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Published: August 6th 2007
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Prior to departing the United States, Gina and I received the typical bout of advice from our parents on the ways of the World and certain precautions to take while traveling. One of the warnings passed on by Gina’s father was to avoid swimming in any body of water other than bathtubs and hotel pools. While it seemed like a ridiculous notion on face value, a trip to Harley’s Crocodile Farm north of Cairns gave the idea a bit more credence.
Australia is notorious for its creepy-crawlies, slithery things and plague of various flying vermin, but nothing is more famous and dangerous than the estuarine crocodile. Introduced to Americans by the likes of Crocodile Dundee and Steve Irwin, the ferocious reptile is much more than an entertainment novelty. During an average year, crocodiles kill one person and maim several others with their razor sharp teeth and vice-like grip, though they ultimately prefer to drown their victims. Growing to lengths upwards of 6 meters (20 feet) and several hundred kilograms, they don’t have to work hard for one’s respect.
On our first day in Cairns, we found ourselves scouring a wall of brochures in one of the local activity booking
centers. Gina and I both narrowed in on a pamphlet showing a crocodile propelling itself out of the water while clenching down on what looked like a piece of road kill. In this particular photo, however, there was a boat of curious onlookers no less than five feet from the cold blooded killer. Determined to have the
full Australian experience, we concluded that seeing a crocodile was a must encounter before leaving the Down Under.
Arriving at Harley’s Crocodile Farm a few days later, an ominous sky overhead, Gina and I paid our entry, received our boat tour boarding passes and were informed that a walking farm tour was starting momentarily. Having an hour to kill before our boat ride, we accepted the farm tour invitation and proceeded to the makeshift meeting point - a grotesquely large plaster crocodile statue. As the farm tour and a steady downpour commenced simultaneously, we struggled to listen to the guide’s explanation of crocodile history in Australia and how Hartley’s came into existence. Up until the 1970s, crocodiles were hunted in the wild by the thousands - some for sport, others for profit. In the early 1980s, a pioneering entrepreneur determined that the
animals could be farm raised and began marketing skins and meat to various fashion and cuisine channels. Today, the market for raw crocodile products is nearing $50M AUD.
Sensing the group’s fading interest in the
details, the guide opened a small gate and began leading us towards nursing pits with adolescent crocs. Walking past several motionless bogs along the way, Gina and I exchanged looks of:
Is this safe? With no fence separating us from the stale pits of water, we just hoped one of the tourists ahead of us would satiate the hunger of anything that might emerge from them. Minutes later, we crested a small bluff and came upon several large concrete pools, each containing a hundred or so crocs. The guide motioned for us to crowd in so that we could hear him over the now steady downpour and began explaining the farming process.
The farm allows the adult crocs to mate in their 10-acre preserve and lay eggs as they would in the wild. Once the nest is complete, the eggs are removed and incubated in a temperature-controlled laboratory where they are protected from predators. The sex of offspring crocs is controlled by the
temperature at which the eggs are incubated - in this case, all males. After the hatchlings are self-sustainable, they are moved to the pits where they continue to grow until harvested - eventually becoming anything from a pair of boots to a Gucci handbag. We watched as the adolescent males snapped and fought with one another, trying to assert their dominance over the group.
Not a place to start poking ones fingers through the fence. Noticing the time, we hurried back towards the boat launch to catch our 11A.M. tour. Packed on a small boat with about twenty others and a driver who looked like a cranked-out carny, we began slowly motoring along the manmade habitat. Seconds out of the boat slip, a pair of penetrating eyes barely above the water surface made their way past our vessel. The driver slowed so that everyone could absorb the enormity of the submerged croc before proceeding. The next several minutes consisted of the driver pointing out barely visible crocs along the adjacent shoreline and periscope eyes riding the water surface. We approached a stanchion in the middle of the waterway and the driver silenced the engines.
The fun is about to begin.
The driver began affixing a piece of raw meat to the end of an elongated pole he had removed from the boat’s rooftop. While he was busy, I noticed several pairs of eyes floating in the direction of our now idle vessel, likely knowing the routine. As he heckled and called out to the nearby beasts, the driver swung the dangling piece of meat near the water surface like one does with a cat and string. Obliged to participate in the entertainment of their guests, the crocs thrust themselves from their watery camouflage and snapped at the meat. The show lasted for a short while before the animals tired and retreated.
There wasn’t a disappointed face on the boat.
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krankberg
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Death from below
You should lure some stray cats to your hotel room, bag'em and throw them over the fence at that place. Looked like some cool stuff, don't get eaten over there.