Toad Busters

In 1996 the Simpsons had an Australian episode that closed with a toad jumping out of the back of Bart's pocket - a bit of a riff on the not-so-funny issue of invasive cane toads. I've spent the last 30 minutes looking for a clip, but the closest I could find was this:

The short shorts with boots, Akubra hat, roadhouse look, diminutives (knifie/spoonie) - this could be the Territory. Pretty spot on.

But back to toads. Cane toads push out native amphibians, and they are quite poisonous to Australian wildlife. Large, uncharismatic and ubiquitous on the roads in the rural areas at night, these toads are widely despised. A common bumper sticker reads: I'm not drunk, I'm just bustin' toads.

The other night I went out for some busting of my own with group of volunteers who scour various parks and open spaces in Darwin. Led by the Lord Mayor, they have collected more than 40,000 toads over the last two years. Quite impressive.

I arrived 15 minutes late, and, as apparently the Toad Busters are both civic-minded and punctual, the group had already fanned out. From the road, across the close-clipped span of the driving range, all I could see was the sweep of torches along the grass and their reflections in the golf course's little pond. I strode out into the dark, and ended up with an older couple. Clearly pros, they shared a large flashlight and were equipped with gloves and a plastic sack.

My light was dim, and so my search area was just the small sweep of grass ahead of me. Accustomed to the large toads, I scanned rather passively, unproductively, only to find out that my companions had been catching tiny toads - small, brown and nubby, like halved walnut shells tucked in the grass. So I slowed down, concentrated.

It was an odd type of walking meditation, not only in that it was partly motivated by the buzz of destruction, but also because the golf course was hosting a 'disco' for young teens from remote communities that night. The soundtrack was muffled Michael Jackson, Hot 100 hits, and the periodic screams of the kids; that, and the soft whoosh whoosh sound of my sandals on the cut grass.

In the end it was much like fishing: an absurd amount of time waiting, made irrelevant by the excitement of catching something, anything. And I'm not sure what the ecologist would say about it's efficacy, but I know that the sociologist or community organizer would love it. And I think that is where I fall, because certainly I was poor excuse for a Toad Buster. My final tally: two toads, two golf balls, one tee, and an evening out with the neighbors. A success.