Gerald Durrell (6 page)

“Masa, ’ego bite
you. Careful, Masa, na bad beef dat. . . .”

The snake made
no move beyond flicking its tongue in and out rather rapidly. Having cut off
its retreat I felt better.

“Masa, dat kind
of beef get poison too much. . . .”

“Elias, shut up
and go and bring me a big bag and another stick.”

“Yessir,” said
Elias dismally, and wandered off.

The snake lay
absolutely still watching me in a circumspect manner, and I kept my small twig
ready in case it should try to make a sudden dash for it. I was fairly sure
that it was harmless, but with such garish coloration I was taking no chances.
Elias returned panting with the cloth bag and a long stick. Gently I manoeuvred
the mouth of my bag until it was only a few inches away from the snake’s head,
then I tapped it gently on the tail with my stick. I was prepared for a certain
amount of reluctance on the snake’s part to enter the bag, but I was not
prepared for what happened. Feeling the stick on its tail the snake coiled
itself rapidly into a knot, and then suddenly leapt forward like a released
spring, straight into the bag. There it lay as still as before, while we
hastily tied the neck of the bag up. I had never met such an accommodating
reptile.

“Eh . . . aehh!”
said Elias, in amazement, “dis snake no get fear. I tink dis snake like Masa,”
and he chuckled away to himself for a long time as we continued turning over
boulders.

This snake
turned out to be a Calabar Ground Python, a small relative of the great
constricting snakes. Both the head and the tail taper off in the same way, and
as the whole body is covered with small, round, even scales, it is difficult to
see where the snake begins and ends, so to speak. The small eyes are exactly
the same size, shape and colour as the scales surrounding them, so it is
difficult to pick them out. The pattern of coloured scales on the black
background is not really a pattern: the coloured scales are simply scattered
about haphazardly, so the markings give you no clue as to which end of the
snake you are looking at. It is a completely harmless creature, spending most
of its time burrowing in moist earth, searching for the small prey its weak
jaws can accommodate. When held in the hand it would coil itself up, and then
suddenly spring forward in the way I have described, but it would never attempt
to bite, or even coil round one’s restraining hand and try to crush it, as even
a baby of the larger species will try to do.

This Ground
Python was our first real capture of the day, and we continued on our way
feeling very elated. But although we turned over every boulder we could move,
we did not find another. Presently we packed up the tins and bags and moved on,
leaving the river bank in a state of upheaval that could only have been
equalled by a troop of Drill or forest hogs. Our final objective was a small
grass field some five miles from the village; Elias had discovered this place
some days ago and had told me that he thought it a likely place for beef . . .
what kind of beef he did not specify. It transpired that he had not marked the
route as well as usual, and so we at length came to a halt and Elias
reluctantly admitted that he did not know exactly where we were, either in
relation to the village or the grass field. I sat down firmly on a large log and
refused to move until he could assure me that he knew which way we were going.

“I will stay
here, you go and look the path. When you find ’um you come back here for me,
you hear?”

“Yessir,” said
Elias cheerfully, and disappeared through the trees. For a few minutes I could
hear the ring of his cutlass marking the trail, and then this grew fainter and
eventually faded away. I lit a cigarette and surveyed my domain. Suddenly, from
the very log on which I was sitting, a cicada lifted up its voice. I sat very
still and scanned the bark carefully. These cicadas were the bane of my
existence: they were everywhere in the forest, and they sang their loud
vibrating songs both day and night, yet, try as I would, I had never yet
succeeded in seeing one. Now, apparently, there was one zithering away within a
foot of me, if I could spot him. I examined the trunk carefully, the green
spongy moss, the minute clusters of crimson and yellow toadstools huddled in
the cracks, the dead lianas still clutching their host’s body in a grip that
had bitten into the bark. A trail of ants wended their way through this
miniature scenery, and at the mouth of a small hole a black spider crouched
immobile. But no sign of a cicada. Then, as I moved my head slightly, I caught
a sudden gleam from the moss, as from glass. Looking closely I saw the insect:
its body was about two inches long, and patterned in an intricate and beautiful
filigree of silver and leaf-green, merging perfectly with the green moss and
the grey bark of the trunk. Its great wings, which gleamed like glass when the
sun caught them, were the things that had attracted my attention. Gently I
brought my cupped hand down over it, and then suddenly I grabbed. The cicada,
finding itself detected and captured, started to flutter its wings wildly, and
they rustled like paper against my fingers. Then, in desperation, it uttered
its prolonged shrill cry. I held it gently in my hand and examined it: the
silver and green body was nut hard, and the eyes large and protuberant. The wings
were like sheets of mica, and when held up to the light revealed a tracery of
veins as complicated and beautiful as a cathedral window. Between its legs, set
in a groove, was its long thin proboscis. With this fragile instrument it
pierces the bark of the trees and gorges on the sap beneath. Having examined it
I set it upright on the palm of my hand, where it sat for a minute, nervously
vibrating its lovely wings before zooming off into the trees.

I was wondering
if I could keep these insects alive in a netting cage on a diet of honey and
water, and so get them back to England, when Elias returned. He had discovered
the path, he said, and now knew where he was.

We rejoined the
path and resumed our way towards the grass field. These grass fields are formed
in certain areas of the forest where the soil is too shallow to support the
probing roots of the huge trees. A low clinging growth covers this space, a
growth that can exist with its wiry roots clinging to the few inches of soil
covering the great carapace of rock that forms the foundation to the forest. So
the tough grasses come into their own, spreading across the clearing; in the
cracks in the rocks, where the rains have washed the soil into deeper pockets,
tiny stunted trees get a foothold and flourish. But these small fields are
ringed about by the tall forest: should the depth of soil increase the great
trees scatter their seed and slowly usurp this territory from the grip of this
lowly vegetation.

Presently the
trees grew thinner, the light grew stronger, and we came to a thick tangle of
low growth that bordered the clearing. We pushed our way through this
flower-hung, thorny curtain, and found ourselves knee-deep in long grass, the
clearing sloping away from us like a great meadow, golden-green in the sun,
quiet and lonely, its borders fringed with the towering ramparts of the forest.

We lay down in
the warm crisp grass and lit cigarettes. We lay there, basking in the sun, and
gradually the sounds of the life in the clearing came floating to us: the
ringing cries of the big pink-winged locusts; a tree frog piping shrilly from
the banks of the tiny trickle of water that curled through the grass; the soft
and husky coo of a small dove, perched in the bushes above us. Then, from the
far side of the clearing, a series of loud care-free cries rang out, echoing
among the trees: “Carroo . . . carroo . . . coo . . . coo . . . coo. . . .”

Again and again,
echoing loud across the shimmering grass. I trained my field-glasses on to the
trees at the far side of the clearing and searched the branches carefully. Then
I saw them, three large glittering green birds, with long heavy tails and
curved crests. They took flight, straight as arrows, across the clearing, and
landed in the trees the opposite side, and as they landed they shouted their
challenging cry again. As they called, as though in an excess of high spirits,
they leapt from branch to branch in great rabbit-like leaps, and raced along
the branches like racehorses, as easily as though the branches had been roads.
They were a flock of Giant Plantain-eaters, perhaps the most beautiful of the
forest birds. I had often heard their wild cries in the forest, but this was my
first sight of them. Their acrobatic powers amazed me, as they leapt and
bounded, and ran amongst the branches, pausing now and then to pluck a fruit
and swallow it, and then shout to the forest. As they flew from tree to tree in
the sun, trailing their tails behind them like giant magpies, they shimmered
green and gold, a breathtakingly beautiful colour.

“Elias, you see
those birds?”

“Yessir.”

“I go give ten
shillings for one of those alive.”

“Na true, sah?”

“Na true. So you
go try, eh?”

“Yessir . . .
ten shillings . . . eh . . . aehh!” said Elias, as he lay back in the grass to
enjoy the last puffs of his cigarette.

I sat back and
watched the gorgeous shining birds leap and twist their way into the maze of
trees, shouting joyfully to each other, and then silence descended on the grass
field again.

Presently we set
to work. The long nets with the small mesh were unpacked, and these we arranged
in a half-circle, the lower edge buried in the soil. They were hung rather
loosely, so that any animal running into them would become entangled in the
folds. Then, from point to point of the nets, we cleared the undergrowth away
in a strip some two feet wide, and, cutting grass, we laid this along the line,
and covered it lightly with damp leaf-mould. Now we had a complete circle, half
formed by the nets, the other half by this line of dry grass. Then we proceeded
to drench the grass with kerosene and set light to it. The damp leaf-mould
prevented the tinder-like grass from burning quickly, so it smouldered gently,
letting a thin curtain of pungent smoke drift towards the nets. We waited
expectantly, but nothing happened. Only a host of big locusts fled from the
smoke, hopping and whirring agitatedly. We put out the fire, moved the nets to
a fresh area, and repeated the performance with the same results. Our eyes
smarted with the smoke, and we were scorched by the fire and the sun. Six times
we moved the nets, laboriously laid the fires, and still caught nothing for our
pains.

I was beginning
to doubt Elias’s judgement of this grass field as a good place for beef, when
on the seventh pitch we struck lucky. Scarcely had we set fire to the grass
when I saw a portion of the net start to quiver and jerk. I rushed through the
smoke and found a large grey animal with a long scaly tail struggling in the
folds of the net. I caught him swiftly by the tail and swung him aloft: it was
a Pouched Rat, as big as a kitten, his grey fur full of the large
cockroach-like parasites that inhabit these beasts.

“Elias, I get
ground beef,” I shouted. But he was too busy at another part of the net to heed
me, so with some difficulty I succeeded in getting the rat into a thick canvas
bag without getting myself bitten. I approached the other end of the net
through the smoke, and found Elias darting about on all fours grunting and
mumbling angrily:

“Ah, you blurry
ting you . . . ah, you bad beef. . . .”

“What is it,
Elias?”

“Na bush rat,
sah,” he said excitedly, “’e de run too fast, and ’e de bite too much . . .
careful, sah, ’e go chop you. . . .”

In and out of
the tussocks of grass ran a host of rats, dancing and jumping with speed and
agility, retreating before the smoke, yet avoiding the mesh of the net with
extraordinary efficiency. They were fat and sleek, with olive-green bodies, and
their noses and behinds were a bright rusty red. They ran through our legs,
leapt in and out of the grass, their little pink paws working overtime, and
their long white whiskers twitching nervously. They were quite fearless, and
they bit like demons. As Elias knelt down to try and catch one in the grass,
another ran up his leg, burrowed rapidly under his loin-cloth, and bit him in
the groin. It dropped to the ground and disappeared into the grass.