When Platypus Matters was offered for review, I was intrigued: I love reading non-fiction but would a solid account of Australia's mammals be able to maintain momentum—and hold my attention—for over 300 pages? Having finished the book, I can say that the answer to this question is a resounding yes.
When I was a child, my dad (a plant biochemist who frequently travelled far and wide for his work) ventured to Australia and returned after a few weeks away with two carefully selected mementos for his animal-obsessed daughter: an amiable, rotund furry wombat and a tiny, velvet platypus, both sparking my fascination for the captivating creatures down-under. Fast forward a quarter of a century and my work as a marine conservationist in the Eastern Atlantic and Mediterranean allows much less time than I would like to contemplate the biodiversity of Australia.
Platypus Matters turned out to be the perfect way to change this and rekindle my fascination with Australian mammals, a topic covered in breadth and depth, and with infectious enthusiasm, by Jack Ashby. The book provides an engaging account of Australia's dynamic mammal life and the pathway of evolution that has shaped the ‘platypup’ (p. 35) and ‘wombatlet’ (p. 36) we see today. Woven between accounts of the trials, tribulations and wonders of modern-day ecological fieldwork are exceptional details of monotremes (egg laying mammals), marsupials and placental mammals. The author lays out our progress through history towards understanding the unique taxonomy, traits and reproductive nuances of these endearing and complex creatures, and unravels the egotistical beliefs that placental mammals—to which we humans belong—are more highly evolved and thus somehow superior to monotremes and marsupials.
Some of the species covered, such as kangaroos and koalas, are iconic symbols of Australian biodiversity and culture, and are as widely known today as they were to my eight-year-old self. Others are more cryptic and less commonly talked of; I enjoyed marvelling at the potoroos, honey possums, orange leaf-nosed bats, bettongs, kultarrs, quolls and dunnarts, and I truly appreciate this book for having brought them to my attention. All of these mammals are frequently described with labels such as ‘primitive’, ‘weird’, or even ‘dangerous’; Ashby suggests this needless othering can be insidiously harmful to their protection and conservation, and provokes self-reflection on the words we use or associate with certain animals. The author's conviction on this topic and the personal affront these labels cause are evident throughout the text, as is his passion as he meticulously and eloquently describes how these species are anything but inferior.
At the time of writing, Ashby is the Assistant Director of the University Museum of Zoology in Cambridge, UK, and the book unravels the extractive ways in which European explorers hunted for knowledge on and artefacts of Australian natural history, uncovering the colonial origins of many museum collections that persist to this day. Importantly, there is a deeper narrative of the colonial exploitation and marginalization of the Indigenous Aboriginal people who knew this land and lived amongst its rich assembly of species for thousands of years before Europeans reached Australasia. The book rightly credits the Aboriginal wisdom that led to the description of many creatures unique to this continent. It highlights how this knowledge was often disregarded and ignored by Europeans, leading to delays in the progress of scientific knowledge and taxonomic advancement. Beyond the scientific discoveries, we are reminded of the sinister implications of these explorations and settlements, for all Australian life.
I thoroughly enjoyed Ashby's writing: it is well-researched but easy going (even through some of the more serious themes) and moves at a good pace; I learnt a lot without feeling bogged down by textbook-like, science-heavy pages. The pictures included of Australian fauna are marvellous, although a map or two alongside the photos would have been useful to visualize the various Australian states and islands, species populations and climatic regions described. I was repeatedly struck by the diversity of the mammals that have engineered the Australian ecosystem over thousands of years, many of which are little known but are silently and rapidly being lost to extinction. I mourned the recent loss of the thylacine and pig-footed bandicoot, and regretted not paying closer attention to the devastating declines of these mammals, with impacts from climate change, invasive species (some introduced deliberately by colonial settlers) and hunting all playing their part.
I am left wanting to read more on the plight of the Aboriginal people and the mammals that have lived alongside them for millennia, and some books to guide further exploration of these topics are recommended in the text. Platypus Matters is a stark reminder of the complex natural and cultural history of Australia, the sinister impacts of colonial European exploration and settlement, and the urgency of threats of extinction, but also—and most prominently—a positive account of the wonderful biodiversity that is still left to fight for.
Open access
