My last meeting with an Australian prior to departing on our trip was the visiting father of a colleague. As we chatted about the route Craig and I planned to take around this vast continent-masquerading-as-country, he recommended we visited Port Douglas before heading back down the coast (an excellent tip, it turns out).
“You can stop at the Croc Farm on the way up” he suggested.
“Croc farm?” said I, imagining some kind of extreme petting zoo.
“Yeah, a farm for crocodiles. They have cassowary that you can see too. Very rare”
“But…” I burst, unable to hide my bemusement “why would you farm crocodiles?!”
He fixed me with a Look that suggested he was realising he was probably talking to an imbecile, and a Citygirl of a Pom one at that.
“For meat?” He explained slowly and clearly, as if farming the deadly living relative of dinosaurs was a perfectly obvious and sensible thing to do with them. “Tastes like chicken”.
I debated -briefly- with myself whether it was worth pointing out that chickens also taste quite chicken-y and are far less known for their surprise death rolls, but decided against it.
Australia: our home for the next six weeks and where if the sea or the outback, the snakes, the blue-ringed octopuses, the dingos or the spiders don’t kill you, the farmyard animals will.