Two Licences. Twelve Years. A Chapter of My Life I Will Never Forget

Sometimes an entire chapter of your life can be represented by two pieces of paper.

For me, those two pieces of paper are my first crocodile-hunting licence, issued in Malawi in 2005, and my last, issued in 2017.

At first glance, they are simply official documents—licences granting permission to hunt crocodiles under Malawi’s wildlife laws. My 2017 licence, for example, was issued by the Malawi Government under the National Parks and Wildlife Act and specifically authorised the hunting of crocodiles. But to me, these licences represent something much greater. Twelve years separate them, and between those dates lies one of the most extraordinary chapters of my life: years spent around Malawi’s rivers and marshes, hunting crocodiles and becoming involved in problem animal control—PAC.

Today, looking at the two licences together brings back memories that no official document could ever record.

The Beginning: My First Crocodile-Hunting Licence in 2005

When I received my first crocodile-hunting licence in 2005, I could never have known where that journey would eventually take me. A licence is a rather clinical document. There are names, dates, official signatures, conditions and stamps. What it cannot tell you is what happens once you leave the office and enter the field. It cannot describe the darkness of an African river at night. It cannot reproduce the sounds coming from the bush or the feeling of watching apparently motionless water while knowing that somewhere beneath its surface could be one of the most perfectly adapted predators on Earth. And it certainly cannot prepare you for the realities of dealing with crocodiles in places where people and these animals share the same environment.

For many people around the world, crocodiles are something encountered in documentaries, wildlife parks or photographs. For communities living alongside crocodile habitat in Africa, the relationship can be very different. People fish those waters. Families depend upon rivers for their livelihoods and everyday needs. Livestock comes down to drink. Boats move through areas inhabited by large Nile crocodiles. Most crocodiles naturally avoid serious conflict with people. But when a particular animal becomes a threat, the consequences can be severe.

That was the world into which my crocodile hunting increasingly took me.

When Crocodile Hunting Became Problem Animal Control

Over those 12 years, much of my crocodile hunting became associated with problem animal control, commonly referred to as PAC.This distinction matters to me. There is an enormous difference between viewing a crocodile simply as something to be hunted and understanding the difficult realities that arise when dangerous wildlife and vulnerable rural communities occupy the same landscape. A crocodile is an extraordinary animal. It is a survivor from an ancient lineage, superbly adapted to its environment, immensely powerful and deserving of respect. My years hunting them did not diminish that respect. If anything, close experience of crocodiles increased it. But conservation also has to recognise the realities faced by people. When crocodiles threaten fishermen, communities or livestock, difficult decisions sometimes have to be made. Wildlife management in the real world is rarely as simple as it appears from a distance. Those years taught me that conservation and wildlife management are not necessarily about choosing between animals and people. They are often about finding ways for both to exist within the same landscape while recognising that serious conflicts sometimes require intervention.

Twelve Years Around Malawi’s Waters

From 2005 to 2017, crocodile hunting became a significant part of my life. There were long nights on the water and countless hours spent watching and waiting. Crocodile hunting demanded patience. The surface of a river could appear completely peaceful while an animal capable of tremendous speed and power remained almost invisible nearby. Understanding crocodiles meant learning to observe small details and never becoming complacent. There were difficult hunts and close encounters. There were times when judgement mattered far more than bravado. One of the greatest lessons Africa teaches you is that confidence and carelessness are not the same thing. The moment you stop respecting a dangerous animal is often the moment you place yourself—or somebody beside you—in unnecessary danger. But when I look back today, it is not only the danger that I remember. In many ways, the people are among my strongest memories.

The Men Beside Me

Crocodile hunting was never simply about one man and a crocodile. There were men who worked alongside me—people whose local knowledge, courage and experience became enormously important. When you spend long hours together in remote places, particularly where an element of danger is involved, relationships develop differently. Trust matters. You learn who remains calm when something unexpected happens. You learn who notices what others overlook. You learn the value of experience that may never have been written in a textbook but has instead been accumulated over a lifetime. The camaraderie of those years remains one of the things I remember most fondly. There were conversations during long waits, shared frustrations when things went wrong and the quiet satisfaction when a difficult job was finally completed. Those memories are inseparable from my memories of crocodile hunting itself.

The African Nights

There is something else I miss: the nights. Anyone who has spent time in the African bush will understand that darkness there has a character of its own. Away from cities and artificial light, your senses change. You listen more carefully. Sounds carry across the water. Something moves in the reeds. An unseen animal calls from the darkness. The river that looked familiar during daylight becomes a completely different environment. And somewhere in that darkness could be the crocodile you were looking for. There was always anticipation. Sometimes there were hours when almost nothing happened. Yet those quiet periods were part of the experience. You remained alert because circumstances could change within seconds. It was a strange mixture of patience, concentration and uncertainty.I didn’t realise then how deeply those nights would remain embedded in my memory.

2017: My Final Crocodile-Hunting Licence

Then came 2017. The licence I now hold as a reminder of that year was to become my last crocodile-hunting licence.On paper, there is nothing sentimental about it. But documents acquire meaning because of what they represent. When I place my first licence from 2005 beside my last from 2017, I see far more than two pieces of paper. I see 12 years of my life. I see rivers and marshes. I see boats moving through dark water. I remember the anticipation of a hunt and the responsibility involved when dealing with a dangerous animal. I remember the people I met and the men who stood beside me. I remember the successes, the frustrations, the close encounters and undoubtedly some decisions I would approach differently with the benefit of hindsight. Most of all, I remember a way of life that once seemed completely normal to me but today feels almost like another world.

From Experience to Memoirs of a Real Crocodile Hunter

When that chapter of my life ended, the experiences remained. Years later, I began putting many of those memories into words. They became the foundation of my book, Memoirs of a Real Crocodile Hunter. Writing those stories gave me an opportunity not merely to recount crocodile hunts, but to preserve something of the world surrounding them—the rivers, communities, characters, dangers and experiences of a period in my life that can never be repeated. That distinction is important. I have never wanted The Real Crocodile Hunter® to be built around exaggerated legends or invented adventures. The stories come from experiences that actually happened. These old licences are part of that history. They are physical reminders that behind the stories were real places, real people and real experiences.

More Than Two Pieces of Paper

Perhaps that is why these licences mean more to me today than they did when they were issued. In 2005, my first licence represented permission and possibility. By 2017, my final licence represented something I did not yet fully appreciate: the closing of a chapter. Today, I can look at both from a completely different perspective. Time changes the value we attach to ordinary objects. A document that once lived among paperwork can eventually become a tangible connection to a younger version of ourselves and to people, places and experiences that have passed into memory. For me, these two crocodile-hunting licences do exactly that. They remind me where the journey began. They remind me where that part of the journey ended. And, most importantly, they remind me of everything that happened in between.

2005 opened the chapter. 2017 closed it.

Twelve years separate these two pieces of paper—but a lifetime of memories lies between them.

— Ian Bartlett | The Real Crocodile Hunter®

https://therealcrocodilehunter.com

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