Short of me being attacked by a school of large predatory fish off the waters of Surfers Paradise, my older son finds most family activities about as interesting as reading ‘The Big Book Of Office Furniture’.

In his very own words, "A lame bust-out that just ain’t dope. Homie can’t shut shit down hangin’ wit’ no ill nana. Can’t get no flow for ma own bomb-ass wit’ da OG fiend dissing me at the clan." After much detailed analysis by expert linguists, their findings echoed a similar conclusion, "Sorry, your guess is as good as mine."

I’m trying very hard to bond evenly with my sons as I don’t want to make the same mistakes my father made with me. You see, my father and I had absolutely nothing in common – except that when I was a baby we shared an affinity for his wife’s breasts. In later years we became a lot closer though – which was mainly due to our mutual appreciation of Ann Margaret.

The day we chose to visit this fauna reserve was a blistering summer’s one where unprepared sightseers would spontaneously combust leaving nothing but gooey blobs of a hideous mucus-like substance all over our fair city – commonly referred to as New Zealand tourists. The only place in the universe where it could have been hotter would have been in the unventilated kitchen of a Bangkok Szechwan restaurant.

Upon entering the park, the first thing that hits you is the wafting aroma of caged animals – locally known as unbearable stench – it smelled like Ted Kennedy had just used the bathroom. So after a brief period of resuscitation, the first attraction we came upon were these small South American monkeys called marmosets. They are incredibly active and possess extraordinary quickness, darting from tree branch to tree branch – they reminded me of Robin Williams on speed.

As it is with all tourist friendly establishments, there was the mandatory visitor interaction with the animals. The zoo keepers allowed people to feed this hairy, red colored son-of-a-bitch that looked suspiciously like Gerri Halliwell. It squawked, scratched, spat and hissed. Call me a grouser, but I just don’t see how defecating on someone’s shoulder can be construed as cute. I’m referring to the monkey not Gerri Halliwell.

A nearby sign didn’t instill me with confidence in participating in hand feeding this toothy critter as it warned that the park management would not be responsible for any loss of body parts – vital or otherwise. My decision to be an observer was justified when a Japanese tourist was rushed to the Gold Coast hospital where doctors unsuccessfully attempted to reattach his nose.

Then of course there was the obligatory open parkland where supposedly tame kangaroos roam free. These are another of God’s creatures that could do with a major attitude adjustment.

If the kangaroos weren’t trying to eviscerate tourists with their talon like toe nails, they were copulating. It seems humans aren’t the only species on the planet whose culture revolves around sex and violence.

Don’t be mistaken in thinking that kangaroos are cute and cuddly. They kick harder than OP Bundy Rum and they like nothing better than to urinate on unsuspecting sightseers. I suppose these animals are thinking that if they are going to be gawked at all day by an endless procession of slack jawed troglodytes, then they may as well inflict some life-threatening injuries – purely for their own entertainment purposes of course.

You can just imagine their conversations at the end of the day over a beer.

Kangaroo 1: "You should have seen me. I pissed on this dopey looking Victorian while his wife took photos."

Kangaroo 2: "Yeah, well I gouged out this Japanese tourist’s testicles rendering him sterile while his family laughed and fed me bread."

Kangaroo 1: "Cool."

I now know why OO buckshot has a fondness for our national icon.

Isn’t it strange how humanity deems that some animals are more deserving of protection than others? The main criteria appears to be that the more cute, cuddly, lovable, rare and stupid the beast is, the more we want to save it from extinction.

Examples:

Animals we want to protect – big cats, whales, seals, bears, dolphins in tuna nets.

Animals we don’t care about – feral cats, cockroaches, spiders, flies, rats, tuna in tuna nets.

But I digress. This wildlife park’s major draw is a large Python named Lucy. Apparently, Lucy weighs 9 pounds more than a fully optioned, 1968 Pontiac Bonneville. However, I have a sneaking suspicion that Lucy is also dead.

I first visited this park during the mid eighties (when I was footloose and fiancée free) and this giant snake was curled up in the very same position it was on this day of our family visit. Rumor has it that Lucy hasn’t moved or shown any signs of life since the moon landing. Experts say she suffers from TAGS. (The Al Gore Syndrome)

But being big in Queensland is nothing abnormal because everything in Queensland is big. Like bugs, and in particular moths. Here in the tropics, they are listed as major-league predators. Forget about that woolen jumper hanging in the closet being nibbled on, Queensland moths go straight for sheep.

At the end of the day, the excessive heat had melted my sense of humor which then proceeded to dribble out from every one of my body’s orifices, we spent more money than I earned that year, my 2 year old cried all the way home because he couldn’t keep a wombat, and my 17 year old wanted our money back because all the crocodile handlers survived. All in all, I would rather have spent the day donating a kidney.

After a visit to one of these so-called attractions, one realizes that they are specifically designed to empty the contents of tourist’s wallets. As I drove the family home while exhibiting all the character traits of an alien visitation and body probe victim, you would have thought I’d have learned my lesson the first time around.

It doesn’t do one good to become angry – philosophical is more soothing to the soul. Oh well, I suppose someone has to laugh all the way to the bank, and it may as well be the Gold Coast theme parks. It’s all very Zen, a serenity of temper. As John Mellencamp once said, "Forget all about that macho shit, and learn how to play guitar.’ I think there’s a lesson in there somewhere.

Copyright: Cameron Koo, December 1999

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