The Crocodile Farm

The crocodile farm was an hour out from Darwin on a sunbaked dirt road. Shouting our arrival across wire perimeter gates, Jayson appeared, bare chested and bare foot, granting entry and accepting the slab of beer thrust at him with a mischievous grin.

Ushered onto his quad bike with a trailer of limp dead chickens, I was careful not to look at the strewn bodies rattling behind. We maneuvered down the path to the first crocodile pen. Effortlessly, he reached for a chicken and threw it over the high wire fence. Vegetation shifted, a sturdy crocodile appeared and snatched the chicken with precision.

Onto the next pen. Jumping off the bike, we edged closer to the fence. Jayson threw another chicken and it somersaulted over the fence. A huge head appeared out of the water, chicken caught and gone. It took seconds.

More pens, more chickens, the inmates fed. At the last pen, Jayson took a chicken and a thick stick nearly as tall as him. He entered the pen and swung the gate behind him. Banging the stick with loud authority, a huge crocodile looked up and slowly moved back at his approach, a thick tail swishing through the long dry grass. I held my breath. The carcass was tossed and with a quick turn of his head caught in massive jaws. Jayson stepped backwards still hitting the ground with the stick, a wide smile on his face and clear delight in his eyes. Game keeper, master of his captive charge.

‘Let’s see if we have any baby crocs!’ said Jayson and we headed for the buildings of the farm. Inside were two large metal fridges. Jayson took out one large egg at a time, inspecting them. He found one with a crack and handed it to me. I saw the crack had a slither of a tiny snout just behind it. ‘You can help hatch it!’ he said. I blinked with surprise and following his careful assurance I gently teased the egg apart along the crack that was already made. Hatched, the baby crocodile instantly started snapping at my fingers. ‘It won’t hurt.’ said Jayson as I quickly pulled my hand away, all of us awe-struck at the new life that had appeared in my hands.

With work finished, we sat under the awning, chatting idly, lazy with the heat. Cicadas hummed and the red dirt thrummed with heat from the late afternoon sun. ‘Let me show you my caravan.’ said Jayson and we took our drinks to a rickety caravan up on bricks with dark mold around the windows and fine red dust covering the floor.

At sunset we left, returning to the city. Looking down at my hands, I remembered the baby crocodile I had held that would never be free. I thought of the crocodiles that would live entire lives in a pen. And I pictured Jayson in his caravan, a prison guard caged in his own enclosure too.