I’ve constantly enjoyed snakes. Don’t understand why. My siblings didn’t. My siblings feared snakes. Which is unreasonable, as there aren’t any snakes in the UK. Well, that’s not totally real—we do have the non-venomous yard snake (Natrix helvetica) and smooth snake (Coronella austriaca), and the ever-so-slightly poisonous adder (Vipera berus), however they’re so uncommon therefore deceptive, you never ever see them. And on the odd celebrations they do come out to bask, individuals crowd them like they’ve seen fucking Bigfoot.
But I digress. For factors unidentified, since I can keep in mind, I was consumed with an animal I’d never ever seen. I had books on keeping them as animals (‘Never gonna happen,’ my mom said), I viewed every documentary I could, and I discussed little else.
In 1984 I signed up with the British Army (aged 16), and I still hadn’t seen a snake. Not even in a zoo. They were still this interesting, almost legendary animal. I trained as an armourer for 2 and a half years (the military equivalent of a gunsmith), just due to the fact that the army didn’t desire snake handlers. I got published to Germany (about the exact same variety of snakes as the UK) and I did my army thing. But then, the most terrific thing occurred—throughout a publishing back to the UK my system was turned to Belize for a trip.
I was lastly going to the exact same part of the world where snakes lived. And not simply half a lots snakes. Belize had sixty types. Sixty. Including my preferred at the time, the boa constrictor. I was off to Belize for 6 months.
And what a 6 months I had. My system was published to Salamanca Camp, the tiniest, most unattainable military camp in the entire nation. It was a twelve-hour drive from the airport, 10 hours of which was along hardly available mud roadways. The camp itself was half a lots huts, a helicopter landing zone (likewise the football pitch) and the mud roadway in and out. It was thought about the worst location to be in Belize as there was absolutely nothing to do. No beaches, no picturesque islands, no intriguing towns or towns to check out. It was a jungle camp in every sense of the word.
I didn’t believe it was the worst location to be, however. I believed I’d passed away and gone to paradise. Whenever I could, I was out in the jungle lifting rocks, rooting through leaf stacks, climbing up trees, irritating the shit out of the regional plants and animals. How I didn’t get bitten, I’ll never ever understand. I don’t understand what types the very first snake I saw was. It was whip-thin and basking on an old dirt track I was running along. It figure-eighted its method back into the jungle as quickly as it saw me, so I had no opportunity of capturing it. I reckon it was a speckled racer (Drymobius margaritiferus) as it was black with blue and yellow markings, and they’re understood for often visiting forest edges, even roadways. Whatever it was, it was a substantial minute in my life. An authentic excitement.
Over the next 6 months I saw lots of snakes—boa constrictors by the lots (and I never ever as soon as got tired of them), eyelash vipers (appearance, don’t touch), milksnakes, coral snakes (another appearance, don’t touch snake), whip snakes, hog-nosed vipers, cat-eyed snakes, many others I stopped working to determine. I even had a close encounter with the feared fer-de-lance (Bothrops asper), called the ultimate pit viper due to its plus size, big fangs, big venom yield and extremely aggressive nature, and the only snake that had a page to itself in our pre-deployment instruction pack. It was laced among the leg-press weights on the multigym, no doubt waiting to bite me on the ankles. Luckily, I was so utilized to keeping an eye out for snakes already, I saw it right away. Nice attempt, Mr Fer-de-lance.
I went back to the UK, exhausted, tanned and happy, my fascination with snakes hardly sated. I invested a couple of more years in the army then chose it was time to do something various—I selected social work, with specialisms in criminal justice and drug abuse (after certifying I would go on to be a probation officer for 16 years). By this time, the UK market was wising up to the truth that there was money to be made from offering snakes as animals.
And in even much better news, there was dazzling reptile shop within walking range of my trainee digs in Newcastle (a city in the far north of England).
I strolled into that reptile shop and right away felt at home. Like I was Norm walking into Cheers. I might have remained for hours talking with the consumers and staff. I did stay and speak to the consumers and staff for hours. Eventually, with the sun setting and the shop closing, I entrusted to a handcrafted vivarium, a heat mat, a water bowl and other devices, and, in an old pillowcase, a gorgeous three-foot-long corn snake. Oh, and twenty frozen mice. Mustn’t forget the frozen mice.
I didn’t view television that week. I hardly checked out. I played with ‘Snakey’s’ (yeah, yeah, yeah, bite me) driftwood, I altered his substrate, and I refreshed his water. And then, in what would become our Friday night routine, I fed him a mouse. With me about 6 inches from his head, I viewed as he unhooked his jaws and swallowed the important things whole.
And the entire thing was kinda ideal. Everything I’d hoped it would be and more.
Spin forwards a number of years. I have actually a medium sized collection now. Nothing too tough to keep, primarily North American colubrids—half a lots corn snakes, a breeding set of gopher snakes, a gorgeous milksnake, some kingsnakes (I had a desert kingsnake which bit me each time I chose it up. Every. Single. Time.), a western hognose and a royal python.
It was getting to be a costly pastime, however. The snakes, their food, the substrate and the additional vivariums. Our heating bill increased. A hundred other little things that amounted to too much. I was still a student social worker. I barely had a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. I had to make a decision: reduce or increase my collection. Reducing it would make my pastime affordable; increasing it might allow me to make a little money and offset the larger expenses. And if I scaled up, I might even make enough to afford my dream snake—which at the time was a green tree python.
It didn’t seem like a hard decision at all.
Three or four years pass. I’m a full-time probation officer. I have 100 breeding pairs of corn snakes. I understand snake genetics. I can predict what two snakes’ offspring will look like (there are charts) and I know how to exploit valuable mutations. I’m now one of the biggest private reptile breeders in the country. I supply hatchlings to most of the shops in the north of England and the south of Scotland. I’m selling surplus stock to the wholesalers, the guys who supply the big chains. I’m making more than enough money to pay for my pastime. It’s worked out exactly as I’d hoped.
Until one Friday night (which is still feeding night) I realize something—I’m not enjoying it anymore. Probably haven’t for a while. Friday night feeding and Saturday morning cleaning has become a chore, not a joy. I’m beginning to resent it. Which is the exact opposite of what I set out to do. Even though I have the money to buy a green tree python, I no longer have the time or energy to care for a green tree python. So I did what I never thought I’d do—I sold every snake I had. Apart from Snakey; I couldn’t get rid of that guy. He was there at the start and he was there at the end, and by the time he shuffled off to that great vivarium in the sky, he’d reminded me why I’d loved snakes since I was a little boy.
It’s because they’re perfectly evolved killing machines. They’re the great white sharks of the jungle. Of the deserts and plains. Of the woods and swamps. In many aspects, snakes are a lot like Ben Koenig. He’s an apex predator. He knows how to stay hidden. You won’t understand he’s there, however . . . when it’s the correct time to strike you sure will. And similar to a snake, you’ll discover he’s simply as lethal, simply as unflinching. Just as brave . . .
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