When I was a boy the thought of farming crocs never occurred to me. My grandparents had a farm in Lincolnshire (England) and I stayed with them. Cows and chickens were the main livestock. There wasn't a crocodile to be seen.
I might have remained blissfully ignorant of the big reptile if I'd not got hooked on astronomy at school. My fascination with the heavens led to a degree in astrophysics and a precarious career as a stargazer. The demand for astronomers isn't high and I was soon racking my brain for an alternative way to support my family.
A job as a Canberra bureaucrat provided stable employment but was boring. I resigned and made my way north to the Australian tropics where I joined the staff of James Cook University in Townsville as its press officer. I was soon writing articles on subjects as varied as oral history, wind engineering and croc farming.
Now, it's one thing to write about exciting subjects. Getting involved is entirely different. So, when my wife heard me talking about the soaring demand for crocodile hides, she became alarmed. We were staying with my friend Paul on his property in Queensland's northern gulf country.
I should explain that the term property is used to describe a stretch of land that would be called a ranch in America. Paul's property was a quarter the size of Belgium but don't think of him as fabulously rich. The huge area was worth no more than a few moderately priced housing blocks in suburban Sydney.
The land was in Australia's savannah belt. In the monsoon season it floods. During the remaining nine months of the year it goes from green to brown to black. The last being when bush fires go through.
Paul was a grazier. He kept cattle and that was becoming increasingly difficult. There was a time when he mustered on horseback and drove his animals to the nearest railhead. Those days were gone. The government had embarked on a campaign to eradicate the twin scourges of brucellosis and tuberculosis from the northern herds. Droving spread diseases and cattle had to be trucked. That meant catching them.
One day Paul invited me to go out with his workforce and watch them round up some bullocks. In my naivety I expected a bunch of leathery-skinned men with wide-brimmed hats and elastic-sided boots. In the event, the only leathery-skinned man was Paul. His entire party consisted of himself, his ten-year-old son, Angus, and a nineteen-year-old Maori lad on a work-experience program. I later learnt that the young man's father was a vet and wanted his son to gain experience of real animal husbandry before going to uni and learning about it there.
Paul directed me to a jeep that had seen service during the Second World War. I got in on the driver's side and was looking for the ignition key when a voice brought me to order.
"Shove over, mate!"
Angus appeared by my side. The kid had been raised in adult company and didn't know how to behave like a child. I moved over and he took my place at the steering wheel. There were blocks on the pedals to accommodate his short legs and a cushion to get the rest of him high enough to see over the dashboard. I sat in the passenger seat and the nineteen-year-old crouched on the bonnet. Paul followed in an old cattle truck.
We were going after the bullocks that had been expelled from the herd by their dads and uncles. The young animals were hanging around in creek beds where the grass was still green and there was water for them to drink. They watched with puzzled expressions as we approached. We could have come from another planet. They'd never seen anything like us before. Big, doleful eyes registered bewilderment then alarm.
One turned and the others followed. Angus hit the accelerator and the jeep shot forward. The front was padded with old tires. The aim was to exhaust a fleeing animal and bowl it over. In this sort of contest, everything depends on stamina. A two-year-old bullock has a finite amount. A ten-year-old boy behind the wheel of a jeep has as much as his fuel tank holds.
Angus singled out a bullock and stayed a few paces behind. The terrain was flat and studded with parched grass and small trees. An experienced animal would have escaped down a water channel and left the jeep behind but the youngster kept to the flat.
The outcome was never in doubt. The bullock's pace slackened. Angus delivered a glancing blow with the tyres. The exhausted animal rolled over and the Maori lad grabbed it by the testicles. Moments later, Paul appeared and placed a halter round the animal’s neck.
That night, as we were having dinner, Paul admitted he was practising a very primitive form of animal husbandry but had no other options. In a year things would change. He'd shoot his entire heard and the government would compensate him. When the area had been declared disease free, he would restock with certified animals. That got me to thinking about crocodile farming.
A few weeks earlier, I'd interviewed a group of scientists who were working on research programs aimed at introducing new industries to the Pacific region. Crocodile farming was one of them.
In those days, a top hide from a three-year-old crocodile was fetching about $200 on the international market. That compared favourably with what Paul was getting for his cattle. Processing was straightforward. There was no need to truck the crocs to an abattoir. You were allowed to shoot them. Hides stacked flat so transport wasn't a problem. Paul would have to shoot his herd as part of the disease eradication program. Instead of leaving them for crows and eagles, he could feed them to crocs.
The sums worked out a treat. Crocodiles are cold blooded. That means they don't expend energy keeping warm. In fact, they don't expend much energy at all. Most of the time they lounge around in muddy pools waiting for their next meal to come along. As a consequence, much of what they eat goes into bodybuilding. Shoot a bullock, put it in a freezer and feed it, bit by bit, to a crocodile hatchling. Within three years, the last of the bullock will be eaten and you'll have a crocodile with a hide big enough to sell to the French fashion industry.
Paul asked if the hatchlings were prone to disease. I said they were extremely hardy. Baby crocs are accustomed to swimming around in one another's excrement. You could keep hundreds in a small pool and they'd remain in good health. And there would be no trouble finding dainty morsels for their tiny palates. All you had to do was hang up lights above their pools at night and moths would crash in under their own wing power.
On the other side of the table, our wives watched apprehensively as we sketched out plans for a joint business venture. Paul's wife was the first to speak.
"Won't it be dangerous?"
That was rich. Didn't the woman have any idea of the perils her family faced as bull wrestlers? I opened my mouth to speak and got a warning glance from Paul.
"Where are you going to get the eggs from?"
I said the government issued permits that allowed you to collect eggs from crocodile nests.
"What about the big bulls that guard the nests?"
She had a point there. Daddy crocs can be very attentive when it comes to guarding the next generation. I said we'd wait until dad had gone off for a bite to eat then I'd sneak in with a collecting basket and grab some eggs. Paul would stand by with a gun in case dad got back earlier than expected.
That did it. My wife announced, in no uncertain terms, that I was not going to get involved in crocodile farming. It was far too dangerous and she wasn't going to take the kids away from Townsville to live in the bush. I'm a very obedient husband and bowed to her superior authority.
In the weeks that followed, Paul did a careful investigation of the croc project and decided to stick with the industry he knew. That was probably wise. Years later, a symposium on crocodiles was held in Townsville and some of the participants stayed at my hostel. Crocodile farming was now a well-established industry in Australia and I asked about it.
They told me that most successful operations are run as subsidiaries of chicken farms. The reptile helps dispose of heads and other parts that supermarkets won't take. Easy access to waste from trawlers is also an advantage because crocs cannot live on chooks alone ... an occasional bite of fish is needed.
I’ve met all sorts of people during my life and that has given me lots of ideas for my books. My latest is The Emerald Buddha and it is a mystery thriller. You can buy The Emerald Buddha from Amazon for $6.50 or receive a FREE COPY from me. CLICK: http://eepurl.com/bNh_nn