S Sorrensen
Currumbin. Tuesday, 11.45am
It is my favourite animal in Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. But it is also the one that makes me the saddest.
This animal makes me sadder than does the big owl sitting on its dead branch in the far corner of its cage; than does the wombat pair whose private burrow is a public spectacle through the looking glass; than does the woman behind the counter selling crocodile hats, made in China, to a Chinese family.
The animal is a tree kangaroo.
I go to the sanctuary regularly (a requirement of a job I have) and I always visit this tree kangaroo. There are a few tree kangaroo species. Most of them live in New Guinea and surrounding islands, but two species can be found in the rainforests of northern Queensland (or could be).
Not all the animals at the sanctuary are sad. No. The scrub turkeys, ibises, pigeons and water dragons love it here. The pigeons dart about between the red and grey kangaroos being petted and fed by tourists, gobbling the dropped food pellets. Ibises with a penchant for hot dogs haunt the cafeteria tables, their size intimidating shocked visitors from countries where economy has exterminated wildlife. The water dragons rule the crocodile pen. The big saltwater croc has no interest in such titbits, preferring to wait for its chicken-on-a-string at 1pm.
Yep, fences mean nothing to this mob; they’re free, and happy.
I know the sanctuary does a lot of good from the money it makes. It provides free veterinary services for injured wildlife from all over the place, including the northern rivers. And, as this part of the Australian coast sells its wild for gold, it provides a last refuge for dwindling native populations of dwindling native habitats.
But it’s a melancholy place.
The tree kangaroos are grouped according to species in three enclosures. They live in tree boxes, eating lettuce and carrots. Some live in pairs. One, the one that makes me sad, lives alone in its enclosure. I don’t know why, but I suspect that, because it’s a Queensland tree kangaroo, there just isn’t another one to be found.
Today, I can’t see it. It isn’t in the box atop the stump. It isn’t on the horizontal stick that runs from its box to another stump. But from previous visits, I know where to look: on the ground.
The sanctuary is crowded with visitors, most of them international. They have come to see Australian wildlife, loved and admired around the world. Except the wildlife isn’t wild. The visitors come armed with huge cameras and photographer’s vests like adventurers on safari. But you don’t need a zoom lens here…
Looking down, I see the tree kangaroo. It’s on the ground, trying to climb the fence. It wants out. Its climbing ability allows it to negotiate the wire which runs up from ground level for about a metre, but its escape is then foiled by plastic sheeting. It moves a few metres along the fence, checking for holes, then tries to climb again.
For more than a year, I have watched this little fella try to escape. It has never given up. This makes me sadder than do the owl or the kangaroos, which have surrendered to the inevitability of internment. The light in their eyes has dulled, but, when the little orange animal below me looks up, its eyes still shine desperately bright.
As the reef dies, and cute cats go viral; as the planet warms, and politicians quibble about truckies’ rights; as humans resign themselves to their fate and await their pellets; I say goodbye and good luck to the tree kangaroo.
I hope it finds a hole in the fence.
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