Perhaps it’s the jet lag that makes the birds sound so monstrous. All afternoon, as I try to nap, they have been infiltrating my sleep. Birds that hoot, birds that bark, birds that cough, birds that squeak, screech, groan, and sigh. Birds that howl like wolves or scream like babies. A bird that sounds like a dial-up modem connection. A bird that seems to be calling for someone named Marie. When I next wake, it’s the middle of the night, and the birds have fallen silent. I hear a noisy rustlin...
Perhaps it’s the jet lag that makes the birds sound so monstrous. All afternoon, as I try to nap, they have been infiltrating my sleep. Birds that hoot, birds that bark, birds that cough, birds that squeak, screech, groan, and sigh. Birds that howl like wolves or scream like babies. A bird that sounds like a dial-up modem connection. A bird that seems to be calling for someone named Marie. When I next wake, it’s the middle of the night, and the birds have fallen silent. I hear a noisy rustling—rat or possum, I imagine—and brace myself, then turn on the light. The biggest insect I’ve ever seen flashes blackly over the book at my bedside. I love my grandparents, but sometimes their home really freaks me out.
I’ve never really known what brought my grandparents to this animal kingdom, so tenuously tied to civilization. My Granpy grew up in rural Queensland. And my grandmother—a delicate-boned, smartly dressed English lady with immaculate waves of auburn and white hair, who likes good china and a certain decorum—has now stuck it out for 35 years in a place where dressing for dinner means wearing socks with your sandals.
And then there’s my grandparents’ wariness of Darwin itself. In the past few years, the big city and its rapidly inflating suburbs have become a no-go zone, and even the couple’s once regular trips to the local shopping mall have been curtailed for fear of “ruffians in the car park.” Their suspicion of the city has always baffled me, considering the myriad dangers that live, quite literally, on their own rural doorstep. Nan can point out the place where the local park ranger was standing one minute and swept to his death the next when a cliff collapsed. A friend of theirs down the road lost half his hand to a crocodile; another narrowly survived after being bitten by a deadly snake. But if I find the prospect of lethal reptiles off-putting, it’s nothing compared with what my grandparents imagine awaits them on the mean streets of Darwin, which they presume are infested by roving gangs of drunken bikers.
The Waterfront is a half dozen modestly modern blocks, shouldering an artificial beach where “stinger nets” keep the seawater free of jellyfish and allow you to swim in the bathwater-hot sea. A little farther along the promenade there’s a wave lagoon where kids are riding the gentle, mechanical surf on bodyboards. We walk past a chain-brand coffee shop, a tapas bar, an upmarket spa. Above them all gleams the Vibe Hotel. We sit in its partially open-air café and order the lunch deal, and Nan flicks through a copy of the city’s daily paper, the NT News. Its front-page headline reads giant roach found in man’s ear. In other news, an elderly woman’s bag was snatched by boys in the North Lakes shopping center. “It’s not worth going out if that’s what’s going to happen,” sighs Nan. Then the food comes, and the generous portion sizes stir a ripple of approval. I smile inwardly at my tiny first victory.
Granpy points out to sea. The old port, where he once worked as an electrician on cattle boats, is still visible. It is also, he explains, where the bombing of Darwin took place in 1942. “There was more tonnage destroyed here than in Honolulu,” he says. “The irony was, they sold it all back to the Japanese for scrap after the war.” He tells me that the oil storage tunnels, built during the war to protect fuel tanks from Japan’s air raids, are open to the public, and I can visit them if I like.
Originally a port on trade routes from Asia, Darwin has been ethnically diverse far longer than the rest of Australia. The city has a large Southeast Asian population, and in the vast wildernesses beyond, indigenous communities live on protected Aboriginal lands. It still has the flavor of pioneer territory—a macho place with a mining history, where people drive utility vehicles and go pig hunting with knives and dogs.
The impression of an inhospitable environment is only reinforced by a day trip, later in the week, to the Museum and Art Gallery of the Northern Territory. I manage to persuade my grandparents to come along, because my Nan, who used to be a potter, gave classes at the Craft Council here two decades ago, before her withdrawal from public life.
This happened five years before Nan arrived, but I know Granpy was caught in the middle of Tracy. When I rejoin them in the café, I ask what he thinks of the exhibition. He shakes his head and says he hasn’t spent any time in there: “I don’t need to go through it again.” And out comes the story—of a young electrician living in a caravan park. The storm caused the trailers to go tumbling across the grounds, and he and six of his neighbors were forced to hunker down in a car that was slowly filling with water. “The first wave of the storm wasn’t so bad,” he remembers. “Then there was a calm, the eye of the cyclone. But when the wind came back, it picked up all the metal and hurled it about. The next morning there were huge iron girders driven through trees. Only one or two houses were still standing.”
While I’m trying to persuade Nan and Granpy to explore their own city, they are adamant that I should go “out bush” and see some of the natural wonders that sit on their doorstep. I’ve never been a hiker, I’m no great nature lover, and I hate camping. But since they seem increasingly game—I have now booked us dinner at the best restaurant in Darwin, and they have agreed we should stay overnight at a nearby hotel—I decide it’s only right that I test myself, too.
Kakadu, which begins just under two hours by car east of Darwin, is one of the larger national parks in the world, bigger than Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the Everglades combined. There’s no such thing as a day trip to Kakadu, and even my modest two-day guided tour requires a trip to a camping store—which nearly puts me off the whole idea when the woman selling me insect repellent warns me about “all the disgusting, bitey, infected creepies we’ve got here.”
The wetlands are only one of the myriad ecosystems contained within Kakadu’s boundaries. We drive on through savannah woodlands—noisily alive with rainbow lorikeets and oriental cuckoos and cockatoos brandishing their yellow mohawks with punk attitude—and arrive in stone country, where the sandstone cliffs have sheltered indigenous communities for tens of thousands of years. A walk along the escarpment reveals the centuries-old rock art depicting cultural traditions, historical events, and the rich animal life that surrounded the Aboriginal communities.
We sleep on camp beds in fairly basic permanent tents. These keep out the snakes but not all of the ubiquitous mozzies. It is not an entirely comfortable night, and the next morning we wake to a kind of apocalyptic flooding. Water is tipping out of the sky as if God himself is operating the dump truck. At the first thunderclap I look up, terrified, expecting to see an airplane coming down.
As the rain lessens, I surprise myself by starting to spot things independently: a quail-like rainbow pitta rooting around the forest floor, a single native hyacinth, a caterpillar pretending to be a new shoot on a branch. If you had told me 24 hours earlier that I would walk two hours in sheeting rain, soaked to the skin, and feel moved by a glimpse of an insect, I would not have believed you. But something about the landscape is getting to me, and when Nathan drops me off back at my grandparents’, he lets me in on a secret. “You know there’s an incredible lagoon right near here?” he tells me. “Girraween, it’s called. Hidden just behind these plots. I think you’d like it.”
A day later, Granpy packs the car for our overnight trip to the city. There is a palpable sense of nervous anticipation, not to mention rather a lot of luggage for one night. “We’ll have been out three times in one week!” exclaims Nan. “We shan’t know ourselves.” But it’s me who is most apprehensive. The restaurant I’ve booked is on the dreaded Mitchell Street. What if it proves itself to be everything they fear? In conversation on the Kakadu trek, I had laughed off my grandparents’ dread of the place, only for Nathan to tell me that Mitchell Street does, indeed, have a long-standing reputation for bar brawls (and the odd one that spills into the street). And now, driving into the city past taverns advertising XXXX beer, and companies that hire out heavy agri-machinery, I’m reminded just how masculine this place is.
Over drinks—mocktails, in Nan’s case—Granpy opens up about his own travels. In his 20s he worked his way around the globe over the course of two and a half years, from San Francisco to New York to Europe and overland to Asia, with nothing more than the electrician’s license in his pocket. On his way home to Queensland he’d landed in Darwin, “thin as my little finger, and crooked as a dog,” with just eight dollars to his name. Eventually, he’d worked up the money to get back to his family, but now he was a different person, full of experiences that the rural community he had left behind couldn’t begin to understand. “My mates thought I was a skite, a joke,” he says. “Even my parents weren’t interested in where I’d been.” That, he tells me, was why he moved back to Darwin, where he would come across people like the ones he’d met in Turkey or Indonesia or India. “It was the only place I didn’t feel like a freak.”
I watch them smiling nostalgically at each other, and a wave of sentiment blindsides me. Suddenly, my grandparents’ lives appear so much more adventurous than I’ve ever conceived: my Granpy, who left the family farm to see the world on a dime, and my Nan, who moved to the other side of the world for love. And it doesn’t surprise me as much as it should when, after we return to find our hotel lobby a party zone with dance music blaring from the bar, my grandparents insist on having a nightcap. Shall I get it sent up to our suite, I ask? “No thank you,” says Nan. “I like it down here.” She has never seemed so giddy. Perhaps it’s all the mocktails. I ask her what she’d like to drink next, and she gives me a mischievous smile. “What would happen if I asked the barman for an Ovaltine?”
Once we’re safely back home, I tell Granpy what Nathan has said about the Girraween lagoon—how wild it is, and how nearby. Granpy says he’s never been, and he’ll take me for a look, and we drive around until we uncover the unmarked road, pitted with puddles like small ponds. There are several forks in the track, and we guess which route to take, disappearing deeper into dense, anonymous bushland.
It’s with some relief that we finally spot the edge of the water. Outside the car the waist-high grass is spotted with orange flowers so tiny they look like berries, being pollinated by enormous bees that drag their legs behind them. We stand in a clearing next to the shore, where two butterflies are courting. “I’ve been here 30 years,” Granpy admits, “and this is the first time I’ve come down here.”
There’s a clamor of frogs, and a rush of ants pours over the rocks. An ibis rises elegantly from the water, the light flashing off its beak. The place is, as Nathan promised, utterly untouched. It is also, I realize, beautiful.
Check out more places to stay and eat in Darwin here. Or, plan your Australian outback trip to Kakadu National Park.
See more photos by Ériver Hijano here.