Ga-wutj-wutj-ma. That’s his Jawoyn name, Aunty explains. He’s a cheeky little bird, energy levels high, as he flits between an old paperbark tree, leaning precariously out over Katherine’s Low-Level crossing and the thick swathes of Pandanus spiralis, on the far side of the river. The Willie Wagtail lands just above our heads, a small blue-winged dragonfly held firmly, dispatched with thwacks against the branch, and then swallowed.
The water burbles noisily, unhurriedly over the smooth rocks, leaving Katherine in its wake, en route to join the Daly River, 60 kilometres downstream, eventually to meet the salt water 400 kilometres away.
As locals, we were here every evening after work. So did fifty other families. A couple of beers, a swim, parking the Toyota up on the bank, its sideboard down, a gas burner going, the pan sizzling the snags.
It is April, supposedly the early Dry, but the humidity is stifling, absolutely draining, somewhere around 90% and the temperature hovers in the high 30s. We desperately seek the coolness of the water.
The signs advise of the possibility of ‘Salties in the river. We pause to consider the options – a refreshing immersion or a messy entanglement with a powerfully jawed Ginga –another significant Jawoyn identity. We both felt an involuntary spinal shiver as we imagine the meeting with this totemic figure, often seen in rock-art galleries, a motif celebrated in cultural traditions here, and elsewhere across the North.
We have long ago lost our local status, forty years in absentia. Now tourists, ‘blue-rinse’, in sweaty, drenched clobber, desperate for relief. Historic thoughts of croc attacks, unlikely then, ignored now as we jump into the cascade!
There are a few family groups sharing the water. One mob, a little further downstream have their kelpie. He is jumping in and out of the water, barking, total waggery, grinning idiotically, the kids throwing, and him chasing the tennis ball into the water.
The pervading smell of stale urine stirs memories. We look up behind the pandanus, into the tall paperbarks delineating the river. Thousands of flying foxes are suspended, and many tree limbs are broken under their weight. A constant wing movement is keeping the individuals cool, but the evening dictates are astir.
As the light fades the flying foxes start to move. The sky prematurely darkens as they launch into the softening light, off to the nearby mango farms and dinner, or is it breakfast? Tens, maybe hundreds of thousands of them, all following the river downstream.
Fifteen minutes later, it’s gravely quiet, save for the tumbling water, and the echo of distant kids laughing and the dog barking. It is eerie. We leave the water, some indefinable change in mood, maybe the light, the silence has us spooked.
Two days later, twelve hundred kilometres south; in Alice Springs and the NT News reports the dog’s attack in lurid detail, somebody capturing the moment on their phone, illustrating the front page in vivid colour. We sit, comprehension slowly dawning, tears falling.