Maintaining the wet-season grass on our five-acre Darwin block was a constant battle. It grew a metre per month, so it was akin to painting the Sydney Harbour bridge. It was mid-December, the humidity outrageous, rivulets of sweat and me hanging on for dear life, behind our huge, self-drive mower. It dragged me around shrubs and trees, below overhanging branches and overexposed roots and rocks. I tried to avoid the worst of the paperbark wasps.
I launched the mower towards a high pile of mixed grass and old branches. At the last moment, I desperately hauled left, but too late to avoid a large head that had suddenly appeared. “Oh shit, oh hell, nooo!” I cried, as I killed the mower and dragged it off the pile to reveal the headless, quivering body of a huge, beautiful, Olive python. She lay, her coils still surrounding a clutch of eggs. My emotions were in turmoil, I whimpered, as the tragedy sank in.
I rushed into the house; a glass of water bought me time to think. There was nothing to be done for her, but I started to wonder about her eggs. I gathered an old pillow slip and a box from the laundry and went back. I gathered her heavy coils, apologising and sniffling, as I slid her into the sack. I then picked up the soft, slightly sticky eggs and with some material in and around the clutch, put the box on the lounge room table.
Practical thinking returned. I gathered the pillowslip and went to see friends from Maningrida, who were temporarily living in town, away from their central Arnhem Land home. “Gidday Balang, Gamak?” “Ma-a, gamak” but my voice broke as I lifted the grim parcel and explained what had happened! Wamud looked inside, and a wide grin split his face. “Bush tucker, ma-a! No worries, she’ll be right.” We exchanged a few pleasantries, but … but, I had to retreat before my mind’s eye detailed the evening repast, in too much detail.
In the following days, most of the eggs turned blue and cold, but on January 2nd, out popped Olive, a 12” long, wriggling mass! Parental instincts dictated nurture but Google was still 30 years away! I rang the Wildlife Park, and they suggested mincemeat; I was thinking milk! I compromised with a saucer of mince, Weet-bix and milk. She never looked back!
Over the months her saucer was replaced with an old camp oven. But the menu has pretty much stayed the same. Birthdays included additional Weet-bix (a whole box) and a haunch of buffalo, or wallaby. A vet check-up meant that Olive became Oliver, but gender reassignment wasn’t about to become an issue in our family.
There were minor adjustments to be made too; rules about who slept outside on their custom-made wooden frame and not in the bedrooms, toileting and the number of coils allowed when cuddling. But generally, we all just happily hung out together.