A lover of flowers is known as an “anthophile,” a word derived from the Greek anthos (flower) and phile (lover). Do I qualify as an anthophile? Probably not—my love extends far beyond flowers to plants, mountains, sunrises, sunsets, new shoots in spring, cool breezes in summer, falling leaves in autumn, white snow in winter, and unpretentious people. Life has so many beautiful details, after all.
When news broke about a rare event unfolding at the Geelong Botanic Gardens—a blooming corpse flower, Amorphophallus titanum—I knew it was a once-in-a-decade opportunity. I called Graham, and we packed up for a spontaneous adventure. Serendipitous moments like these enrich life with unexpected stories, conversations, and experiences.
The corpse flower blooms unpredictably, sometimes as infrequently as once every ten years, and its show lasts a mere 24 to 48 hours. It demands quick action from admirers. So, despite peak-hour traffic, Graham and I were undeterred. The journey itself was delightful, filled with chatter about previous encounters with rare flowers, tidbits from books, and our excitement about witnessing the corpse flower in full, albeit smelly, glory.
When we arrived at the Geelong Botanic Gardens, the queue stretched on forever—fifty times longer than Graham’s past experience! We decided to grab dinner instead of joining the line. Post-dinner, the line was still formidable. Surely it would thin out after sunset when hunger drove people away, right? Wrong. A seaside stroll and an hour and a half later, the line remained resolute.
A lady who’d been queuing for three hours assured us it was worth the wait, comparing the smell to that of a teenage boy’s socks. (Charming.) The flower’s potent odour, likened to rotting flesh, attracts carrion beetles and flies in its native Sumatran rainforests. This plant, also known as the titan arum, is endangered in the wild due to habitat loss—a poignant reminder of nature’s fragility.
We decided to avoid the queue entirely that evening, retreating to our mobile home for some much-needed sleep. The alarm woke us at 1 a.m., and we joined the line again—only to abandon it five minutes later when it didn’t budge. Another nap and a 4:30 a.m. alarm later, we joined the queue a third time, now behind about 500 people.
The crowd was wonderfully orderly—no security guards, no queue jumpers, just patient flower enthusiasts. This peaceful gathering was a heartening glimpse of humanity’s better side in a world rife with daily conflict.
The corpse flower had been “blushing” since 1st November, its temperature gradually rising as it prepared to bloom. Its dramatic display involved a spadix—a central, phallus-like structure surrounded by a spathe, which unfurls to reveal a deep burgundy interior. Once pollinated, the spadix produces a striking cluster of orange-red seeds.
Ten days later, the plant finally bloomed. Its spadix emitted a fragrance akin to rotting animal carcasses (delightful for flies, not so much for humans), while its spathe shone a magnificent burgundy. It was a sight to behold.
As I stood before this marvel of nature, I wished for more time to appreciate it—but with so many others waiting, I reluctantly took a few photos and moved on. Oddly, neither Graham nor I noticed the infamous stench. Perhaps we arrived too late? No complaints, though.
Over 20,000 visitors flocked to the gardens to witness this botanical wonder. Amid the crowd, one little girl’s delighted exclamation, “I love it!” summed up the sentiment perfectly. Her innocent enthusiasm resonated deeply, capturing the awe and joy that such natural phenomena inspire.