From the desert of animals to the desert of humans

Inspector Camp – 02.11.2002

We reach Strathmore Station about 15 kilometers before Longreach. We urgently need drinking water, which is why I shower the camels in front of the homestead. “I’ll see if I can find someone. I’ll hurry,” I say to Tanja and open the gate to the homestead. Seconds later, I find myself in a true paradise. Purple flowers sit on large, round bushes and welcome me. Lush, green lawns grow wherever I look. Palm trees stretch their mighty crowns into the hot blue sky. Hundreds of birds live in its fan-like leaves and fly back and forth from time to time, screeching excitedly. A well-maintained tennis court shows that the people here also know how to live.

INDICTMENT FOR CRUELTY TO ANIMALS

“Hello!” a call startles me. Not far from me, a few people are sitting on a staircase in front of the house. “Hello,” I greet the inhabitants of this beautiful place in a friendly manner. I hold out my hand to the woman and the two men to greet them and tell them who we are and where we come from. During my short talk, I have a strange feeling inside me. It takes longer than usual for people to react favorably to me. Pushing my feelings aside, I ask: “Is it possible to get some water for us?” “Of course,” one of the men replies very kindly, while the other watches me through his dark glasses. “I’ll show you the way to the water tank,” he says, standing up.

When we are only a few meters away from the stairs, he continues: “I need to talk to you in a quiet place.” His voice sounds so official that it gets under my skin like a stitch. “Gladly. What’s it about?” I ask, trying to control my rising excitement. “I’m the chief inspector from the Department of Primary Industry (responsible for animal welfare, among other things). You’ve been reported for cruelty to animals,” he says sternly, flipping open his police badge like in the movie to identify himself. I stare at the ugly brand as if a sledgehammer were knocking my feet off. “We’ve been reported? How am I supposed to understand that?” I ask as we walk to his jeep. “You don’t give your animals enough water. At least that’s what they say.” “What? I can’t believe that. Who’s going to accuse us of something like that? We’ve just come from the desert. There are no people there. The few people we met were very good to us. Who would say that?” “I’m sorry Denis, but I have to take a look at your camels.” “Of course you do. Our boys are doing very well. I just can’t believe it. We wouldn’t even dream of torturing our boys. They are our family. We love each and every one of them like our best friends.” “That may be so. Don’t take this accusation too seriously. But I have to investigate every complaint.”

“Was it one of the station people?” “No, one of your listeners. It was a radio listener who complained.” “A radio listener? What makes him think we don’t give our animals anything to drink? If one of our boys dies, our lives are also at risk. We are one hundred percent dependent on each other. The camels out there will soon have the same value as a human. We are a team. Apart from that, camels can go up to two weeks without water, even in very hot weather. That’s what they’re made for. Tanja and I give our animals water at least every three to five days. Sometimes even every day. Whenever possible.” “You told the listeners that you had walked through dead land. Through land where dead cattle lie in water holes and have contaminated the water.” “But of course I told them that. It’s clear that we don’t offer our boys contaminated water. They would probably have died. I also told you that hundreds of cattle were dying of starvation out there.” “That also caused us some problems.” “Why is that?” “Well, because we can also be held responsible if the cattle die out there.” “You can’t blame people for that. This is the worst drought in a hundred years. Don’t the listeners understand that?” “I don’t know.” “I don’t understand it. Cattle are dying by the thousands, horses are starving, pigs are lying in the dams with bloated bellies and people are complaining because we got into it with our camels,” I say, desperate and saddened by this painful fact.

“What about the five million camels out there? Does anyone care if they get enough water?” “The drought is probably taking care of the camel overpopulation problem,” he says, looking at me. “It’s a strange world. We are reported for allegedly not giving our animals enough to drink and on the other hand, people are happy if a few of the wild animals die. But I can assure you, the wild camels will most likely be the only ones to survive this drought of the century without any damage.”

Moments later, the jeep stops next to the caravan. In the meantime, several tourists have gathered around our camels. Tanja is busy answering their questions. “I’ll just get some water bags,” I say to Tanja and scurry off our boys. One after the other sits down dutifully. Then I nervously unpack the water bags, trembling inwardly with fear. We were warned about this animal welfare department years ago. She has the power to take the animals from us immediately. Of course it is important that this animal protection exists, but unfortunately it is repeatedly abused by people. It is not uncommon for people to send the DPI or R.S.P.C.A. (another animal protection organization) after their neighbors or anyone else for base motives. In some cases, the inspectors of these authorities first confiscate the animals. At least that’s what we’ve been told time and again. Once the animals have moved in, we are simply out of luck. Even if it turns out that we are innocent, the investigation of such a case can take months or longer. For us, something like that would be a terrible and unfair end to our expedition.

CONFIRMED EXCELLENT CONDITION OF OUR BOYS

Lost in my agonizing thoughts, I place the bags on the gravel path. “Denis…!” the inspector’s voice gets under my skin again. “Yes.” “The camels look exquisite. Don’t worry about it.” The tension of the last 15 minutes and the sudden relief make my knees weak. For a few moments I have the feeling that they could give way and no longer support my weight. “Of course they look exquisite. On our expedition, the motto is one for all, all for one,” I reply and get back into his car to drive to the water tank.

He helps me fill the bags at the water collection basin. We continue to talk about the incident. “Do you have to investigate every single complaint? Even if someone makes a complaint just because they misinterpreted a radio interview?” “Yes, we are obliged to investigate every complaint.” “My God, you must be a very busy man.” “Ha, ha, ha, ha, I am indeed,” he replies, laughing heartily.

When we get back to the camels and I load the water bags into the saddlebags, there are still a few tourists around. The station owner’s wife arrives with a large box of grapefruits. “I hope you can load them all?” “Sure,” I say, thanking her warmly. “Here are a few more eggs,” she says and hands Tanja a full carton. “If you want to take a shower, you’re welcome to come into the house.” “Thank you very much, but we can’t leave our boys here. Someone always has to stay with them, especially when they’re loaded,” I explain. “I’ll pick you up from your camp. You just have to let us know,” she continues to offer. “Thank you so much,” Tanja replies and explains to the hospitable woman in a few words that she hardly has time to drive to a distant farm for a shower, even during the routine of the camp.

We are just about to say goodbye again when the inspector announces that he will visit us at the camp. That uneasy feeling creeps up on me again. “Is the case not yet closed?” I want to know. “I have a few more questions for you. It’s just a routine matter. When should I see you?” “I think 2 p.m. is a good time. We should have unloaded the animals by then.” “Good, I’ll be there at 2pm. I can also show you a way to get around Longreach.” “Oh, that would be fantastic,” I reply and give the order to set off.

We set up camp a hundred meters away from the Thomson River because of all the garbage thrown onto the banks of the waterhole by weekend holidaymakers from the nearby town of Longreach. In the meantime I have told Tanja about the animal inspector. She is also shocked to the core and finds it hard to understand why we were reported to this authority

PAPER AND AUTHORIZATIONS

At 14:00, a jeep drives past the camp. “That was him,” says Tanja. “Apparently the inspector didn’t see all the camel tracks. Well, he doesn’t have to be able to read tracks,” I reply and jump up to run after the car. When he sees me, he turns around and comes back. After another inspection of the camels, we sit a little later in the shade of a eucalyptus tree. “Do you have any papers to prove that these camels are really yours?” he begins his questions. “I have receipts, but as we bought them years ago, they’re already in Germany.” “Where did you buy the camels?” he wants to know, whereupon we tell him where our boys come from. “Can I see your passports?” “Oh, they’re packed deep. In the desert, nobody cares if we have passports,” Tanja replies, getting up to look in one of the rucksacks for the documents that have suddenly become important. “Do you have a permit to transport your camels from A to B?” the next question hammers us. “What, a permit to transport the camels? We’re walking with them,” I say. “It doesn’t really matter. Here in Queensland you need a paper that allows you to move animals from one place to another. This regulation was created for livestock transportation, but in a broader sense it also applies to you.” “No, we don’t have any such papers.” “Do you have the health permit to transport the camels from the Northern Territory to Queensland?” “What…? A health permit? No, unfortunately we don’t have that either. We had one to bring the camels from Western Australia to the Northern Territory. Jo arranged that back then, but we don’t have those papers with us this time.”

There is only desert out there. Millions of camels live there. They don’t have papers to go from state to state and there’s no border in the Simpson Desert either,’ I reply, feeling the shackle of fear tighten around my neck again. “Well, under these circumstances I would normally have to confiscate your animals and take you to court,” his statement chokes us as he lets it slip from his lips with a friendly smile. “If you have to take the animals away from us, that would be very sad,” I reply. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking her away from you. I’m just trying to find the best way to handle this case.” “Yes, and what do we do with all the papers and permits we need and don’t have?” “I’ll issue you the transportation permit. I haven’t mentioned the border crossing and I’ll write something on my business card for you in the future. That way you’ll be safe from further harassment on the way to the coast.” “Oh thank you, that’s very nice. Thank you very much,” Tanja and I say with relief.

“Shall I show you the way around Longreach now?” he asks. “I’d love to,” I reply and get into his jeep. During the drive, the inspector tells me how he got his various doctorates. “I’m also an equine dentist,” he says. “My God, you seem to really collect the titles,” I reply, to which he laughs heartily. In a 1 ½ hour drive, we explore a quiet and safe route around the town of 2500 souls. We have to lead our boys over a highway, a monorail line and various roads, but we think we’ve found the perfect route. “I’ll bring you the transport permit tomorrow,” says the inspector later, after he has dropped me back at the camp and drives off.

“Phew, what a day. The first city dweller I met was the inspector. I’d love to go back to the desert. What kind of permits did he want?” I say thoughtfully as we lie on our camp beds and gaze up at the starry sky. “It looks like we’re stepping out of the desert of animals into the desert of humans,” Tanja replies. “Hm, I think you’re right.”

UNACCEPTABLE NEIGHBORS

Just a few hundred meters away, a few people from the nearby town are camping. “Äääähhhhöööö! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Liiiiäääähhööö!” a woman’s voice shrieks a loud and painful song. The loudspeakers of a car hammer the hit into the night sky. “Äääähhhhöööö! Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Liiiiäääähhööö!” the heavily inebriated voice shatters the eternal silence that has become so sacred to us in recent years. Loud laughter echoes across the waterhole. Beer bottles clink. “Can you sleep?” I ask quietly. “No. I hope they don’t come to our camp,” Tanja replies in a whisper. “I don’t think so,” I whisper and try to escape into dreamland despite the noise.

Wuuuuuummmmm! An explosion suddenly lifts us out of bed. Sitting upright, we stare into the darkness of the night. “What was that?” “I don’t know. Maybe a heavy firework? Let’s go back to bed,” I say. Wuuuummm, a rifle shot tears through the blackness of the night. “That was a rifle. I think our neighbors are pig hunters,” I whisper. Wuuuummm, it thunders again.

I lie wide awake on the camp bed until 23:00 at night and stare up at the starry sky. Sleeping is out of the question. The events of the day don’t let me rest. I toss and turn. Sometimes another shot pops through the darkness. My thoughts wander single-handedly through the bush at night until they lie down somewhere behind a bush to sleep.