Kaka-Doh! (Part 6: Culture Shock)

The third day was meant to be a day of culture, which meant in all likelihood I couldn’t give a rat’s ass. History is nice and all, but it’s the past. At no point am I doomed to repeat being an Aboriginal tribesman. Still, suffer through Culture Camp we did. I’d love to tell you all about how we learned to treat toxic yams and cook feral pigs in the ground, but I couldn’t hear much above the buzzing in my ears or see past my hand waving the flies away. However, I recall the black lady being pleasant enough.

Finally, we were released to go spear throwing. Now, this was not the first time I’d done so; World Archeology had a similar morning with the same spear-throwing device. Back then, spear throwing was the only perk of the class. Right now, it was our trough. You try throwing a spear when flies are clogging your nose and invading your mouth! However, it was the same for anyone, so they were no excuse for my shoddy performance.

Our goal was to hit a bunch of cardboard animal targets a short distance away. Jakob, easily the most athletic among us, struck down the flimsy emu in fine form. Martin too was surprisingly adept at the long throw. But me… I barely edged our Lindsey for distance. Hit a target? Hell, I couldn’t even reach them! Our host tried to coach me again and again, but only in the last throw was I even able to reach the closest targets. He claims it’s not about strength, but arm length, and I’ve easily got the longest arm out of all of us. Blame heat or 4 nights of no sleep or flies, but no matter how I tried to rationalize it, I felt pathetic. The chip on my shoulder continued to grow.

Besides, I wanted to try my hand at bracelet weaving with the girl. Why was I sticking around trying to prove my manliness while Lindsey, Beck, and David all seemed to be rather enjoying themselves? Fuck machismo.

Afterwards, we all got our hands on playing didgeridoos, and I taught myself to play the French national anthem surprisingly well for a novice. Call it beginner’s luck. Perhaps the lack of it explains my spear throwing.

Our final stop before escaping the park was a little rock art. Pretty standard fare if you’re going to visit Kakadu, but with the heat and flies still in full effect, I couldn’t care less. However, I did learn a valuable lesson from the experience: Aboriginal artists are totally fucked in the head. Seriously, they’re scary. All their art includes graphic killing. Most of their legends include some form of incest and people being turned into rocks. One particularly explicit painting demonstrated what happens when you drink the water near the uranium deposits (included: projectile vomit, skin lesions, birth defects, and aborted fetuses). And one explanatory sign included this little gem:

“This is Nabulwinjbulwinj [try and pronounce that!]. He is a dangerous spirit who eats females after striking them with a yam.”

Honestly. WTF?

When not being traumatized, I continued to look in every nook and cranny for a snake, finding only skinks. Though, having failed to catch any so far, I saw one resting on a pretty exposed log, and took my chance. My hand slammed down hard. Probably too hard, considering the last skink I “caught” this way came up with a broken spine and blood oozing from its mouth. Luckily, I could still see the tail of this one wriggling, so I knew I didn’t kill it.

Nor did I catch it. Lifting up my hand revealed not one but two disembodied wriggling tails. These slick motherfuckers are so fast that not only did one drop its tail and escape in the time it took me to slam my hand down, but an entirely separate skink crept up and escaped without me ever seeing it. Considering my current tally was one dead skink and two lost tails, I decided to call it a day on skink catching. Instead, I continued walking, blissfully oblivious to what was behind me.

20 seconds later, Lindsey passes along an urgent message from John requesting my presence back at the skinks. Apparently, in my gusto to catch the little worms, I’d completely missed the large and imposing Gould’s Sand Monitor sunning itself on a boulder off the other side of the path. Go figure.

Electing to leave the sharp-clawed bugger alone, we continued our short hike to the lookout, and I sulkily continued my fruitless snake hunt. The return to the truck meant our time in Kakadu was over, and I was going to return home empty-handed.

Lunch in Jabiru reminded me a lot of Los Angeles. The touristy part was fake green, while everything else was dilapidated and brown. The parrots were loud, showy, and quite diva-like. The water was unsafe to swim in. The toilet stall had a glory hole. The entire place had an unmistakable smell. And plenty of Eucalyptus.

Afterwards, it was time for our last swim, albeit in a pool. Even at this last roadhouse, John was able to catch a last dragon. It doesn’t have a common name, but I could ID it immediately as “That long-tailed one that looks like the Gilbert’s Dragon, remember!” He found it on a tree near the Emu enclosure. Nevermind why a small roadhouse keeps 2 Emus (lucky number) in a pen, or why one of them has its lower beak gashed in half. I just knew that they both wanted my blood, and I needed to get as far away from them as I could. To the swimming pool!

Not much to say about the pool. With John, David, and Beck off doing their own thing, it gave me another good chance to get to know the others. We all took turns diving, and I was relieved to know that even face first, my eyebrow piercing will not rip out of my face. On Lindsey’s last jump, she surfaced with a panicked look, clutching her crotch. “I’ve lost my bikini bottoms!” she screamed, and the four of us dutifully looked away.

When George came back from the bathroom, Lindsey regaled him with a repeat of the story. I immediately interjected, swearing none of us looked. “You looked away?” he asked surprised. “Hell, I might have to question your straightness!” I rolled my eyes. Did he want us to look at his wife’s vag?

Freshly fed, freshly wet, and freshly changed, we started back to Darwin. Just for kicks, I decided to keep my eyes open for a Frilled Lizard in the trees boxing in the road. Spending an hour with your head out the window, wind blasting your eyes at 100 kilometers an hour, could very well be the impetus for the creation of Visine. But no dice.

I thought we were headed for home, but we were in for one last surprise.