I’ve never forgotten the front page of the Sunday Territorian on my first weekend in Darwin. Unfortunately I can’t remember the headline, but the article comprehensively detailed an ice-cream heist from a local servo.
Stolen: three Cornettos, a Golden Gaytime and a packet of Bubble O’ Bills. Or something along those lines. The crook might have grabbed a pie as well.
You don’t have to be in Darwin for too long to realise that things are, well…. a bit different around here. The expression “Only in the Territory” has crease marks, it’s that well used, but I love it anyway. How else do you explain murder by saucepan, crocodiles in the public swimming pool and a guy playing scratched CDs being billed as “Live Music”?
Sometimes “Only in the Territory” is just too easy. Racing boats made out of beer cans? A pub decorated with bras? A regatta in a river that has no water? A main road called Dick Ward Drive that starts in Coconut Grove and ends in Fannie Bay? Tick, tick, tick and tick. That’s when we aren’t even trying.
And credit where credit’s due: The NT News has put in a lot of “Only in the Territory” leg work. How else would we know about the infamous young man who “stuck a cracker up his clacker”? Or the Jock-odile Hunter (a fella who took to croc wrangling in his undies)? How can I forget the “Best Man left Bleeding After Being Hit in Head by Flying Dildo” headline? And don’t get me started on the peacock who terrorised the caravan park, the horny emu or the driver who filmed himself masturbating at 150 kilometres an hour.
Fair to say, our criminals aren’t the smartest. A few weeks ago the NT Police reported a woman making a complaint to them about her stolen cannabis. They said they were only too happy to hear from anyone else who found themselves in a similar situation.
That also reminded me of the time I watched someone get ejected from the NTFL Grand Final.
Him: You can’t kick me out for a crime I committed three years ago.
Him: Orright, crimes.
Cop: C’mon, off you go.
Him: Fuck you! I’m just here to watch the footy! Youse are just jealous that I made more money than you. I made thousands of dollars a day!
On that note, he spat on the ground, gave the double finger and stalked off.
So there’s stupid. But then there’s also Territory Tough. I recently enjoyed the tale of a traditional owner who sneers in the face of Box Jellyfish and their more prevalent friends, the Irukandji.
“When I was a kid, we used to chuck them on each other and have box jellyfish fights”, Rodney Brown told journo Megan Palin.
“I’ve been stung two or three thousand times throw netting on Rapid Creek. You just go to shallow water, kneel and wash it off…and within 20 minutes you can be eating at Hungry Jacks.”
You can’t argue with that.
My Only in the Territory (also known as You Never Saw this Shit Down South) List is a bit more tame than all of that (and you might have some seen some of these already), but here goes:
My first Darwin boyfriend refused to go to hospital when he cut his leg open, drunk, on the Nightcliff Jetty. Instead, he took some painkillers that were prescribed for his friend’s horse and sewed the gash up himself.
A buffalo skull holding on the spare tyre in downtown Darwin.
Opening a library book to find a pre-squashed mosquito.
On my first day at work, I was introduced to the team. New names to remember included Happy, Mango and Fridge. I then toured the building and shown the sick bay. “Jo from Tech Services sometimes keeps her Wildcare rescue animals here”, I was told. “Best check under the bed first.” Sure enough, there they were: two flying foxes and a Kingfisher.
Kids throwing rocks off the Rapid Creek footbridge, trying to sink box jellyfish as their tendrils are carried out by the tide.
A guy with this tattoo:
Driving to work behind a mini van filled to the brim with boxes of salty plums.
Driving down a deserted Territory road and the sign says “No Shooting”.
Coming home to find my housemate has turned the wheelie bin into a “plunge pool”.
A three year old kid in a Bintang singlet.
An afternoon in Litchfield National Park watching a water monitor eat a yabby three times the size of its head.
Getting home to find two geckos mid-coitus above the doorway.
Walking along the Nightcliff Foreshore and spying one of the regulars: an Indonesian guy who rides a bike with his pet cockatoo on the front and a boom box on the back.
An evening with thirty fishermen discussing the best ways to prepare devon, going out thongs and the defiling of toothbrushes on boys’ trips to Bali.
559 lightning strikes in one night.
A friend buying a house in the rural area. It comes with a gun cabinet. The gun cabinet (with replica(?) guns) is in the kids room.
Having a mechanic called Bomber and buying your bed off a guy called Knocker.
Finding green ants down my bra.
A bumper sticker that says Eat the Peanuts out of my Shit.
Watching a family light fireworks off a pram. Baby is still inside of said pram.
Getting to work and finding that someone has shat on the doorstep (Actually that was the Kimberley)
Driving a cop car when you’re not a cop (No, that was the Kimberley too)
Grove Hill Hotel. Just…Grove Hill Hotel.
Bullets in the road sign to Batchelor.
Checking the classifieds and finding a Bitch Box for sale ($50) and a crocodile skull available (with permit).
And that’s just skimming the surface. “Only in the Territory” can be crazy, wild and stupid, but also beautiful and grotesque. Like watching Whistling Kites duck and dive for road kill on the highway in the Dry Season. Or finding a full collection of Margaret Fulton Cook Books (including Cake Icing and Cooking with Eggs) on the second hand shelf at the IGA next door to Litchfield Pub.
God I love this place.