Tragedylus Ironicus

The coastal town of Broome sits somewhat isolated on the northern slope of Western Australia. We settled there, several days ago, after an eleven hundred mile drive from Darwin, where the stifling humidity made it impossible to spend but one sleepless night. While the car stereo sang in the background, the two of us lazed about our campsite enjoying the comfortable breeze that blew off the Indian Ocean. When the music faded and the news began, its lead story highlighted a tragedy in Kakadu National Park. The headline told of a tourist snatched by a crocodile, and it alone sent a shiver up my spine. But as the reporter continued, the details absolutely chilled my blood.

Kakadu National Park covers three million acres in an area 150 miles east of Darwin. This UNESCO World Heritage Site ecosystem hosts over a thousand species of plant life, and in them, countless insects and animals play the cruel game of survival. However, one efficient killing machine inhabits this landscape with a notorious reputation rightfully earned. In the creeks and murky waters of the billabongs that dot Kakadu lurks the merciless and unforgiving Crocodylus porosus, or saltwater crocodile.

German tourists, Isabel von Jordan, and her sister narrowly escaped the Bali bombing when they left the Sari Club just moments before the blast. Having survived that nightmare, both flew to Darwin and the safety of Australia. They took a tour of Kakadu National Park with seven others and, in a moment of unspeakably poor judgment, decided on a late evening swim in Nourlangie Creek despite the posted signs warning of crocodiles. With safety assured by their negligent guide, seven of the nine jumped in the creek. Only six survived. Park Rangers found the mauled body of Isabel just after dawn the following morning.

Unfortunately, a second tragedy would play out before this story ended. As we discussed the facts that surrounded her death with an Australian couple camped next to us, we all agreed that “Saltie,” an affectionate nickname given by those not in the deadly grip of its jaws, would also become a victim of this senseless event. Ultimately destroyed by park officials as they recovered her body, the fifteen-foot reptile became another fatality in Kakadu's ruthless battle of life or death.

Bamboozled, Fijian-Style!

Lonely Planet became our preferred choice when purchasing a travel guide. It offered a brief history of the country, it never shied away from criticizing hotels for substandard quality, and, my personal favorite, it warned of the scams targeted at unsuspecting visitors. However, we did not buy one for Fiji because, in our mind, a one-week stay did not justify the expense. That decision would cost us.

Without it, we entered Fiji as those very same unsuspecting visitors. Setting the stage was the seemingly genuine friendliness of Fijians who usually greeted us with “bula! bula!” whenever we passed each other on the street. So, there was no reason for concern when a heavy set man in a Hawaiian shirt the size of a bed sheet, who could easily play the role of "Big Daddy" in a New Orleans-based cop show, struck up a conversation while I browsed through a fruit market in Lautoka.

“Bula! bula! Is this your first time in Fiji?” he began.

“Yes, it is.”

“Where are you from?” he continued.

“America,” I replied.

“I have a cousin living in America. California.”

He continued on about his cousin and how much he liked living in the States. As our conversation came to a close, he reached into a plastic bag and pull out three decorative pieces of wood.

“A gift for you and your wife,” he said.

After he carved in our names, he handed them to me without any request for money. Just another example of the warmth Fijians showed toward their visitors, I thought, and decided that such a selfless gesture warranted an act on my part. I asked about giving a small token of gratitude, and he requested US$20. That sounded a little steep for three sticks, and I became uncomfortably aware that he snared me in a well-rehearsed scam.

Uncertain of the consequences if I walked away leaving him with three personalized sticks of wood worthless for his next target, I reluctantly agreed on $8, and we parted ways. I took our “gift” back the room where it landed in the garbage. Such an experience reaffirmed why my wife and I usually growled at strangers who struck up conversations for no reason. Thankfully, I learned a cheap lesson that paid enormous dividends as I confidently dealt with more con artists along the journey.

Curiosity would get the better of us once we arrived in New Zealand. We pulled a Lonely Planet from a bookstore shelf and opened to the scam section where it detailed the “relative in America” conversation. Had we purchased the book prior to our Fijian sojourn, we would have saved $8. Yet, a glance at the price printed on the back cover, and I was contented having saved the other $12…plus tax.