Gerald Durrell - The Overloaded Ark

“Masa, I come,” he greeted me. “Masa ready?”

“Yes, Elias, let’s go. It’s hot today, isn’t it?”

“Sun too much,” he agreed, hoisting the bags on his back. Down the narrow red path, across the stream, ankle deep in the cool waters, pushing through the undergrowth, and then you were in the great, dim, aromatic interior of the forest, wending your way between the great trunks. After the heat of camp this was a blessed coolness that dried the sweat on your body, and the gloom allowed you to open your eyes fully, not continuously screwing them up against the sun. Elias flitted effortlessly ahead along the almost invisible path, his large feet making no sound on the leafy floor. Occasionally the forest would echo to the “chunk” of his cutlass, as he lopped off a branch that hung too low over the path for comfort. I found one difficulty in walking in the forest: there was so much to see on every side that my eyes were everywhere but on the path I was following. The gleam of a flower in the head foliage of a tree would make me peer upwards, craning my neck, or a fallen tree covered with tiny coloured toadstools, lying at the side of the path, would engage my attention, and so I would go tripping and stumbling in my efforts to see everything at once. However, this day we were going nowhere very special, so we turned aside from the path to investigate every hole, every hollow log was turned over in case it harboured scorpions or frogs, or even some larger beast in its hollow interior. So, with these deviations from the path, our progress was slow.

Some two miles from the camp we came out on to the banks of the inevitable small stream. It foamed its way through a jumble of great rocks, the tops of which were covered with thick wigs of vivid green moss and feathery ferns. In every crack that offered a foothold, a species of wild begonia grew, spreading its dark green, plate-shaped leaves against grey rock, the delicate sprays of waxy yellow flowers drooping down towards the rushing waters beneath. For an hour or so Elias and I grubbed happily around among these rocks, capturing the smaller fry: there were mottled toads, and grey tree frogs with monstrous amber eyes and long tapering fingers, and great beetles that chirruped when you picked them up. In the lush vegetation along the banks there were numbers of giant land snails, as big and as heavy as a large apple, assiduously laying their delicate pearl-like eggs in the leaf-mould. Then I discovered a beautiful green and canary-yellow frog under a small stone, and this set us both off turning over every movable stone along the bank in hopes of getting another. Elias, who was a little ahead of me, turned over a large rock and, as it rolled down the slope, he jumped back with a cry of fear.

“Masa, na snake . . . na bad beef. . . .”

I dropped everything and leapt up the slope to him. There, in the moist depression left by the boulder, lay a most remarkable snake. At first glance it appeared to have no head, being much the same circumference along its whole two feet. It was a glossy black, with a scattering of vivid red and yellow scales over different parts of its body. By staring hard I eventually located the head at one end of the body, and then I noticed that the head was only a matter of inches from a round hole that went deep into the earth. I was determined not to lose this spectacular addition to the collection, so, with the aid of a stick, I gently rolled a small stone inch by inch nearer until it covered the mouth of the hole. Elias stood discreetly in the background and moaned:

“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.