Pinjarra

It is easily 35 degrees under the cloudless sky. Hot and dry. Perspiration dribbles down the back of my shirt as I (and maybe a dozen others) am escorted through a gate between fences some six feet high. Still brown pools, indeterminately deep, lie less than half a metre from the fenceline on both sides. Tourists whisper nervously, feeling trapped in this narrow corridor. And with a grin, the zoologist leading this sordid posse starts banging the bucket he carries. He calls out across the water.


Almost immediately, the water starts to boil. From the left, heads emerge from the water and start swimming in long, purposeful lines toward the fence. Crocodiles, a little over five feet long, lean with the agility of youth. The young males compete hungrily for the treats they are thrown.

But it is not this pool that interests me. Mature females sit exposed in the shallowest of water in the other, equally attracted by the echoing plastic drum. Larger, and territorial during this breeding season, they growl at each other. With their mouths open, I can see their throats ripple as they stake their claim. I lean a little closer to the fence in order to focus through the wire.

And out of the corner of my eye, I see another. It startles me. I didn’t hear it emerge from the water. He is huge at some 550 kilos. He is Pinjarra. Unnerved, I try and regain my composure and turn the lens toward him. I scan his size, and then the thinness of the wire in the fence. No longer am I as confident. There is a collective gasp as the others suddenly notice him too.

How long had he been waiting for me to lean a little closer into the barricade? He is patient. Millions of years of evolution have instinctively taught him the patience needed to outlast his prey. Sun glistens off his leathery spines; muted colours like that of a partly submerged log.

Fifteen years before he had still be in the wild. Domesticity has not tamed this ancient predator. He is a hunter and will always be. The zoologist tosses a cow oesophagus in his direction. It lands with a splash and comes to rest against his jaw. Pinjarra does not move. He has a more tasty morsel in mind.

I crouch lower and press forward as far as I dare to bring his eye in focus. His unblinking gaze stares through the lens back at me, piercing the resolve I clamour to maintain. Malevolently he watches, all of his concentration firmly fixed on me. To his left, two females argue over a treat. Despite the commotion, his eyes do not shift. What has he to fear? He is more than twice their size.

Finally, I break his hypnotic gaze, and there is the whirr and click of my shutter. I stand and turn away, checking the image I have captured. Satisfied, I take a final admiring look at this magnificent reptile and feel a chill run down my spine. He remains motionless, still watching, but the cow oesophagus is now gone. I don't know what disturbs me more: the fact that I didn't hear him or the passionless ambition I imagine in his eye.