For the Aborigines, a nomadic civilization with a rich creation mythology built largely upon storied creatures, the bunyip legend was a sensible way of explaining minor frightening unfamiliarities in an otherwise familiar world. For the British, the impulsive belief in the rarely seen animal represented just another potential conquest begging to have men and resources hurled at it, as had been done (unsuccessfully) with the legendary African Eden, Timbuktu, and (eventually successfully) with the storied Northwest Passage (to colonial Britain, the lack of supporting evidence was less a quiet caution meant to regulate enthusiasm than a booming challenge meant to incite it).

The first major colonial bunyip coup occurred in 1821 when explorer Hamilton Hume discovered a mysterious skeleton in a small lake. Hume attested that the remains were similar to those of a hippopotamus, but clearly belonged to a previously undiscovered animal. With bunyip mania sweeping Australia, it’s easy to understand why the anonymous bones were immediately attributed to the elusive aquatic predator, thereby, kick-starting a rash of reports and sightings that would wear on well into the 1890s.

As the Britons fumbled through swamps and creek beds, chasing after every mysterious sound and interviewing Aborigines about suspected bunyip lairs, the contested biology of the animal slowly began to coalesce into the generally agreed upon, though wholly arbitrary, physiology of the modern bunyip – a dog’s head and clawed seal flippers attached to a shaggy, furred body. The British were also eager to disregard accounts of the bunyip’s ferociousness, discounting them as merely a byproduct of the Aborigines superstitious nature. Faith in the bunyip’s docility only strengthened as hunters continued to return alive (though empty-handed) from their expeditions.

In the end, the reasoned, scientific British relationship with the bunyip wasn’t all that different from the supposedly savage, paranoid Aborigine one – the creature became a catch-all scapegoat for any unexplained aspect of the natural world, be it sound or bone or whispered legend. One of the more revealing bunyip fiascos of the mid 1800s occurred in the swamps of Greta, a marshy area of Victoria where residents repeatedly reported hearing strange noises. After multiple fruitless sweeps of the wetlands, the swamps were simply drained, after which, the noises stopped. The conclusion reached by the settlement – The bunyip relocated. Or it died. Either way, it was clearly real. And stealthy as all hell.

Friday: Bunyips today

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