Certain people in this world view their job with a unique over-seriousness. Cue the garbage collector who labels their occupation a “Waste disposal engineer” or the lifeguard who bans from the pool: non-Olympic swimmers, balls and laughter. I was recently lucky enough to encounter one of these over-serious job people and the event demanded documentation.

A small crowd of people gathered in front of my house pointing up into the branches of a Eucalyptus. Had the local birdwatchers club migrated along with one of their beloved avian to our street or was some other phenomenon causing this serious infatuation with what otherwise appeared to be a regular-looking tree? Further investigation (reluctantly walking outside) determined that a koala had made its way to our humble street in suburbia, some six kilometres away from their normal abode.

Neighbour, Merody, Melody, Melanie or Merilee (I’m still not certain of her name and I’m sure she was called each of these four variants by various neighbours) had summoned the immediate aid of an Australian wildlife rescue group. A freshly painted station-wagon brandishing the 24/7 animal helpline rounded the corner with purpose before pulling to an abrupt halt in front of my house. The print on said station-wagon mimicked an ambulance and I suspected that the designer of the rescue vehicle concept would love approval for some evocative and street-clearing sirens.

From the state-of-the-art wildlife rescue vehicle emerged this true tale’s protagonist- the Dwight Schrute of the koala rescue sector. Like many characters in this story, I don’t know this person’s name so for memory (and legal) reasons, I will call her Sandra. Sandra was decked in a high-vis jacket and Doc Marten boots. She had matted pink hair teetering on dreadlocks and a face flushed with eagerness. She proudly explained that within the wildlife group, her sole job was rescuing koalas. At this stage, my perceptions of this koala rescue volunteer were positive. She asked for help so I phoned up my Dad- the neighbourhood wildlife handler whose résumé (rap sheet) includes:

1. A 3-hour failed attempt at catching a disorientated duck. It is the internet’s loss that this event wasn’t recorded and uploaded to YouTube alongside the music from the Benny Hill theme.

2. Successfully catching a notoriously quick turtle that was wandering down the street.

3. Informing a 3-year-old who believed they were playing with a small animal that they were actually playing with a rock. The rock then proceeded to walk off.

My Dad prides himself on his local wildlife knowledge and had ironically just completed a voyeuristic koala voyage to Morialta Conservation Park when I phoned him. My Dad answered my phone call whilst driving home (if you are a police official reading this or have a higher judicial status like Sandra then he legally pulled over his car before answering the call).

My Dad pulled up on the scene, appropriately parking his ramshackle, third-hand, Mr. Bean-style car in front of Sandra’s flash, newly-painted rescue station-wagon. Some combinations of people are like opposing magnets, leading to brilliant interactions that demand being documented. My Dad and Sandra were this combination.

My Dad remarked, “This is the first time a koala has been on our street”.

Sandra responded, “No, that’s not true”.

My Dad again attempted to show-off his koala-knowledge by imparting further wisdom, “The koala is on the manna tree which is one of the best for koalas”.

Sandra abruptly said “No, that’s not true”.

Unperturbed, my Dad then tried again, “There is a koala rescue place on ANZAC Highway”.

Sandra bluntly responded “No”.

The ‘conversation’ between Sandra and my Dad was akin to Glenn Robbin’s alter ego, Russell Coight speaking to someone that won’t give him an inch.

My Dad commented “The Gums Reserve would be a good place for this koala”.

Sandra expectedly said “No”.

Like a spider on the precipice of being flushed down the toilet, my Dad tried again, “A ladder might help to reach the koala”.

Sandra interjected, “No”.

This undercurrent of my Dad offering suggestions to Sandra continued for the entire koala rescue experience. On occasions I was unable to hear my Dad’s words to Sandra but could only faintly make out Sandra’s default reply, “No”. At one stage my Dad asked where the bushfire riddled Cudlee Creek koalas were being relocated to. Sandra responded that this was top secret classified information à la Area 51-level confidential.

My Dad informed Sandra that two Eucalyptus trees at the Gums Reserve were recently poisoned by young offenders. Doctors telling their patients they have days to live have reacted more evenly than Sandra. She shouted “Are you serious?” I stepped back in fear that she may take out her anger on the people nearest her. She didn’t and I live to tell this tale.

Neighbour, Merilee then chimed in with a suggestion to Sandra, “I work at the primary school around the corner. Perhaps the koala could be moved to the oval there”. You may have expected Sandra to shoot down Merilee’s koala advice. Instead, Sandra’s eyes lit up as she replied, “That school is hard to get into. We were hoping to get my daughter into that school”. Merilee became Sandra’s new best friend.

Sandra was unaware that despite Merilee claiming that she worked at the local school, she wasn’t a teacher. Nor was she involved in the process of recruiting students via casual, serendipitous encounters at attempted koala rescues. Merilee’s work at the local school only entailed helping out with their finances a couple times a year. Saying she worked at the school was akin to the toilet cleaners at NASA telling people they worked for the famous space agency. As Sandra was under the false impression that Merilee had some influence at the school, Merilee was subsequently treated impeccably by Sandra; almost worshiped like she was some South Asian mystic.

Prior to this point I viewed Sandra as a koala expert. From this time onwards, my opinion on Sandra’s koala catching prowess gradually unravelled. Sandra’s fixation to catch the koala only exaggerated her unorthodox behaviour.

After surveying the situation for 30 minutes (largely involving saying “No” to my Dad’s questions) Sandra phoned for backup and a second koala rescue person arrived who seemed very well accustomed to taking orders from Sandra. With her trusty henchperson as backup, Sandra stepped things up a notch. Anyone even tangentially connected to my street was ordered to return to their houses and crucially not to peek out their windows. The first part of the request I complied with, the second part I circumvented by hiding behind a curtain in my room. Sandra’s new best friend, Merilee, was the only local resident permitted to stay at ground zero.

Sandra then ordered a street-wide ban on photos of the koala (despite taking one herself later on at a critical juncture, mid-rescue). This second order seemed superfluous as the street had already been evacuated by Sandra and no-one was around to hear her orders. Sandra had essentially sent the street into quarantine. The circumstances could now loosely be described as a hostage situation. I peeked out from my curtain with the fear that Sandra would spot me and reprimand me for being too close to the koala despite being inside. The Big Bash cricket game I had been watching lacked the drama, passion and personalities of this koala rescue.

I don’t know what the normal procedure is for catching and relocating koalas. All I know is what followed can’t have been the normal procedure. Three long poles with knapsack like ends were used by the two koala rescue volunteers and the specially selected “Chosen one”, neighbour Merilee. The poles were used to reach into the Eucalyptus and try and catch the koala akin to some arcade game. After 30 minutes it was humans 0, koala 1. Sandra needed help. The very people she had earlier banished from the area she now relied upon.

Sandra began granting verbal house-leave passes to residents on the sole proviso that they provide assistance in this koala fiasco, I mean rescue. Enter my Dad, part two. My Dad made the most of his reinvolvement in the rescue to offer more ideas to Sandra about how to catch the koala. Sandra quite clearly did not appreciate said ideas. My Dad’s attention then shifted to Merilee who was doggedly using the pole to try and coax the koala down. He tried helping Merilee with the pole and Sandra snapped at him explaining that it was Merilee’s pole. My Dad retreated. I made the most of this Dad-Merilee-Sandra trialogue and bravely breached my housebound order. I moved from my house to my front veranda to gain a better angle to enjoy the show (with a useful koala-lacking bush separating Sandra’s sightline from me).

After much deviation from the presumably normal koala catching protocols, Sandra asked my Dad for our family’s help. I was beginning to become aware of Sandra’s raison d’etre: the unbridled yielding of power. I didn’t want to be overtly involved. My name is associated with plentiful failures but this koala rescue wasn’t going to be another one of them. I ducked down from my veranda hiding spot and crawled into the house on all fours; fearful that Sandra may detect my not-so-subtle getaway. I was worried that from her vantage point she would be suspicious that my front door opened and closed by itself. She didn’t notice. Her focus was on figuring out this stubborn bugger (not my Dad, the koala).

Sandra orchestrated a new approach. She requested that my Dad phone up our neighbours to help, neighbours who had previously been banished to their houses. He obliged. Sandra also requested that my Dad bring out a blanket so upon his return to the house, I reluctantly handed him a blanket. I was curious about its usage in a treetop koala rescue. Ultimately our neighbours produced a larger blanket which superseded our puny blanket that was deemed “Not koala rescue worthy”. Our blanket’s inferiority ended up being a blessing as the neighbour’s superior blanket ended up fecally stained.

The scene was now: 3x four-metre-long poles, yielded by Sandra, koala rescue person number two and Merilee, five people, including my Dad, holding an originally white yet now discoloured blanket akin to a fire rescue blanket and a completely cleared street that normally only occurs when the Adelaide Crows are playing. Any witness to this tableau, had they dared venture nearby, would be forgiven for thinking:

1. A unique human to tree mating process was transpiring in the hope of birthing a human-tree hybrid onto the blanket.
2. Whilst Cirque du Soleil were practicing, that had become entangled in a suburban Eucalyptus.
3. A Middle Ages historical re-enactment was playing out featuring disgruntled villagers chasing a misunderstood, shapeshifting witch up a tree.
4. An anti-tree act was being performed by a tree hating cult.

The option of a koala rescue gone awry would not be considered.

Whenever a person happened to be driving past, an irate Sandra would call out aggressive obscenities, whilst skilfully directing the car with her spare hand (her other hand being pole occupied). This road rage by a pole holding Sandra was unique and bemusing to the motorists. Approximately ten vehicles rightfully slowed down so as to not run over the eight people with poles and a blanket covering the road. Sandra interpreted the vehicles slowing down as hoards of the public trying to catch a glimpse into the inner workings of Australia’s favourite koala catcher- Sandra. Cue the abuse.

Any person that happened to be walking remotely in the vicinity was screamed at by Sandra and directed to turn around 180 degrees. My highlight was the older lady who was walking 100 metres away from the action- on a different road! At her closest point, despite not coming down our road, she was shouted at by Sandra, “Don’t sight-see, keep walking”. Another highlight was Sandra’s comment that she hopes the media don’t get hold of this story. I know that not much newsworthy occurs in Adelaide however a koala rescue is hardly a page one story (I forgot about the reputable media publication ‘The Advertiser’ in which case it is a page one story). Another neighbour approached the scene and asked this clearly struggling group of people if they could use a step-ladder. Sandra wasn’t impressed, although she did recruit this person to be victim number six holding the blanket in case the koala dropped (à la drop-bear). Ultimately, the blanker holders’ task seemed to primarily involve catching poo.

From my hidden curtain vantage point, I saw a look of despondence on one of the blanket holder’s faces. They cupped a hand and held it over their eyes. Their lips didn’t move yet their body language said to me “What life decisions have I made that have led me to this point? The point of standing as a superfluous number, holding a blanket to catch koala faeces”. I interpreted their shielded face as a prelude to an existential crisis. Alternatively, their behaviour including their cupped hand hovering over their upper face may have purely been to block the sun from their eyes.

Another neighbour then approached the group. An elderly man with a thick Italian accent who days earlier informed me of the surprising news that he had “Bought a yacht” (My Dad had later told me that he was saying “Port Elliot”). This Italian neighbour told Sandra that he had a chainsaw and said he would chop the branch down housing the koala. Sandra’s reaction was priceless. I got the impression that she would have liked to use said chainsaw on the Italian neighbour.

A sentient side of Sandra shone through at one stage during the supposed koala rescue mission. Sandra named the koala after our 7-year-old-neighbour who was one of the blanket holders. Considering the high-status Sandra reserved for this specific koala, this was quite the honour. Sandra would later verbally retract naming the koala after the 7-year-old, bluntly stating “The koala is no longer named after you”. Sometimes, rather than giving a child something and taking it away, it is better not to give it to begin with. Alas, this tale is full of life lessons. At another point, the neighbour’s cat wandered by the base of the koala’s tree, flaunting its freedom to the koala. Sandra must not have observed this event as said cat was not redirected by Sandra.

At this stage the entire street were either involved in the koala rescue, abused by Sandra, instructed to remain housebound or some combination thereof. The koala had been chased around the tree by three poles akin to a Three Stooge’s routine. The rescue process had outlasted the Adelaide Striker’s batting collapse fourfold. The only group of people in this city with inferior hand-eye co-ordination to the Adelaide Strikers cricket team were the three people yielding the koala catching poles.

In what I can only attribute to being out of pity, at the 95-minute mark of the ‘rescue’, the koala began to climb partway down the tree. I refuse to subscribe to the theory that this koala’s descent can be attributed to Sandra whispering sweet nothings to the koala (she regularly did this throughout the so-called rescue). At this point, in what can’t be standard protocol, the three poles softly bludgeoned the koala down to the midway-up part of the trunk. In order to remain under the koala, the six people holding the safety ‘catch’ blanket had to run around the tree as the koala switched from side to side. As a result, the blanket got tangled in the trunk of the Eucalyptus due to the sheer number of sentient individuals controlling it, each with their own freethinking mind. In Sandra’s eyes, this was the foreseeable culmination of two hours of work. From carefully handpicking who was worthy of holding the blanket and clearing out the street to re-directing the motorists who were returning to their homes after a day at work. This was the Grand Final moment of this whole saga- the koala’s final descent.

The koala retreated down the Eucalyptus’s trunk to be at eye-level. At this point my Dad took charge of the blanket, ripping it from the hands of the other five patient blanker holders, much to Sandra’s chagrin. My Dad then launched himself at the koala, grasping its furry body in the blanket and in the process stealing Sandra’s limelight. Sandra reprimanded my Dad and tackled the koala off him. After the koala had been contained, my Dad began clapping with his potentially chlamydia laced bare hands, hoping to evoke a spontaneous group applause. No-one joined him. One minute later, my Dad again attempted to reignite the victorious applause. Once again, no one joined him. An hour and a half after the koala had been rescued (bludgeoned), the devoted Sandra still remained outside my house in her wildlife rescue vehicle. When I checked the next morning, the vehicle was gone- I was slightly surprised not to see her giving mouth to mouth to the koala, filling in trans-species adoption papers or trying to convince Merilee to enroll it at the local school.

In the shadow of the epic rescue, my mind turned to how to commemorate such an event. One bold idea stands out. The local council should commission a giant bronze statue of the koala rescue at its peak and erect it in place of the now battered, branchless and almost dead Eucalyptus. I suggest the statue captures the moment of the rescue in which my Dad has the koala pinned down in the blanket against the tree trunk, whilst the other five blanket holders are portrayed with shock on their faces at the blanket being tugged from their hands. Meanwhile, the two non-Sandra four-metre pole holders are bludgeoning the koala with their poles, narrowly missing my Dad. Sandra should be immortalised in gold and should be depicted hitting the four-metre-long pole on my Dad’s head whilst tackling him for the koala.

Personally I would have left the koala in the tree but great entertainment value.

4 stars