"Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" my photographer colleague enquired of the waitress. "Non, non, monsieur" came the reply. Stupid Kraut. I looked away. Nobody spoke German, it was Geneva. "Stick vid me" he'd said earlier, "The Sviss unterstant my language". I had to resort to my schoolboy French with a strong north Aussie accent : "doo cafaiy playse", "mercay"
It was 1987 and we were in Geneva to testify at a hearing. The Australian and Northern Territory governments were on trial for cruelty to animals. We'd filmed and photographed the government shooters wounding buffalo from helicopters and an animal welfare group had flown us to Geneva for the court case.
Not caring much for detail, I was still unsure of what exactly it was that we were doing. "It's the United Animal Nations" howled an SBS television producer I'd spoken to. He had jumped for joy the previous day at the prospect of having a scoop. I thought we were going to testify before the United Nations. "It's the United Animal Nations" he cried, his head in his hands. "Who you going to talk to: A pig, a donkey, a chicken?"
Who cares? I was being flown to Geneva, London, Singapore - all expenses paid. My first time abroad. I had some heart wrenching video footage of wounded, dying buffalos - made them all cry in Geneva even if they couldn't understand me. The translators scratched their heads and the people on the bench gave me blank stares. They hadn't come across this style of English before - The language of the deep north of Australia.
At lunch a pretty, young French maiden slid up beside me. I badly wanted to engage her in conversation and more, but the vet from Casablanca cornered me to talk about Australian camels. They were really dromidaries from his country. The presiding Judge: renown wildlife activist Franz Weber, came over for a quick, curt handshake. He was far too busy for small talk, a man on a mission.
Outside, the snow fell, the second hand reached 12 as the train pulled in - so perfect. The British buskers complained bitterly as they packed up their instruments and pocketed their meager earnings. The court of the United Animal Nations was back in session. The verdict: "Guilty".
I don't think anybody back in Australia even knew.
Friday, April 21, 2006
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Buffalos, Courage And The Prettiest Girl In Town
I could not quite believe what I had just heard. The prettiest little girl in town had just called me brave: “Gee you’re brave, Michael” and the way she had said it, all starry eyed…
It was in Australia’s Top End, in the late 70’s and I had just shot a big buffalo bull and I was standing next to the Toyota, steeling my knife, ready to turn that bull into pet meat. It was just my job – I did it every day – I was a champion for all the furry little dogs and cats in suburban Australia (Oh, and the guys who illegally sold the meat to the US for hamburgers).
And, that particular day, we managed to talk the prettiest little girl in Pine Creek into coming out with us for the day, so we could impress her. And even picking her up had been an ordeal – We had to endure an hour of her father’s lies and dribble – And we new he was lying, because the leathery old guys at the pub told us he’d never shot a buffalo in his life and they new all the stories.
So, the father lied and the more he lied the more he frothed at the mouth and the froth dribbled down the sides of his mouth. We thought perhaps it was some kind of divine punishment like Pinocchio’s nose. So we stood there, Ricko and I, watching the dribble form little rivers, winding their way through the forests of stubble on the sides of the father’s neglected chin. We watched and waited for a gap in the conversation, where we could say that we had a buffalo waiting and leave as gracefully as possible, without looking like horny young larrikins trying to race off his daughter.
Anyway, there I was, with the prettiest girl in town admiring me, the only one who had ever admired my bravery. I stood up a little straighter, even put my chest out a little.
But then something was not right. Ricko was not looking in admiration - In fact, he was laughing. Laughing and looking over my shoulder. And then it dawned on me. I knew before I even turned around – I had just been caught out in front of the prettiest little girl in town. And she was just too simple to realize it.
Alright, so I was not always the best marksman in the world, but then I was never allowed to have a gun when I was young. My dad was a lawyer and he defended too many victims of shooting accidents and even getting one when I was older was hard work. The police kept opposing my firearm license because I'd been a rebellious teenager and got into trouble with the law. But I’d got through all that and become a professional shooter -Professional in the sense that I did it for a living, not that I was any good at it.
But some days, man, some days I could amaze even myself. A running target at 200 yards, BOOM, straight down – heart shot.
Then there were the other days. The ones where I couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shovel.
But mostly I could bluff my way through, well I used to. That was, until my ego had got the better of me and I came up with the plan.
I explained it to the others - there were four of us – two teams, two Toyotas. It seemed brilliant. We could make a lot more money, get more buffalos. It was simple. Instead of splitting up and going out by ourselves, we could just pool our resources and be more efficient. Someone would go ahead and shoot the buffalos (and I volunteered for that) and the other three would come behind in the other vehicle, bone them out and collect the meat!
But the others got upset when semi-dead buffaloes (and very angry ones) would stand up while they were trying to bleed them. It was just too dangerous and they even made jokes about my marksmanship. Hell - it wasn’t that easy - Buffalos had such thick skulls and little brains – If you were a little bit off target, you’d knock them out and they looked dead. I didn’t know they’d get back up.
So, I decided that as the other blokes were so ungrateful, I would not help them anymore with innovative ideas and they would just have to be happy with the money they were making.
Anyway, so there I was. The prettiest little girl in town, sitting in the Toyota admiring me and the angry semi-dead buffalo behind me, probably on his feet by now, sizing me up for a revenge attack. How the hell was I going to get back in the Toyota gracefully, without losing my new found reputation for bravery! I cursed all the stinking buffalos. If they’d just been given bigger brains and thinner skulls, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
It was in Australia’s Top End, in the late 70’s and I had just shot a big buffalo bull and I was standing next to the Toyota, steeling my knife, ready to turn that bull into pet meat. It was just my job – I did it every day – I was a champion for all the furry little dogs and cats in suburban Australia (Oh, and the guys who illegally sold the meat to the US for hamburgers).
And, that particular day, we managed to talk the prettiest little girl in Pine Creek into coming out with us for the day, so we could impress her. And even picking her up had been an ordeal – We had to endure an hour of her father’s lies and dribble – And we new he was lying, because the leathery old guys at the pub told us he’d never shot a buffalo in his life and they new all the stories.
So, the father lied and the more he lied the more he frothed at the mouth and the froth dribbled down the sides of his mouth. We thought perhaps it was some kind of divine punishment like Pinocchio’s nose. So we stood there, Ricko and I, watching the dribble form little rivers, winding their way through the forests of stubble on the sides of the father’s neglected chin. We watched and waited for a gap in the conversation, where we could say that we had a buffalo waiting and leave as gracefully as possible, without looking like horny young larrikins trying to race off his daughter.
Anyway, there I was, with the prettiest girl in town admiring me, the only one who had ever admired my bravery. I stood up a little straighter, even put my chest out a little.
But then something was not right. Ricko was not looking in admiration - In fact, he was laughing. Laughing and looking over my shoulder. And then it dawned on me. I knew before I even turned around – I had just been caught out in front of the prettiest little girl in town. And she was just too simple to realize it.
Alright, so I was not always the best marksman in the world, but then I was never allowed to have a gun when I was young. My dad was a lawyer and he defended too many victims of shooting accidents and even getting one when I was older was hard work. The police kept opposing my firearm license because I'd been a rebellious teenager and got into trouble with the law. But I’d got through all that and become a professional shooter -Professional in the sense that I did it for a living, not that I was any good at it.
But some days, man, some days I could amaze even myself. A running target at 200 yards, BOOM, straight down – heart shot.
Then there were the other days. The ones where I couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a shovel.
But mostly I could bluff my way through, well I used to. That was, until my ego had got the better of me and I came up with the plan.
I explained it to the others - there were four of us – two teams, two Toyotas. It seemed brilliant. We could make a lot more money, get more buffalos. It was simple. Instead of splitting up and going out by ourselves, we could just pool our resources and be more efficient. Someone would go ahead and shoot the buffalos (and I volunteered for that) and the other three would come behind in the other vehicle, bone them out and collect the meat!
But the others got upset when semi-dead buffaloes (and very angry ones) would stand up while they were trying to bleed them. It was just too dangerous and they even made jokes about my marksmanship. Hell - it wasn’t that easy - Buffalos had such thick skulls and little brains – If you were a little bit off target, you’d knock them out and they looked dead. I didn’t know they’d get back up.
So, I decided that as the other blokes were so ungrateful, I would not help them anymore with innovative ideas and they would just have to be happy with the money they were making.
Anyway, so there I was. The prettiest little girl in town, sitting in the Toyota admiring me and the angry semi-dead buffalo behind me, probably on his feet by now, sizing me up for a revenge attack. How the hell was I going to get back in the Toyota gracefully, without losing my new found reputation for bravery! I cursed all the stinking buffalos. If they’d just been given bigger brains and thinner skulls, I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
Saturday, April 15, 2006
The End Of An Era
It was sometime in the early 1980's. We sat uncomfortably in the conference room of a Darwin hotel, scratching our bushy beards, dressed in button-up shirts we'd bought that morning, listening to the Yankee guest lay down the law. "You guys have to eradicate your wild herds by 1984".
It was the end. Australia's meat exports to the US were under threat. Meat infected with brucellosis and TB had been found in a shipment and we simply had to get rid of those diseases. The end. They'd aerial shoot the wild herds and turn us into farmers.
The kind of men who go shooting buffalo don't make good farmers. Some tried. a couple shot themselves. The end.
At the end of the day it was our fault. You see, when buffalo are shot and butchered out in the wild, they are not tested for disease and the meat can only be sold for animal consumption. Boxes of meat from the abattoir, properly tested have official stamps on them, so they can't be mixed up with the cheaper untested 'pet meat'.
Anyway, when some of the more enterprising and ruthless pet meat buyers started making counterfeit stamps we took our hats off to them. Clever. It was highly amusing to think of super-sized Yanks chewing on our pet meat in their super-size burgers, in fact it was just plain hilarious - especially when the beer flowed.
And we got paid more for the meat.
It didn't occur to us that they'd get caught and it would all end.
It was the end of an era and the end of a lifestyle. Hooning around in cut-down four-wheel drives, our guns sitting on the rack, going to the local pub fresh from the slaughter, covered in blood and staying till stumps. Out again at dawn. Come to think of it, none of us were terribly sane at that time. Barely a day went by that we didn't get nearly hurt or killed. Rolled the Toyota on a bend - "coulda sworn I took it at the right speed" or the dead buffalo jumped up when you went to bleed it - "my shooting's a bit off today".
The fact that we lived through it is testimony to a higher power wanting us to stay alive. The reason still escapes me.
It was the end. Australia's meat exports to the US were under threat. Meat infected with brucellosis and TB had been found in a shipment and we simply had to get rid of those diseases. The end. They'd aerial shoot the wild herds and turn us into farmers.
The kind of men who go shooting buffalo don't make good farmers. Some tried. a couple shot themselves. The end.
At the end of the day it was our fault. You see, when buffalo are shot and butchered out in the wild, they are not tested for disease and the meat can only be sold for animal consumption. Boxes of meat from the abattoir, properly tested have official stamps on them, so they can't be mixed up with the cheaper untested 'pet meat'.
Anyway, when some of the more enterprising and ruthless pet meat buyers started making counterfeit stamps we took our hats off to them. Clever. It was highly amusing to think of super-sized Yanks chewing on our pet meat in their super-size burgers, in fact it was just plain hilarious - especially when the beer flowed.
And we got paid more for the meat.
It didn't occur to us that they'd get caught and it would all end.
It was the end of an era and the end of a lifestyle. Hooning around in cut-down four-wheel drives, our guns sitting on the rack, going to the local pub fresh from the slaughter, covered in blood and staying till stumps. Out again at dawn. Come to think of it, none of us were terribly sane at that time. Barely a day went by that we didn't get nearly hurt or killed. Rolled the Toyota on a bend - "coulda sworn I took it at the right speed" or the dead buffalo jumped up when you went to bleed it - "my shooting's a bit off today".
The fact that we lived through it is testimony to a higher power wanting us to stay alive. The reason still escapes me.
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