Gerald Durrell - The Overloaded Ark

“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “I had thought of going off again, if you don’t mind holding the fort.”

“Where were you thinking of going?”

“N’da Ali,” I replied.

“Good Lord, that’s an idea. You might even get killed on one of those cliffs with a bit of luck,” said John cheerfully.

N’da Ali was the largest mountain in the vicinity. It crouched at our backs, glowering over the landscape, the village, and our little hill. From almost every vantage point you were aware of the mountain’s mist-entangled, cloud-veiled shape brooding over everything, its heights guarded by sheer cliffs of gnarled granite so steep that no plant life could get a foothold. Every day I had looked longingly at the summit, and every day I had watched N’da Ali in her many moods. In the early morning she was a great mist-whitened monster; at noon she was all green and golden glitter of forest, her cliffs flushing pink in the sun; at night she was purple and shapeless, fading to black as the sun sank. Sometimes she would go into hiding, drawing the white clouds around herself and brooding in their depths for two or three days at a time. Every day I gazed at those great cliffs that guarded the way to the thick forest on her ridged back, and each day I grew more determined that I would go up there and see what she had to offer me. Since John seemed so anxious to get rid of me I lost little time in making enquiries. I found out that N’da Ali really belonged to the people of a neighbouring village called Fineschang, and naturally the mountain had a ju-ju on it. No self- respecting mountain like N’da Ali would be without its ju-ju. Further investigation disclosed the fact that, while the people of Fineschang were allowed, by the terms of the ju-ju (if I may put it like that), to hunt and fish on the lower slopes of the mountain, only one man was allowed access to the summit. It transpired that there was only one way up to the summit anyhow, and this particular man was the only one who knew it. So I sent him a message saying I would be pleased if he would take me up N’da Ali for the day to look out for a suitable camp site. Then when this had been arranged, if he would accompany my troop of hunters, bird-trappers, and hangers-on to the top and superintend the whole affair. While I waited with ill-concealed impatience for his reply, I gazed all the more longingly at the slopes of the mountain.

John’s bird collection was now of impressive dimensions, and was more than a full-time job. Apart from the preparation of food (hard-boiling eggs, chopping up cooked meat, soaking dried fruit, and so on), he would move from cage to cage with a tin full of grasshoppers or wasp grubs and a pair of tweezers, and solemnly feed each bird individually. In this way he was sure that every specimen was feeding properly, and was getting the required amount of live food to keep it healthy. His patience and painstaking methods were a joy to watch, and under his care the birds prospered and sang happily in their wooden cages. His chief source of annoyance was the maimed and dying birds that were brought in to him. He would come to me holding in his hands a colourful and lovely bird, and show it to me. “Look at this, old boy,” he would say angrily, “a beautiful thing, and absolutely useless just because these blasted people can’t take care in handling them. It’s quite useless, got a broken wing. Really, it’s enough to make you weep.” He would go off and the following conversation would take place with the hunter.

“This bird no good,” John would say, “it get wound. It go die.”

“No, sah,” the hunter would reply, “he no get wound, sah.”

“It’s got a broken wing, you hold it too tight,” John would say.

“No, sah, he no fit die, sah. Na good bird, sah.”

“What can you do with these fools?” John would say, turning to me, “They always assure me the thing won’t die, even if it’s got every bone in its body broken.”

“I know, they try their best to persuade you.”

“But it’s so annoying. I would have given him five bob for this if it had been in good condition. But even if you explain that they don’t seem to see it. They’re hopeless.”

One day a hunter turned up carrying a Crested Guinea-fowl, a bird as large as a chicken, with a blue-grey plumage covered with white spots, and its head adorned with a crest of curly black feathers. It seemed to be in very bad condition, and after examining it, John agreed that it was not long for this world.

“I no buy him. He go die,” said John.

The hunter appeared cut to the quick at this disparaging remark.

“No, sah,” he gasped, “he no go die. Na strong bird dis. I go show Masa,” and he placed the bird on the floor. Just as he was protesting for the second time that it would not die, the Guinea-fowl rolled over, gave a couple of kicks and expired. It was a very crestfallen hunter who went off down the hill with our laughter following him, and shouted jeers from the animal staff.

Shortly before this John had been brought another of these Guinea-fowl, together with the clutch of eight eggs she had been sitting on when she was captured. After some trouble we found a broody hen in the village, and purchased it. She sat well on the Guinea-fowl’s eggs and in due course hatched them all out. The young were delightful, if drab, little things, and scuttled around the pen in which their foster-mother was confined as ordinary chicks will. Unfortunately their hen mother was a great, muscular, heavy-footed bird, and was constantly treading on her offspring. She was very proud of them, but would walk over them with complete unconcern and a bland expression on her face. In desperation John tried to get another foster parent, built on less generous lines, with more grace of movement, but all in vain. The great, clumsy hen slowly but surely trod on all the delicate little Guinea-fowl, and killed the lot. Later, John was brought another clutch of eggs, and even found a more sylph-like hen to sit on them, but they must have been on the hunter’s hands for some time, or else he had handled them roughly and damaged them, for they never hatched. John was depressed by this bad luck, for, although he had six female Guinea-fowl, he wanted to get at least one male so that he could take a breeding stock back to England, and there, under ideal conditions in aviaries with slim and delicate bantams or silkies to hatch and rear, the birds could be bred.

There was one dreadful period when an epidemic of mycosis ran like fire through his bird cages, killing some of his most choice specimens. This disease is a deadly thing, a peculiar fungus-like growth which develops in the bird’s lungs, spreads with incredible speed through other organs, and kills the bird rapidly. There is apparently no sign of this complaint until the later stages, when you will see the bird breathing heavily, as though it had a cold. But by this time it is too late to do anything effective. When this horrible disease took a hold on the bird collection, John fought it in every possible way, but still the losses increased. He was losing specimens which had taken months to obtain, and could not be replaced. He told me that there was only one thing which could possibly have any effect on the disease, and that was potassium iodide. Where we were to obtain this commodity in the middle of the Cameroon forest was the question. Now, there was a small hospital at Mamfe, and thither I went in search of the required drug, but discovered that they had none. That seemed to be that, and my hopes of John saving his collection dwindled to nothing. I happened to be buying some things in the United Africa Company’s store when I came across a row of dusty bottles piled in a dark corner of the shop. On examining them I discovered, with astonishment and incredulity, that they were a dozen good bottles with potassium iodide written on the label. I went in search of the manager.