Okra & The Mafia Drug Trade.

Okra plant.

During my hunt for profitable vegetable crops, I purchased a very handy growers book, it contained everything anyone would need to know about growing commercial crops. There were sections on days to maturity, pest and disease control, water and seed requirements, and even how to store your harvest successfully. Naturally, as I was always on the lookout for exotic product, why bother with the ordonery when you could have something different. In my reseach, I came across a section on the growing of okra. The French call it "ladies fingures", no doubt because the pods have a certain courtians look. I felt I would be hard pressed to find anything more exotic.

My interest in okra, went back to my time in Greece were it was served with lamb or goat in a goulish type dish with tomatoes, onions, potatoes, and herbs. I must confess I have become quite besoted with various okra dishes over the years. This vegitable is also used in Indian curries and Cafun cooking. Most Australian cookery book suggest a pod size of 10cm, but personally I think half that is a far better in taste, flavour and texture. The Americans grow the crop in the Mississippi  Valley called gumbo for Campbell Soup.

But to return to my story, if you have a close look at the photo of okra, you will  realise that it looks very much like a popular smoking substance. This was why my growing the crop became rather amusing.In government controlled irrigation, certain large area farms were allocated a rice acreage, and to insure no one was cheating, the irrigation authority would fly over the area taking photoes to make sure no farmer had planted a larger area than their allowed 50 acres. It appeared, that my okra appeared to look like a banned substance back at police headquarters. The area I was farming had a very active Mafia connection in the drug trade, no doubt due to the large Italian community in this part of Australia.

About mid morning, while going about my normal business, I heard a lot of sireons comming down the highway. Our farm was fairly isolated, about sevenity miles to the nearest town Griffith. The country being flat, sound carried a long way.  Suddenly, a number of police cars carrered into the yard, while policemen started running everwhere. The scene resembled a movie set, although I seemed to have been cast into the main part. The next thing I knew was that I was pinned up agnist the machinery shed wall,  my arms above my head, as I was searched. By now, other police had run out into the okra paddock to collect evidence, taking samples, smelling the leaves, and so on. The best part was the look on their faces when they realised their trophy was not as expected.

Why anyone, with a ounce of common sence, would grow an illegal crop out in the open I have never been able to figure out. The Mafie as far as i knew grew crops in sheds, out of sight.  I had purchased the seed from America, brought it through customs and qurantine, so there had been no clandstine activity at all. The most annoying aspect, apart from the way I was treated, was the lack of any apology, but that's life!