Carnivorous Nights_ On the Trail of the Tasmanian Tiger - Margaret Mittelbach [8]
At the Royal Botanic Gardens, we had a chance to observe these big bats as intently as we liked. The gardens were home to a roosting colony of about five thousand gray-headed flying foxes. Walking along the greenerylined pathways, we followed the sounds of screeching and squawking until we stood before a grove of palm trees laden with what looked like giant pods twisting in the hot breeze. Hanging upside down by their claws, the flying foxes were the size of cats. Though most were sleeping, a few were unusually active, using hooklike fingers on the edges of their wings to climb like monkeys from branch to branch. Through binoculars we could see their gray-furred, intelligent-looking faces and a ruff of red fur around their necks. Beneath the trees, the walkways were coated with a yellowish slime—bat scat—that threw off a sweet decaying scent.
Dorothy and Alexis walked arm in arm down a path bursting with tropical blooms beneath the bat camp, seemingly blissfully unaware of the perils both above and below. They were a strange pair. Alexis had been wearing the same gray shorts and Timberland T-shirt for forty-eight hours whereas Dorothy was decked out for a romantic vacation and had made several wardrobe changes each day. At present, she was wearing a low-cut strawberry print sundress, open-toed sandals, and Gucci sunglasses.
“Watch out for the bat guano,” we yelled.
“It's not guano,” Alexis said. “Bat guano is produced by insect-eating bats.” These bats ate fruit.
“Well, watch out for the shit.” He was steering Dorothy perilously close to a section of the path occasionally hit by a rain of yellow goo. “Eeew,” said Dorothy, looking down at the bat slime, which was chunky with fig seeds. “Yuck.”
We had only been in Sydney for a few days and Alexis had already invited Dorothy to extend her stay for a week and come to Tasmania with us. We were concerned she wasn't properly prepared and wondered if in addition to sliplike dresses and strappy shoes, she had brought any bush gear. Long pants, hiking boots, sweatshirts, that sort of thing?
Dorothy seemed blithely unconcerned. “You guys are so funny,” she said when we asked if she had packed any sneakers or walking shoes. Her plan was to buy whatever she needed along the way.
We went back to watching the bats. They chattered and quarreled and muscled each other for roosting positions. Occasionally, one would circle down from the bright sky and hit a branch hard, causing it to bend low with its weight.
“This could only be better if we were high,” said Alexis. He cleared his throat. “Any news on my pot?” This was the third time he had asked in an hour.
In between scheduling and finalizing appointments, we had attempted to make his pot connection several times. Through the grapevine, we learned of a dealer, a muscle-bound woman whose street name suggested a high-octane fuel. She would be easy to recognize we were told because she had a shaved head and tattoos. She was supposed to be at a particular bar at a particular time. But she kept not showing up. That night, we began to get desperate. Alexis's complaining was driving us crazy. Then as if we were being rewarded for paying homage to the bat gods, the mus-cle-bound dealer came through. We rushed over to the ritzy hotel where Alexis and Dorothy were staying and found them lounging on the deck by a saltwater pool. Alexis opened the bag, fingered the aromatic plant matter, and pulled out a pinch. “Oh yeah, baby,” he said, taking a whiff. Then he pushed the pot into a small, one-hit pipe with his index finger, flicked his lighter, and took a long drag. He looked relieved and then surprised. “This is strong shit,” he coughed. Sydney was coming through— at least for Alexis. But we were still jonesing. Our urge for even a tiny taste of the tiger was yet to be satisfied.
A few days later,