All language subtitles for BC36D3C5A912A2ED238A0900D760928A_eng

Humans have walked across
Australia for at least 60,000 years.

By traditional law, indigenous
Australians tread lightly on its surface.

The world's longest
continuing culture has

left only very subtle
marks on the landscape.

It is new waves of migration in the last
two centuries that have introduced radical

transformation and a very
different future for wildlife.

For some, it's been a boom time.

Surprisingly, people and their
chaos can offer opportunities.

In cities such as Melbourne, close to 5
million people go about their business.

As do tens of thousands
of brush-tailed possums.

In Melbourne in particular,
possum is a term of endearment.

As in, hello possum.

Living alongside humans has
helped the possum population surge.

In the city, they live a very
different life to their country cousins.

These greedy possums enjoy
an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

Courtesy of
Melbourne's tourists.

While food is abundant,
the trees are not.

Indeed, the best trees are
overflowing with possums.

With mobs of marsupials
forced together, each night in

the park turns into one big,
angry, raunchy street party.

And no one uses contraception.

This mother has enough
food to breed continuously.

And will be raising
young her entire life.

She may have twice as many
offspring as bush-brushies.

But her fertility
comes at a price.

At just six months, her eldest, Joey,
needs to make space for younger siblings.

As a city dweller, he's forced
out at a much younger age.

And with the park's
few trees so heavily

defended, he can't
find a safe place to rest.

Like many young possums
born into this park, he

takes a huge risk in search
of a place to call home.

He heads into the human chaos.

Most possums leaving their
home range won't survive.

Only one in five young
males will make it.

And that's when he
finds his way off the roads.

It's the cats he
has to watch out for.

More possums live in
Melbourne's roofs than in its trees.

A shed roof offers
him an opportunity.

It's the ultimate jackpot
for a homeless possum.

A sanctuary with
much less competition.

Plus, there's a
friendly human face.

Most people don't want to
share their world with possums.

Nature can be an inconvenience
in this new landscape we're building.

And yet, apparently, a world that's good
for plants and animals is also good for us.

Even a patch of suburban
garden is enough for

Australia's native animals
to make their magic.

In the undergrowth, peacock spiders
sense their world through vibrations.

It's how they hunt, find
mates and avoid predators.

But the pandemonium of humans makes
sensing vibrations more complicated.

This male peacock
spider has superb eyesight,

which helps him find
what he's searching for.

A female peacock spider.

To convince her to mate,
he relies on a series of

vibrations known
scientifically as rumpelrumps.

Sensing his movement through her legs,
she is looking for a suitor with soothing,

even vibrations.

Anything muddled or
intermittent is unacceptable.

Oh, drat.

A lawnmower.

Fortunately, he has
another trick, designed

to distract her from
all else in the garden.

Gaze locked, the
enchantment begins.

She sees his dance
in ultraviolet splendour.

His choreography becomes
increasingly vigorous and grandiose.

But he's not easily seduced.

A rival suitor muscles
in to try his luck.

He strikes in less than
a tenth of a second and

injects a lethal dose
of venom in his brain.

The rival is now not a mate.

But a meal.

Undeterred, our suitor once
more steps into the line of fire.

He must mesmerise...

or die.

At

touching distance, he
gears up for a final flourish.

A mistake will
cost him his life.

The pair will mate for
around ten minutes.

While his front legs rotate
her abdomen into position, he

gathers his sperm and passes
it to her reproductive organs.

This rather picky female
behaviour has led to

strong selection for
increasingly complex courtship.

By having both vibration cues and visual
cues to seduce her, peacock courtship can

succeed in the noisiest
and busiest of gardens.

In backyards across
Australia, different species

of peacock spiders are
dancing in the undergrowth.

The more flexible creatures
are about where and how

they live, the better
they will do in our cities.

But flexibility only
takes you so far.

Sometimes you simply have to
change with your environment.

In central Brisbane, dotted
between the freeways and

the skyscrapers, there
are islands of green space.

In fact, Brisbane has more
species of plants, animals

and insects than any
other capital in Australia.

But it's the city's cold-blooded
residents that are so famously abundant.

And here in the city, they're
demonstrating evolution in overdrive.

Meet Brisbane's most
successful natives.

The eastern water dragon.

For this young buck, the only world
he's ever known is this inner-city park.

He's also learned to share
it with plenty of non-dragons.

Circled by roads, this
dragon can't safely leave.

He is marooned in a
man-made ecosystem.

And it's very different
to his natural habitat.

From its natural world,
from the park's size

and its surfaces, to
its prey and predators.

This dragon population
is evolving to survive

in this new world,
right before our eyes.

They have become
metropolitan dragons.

Not just with a
lifestyle change, but

genetically distinct
from their wild cousins.

This male's ancestors were here long
before the city developed around them.

But in many ways, this modern
dragon generation has things easier.

Like staff who do
the digging for you.

A bee-flavoured fun park.

And water features.

A fair replacement for
his natural creek habitats.

With

abundant food too, and
few natural predators,

the city's park
populations have soared.

He lives amongst the highest
density of water dragons on the planet.

Which means good communication
is essential to social harmony.

Well, if you speak dragon,
a raised arm, tail slap,

or a tilt of the head, all
communicate pecking order.

With his chest turning a deep red,
it's obvious he's now coming of age,

and needs to assert
his dominance.

But it's hard to get ahead in a
city of strong, attractive males.

The current ruler of this territory
is intolerant of young upstarts.

The crowd watch on.

Care for the young.

Can he hold his own?

The females have
seen it all before.

Now vanquished, he
retreats to the back bench.

At least the gardeners
are sympathetic.

Given the competition in
this park, he may never mate.

The dragons have now grown
twice the size of their wild relatives.

With males now
reaching over a kilogram.

And without their usual
trees to climb, limbs

are getting longer,
and claws less defined.

Their behavior has altered too.

In the wild, water dragons
are timid towards people.

But in Brisbane, they won't
move for mere humans.

These dashing dragons are Australia's
most surprising example of rapid evolution.

Driven almost entirely by
the changing environment.

Change which shows no signs of
slowing down in the 21st century.

Sydney is Australia's
most popular city.

With 280 new human
arrivals every day.

Most of them sun worshipers.

As night falls, the
beach crowd thins.

The stage is set for the
next shift of beachgoers.

The secretive red fox.

This fast-breeding feral predator was
born in this Sydney beachside suburb.

And every night its
sands are hers to enjoy.

Shared with the
late night revelers.

It's a carefree
life for this fox.

And her siblings.

They can play without fear as they are now
Australia's most prevalent apex predator.

Both beautiful and devastating.

Imported from England in the
mid-1800s for the sport of hunting.

They shoulder the blame for Australia's
appalling record of mammal extinctions.

It's estimated there are now close
to seven million foxes in Australia.

Around midnight, the foxes give up their
play and head out for their nightly rounds.

Humans are generous
with what they leave behind.

The female has a five-kilometre
radius that she patrols.

From the beach to its
neighbouring streets, visiting

all the spots she knows
might yield rewards.

While most residents
sleep, the town is hers.

Her hearing is so acute she can
detect snoring three houses away.

She moves silently like a cat.

She will even steal
from her canine cousins.

She returns to the beach for one
happy reunion before the sun rises.

Their night is rubbed off.

And the beach belongs
to humans again.

While most Australians have
made their home by the water.

With 85% of the population within
picnicking distance of the coast,

their larger human footprint extends
well into the continent's interior.

In the remote deserts of Western Australia,
mining industries have set up shop.

24 hours a day, seven days a
week, machines dig in the water.

The search for gold.

To find just one ounce of gold,
mountains of earth must be moved.

It's the hottest, harshest
part of the country.

And human activity out here
draws in curious creatures.

Creatures such as the dingo.

Amid the noise, and the
machinery, live several distinct packs.

This alpha pair, and
their offspring, lay a claim

to a shale heap which
overlooks the mine site.

Here, in a man-made, mechanized oasis,
they enjoy the luxuries of water and shade.

Both in very short supply
on the plains beyond.

But luxury comes at a cost.

This mine is no
off-lead dog park.

The adults head out to forage before
the heat of the day becomes too intense,

leaving the youngsters behind.

They follow reliable
tracks across the mine.

The offerings are meager, and
they'll take what they can get.

Sometimes traveling up to 20
kilometers a day in search of food.

The isolation of this
great desert has protected

these dingoes from
breeding with domestic dogs.

The pack leader surveys the desert as his
ancestors have done for thousands of years.

He's a father to some of the
last, precious, purebred dingoes.

As the day heats up, the
family members who have stayed

behind in the mine stick
close to their waterhole.

Watched over by a
patient older sibling.

This is the hottest
part of the country, and

it may be months
before rain falls again.

The wastewater from the mine
creates an oasis for all desert creatures.

Providing new foraging
opportunities for their family.

The young dingoes dine
on worms and scraps.

No feast, perhaps, but
vital protein in the desert.

Now it's time to explore.

Pack, expend energy,
knowing that when they

overheat there's plenty of
water to cool down again.

But one pup has
got itself into trouble.

The thick plastic
lining offers no grip.

He struggles.

And tires.

But at last, the older sibling
seems to catch his eye.

Guiding him to an exit point.

Another lesson learnt.

It might be a bit dangerous living
amongst humans and their machinery.

But generations of dingoes
have made the mine their own.

And from the rubble,
they emerge younger still.

The newest generation is
sneaking out from their hidey hole.

Dingoes normally dig a den for their young,
but here they have man-made structures.

Relatively safe from the trucks
rumbling past day and night.

These pups are guarded by an
older sister while their parents hunt.

But they're getting hungry.

Impatient for mum to return.

The desert day trippers are on
their way back to the rest of the pack.

And their family members
are on the lookout for them.

This reunion at the end of the
day is an important part of pack life.

Reinforcing the family bonds.

These animals have learned to live among
the infrastructure pounding around them.

And to use it to
their advantage.

Dingoes should have a much better chance
of survival here than on the arid plains.

It's no picture book, perhaps.

But for these dingoes,
it's as comfortable

as life will get in this
desert environment.

Most man-made structures do
not benefit Australia's wildlife.

Instead, they add to the perils animals
confront in these harsh landscapes.

Like the networks of supply lines ferrying
the desert's offerings to cities and ports.

With little warning, storms sweep in from
the sea, bringing flood rains to the Great

Northern Highway that
crosses Western Australia.

Triggering magical events.

Like blooms of fish
in the desert's heart.

Yellow-tailed grunters wait out the dry
season in small, ever-decreasing pools.

With these flash floods
comes an opportunity to

disperse further into
the Great Sandy Desert.

If they can cross the road.

Nobody knows what motivates
them to make this perilous journey.

Or where their destination lies.

It appears that they're using the
bridging reins to expand their territory,

driven by instinct.

But exposed on the tarmac, the fish
are helpless against an aerial attack.

Terns which have flown
to this desert from as far

as Siberia are welcomed
with fresh hors d'oeuvres.

Served on a tarmac platter.

They feast for hours as the
offerings just keep on coming.

Only stopping for the
trucks to power through.

Sluicing the grunters
back to where they started.

What a chance for a little fish.

But every now and then
a grunter defies the odds.

Joining

a slippery battalion
who make it through.

This year, the grunters extend
their frontier further into the desert.

Australia's wildlife
has evolved to deal

with the country's
erratic weather patterns.

But now the climate
itself is changing.

More dramatically here than
in any other part of the world.

The animals, are
struggling to cope.

In the farmlands of northern New South
Wales, summers are getting tougher.

Hot days more frequent.

Droughts longer.

The Liverpool plains boast some
of the continent's most fertile soil.

Swathes have been cleared to make
way for grazing animals and crops.

Around 90% of the
native vegetation is gone.

In a gum tree which still
stands proud, a marsupial

lays her body against
the cool of the branch.

The tree's trunk is five
degrees lower than the

air temperature and will
keep her from overheating.

The koala relies on these
eucalypts for all she needs to survive.

Its tough waxy leaves, toxic to most
animals, provide her only source of food.

The eucalypt even hydrates
the super specialist by

giving her no reason to
leave the safety of this tree.

Or so it was thought.

Cattle farmer Rob Friend has lived on
this land for the best part of 70 years.

Today, as he surveys
his paddocks, he finds a

lifeless body at the base
of a seemingly healthy tree.

In the last major heat wave, 25%
of the region's koala population died.

As the climate changes and temperatures
increase, it seems the chemical content of

eucalyptus leaves is changing too, losing
its ability to hydrate these marsupials.

A shift too subtle for the human
eye, but critical for the koala.

Rob can't bear to see them go and is
motivated to try something on his own farm.

At least.

He fits a drinking trough
to a tree on his property.

He positions an infrared camera set
to trigger at the slightest movement.

The farmer will monitor his watering
station to learn if his resident koalas

are needing more than their
trees can now naturally supply.

But when the cameras spring into
action, it's not koalas alone they capture.

Birds fight for space.

Swarms of bees threaten
to drink the water dry.

After nightfall, nocturnal
drinkers are no less varied.

Thirsty tree frogs
come to bathe.

Then something
completely unexpected.

First possums and then an exquisite
family of sugar gliders appears.

The daintiest and most
acrobatic of Australia's

gliders and nesting
in nearby tree hollows.

And launching themselves fifty
meters between eucalypt groves.

To land with pinpoint accuracy.

And then at last a koala.

You know,

Drinking deeply.

Quenching his thirst.

Something the eucalypt seems no longer
able to do for him in times of drought.

Over the days, the camera captures
koalas drinking time and time again.

Sometimes they sip for hours.

They are thirsty koalas.

On Rob's land, the
koalas are now healthier.

They're even tiny
signs of a renewal.

Rob is working with Sydney University to
create meaningful data about his koalas.

But he can't shift the
predictions facing their species.

In New South Wales, koalas
are on track for extinction.

By 2050.

In just over 200 years
since European colonisation,

40% of Australian
forests have been cleared.

Despite all we know about the
critical importance of old growth trees,

land clearing shows
no sign of slowing.

Add to this the impact of
climate change and Australia's

wildlife is facing a perfect
storm of challenges.

Unable to adapt fast enough,
we may face a future without them.

To turn the koala story around, we
will require a national recovery plan.

One that recognises the value
of a single, incomparable species.

But Australia is
capable of such a thing.

In Victoria, people have
done something very unusual.

Accommodating vulnerable
animals at the expense of humans.

Phillip Island,
South East Victoria.

Just a day trip from Melbourne and one
of the city's most popular holiday spots.

The island's shores tumble into Bass
Strait, where the aptly named Little

Penguin, the world's smallest,
spends 80% of its time.

Despite being only
30 centimetres long, it

moves through the
water like a tiny torpedo.

The penguins hit the shore,
leaving their elegance behind them.

And yet, these tough little
birds have, for thousands of

years, battled the rocks here
to reach their breeding grounds.

It's only in the past
hundred years that

their journey has been
lit by more than stars.

Human development on
the island has turned their

remote home into a baffling
and dangerous puzzle.

The population looked set for
extinction until a bold decision was made.

To make this a penguin housing
estate at the cost of the human one.

Given a chance, little penguins
are enthusiastic breeders.

This hill above Summerland Beach is
where penguins have long dug their nests.

Females lay two eggs
at least once a year.

Sometimes twice.

But only if fishing is good and
penguins are protected while nesting.

Which is now the case, after pioneering
conservation efforts have been put in

place to keep the little nesting
birds safe from harm's way.

Over the past twenty-five
years, human residents

have been moved out to
make way for penguins.

One hundred and eighty holiday
homes have been carted away.

With them go the cars.

The people.

The cats.

And the dogs.

Which took this colony
to the edge of collapse.

Now the sound and the pungent aroma of
penguin dominates the landscape once again.

The little penguin population
on Phillip Island has

tripled since the 1980s,
now at just over 32,000 birds.

But humans aren't
quite out of the picture.

In fact, they are now being
invited back as paying customers.

The tourist trade funds
the conservation drive

with 700,000 carefully
controlled visitors a year.

Humans might outnumber
penguins, but the tables are turned.

Finally, people are
here on nature's terms.

The little penguins on Phillip Island
are a conservation success story.

An example of how
species can be protected.

Across Australia, few
places remain untouched.

Wildlife is feeling the impact of the
modern, human-dominated world.

Animals must adapt
to the new normal.

In the cities, wildlife must now
navigate roads, cars and people.

Some are changing the
course of their evolution.

And while some have taken
advantage of change, too

many are disappearing to
make way for human expansion.

Australia is among the seven nations
responsible for more than half of the

world's biodiversity loss
in the last few decades.

Which leaves us with a choice.

Carry on as we are until there's no turning
back, or start designing a new future.

Which places animals and
ecosystems in the picture.

We have the opportunity.

We have the land.

We have the resources.