View from the North 40: Creative reporting takes the sting off

I tried to read the news this week but, honestly, outside of work where we are treated like a prison work gang, without the snappy uniforms, and forced to read news, I was too tired and rundown (and more than a little, as the British say, couldn’t be arsed) to read much past the headlines.

So without further ado, I give you all the news I could make up about my favorite weird headline of August: “Turkish scorpion farmer milks arachnids for their expensive venom,” by Umit Ozdal writing for Reuters Aug. 16.

A farm somewhere in the country of Turkey, which is about the size of Montana, Wyoming and Colorado combined, is managing a milking operation with 20,000 head of scorpions which provide two drops of venom each session in the milking parlor.

Unlike dairy livestock, the scorpions don’t automatically come in from pasture twice a day for milking, requiring certified scorpion wranglers to ride out each day on specially trained ponies to drive the herds in. The ponies wear leg armor to protect them from the scorpions’ stinging tails. This keeps the ponies safe, but also helps insure that none of the valuable venom is wasted on a pony.

The wranglers ride saddles that look like a race jockey’s saddle, to keep their feet cranked up away from the ground. A small horn just from the pommel for those times wranglers have to rope and drag a reluctant scorpion into the milking parlor.

The wranglers and their ponies are elites among their livestock handling peers requiring not just the bravest, but also the brightest among them to work this job. And both human and beast have to pass rigorous training before they are allowed into the scorpion pastures where they spend up to several years as apprentices until they earn their full journeyman wrangler certification.

The ponies have to learn basic obedience, but most importantly how to travel in a slow, almost shuffling walk so their hooves don’t lift high enough to allow a scorpion underneath where it will get squished.

The wranglers become versed in everything from calm scorpion-handling practices — predating modern techniques espoused by Temple Grandin in the cattle industry — to scorpion herd dynamics, scorpion-proof fencing, venomous bite first aid, how to turn a scorpion stampede (which is easier than it sounds if wranglers sing traditional Turkish lullabies to sooth the scorpions’ nerves) and scorpion roping (which is harder than it sounds).

As dangerous as the wranglers’ job is, it’s milking parlor staff who work under the most threat of danger, handling the scorpions directly and in close quarters while following strict health codes in venom collection and processing.

Much of the cattle dairy industry is automated, but the technology has yet to be refined enough for the much smaller and feistier scorpion.

The milkers work in teams of three with one person running the little levers for the gates in the scorpion stanchions, the second person capturing and controlling the tail and the third person operating the suction pump that has to be secured over the tail tip, pumped twice for two drops of venom and released without damage to the venom tip.

The job is so technical and physically and emotionally challenging that the Scorpion Venom Milking Association successfully lobbied the Turkish government to screen for needed traits in youth during scholastic aptitude testing, which also includes a physical component that tests reflex speed and dexterity.

Only the top scorers are allowed to enter the training and apprenticeship programs.

Scorpion venom is used to produce cosmetics, painkillers and antibiotics and one liter of the venom is worth $10 million.

For the wranglers and milkers, though, it’s not about the money, it’s about the lifestyle.

If they survive that long, some retire to successful careers in scorpion rodeo, now a national sport. Others stay on to become parlor musicians, playing the traditional Turkish long-necked lute in the milking parlors to sooth the scorpions during the venom milking process.

They sing: Whoopee ti-yi-yo, git along little stingers … .

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