The Mangrove Forest

The mangrove forests that still hang on to much of the Darwin area shores and water ways were a fantastic place to explore as a ten year old.
The slight risk of crocodiles and sea snakes made the dark waters and eerie intricate forests romantically creepy like the jungles of Africa or the lands of head hunters. They flood surprisingly quickly as the huge Darwin tide comes in.
A common experience of our exploration in the mangroves is described here.

As we step and slide and trip and swim our way through canals, creeks, clearings and densely shadowed forest we search.
We hunt for fish, crabs, kingdoms to claim, trees to inhabit and a way back out to dry land.
Storm water drain pipes protrude out of random banks stretching like bridges over deep uncrossable sections. An eerie surreal atmosphere prevails in perfect serenity and green tinted dimness.
To the tune of the mangrove birds and the gentle drip, drip, trickle of storm water mixing with salt water and lifeforms, the pop and hiss from creatures of curiosity, the leap and splash of fish in swirling currents we are the explorers, kings, and wild-men. Strange unidentified animals sit deep within this mud and at low tide spew water out of the tiny earth towers that they build periodicly. They make pop sounds regularly to keep us company.
The ground is either black mud or brown water and the sky is either green leaves or grey sky
To navigate the swamps we climb through the mangrove branches and over arched prop roots often falling and yelling into the mud and pointed pencil roots to emerge giggling and scared with only a few cuts and a new skin colour from head to toe.
Mud, mud, mud. Mud and heat and bugs.
Tackle boxes under arms with cut hands, bare feet and mosquito escorts we march on with skillful direction and knowledge of the seemingly endless forests. Of course it does end at the sea and this is always a surprise when we get to it.
Then comes the rain.
It sends us scrambling with the first crack, snap and boom of thunder. The gentle rising hiss builds in volume as it crashes violently into leaves and water and ground. Water is rising in the sections fed by man made storm pipes. The tide takes the other end and salt water comes at us from the sea.
The sun starts to fall and we are surly doomed.
Jumping swinging and squelching past dumped goods that have rusted into sculptures of decay we know we must get out. Tackle boxes float free and crab pots are forgotten. Its the waters turn to occupy this muddy forest.
A banded sea snake pushes us on a wide detour and we notice the rustle, splashing sounds of things in the dark thickets of mangrove clumps. Its not our ten year old territory anymore but the land of unknown monsters. Mud crabs are terrible for toes and so we struggle on for the road that cuts the forest in half while we can still see where to step.
Darwin's eight meter tides are forcing the water up more then the rain. There is the danger of being cut off but we know our territory well and so on we march with a catch of non native toad fish that are so useless they are poisonous.
All the while the water is rising and the rain is pushing us away from safety.
I hear the hiss, hiss, plop, crack, boom, rustle and screech of birds and trees and water and storm and the giggled, yelled, panic of ten year old boys fighting for high ground.
High arching mangrove roots are getting lower with the water rising but still do their best to trip us with every stumble.
Pointed roots that emerge from the mud to point at the sky make our footing tentative beneath the surface. The black mud sucks us back, the broken glass and bits of metal make every leap a gamble.
Birds sing us the 'told you so' song of nature speaking to man. Six hours ago they where screaming us welcomes...or so we thought.
The canopy is revealing grey sky as it thrashes with monsoonal fury and the leaves look neon against these leaden, heavy clouds.
At least the rain washes of the stench of squid bait from our hands and rinses our itchy muddy wounds and cools the sweat and the mosquitoes from our bodies.
At least the rain makes the mangroves grow.
We don't blame it. In fact we scream in wild excitement over the adventure and the danger.
A friends dog gets washed away only to return home days later.

Where concrete pipes once trickled there now stands giant, white water, fire hose jets of meter high fury. Where rusted stolen cars once laid unrecognizable now seeps oily drain water. Where our paths where etched with stone now persists a trash tainted soup mixing up mud and foam.
We are getting closer. Two hours on and half an hour to the road the tint of man is evident.
A car track was here before. We can tell because that's how these wrecks got here. The trees may be changing slightly? The broken canopy is a sure sign that this is man made land.
This rain is unrelenting and will erode anything and transform it and clean it even if it takes millions of years. It appears pathetic as man channels it, pollutes it and uses it to send its poisons into the forest. Not even monsoonal rain can keep up with mankind and its anger shows as it sides with the tide and tries to drown us, wash us away, confine us to a sea burial. The sun agrees and will blind us in an hour with its cruel absence.
The embankment of the road is looming giant and unnaturally light coloured ahead and the high ground sweeps up under our feet and helps us ascend back into the arms of mankind.
Here lies safety and tarmac and buses and broken bottles and food packets and yellow coloured street lights flickering on for convenience and kindly antagonizing the moths.
A group of Aboriginal men are repairing a throw net in the warm downpour next to the water rising on either side of the raised road. Next to them rests the bones of a huge barramundi recently cooked on an extinguished fire. They sing 80s pop songs in the yellow street light and storm tinted evening. With merriment they dance and raise dangerously cheap box wine, to their lips and raise the silver bags glinting as a toast to their fortune and raise husky laughs at our sodden exhausted state after our clumsy excursion.
Flash...flash, budumptidump, budumptidumpt... roar, hissssss, hssssssss.
Our arrival back into the land of toxic beings and mechanical solutions is hailed by the highway.

No time is wasted because the sun is setting and off we race on rusted bikes to retrieve old air filled tire tubes. Shirts off and into the water once again on our rubber vessels to surf the current.

Over and over again we are washed at high speed down the drains back into the forest pausing only to desperately scramble out onto the banks to rescue ourselves or our comrades from the certain death of drifting too deep into the now turbulent dark heart of that green and brown and black, salty infinity and the sea beyond.




The mangrove forests of Darwin used to be much larger when i was very young but in the name of progress they where "reclaimed" to make way for the new, wealthy, modern and air-conditioned suburb of 'Bay View'.
A massacre in my opinion and i fear that more of the mangroves will go this way.
Fortunately the mangrove forests we called our territory are situated in undeveloped Aboriginal land in between the two main sections of Darwin.
Hopefully they will remain undeveloped without having to be sold off Kimberley style to developers.