Hey Jude in Brisbane

October 5, 2010

Natural wallpaper

From plants

From sand and sea

From rock

From trees

October 1, 2010

Where I come from trees are ancient and mighty, their timber once used to build ships (and casks for maturing wine), or they're slender, willowy and smooth-barked and they gracefully adorn country gardens. English deciduous trees produce interesting flowers in spring that resemble cute little furry animals or fruits in autumn that little boys use for fighting (although not in the schoolyard any more). Trees are venerable, benevolent and predictable: they are never opportunistic, ruthless or sinister.

So here I've been fascinated by the Strangler Fig, the name given to a number of plant species, notably figs, that exhibit certain behaviour in dense tropical or subtropical forests where fierce competition for limited light is the order of the day. This is a story of the survival of the cunning.

Most trees begin life as seeds in soil, but the Strangler Fig rather daringly starts out high up in the rainforest canopy. Its seeds are dispersed when high-living animals such as birds, possums or bats eat the fruit of the fig. The seeds pass through their systems and are excreted by the animals, dropping on to the branches of other, soon-to-be-host trees. A new fig takes root in a pocket of organic matter such as decaying leaves, taking nutrients from its surroundings and water from the air. It is an epiphyte – a plant that uses another for support (but is not a parasite). Its roots grow slowly down the sides of the host tree until they reach the ground, where they begin to take nutrients from the soil. The crown of the fig puts out foliage that reaches for the sun above the canopy.

Over decades if not hundreds of years, the fig tree's roots gradually merge together and envelop the host tree which eventually dies when it loses the battle for sunlight, moisture and nutrients.

With the passage of even more time, the host tree rots away and all its nutrients are consumed by the fig tree which by then is on its way to being the largest tree in the forest. Its hollow centre is slowly filled with more descending roots and the trunk can become more or less solid.

Over several hundred years, you may even see a phenomenon such as the Curtain Fig, near Yungaburra in Northern Queensland (see also Roadtrip Part 3: Into the outback, September 2010).

In a gloomy rainforest, the callous Strangler roots wrapped around its unsuspecting victim do appear rather menacing. (I must not anthropomorphise.) With its Stranglers, lianas, buttresses, barbed vines and Stinger trees, the forest can seem an inhospitable environment. When I first walked through a proper rainforest, towards the end of an afternoon, the path was dim, deserted and ever so slightly intimidating. I half expected the buttresses and trailing vines to stir, Ent-like. When walking through many rainforested national parks you'll see warning signs about their prickly, thorny and stinging occupants. My advice would be to pick your feet up, don't flail your arms about and don't touch anything. (Oh, and be quiet - see also Roadtrip Part 2: Where the rainforest meets the sea, July 2010)

Stranglers are not all bad, however. Their hollow trunks and countless nooks and crannies provide homes for an abundance of creatures - from insects to bats to birds - and their fruits are a mainstay food source in the rainforest. Occasionally, their roots are almost pretty.

A thought occurred to me, though: does a Strangler Fig ever strangle one of its own, or do two become one?

September 27, 2010

It's far from black and white

I vowed I wouldn't write another Magpie post, but I've had to, following a series of developments.

A couple of weeks ago I was talking about Australian Magpies, as you do, and was disconcerted to hear them discussed in terms of annoyance on a par with that caused by wasps back home. The Australians I was with didn't seem to like them much at all, despite the highly regarded Professor Gisela Kaplan of the University of New England in New South Wales describing them as one of Australia's 'culturally important icons'. Now, I don't like wasps, and have never seen the point of them, frankly, in the weird and wonderful natural scheme of things. But a Magpie's song is a thing of beauty, making them 'one of the foremost songbirds in the world', according to Prof Kaplan.

(At this juncture, I have to say that I have heard few ordinary-person-in-the-street Australians raving about their wildlife half as much as I do.)

During this discussion I was told about a 12-year-old boy from a town west of Brisbane who had died after running into the road while trying to escape a Magpie attack. This is an extreme and tragic example of a fairly common occurrence at this time of year, ie the breeding season, when male Magpies swoop on cyclists and pedestrians they see as a potential threat to chicks in the nest – within 100 metres of it, in fact. My friend was hit on the helmet a couple of times on only our second cycle ride in Brisbane; one of his colleagues went to hospital with a suspected dislocated shoulder after falling off his bike while under attack a couple of weeks ago; and yesterday I met a lady with bandaged wrist on the ferry who had come a cropper in simple circumstances last week at South Bank.

These attacks are taken very seriously in Australia. You can consult maps of Magpie-attack hotspots. And there's plenty of advice: carry an umbrella to brandish; wear a sturdy hat; attach long cable ties to your helmet poking out in all directions that will wave about as you move; and the best one – wear a face mask on the back of your head. Magpies value the element of surprise: they are less likely to swoop if they think you're watching them... and they usually attack from behind. If you do become a victim, and the attacker can be identified, the Environmental Protection Agency or Brisbane City Council will assist with its relocation (Magpies are a protected species under Australian law).

So, in the eyes of many Australians, male Magpies cross over to the dark side from July to November.

Meanwhile... back in Waterline Crescent Park, Mrs Magpie is building again. Well, she's built, actually, and she's sitting again. Literally the day after the babes had flown she started to build a second nest not far from the first – and much better-positioned for us in our bedroom hide. One chick returned to the tree, squeaking pitifully, as Mum brought in twigs for the new nest rather than tasty morsels for her baby. The new nest is decorated with rather fine green and red binder twine (as Postman Pat called it). In this picture, you can just see her head peeping out over the top.

Why has she done this again, and so soon? I am on the case.

If anyone thinks I'm obsessing about Magpies, I'd like to introduce a couple of other garden visitors. I think the one below a Fence (or Snake-eyed) Skink. I know he looks a bit like a snake but in fact he's a common garden lizard. He's here most days now, but I think he was probably sleeping for lengthy periods during the winter months. Skinks are the largest family of lizard: there are nearly 1,300 species worldwide and 389 varieties are found in Australia.

And below, in a rather fine basket of a nest, a Noisy Friarbird tends to her young in not a large ornamental tree over the fence from our patio. You can just see a chick's gaping mouth below mama's long pointy beak. She's been sitting for weeks – with ne'er a peep out of her – but she doesn't like being scrutinized through the binoculars and she will not tolerate any other bird in her tree. She is not one of the most attractive birds in the Australian aviary, but you've got to admire the nest construction.