Gerald Durrell (25 page)

We arrived at
Fineschang wet through, and I took shelter in the hunter’s evil-smelling abode,
where presently Daniel joined me. After we had smoked for a while the hunter
showed no signs of broaching the subject, so I asked him when he would lead my
party up the mountain and pitch the camp, and how much he would want for the
job.

“Masa go pay me
twenty pounds for do dis ting,” he stated calmly.

I was so
surprised I laughed, which seemed to annoy him, for he went into a long tirade
about the
ju-ju
that lived on the mountain over which he was the only
man to have any control, and what a dangerous business it was placating a
ju-ju
,
and so on. Then he really nettled me by stating that I could not go up the
mountain without him, so I would have to accept his price. It had stopped
raining, so I rose to my feet and glared at him.

“Listen, my
friend, if you go take me for dis place I go pay you two shillings a day, and I
go dash you when I come back if I catch good beef up dere. If you no agree, I
go for dis place myself. I go get other hunter man who go help me, you hear? If
you agree, tell me.”

The hunter
looked at me scornfully and said something derogatory in his own language, to
which Daniel replied heatedly.

“Does he agree,
Daniel?”

“No, sah, he no
agree.”

“Come, then, we
go leave dis stupid man,” I said. I laid three shillings on the step of his
house and strode out of the village wrathfully, mounted the bicycle with all
the dignity I could muster, and rode away.

CHAPTER
TEN

N’DA ALI

WE started for
N’da Ali at some hideous grey hour in the morning, and by the time the sun had
broken through the mists we had reached the lower slopes of the mountain. It
was a hard climb from then on, and the carriers moaned and whistled and gasped
as they crawled their way upwards, hoisting themselves and their loads from
rock to rock, and edging their way over and around the great curled tree roots.
It was in this type of country more than in any other that I felt a great
respect and sympathy for my carriers. Here was I, unencumbered except for field-glasses
and a shotgun, gasping for breath and feeling my heart pounding as though it
would burst, having to sit down every half-mile or so for a rest. Yet the line
of carriers crawled steadily upwards with their great loads balanced on their
woolly heads, their faces gleaming with sweat, and their neck muscles standing
out with the effort of supporting and balancing the boxes and bales. The Tailor
and I moved ahead and above them, picking out the easiest path for them to
travel, and the Tailor marking it with quick cuts of his machete into the green
bark of the saplings. When we came to a place where the rocks were dangerous,
or a huge tree lay across our path in a shroud of lianas, the Tailor and I
would pause and wait for the carriers to catch up so that we could help them
over the obstacle. As each carrier passed I would exchange a remark in pidgin
with him, much to the amusement of the others.

“Iseeya, bo.”

“Tank you, Masa.
. . .”

“You get power
too much, my friend.”

“Na true, sah.”

“Walka strong,
bo.”

“I go try,
Masa.”

And so on as
each grinning, sweating man negotiated the difficult area. On reaching the
other side in safety each man would whistle sharply through his teeth, a great
exhalation of breath that echoed briefly through the trees.

After an hour’s
steady climbing I judged that we were about half-way to our objective, the
place I had chosen far the campsite, and so I called a halt on a comparatively
flat area of land. The carriers put down their loads with grunts of relief and
squatted round on their haunches breathing deeply, while the Tailor distributed
the cigarettes I had brought for them. Half an hour later the men rewound the
little mats of leaf or cloth which they place on their heads, the loads were
hoisted up again, and we set off on the last lap of the journey.

We had started
up the lower slope of N’da Ali at seven-thirty, and by eleven we had reached
the flat area of forest that represented the great “step” that ran along one
side of the mountain. It was not long before we passed through a small grass
field, and on the other side we entered a thin woodland bordering on a small
stream. Here the loads were put down and great activity took place: the tent
was erected, a kitchen was made out of saplings and grass, and the carriers
built themselves tiny, goblin-like houses among the tall buttress roots of a
huge tree nearby. When some sort of order had been established the Tailor,
myself, and the youth who was to act as bird trapper went into the neighbouring
forest and picked out and marked some thirty spots that seemed likely places
for setting traps. Then the youth was sent off to cut himself the twigs and
branches for trap building. Having got this under control I wandered off by
myself, following the course of a tiny stream that glinted and purred its way
through the mossy boulders twenty feet from my tent, in the hopes of finding a
place deep enough to bathe in. Soon I found the stream entered a thick tangle
of low undergrowth, and here it flowed over a great sheet of rock, which it had
hollowed out into a series of pools. The largest of these was some fifteen feet
long, and about two feet deep: it was lined with a bed of white sand and a
scattering of small smooth yellow pebbles. As a natural bathtub it left nothing
to be desired, and I stripped and stepped gratefully into the water. The shock
I received was considerable, for the streams in the lowlands, though cold, were
not unpleasant. But this stream was pure snow-broth that numbed sensation and
made the extremities of your body ache. I splashed half-heartedly for a few
minutes and then climbed out with my teeth chattering, and gathering up my
shoes and clothes I made my way through the undergrowth into the grass field.
After assuring myself that there was nothing more dangerous than a few locusts
about, I stretched myself in the sun to dry.

I dozed for a
time, and presently I sat up and looked about me: not thirty feet away from me,
among the golden tufts of grass, stood a handsome spotted cat gazing at me with
an expression of meditative appraisal. For one frightful moment I thought it
was a leopard, but a longer look and I recognized it as a Serval, an animal
much smaller, and with a brownish coat covered with small round spots. My chief
feeling was one of surprise, for every hunter, black or white, and nearly every
book that has been written about the forest assures one that if you catch a
glimpse of a great cat once in fifty years you are doing fine. So I was filled
with a mixture of apprehension and pleasure on finding the Serval there when I
awoke.

It stood quite
still, regarding me thoughtfully, and the tip of its tail moved very gently
among the grass stalks. I had seen domestic cats looking like this at sparrows,
twitching their tails, and I did not feel very happy about it. Also, I was
stark naked, and I have found that in moments of crisis to have no clothes on
gives one a terribly unprotected feeling. I glared at the Serval, wishing that
I had my shorts on and that I could think of some way of capturing it without the
risk of being disembowelled. The Serval blinked its eyes and looked as though
it was considering lying down in the warm grass and joining me in a nap. Just
at that moment an uproar broke out from the direction of the camp, and the cat,
after glancing hurriedly over its shoulder in the direction of the noise,
disappeared into the undergrowth with a swift smooth rush. I struggled hastily
into my shorts and shoes, and although I was not long in reaching the spot
where the cat had entered the bushes, I could see no sign of it. In the warm,
still air there hung a strong, pungent odour, and in the patch of soft earth
was one paw mark. Cursing myself; the carriers, and the Serval with equal
vehemence, I made my way back to camp, and here I found out the reason for the
noise that had startled the cat. One side of the kitchen had collapsed, and
everyone was standing around arguing and shouting, while the cook, his hair
full of grass, was dancing with rage. I took the Tailor aside, out of earshot
of the more timid members of my retinue, and told him what I had just seen.

“It was a tiger,
sir?”he asked.

A tiger in
pidgin means a leopard, a typical example of how animals are wrongly named.

“No, it wasn’t a
tiger: it was like one, but smaller, and with much smaller mark-mark for his
skin.”

“Ah, yes, I know
this animal,” said the Tailor.

“Well, how can
we catch it? If there’s one up here there must be others, no be so?”

“Na so, sir,” he
agreed. “What we want is dogs: I know some hunter man near Bakebe who get fine
dogs: shalt I go send him message to come up?”

“Yes, tell him
to come up here to-morrow if he can.”

The Tailor went
off to arrange this, and I went to see what lunch had been salvaged out of the
wreckage of the kitchen.

That afternoon I
wandered off alone into the forest, keeping the bulk of N’da Ali on my left so
that I would not get lost. I was going nowhere in particular, and so I walked
slowly, pausing often to examine the trees and surrounding undergrowth for
signs of life. I was watching a huge solitary ant wandering about the
leaf-mould, when I heard a rustle of leaves in a tree close by, followed by a
loud “tchack! . . . tchack!”. A branch dipped gracefully and along it a pair of
small squirrels came running, tails streaming out behind them. I realized with
delight that they were Black-eared Squirrels, a rather rare forest animal which
I had not seen before. With my field-glasses I could see that they were male
and female, and apparently engaged in the time-honoured method of flirtation.
The female leapt from the end of the slender branch and landed on another some
ten feet away, and the male followed her, uttering his sharp cry of “tchack! .
. . tchack! . . .” I moved a little closer to the tree so that I could see them
more easily, and found that they were now playing a form of hide-and-seek round
the trunk. They were delightful little animals to look at: they had
orange-coloured heads with a narrow edge of black round their small ears: the
upper parts were brindled greenish, and along the sides was a line composed of
little white dots. Their tummies were orange-yellow, as were their chests. But
it was their tails that captivated me. The top surface was banded faintly with
white and black, but the underside was the most vivid shade of orange-red. As they
ran along the branches the tail would be held out straight, but when they
stopped they would flick it over their backs so that the tip hung down almost
on the nose. Then they would sit quite still and flick their tails with an
undulating motion for a few seconds at a time, so that the vivid underside
gleamed and flickered like a candle flame in a draught. I watched these
squirrels leaping and scurrying around that tree for half an hour, bobbing and
bowing to each other and flicking their tails among the green leaves, and I
have rarely witnessed such enchanting play between two animals. Slowly they
played from tree to tree, and I followed them, my field-glasses glued to my
eyes. Then, to my annoyance, I stepped on a dry twig: the squirrels froze on a
branch and the male cried out again, but instead of being gentle and endearing
the cry was now sharp and full of warning. The next minute they were gone, and
only a slight movement of leaves showed the place where they had been.

I walked on,
considering my luck: in the space of a few hours I had seen a Serval and two
squirrels, and this was a record for any day. I presumed that, as the mountain
was so rarely visited by human beings, the animal population was less
suspicious than in the lowlands. Also, of course, the forest here was more
open, being broken by cliffs and grass fields, and this made the animals easier
to see and approach. As I was musing on this the silence of the forest was
suddenly shattered by the most blood-curdling scream, which was followed by
bursts of horrible, echoing maniacal laughter, that screeched and gurgled
through the trees, and then died to a dreadful whimpering which eventually
ceased. I stood frozen in my tracks, and my scalp pricked with fright: I have
heard some ghastly sounds at one time and another, but for sheer horrific
impact this was hard to beat. It sounded like a magnified recording of a party
in a padded cell. After a few minutes’ silence I summoned what little courage I
possessed and crept through the trees in the direction from which the sounds
had come. Suddenly it broke out again, spine-chilling gurgles of laughter
interspersed with shrill screams, but it was much farther away now, and I knew
that I should not catch up with whatever was producing it. Then suddenly I
realized what was making this fearsome noise: it was the evening serenade of a
troop of chimpanzees. I had often heard chimps laugh and scream in captivity,
but I had never, until that moment, heard a troop of them holding a concert in
the forest which gave their cries an echoing quality. I defy anyone, even
someone who has had experience with chimps, to stand on N’da Ali and listen to
these apes at their evening song without getting a shudder down his spine.