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Things agronomic have never been my particularly strong point. My strengths are in economics and accounting. I can tell the difference between a mango tree and melon vine (or as Don Burke says, 'between a gum tree and a Mars bar') but when it comes to whether it is a crop of young onions or a bad infestation of nut grass in the field in front of me, I must confess I can only tell the difference if the plants are in rows (they will be onions). When the first batch of my new crop seed arrived, I therefore sought expert help.
To help, it was to be either Uncle George at Beaudesert or Col. Everybody said that Uncle George was getting a bit strange in his old age, since he had recently moved out of his house and set up housekeeping in the dairy. He fertilised his crops with cow manure matured in hollow cow horns filled on nights with a full moon.
He reckons it kept the evil spirits out of his crops. What we could never understand, if he was so strange, was why his crops grew like rockets. However, one result of his unilateral approach to personal hygiene was that all his friends and relations had opted for communication over the telephone, in preference to communication requiring a closer proximity.
Col was obviously the man to help me. He has been a farmer all his adult life. A teacher by profession, Col grows small crops in the shadows of the Glasshouse mountains. Col knows the difference between onions and nut grass and was the ideal person to be the first to plant out some of my newly arrived seeds. Col was a great help, he knew about science. He showed me a plot of land that would be ideal as a trial area. It was a well drained, sloping sort of yellow coloured soil.
'They should thrive here' he assured me.
'It is only a small area, so I'll dig it over with a fork rather than have you plough it with a tractor' were words I wished I had not uttered, as I slaved like some Russian peasant in the October heat. But surprise, surprise, the little seeds I had carefully planted in things called jiffy bags, a sort of magic manure souffle looking much like horse dungs, germinated well and were growing rapidly under Col's watchful eye.
Transplanted to the area I had sweated so profusely over, the plants, all in neat and numbered rows, looked just like some scientist's experiment. I visited them regularly, took photos, made notes.
Col gave instructions on fertiliser, water and care. By December, there were huge green leaves and the first signs of the tuber which I was to make such an impact with.
I was as proud as a new father and began to contemplate what life would be like as a famous introducer of a new crop. Photos on magazine covers, interviews in the press-Lady Diana move over! And money! My strengths are in economics and accounting.
It was just before Christmas that the first signs of problems arose. Beetles, I called them. Col had obviously been introduced to them earlier and knew their names and habits. They began to eat bits of the developing tubers (my tubers).
As well, some sort of musical insect gastronome Helicopt Opus I think Col called them, began to eat other bits.
Here was a crop which had never before been grown in the country and yet just about everything with more than two legs ate it. (It was at this time I wondered whether Australia really was an island and not attached to the rest of the world somewhere so that we could share everyone else's insects. Alternatively, are they coming into the country on the backs of migrating birds?).
My crop attracted insects like a bright light-they came from miles around. I'm sure several of them made a sound like a Russian balalaika being tenderly plucked.
Col was the right guy to seek help from, because he not only had science, but he had a spray machine. This worked overtime. The chemicals did the trick-mind you.
Col didn't let me near the spraying. He got dressed up like an inspector from Chernobyl a couple of times a week.
'If you ever grow this stuff commercially you're going to have to find a better way than this of beating the bugs' Col commented.
I figured that since there would be so much more plant material around once it was a big commercial success, you would hardly notice the population of bugs we had seen on our small plot, once they were spread over such a large area.
My expertise is in economics and accounting and things mathematical. Couldn't expect Col to appreciate population dynamics.
The bugs were kept at bay but the leaves got holey and the tubers got sort of pock marked.
We had the bugs pretty well beaten before the hail storm. What leaves the bugs had left, the hail broke. After the storm, it looked as if I had mown the whole area with a blunt Victa.
One of the advantages of a root crop, of course, is that the roots below the ground are protected from hail and despite the devastation, the roots began to grow new green leaves.
Col said this wasn't such a good thing but I was happy to see the patch become green once again with shiny new leaves. These were not as lush as the first leaves, but they were leaves nonetheless. After all, a leaf is a leaf. I made some notes in my book.
Then the rains came. Blimey, didn't it rain. It was impossible to get to the paddock where my new crop was growing. While the rest of the country was parched with drought, this little corner got what Col said was a year's precipitation in a few days.
I noticed that we had received several inches of rain as well. I waited for almost a fortnight and then made my visit to my experiment, eager in anticipation to see the growth after the rain.
Everything around was lush and green but when I saw my little patch of science, I could hardly believe my eyes. BLACK. Every plant jet, midnight B-L-A-C-K. It looked like a turnip patch in the middle of HIROSHIMA in August 1945. This must be the black death!
I raced back to Col. 'My plot is BLACK, everything around is green, why is my plot black?'
'Sounds like ANTHRAXNASE' Col said, somewhat dryly and unconcerned. He didn't seem to understand my feelings. As well, he refused to get the spray machine out and fix the problem. My little plants that I had fathered....well nurtured.
Finally it dawned on me that my new crop that was going to make me famous was dead. Very dead. I could put up with the leaves with tatty holes, but black limp leaves. I knew this was a very unnatural thing.
I am going to have to put off the fame which comes with 'discovering' a new crop at least for the time being. There is a full moon in a few days time and I have a lot more cow horns to find before then.
At the moment, all I can smell is manure. Grows on you, really. Uncle George and I are going to give this particular new crop another chance.
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Contact: Dr Rob Fletcher, School of Land and Food, The University of Queensland Gatton College, 4345; Telephone: 07 5460 1311 or 07 5460 1301; Facsimile: 07 5460 1112; International facsimile: 61 7 5460 1112; Email:
r.fletcher@mailbox.uq.edu.au[
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