The instant you enter the airport at Darwin, Northern Territory, you sense an entirely different pace to that you left behind. Be it the frenetic efficiency of Changi, Singapore, or the frenetic chaos of our own Heathrow. A calming and functional politeness at border control, which appears to do the job required whilst respecting the individual. Stark contrast to those ‘Buddy I’m gonna make you feel I control your life right now’ US equivalents that I’ve had the misfortune to encounter. A colleague of mine, Geoff, tells a tale of one such encounter on a visit to the great US of A. He’d recently grown a moustache which was not sported on his passport photograph. “You’ve a moustache” the sharp-eyed officer growled from underneath those trade mark tinted glasses that seem ‘de rigeur’ with employees of the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement service. (By the way, I just don’t buy it that the service acronym ICE is mere coincidence) . Misjudging the situation in a manner belying his Lancastrian roots, Geoff supplied the seemingly witty retort of “Yes I thought it would make me look younger”. “Well it hasn’t worked” was the gruff, dispassionate return. Welcome to America.

Once formally admitted to the NT we were greeted by boom boom boards proclaiming ‘Mr K from north of the wall’ and ‘G’day mate’, held aloft by daughter Francesca and her compliant boyfriend Sam. A short drive to our Darwin hotel, the welcoming waterfront Vibe, and to that so special post long haul shower. Jacs is over the moon as we’ve a double starfish bed. The very best kind for ‘savage’ weather.

Blessed by the miracle of ‘immaculate coincidence’, my first beer was indeed a chilled Coopers Original Pale poured with barista precision into a frosted ‘schooner’. An ale which deserved to be quaffed overlooking the water, whilst stroked by a warm and sensuous early sunset breeze. And so it was. You jealous? Should be. For those not familiar with the measure, a schooner sits somewhere between a half and a pint. A clever Aussie invention, enough to make it worthwhile and not enough to turn down a second.

As the sky deepened from pink to red over the Timor Sea, we tasted its salt in local oysters and savoured the joy of that vanilla sweet meat of freshly landed lobster. Washed down with a perfectly chilled bottle of Squealing Pig Marlborough Savvy B. All befitting a potential ‘last supper’ before tomorrow’s appointment with the giant salties.

One of the immediately striking features of Darwin’s beautiful beaches is their emptiness. In particular the complete lack of bathers. This for me is the Top End’s torment. ‘Territoreans’ drive their high lift 4x4s proudly sporting the official state registration plate ‘NT Outback’. A plate which declares their ‘tough and untamed’ credentials. They live up close, day to day, with some of the world’s deadliest species of snake, spider and scorpion. However even these folk consider entering the sea an absolute no go. If the salties don’t get’ya the box jellyfish will. So the sea stays empty of human form. Although on the upside the beaches stay free of pedalo pushers, jet ski hawkers and those incongruous giant inflatables! I secretly like to think the salties got’em.

Salt water crocs are enormous beasts who hang around for a really long time. Males commonly live to 100 years, with much of their adult lives dedicated to feeding a body between 5 and 7 metres long and weighing over half a ton. Their daily hunting only slows around October, when they become distracted by the need to care for the reproductive demands of 20 or so flirtatious females. As a consequence some individual crocs are known (and respected) by several generations of local residents. Their personalities and reputations magnifying with time and telling. One of these omnipresent characters is Stumpy. One thing I’m noting about folks from those ‘NT’ I’ve met so far is an almost refreshing innocence of ‘the PC’. Stumpy is a giant alpha male, so named due to at some point losing part of a front leg (or is it arm?). The unfortunate amputation must have occurred at some early stage of his foraging or philandering youth, as several generations of kids from the (superbly named) riverside town of Humpty Doo have been kept in line with parental warnings of the disabled croc’s appetite for children who don’t do as they’re told. “Don’t be going playing down the river with those mates a yours cos Stumpy’s gonna get one a ya.” “You get yourself home for dark cos that’s when Stumpy gets really hungry”. “Stumpy only likes meat and especially kids who don’t eat their greens – so clear your plate”. But then again how great as a kid to live in a place called Humpty Doo.

My first up close encounter with these prehistoric relics came just outside Humpty Doo (sorry just love saying it), on the Adelaide River. Although quite why, sitting in the northern end of this enormous country, the river carries the same name as a state capital, located a 3000km drive away on the South Australian coastline, I can’t fathom. The activity advertised the ominous title ‘croc jumping’. A sport which I soon discovered involves holding pork chops or similar cuts of muscle from a recently deceased beast, high above the water on a six foot stick. All whilst standing in a disconcertingly shallow boat. However as was soon proved to my considerable discomfort, crocs can push two-thirds of their body up out of the water when jumping for food. Usually to crush passing birds and perhaps, in a forlorn hope that pigs might fly. These ancient killers may have a brain the size of a walnut but trust me, securely stored in that tiny organ are your entire body co-ordinates together with a level of predictive behaviour data that AI engineers would kill for. Two truths which I learned quickly as, having spotted me waving my meat at a distance (a feat which I can assure you is not normally an easy task), the giveaway ripples indicated he’d taken a dive and was tuned in to either me or my chop – and preferably both. After spending several stretched and silent seconds scouring the Adelaide’s opaque surface, he exploded out of the water to tower above me with his meaty prize already locked in those unnaturally powerful jaws. Fortunately for yours truly it was the chop. First round to the salties.

The rematch had already been scheduled (by my thoughtful daughter) for 4.00pm that very afternoon, in the ‘cage of death’ back in Darwin. This ‘get me out of here I’m a frightened prat’ experience involves being suspended in a ‘strong’ plastic cage resembling a cylindrical bubble. I was unsure as to whether the all angle, 360 top and bottom viewing, was designed to add value to my own experience or intended for the benefit of eager onlookers as they assess my internal organ control. A skill about to be stress tested by the explosive lunges of my opponent in this mismatched bout. “Measuring 5.5m, weighing in at 800kg, and undefeated in 84 years, laadeeez and gen’lmen, a big noise for the one and only – Wennnnndell”
Yes the salty had a name and I would be taught a hard lesson – perhaps life-changing injuries or worse! Whilst not over-estimating the advantage of youth in such a contest, such was still on my side and therefore not all hope may be lost. To press home any possible edge in this regard Francesca insisted on standing side by side with her Dad and share his fate. After all, Francesca rides unicorns. And fate is inexorable.

To be continued.

Where we ate: Crustaceans on the Wharf – Stokes Hill Wharf, Darwin
Great seafood and location.

Where we stayed: The Adina Vibe Hotel, Waterfront, Darwin NT.
So friendly and helpful. Great staff and smart hotel in a brilliant location.