Tourist trap

It was spring in Tasmania. The mid-morning sun filtering through the forest canopy was already warm, its light dappling the dusty track beneath. A eucalyptus breeze played on Stan’s face while a pair of magpies fluted tuneless arguments behind him. Feeling weary but content after the walk from the mountain, he was sitting at the café by the wildlife centre. He had a relaxed fizz in his legs that could only come from prolonged exercise.

Stan had ordered coffee, vegemite toast and a cooked breakfast from the kiosk. He had been promising himself this as reward for the hike and he was waiting for the young girl to bring it to the table. He loosened his bootlaces, stretched his legs and looked around. The clearing around the empty café was surrounded by tall gum trees. Beyond those was a wall of dense bush penetrated by several well-worn animal tracks, fashioning intriguing tunnels into the vegetation. Stan peered at the tunnel entrances, vainly hoping to spot a wallaby or a wombat, or even something more uniquely Tasmanian. The girl in the kiosk busied herself with his breakfast, singing and clattering pots and pans.

Around the kiosk, small groups of sparrows squabbled amongst themselves, hopping and fluttering to one or another of the chairs or tables in the compound. They stopped occasionally to peck vigorously at nothing in particular. “They’re jockeying for position, waiting for my crumbs,” Stan thought, idly. Several stately black and white crow-like birds with thick black beaks patrolled the perimeter. They were probably more intelligent than the sparrows because, rather than hopping they walked properly, one foot in front of the other. “That requires more brain power”, Stan thought, recalling what he had read somewhere.

The birds inclined their heads, golden eyes piercing Stan inquisitorially as they sidled nearer to his table. They had a nonchalance that he imagined pickpockets might affect while working the fringes of a crowd. “Oh yeah! You lot are up to the same game as the sparrows”, Stan thought. “But you’re just more sneaky about it”. They resembled those birds from spooky movies that act as agents of malevolent forces. Stan found himself disliking them.

“Here yer go!” A loud voice at Stan’s elbow startled him. The girl from the kiosk was placing a tray with toast and coffee in front of him. She added, “Yer bacon an’ eggs’ll be about another ten mins”. Then with a disarming smile, “Yer fried eggs broke, I’m afraid. Sorry!” She shrugged and put a glossy booklet on the table, “Have a look at this while yer wait”. It was a brochure containing wildlife details of the region.

“OK. Ten minutes then”, Stan replied. He was comfortable there and in no hurry. Besides, she was an appealing little person. “Probably a uni student”, he mused, leafing through the brochure. On the back page, he saw a notice ordering tourists not to feed native animals, even if they approached the tables. Evidently it caused fatal diseases in marsupials, particularly Tasmanian Devils. On the opposite side was another notice. “CURRAWONGS STEAL YOUR LUNCH!” it read cryptically. It was not so much a warning but more a statement of fact. Stan was puzzled.

“Currawongs? Wonder what they are,” he murmured, frowning, “Maybe it’s in here”. He thumbed through the brochure again, seeking a picture of a currawong but there was none. Turning, he studied the animal tunnels again, this time with suspicion in case the currawongs were there, waiting to pounce on his tucker. There was no sign of any creature, robber or otherwise. He turned to look behind at the kiosk where the girl was still struggling with the eggs. There he saw the same statement on a larger wooden sign nailed to the timber beside the serving hatch, “CURRAWONGS STEAL YOUR LUNCH!” He had missed this when he first arrived. It gave no other clue though, so Stan decided to ask the kiosk girl about it.

 He got up and walked the couple of yards to the kiosk. The girl, now red-faced and looking agitated, was bending down, scraping broken fried eggs from the pan into a plastic waste bag. She looked up at him and grimaced. “Jeez! I’m sorry Sir. Nothin’ seems to be goin’ right fer me today”, she whined tearfully, “I’ll ‘ave to get me Ma to finish yer brekkie”. Feeling sorry for her, Stan told her that it would be alright as he had all morning. “But tell me”, he said, jabbing a finger at the notice, “What on earth is a currawong?”

She stood abruptly. She glanced sharply toward Stan’s table. Slowly, a smile emerged through her tears and she looked back at Stan with curiously triumphant eyes. Then, pointing emphatically behind him, she announced, “That’s one there. A currawong's one of those black bastards on yer table, nickin’ yer toast an’ vegemite!” Jerking his head around, he saw that his plate was empty and the toast was being ripped apart by three of the ‘pickpocket’ birds that had been lurking so slyly. Stan chased them but was too late and they flapped away awkwardly. His vegemite toast was gone. “Ha! What a cheek!” he thought. “So you‘re called currawongs. I should’ve realised you were up to no good!”

That he did not guess it was the birds who were the opportunist criminals of the café, Stan later put down to weariness after the hike from the mountain.

As he drove away from Lake St Clair later that afternoon, he realised that the girl and the birds were a team. They probably rehearsed the scene every day at this place. Stan had been one of a long line of straight men, the hapless third member of a cast headed by the currawongs and supported by the girl. They would play out this comedy whenever there were unsuspecting tourists at the café.

It was probably the favourite running joke of the otherwise bored young people who regularly man the services area of that spectacular tourist spot. Stan hoped that it was.