Gerald Durrell (4 page)

The forest is
not the hot, foetid, dangerous place some writers would have you believe;
neither is it so thick and tangled as to make it impenetrable. The only place
where you get such thick growth is on a deserted native farm, for here the
giant trees have been felled, letting the sunlight in, and in consequence the
shorter growth has a chance and sprawls and climbs its way all over the
clearing, upwards towards the sun. In the deep forest the low growth has only
two methods of reaching the sun: either it has to shoot upwards, smooth and
branchless as a rocket-stick for hundreds of feet until it can thrust its leafy
top through the canopy of trees above, or it can crawl and wind and twist its
way up the giant tree trunks, and eventually arrive at the topmost branches and
daylight.

As you enter the
forest, your eyes used to the glare of the sun, it seems dark and shadowy, and
as cool as a butter-dish. The light is filtered through a million leaves, and
so has a curious green aquarium-like quality which makes everything seem
unreal. The centuries of dead leaves that have fluttered to the ground have
provided a rich layer of mould, soft as any carpet, and giving off a pleasant
earthy smell. On every side are the huge trees, straddling on their great
curling buttress roots, their great smooth trunks towering hundreds of feet
above, their head foliage and branches merged indistinguishably into the
endless green roof of the forest. Between these the floor of the forest is
covered with the young trees, thin tender growths just shaken free of the
cradle of leaf-mould, long thin stalks with a handful of pale green leaves on
top. They stand in the everlasting shade of their parents ready for the great
effort of shooting up to the life-giving sun. In between their thin trunks,
rambling across the floor of the forest one can see faint paths twisting and
turning. These are the roads of the bush, and are followed by all its
inhabitants.

There is no life
to be seen in the great forest, except by chance, unless you know exactly where
to look for it. The only sounds are the incessant rasping zither of the
cicadas, and a small bird who would follow you as you walked along, hiding
shyly in the undergrowth and every now and then startling you with a soft,
plaintive, questioning “Whooo . . . weeee?” Many times I stalked this elusive
bird and heard it call from within a few feet of me, but never once did I catch
a glimpse of it.

In some places
where the native paths were wide the foliage overhead was broken, and through
the tatter of leaves one could see patches of blue sky. The sun slanted down
through these holes in the jungle covering, turning the leaves to gold, and
barring the path with a hundred misty sunbeams, through which the butterflies
played. Two species of these forest butterflies became favourites of mine, and
on every walk I looked for them, and was rewarded by a glimpse of one or the
other. The first was a small pure white insect, the delicate frosty white of
snow on a window, and its flight was a joy to watch. It would rise in the air
like a piece of thistledown caught in a sudden eddy of wind, and would then let
itself fall earthwards, twisting and pirouetting like a miniature ballet
dancer. On some paths, generally where they crossed a stream, you could
encounter twenty or thirty of these delightful insects sitting motionless round
the edge of a pool. Disturbed, they would rise in the air, slowly twisting and
turning, gliding and falling, like a cloud of white wood ash against the green
of the forest. Then they would drift back to their resting place, skimming low
over the surface of the water, reflected in its darkness.

The second
butterfly was a large and beautiful creature, but seen less often than the
smaller white one. Its long, rather narrow wings were the most pure and vivid
fire-red. Its flight was swift and erratic: suddenly in the gloom of the bushes
this tantalizing flame would appear, arriving from nowhere, glimmering and
glittering around, then, suddenly, like blowing out a candle, the flame was no
longer there. Always the forest looked a little darker for its disappearance.

The most notable
feature of the forest was the innumerable tiny streams, shallow and clear, that
meandered their way in an intricate and complicated pattern across its floor.
Glinting and coiling round the smooth brown boulders, sweeping in curves to
form the snow-white sandbanks, busily hollowing out the earth from under the
grasping tree roots, shimmering and chuckling, they went into the dark depths
of the forest. They chattered and frothed importantly over diminutive
waterfalls, and scooped out deep placid pools in the sandstone, where the blue
and red fish, the pink crabs, and the small gaudy frogs lived. These streams,
in the dry season, became the main roadways of the forest animals. Not only a
roadway, but food and drink, for here congregated both the hunters and the
hunted. The sandbanks would be covered with a filigree of footmarks: coral-like
patterns of the bird prints, the Forest Robins, the chats, and the fat green
pigeons, and occasionally the long precise toe-marks of the Pygmy Rails. On the
soft earth banks you could see the great ploughed areas among the tree roots
where the Red River Hogs had been rooting for tubers and giant snails, and in
the soft mud you could see the long narrow slots of the boars and sows, and the
tiny footprints of the piglets interlacing amongst them.

This was the
forest as I was shown it by Elias and Andraia, and I found nothing frightening
or dangerous about it. It was enchanting, and in the groves of towering trees
with their canopy of fluttering leaves a deep silence enveloped everything, and
a wonderful peacefulness prevailed.

The first day
that Elias and Andraia came to take me into the forest was a memorable one, for
during the time we were out I saw more animals than I ever saw again in such a
short space of time . . . the gods of nature were indeed kind. My instructions
to my guides were that they should lead me some five or six miles into the
forest in a straight line from the village. We would then, I stated airily,
walk round in a great circle with the village as the hub, so to speak. Several
times during the day I regretted this plan bitterly, but I felt that my
prestige was at stake on this, my first effort in the bush, and so I kept
doggedly on and arrived back late that night a tattered and exhausted wreck.

We left early in
the morning, and it was with relief that I heard the uproar of the camp fade
away. Some twenty villagers had been engaged to build the animal house, and the
noise and confusion that attended their efforts were indescribable.

We walked
through the strip of farmland that surrounded the village, fields of cassava
bushes and oil palms dotted with the great red earth fortresses of the Termites.
I examined these massive craggy structures with interest, for I knew that in
the base of each would be numerous holes in which dwelt an odd assortment of
creatures besides the rightful owners of the nests. Some of them were ten feet
high and twenty-five feet round the base, and the earth was baked hard as
cement. Reluctantly I decided to leave investigation of these until some later
date. They were near to camp and would provide some interesting trapping and
digging within easy reach when the time came that I could not wander so far
afield. We walked on, and presently the path crossed a small silent stream and
the water was ice-cold to our feet as we waded across. We scrambled up the
opposite bank, rustled and cracked our way through the low undergrowth, and
burst into the forest, pausing a moment for our eyes to accustom themselves to
the dimness.

We had covered
about three miles, the floor of the forest was very level and easy going, when
Elias, who was in front, froze in his tracks and held up his hand. We waited
tensely, listening, and then Elias crept to my side and whispered:

“Na monkey, sah,
’e dere for dat big stick.”

I peered up into
the head foliage of “dat big stick” towering two hundred feet above us, but I
could neither see nor hear a thing.

“What kind of
monkey?” I asked, straining my eyes desperately.

“Na black one,
sah, ’e get white mark for his face. . . .” Putty-nose Guenon, I thought
bitterly, and try as I would I could see nothing.

“Masa see ’um?”

“Not a thing.”

“Masa, we go for
dis side. Masa go see. . . .” We moved off towards the place Elias indicated,
drifting as silently as possible through the undergrowth. I remembered suddenly
that I had my field-glasses with me, and cursing myself for a fool, I unslung
them and trained them on the tree-tops. I gazed up at the shimmering ocean of
leaves without success, feeling unreasonably irritated that both my hunters
could obviously see and hear the monkeys, while I, even with my field-glasses,
could not see a living thing. Then, suddenly, out of a mass of leaves along a
great black branch, trouped a delightful procession. The first monkey was an
old male, his tail crooked over his back, peering from side to side as he
walked out along the branch. He was coal black, with the tips of the fur on his
back tinged with green, so that he had a speckled appearance. His chest was
white, and on his little black face the area on and around his nose was white
also, a large heart-shaped patch as glistening white as a snowball. The hair on
his head was long, and stood up straight, so that he looked not unlike a
golliwog stalking disdainfully through the branches. Close on his heels came
his two wives, both smaller than he, and both very timid, for they had young.
The first carried a minute replica of herself slung at her breast. He was as
small as a newly born kitten, and he hung under his mother’s body, his long
arms wrapped round her and his small hands clasping tight to the fur on her
back. The other baby was older and walked cautiously behind his mother, peering
fearfully down at the great drop below him, and uttering a plaintive cheeping
cry. I was captivated by these babies, and as I watched them I made up my mind
that I would get hold of some baby Putty-nose Guenon if I had to spend the rest
of my life at it.

“Masa go shoot?”
came a hoarse whisper from Elias, and lowering the glasses, I found him
offering me the shotgun. For a moment I was angry that he should suggest firing
at that charming family, with their golliwog heads and their white clowns’ noses.
But I realized it would be impossible to explain my reasons to these men: in
the Cameroon forest sentimental feelings are the luxury of the well-fed. In
such a place meat is hard to come by and every ounce worth its weight in gold,
therefore aesthetic feelings come a very poor second to a protein-hungry body.

“No, Elias, I no
go shoot,” I said, and turned my glasses back to the tree-tops, but my little
family had disappeared. “Elias?”

“Sah?”

“You tell men
for village I go pay five shillings for one picken of that kind of monkey . . .
you hear?”

“I hear, sah,”
said Elias, brightening visibly.

We continued our
erratic way between the tree trunks, and presently came to the banks of a small
stream which gurgled its way pleasantly over its shallow bed. The banks were
spongy and wet, covered with a thick growth of large-leafed plants, green and
succulent. We were wading through this waist-high growth, following the course
of the river, when Elias suddenly leapt in the air with a yelp, and shouted,
“Shoot, Masa, shoot. . . .” There was a great commotion going on ahead of me,
but I could see nothing to shoot at, except Andraia, who was hopping about in
the undergrowth like a lanky grasshopper, uttering cries of “Eh . . . aehh!”
Judging by the noise, some large animal was hidden in the greenery, but as it
was thick enough to conceal anything from a leopard to a full-sized gorilla, I
was not quite sure what to expect. Suddenly the animals broke cover, and I
stood there gaping in amazement as a fully grown pair of Red River Hogs fled,
zigzagging through the trees. They were the most vivid orange colour with long
white tufts on their ears, and a flowing mane of white hair along their backs.
They were quite the most startling and beautiful members of the pig family I
had ever seen, arid I gazed after them open-mouthed. They disappeared with
extraordinary rapidity into the forest. Elias and Andraia seemed to take rather
a dim view of this example of my hunting powers.