.” Terri nods knowingly. “Robert,” she says. “I think you should name him.” Robert thinks hard for a long while, turning his head to the grey sky, to the river, to the trees, to the water rapidly shrinking the sandbar. “It’s the weirdest name ever,” he says. “But I think I want to call him Tide.” “Tide!” says Terri. “Yeah, Tide,” the boy says. His mother smiles: “Perfect.” n To view a gallery and track Ulysses and other crocs of the Steve Irwin Wildlife Reserve, visit couriermail.com.au Follow team research at www.australiazoo.com.au | 15 BQW04SEP10BIN_10-15.indd 15 27/08/2010 12:44:53 PM
© Copyright 2024