Gerald Durrell - THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE

"How are we to reach the place?" I asked McTurk.

"On horses, of course," he answered. "It's no use going in the jeep; you'll have to crisscross about the savannah a good bit, and the jeep's no use for that sort of thing."

I turned to Bob.

"Can you ride?" I inquired hopefully.

"Well, I've been on a horse, if that's what you mean," said Bob cautiously, and then hastily added, "only a very quiet one, of course."

"If we have nice docile mounts I expect we can manage," I said to McTurk.

"Oh, I'll pick you out a pair of quiet animals," said McTurk, and he went off with Francis to arrange the details.

Later he told us that we were to meet Francis and the horses at a spot about two miles away on the following morning.

From there we were to strike out into the unknown.

The grassland was a lovely green-golden in the first rays of the sun when we set off, bumping our way in the jeep towards the distant line of trees, which was the place of rendezvous. The sky was a delicate jay's-wing blue, and high above us two minute hawks circled slowly, searching the vast grassland for their breakfast. Dragonflies, vivid as fireworks, shot across the swerving nose of the jeep, and the warm wind of our progress stirred and tumbled the fawn dust of the track into a swirling cloud behind us. McTurk, holding the steering wheel negligently with one hand and using the other to cram his hat more firmly on his head, leant across and started to tell me something, shouting to make himself heard above the roar of the engine and the wind.

"This Indian … Francis … thought I'd warn you … apt to be a bit queer … gets excited … sort of fits, I think … says the world turns round inside his head … no reason why today … thought I'd warn you … quite harmless, of course."

"Are you sure he's harmless?" I roared back, aware of a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Oh, quite harmless, definitely."

"What's all this?" inquired Bob from the back seat.

"McTurk says Francis has fits," I said soothingly.

"Has what?" shouted Bob. "Fits."

"Fits?"

"Yes, you know … goes a bit queer in the head sometimes. But McTurk says he's quite harmless."

"My God!" said Bob sepulchrally, lying back in his seat and closing his eyes, an expression of extreme martyrdom on his face.

We reached the trees, and there, squatting on the ground, was Francis, his pixie hat tilted at a rakish angle. Behind him stood the horses in a dejected half-circle, heads drooping and reins dangling. They were clad in high pommelled and extremely uncomfortable-looking saddles. We extracted ourselves from the jeep and greeted Francis with a slightly strained joviality. McTurk wished us good hunting, turned the jeep and started off with a roar that sent all the horses on to their hind legs, stirrups and bits jangling.

Francis calmed them somewhat and led them forward for our inspection. We gazed at our mounts, and they gazed back, with equal suspicion.

"Which one are you going to have?" I asked Bob.

"I don't suppose it'll make much difference," he said, "but I'll have the brown with the cast in its eye."

That left me with a large grey that appeared to have a good deal of mule in its make-up. I addressed it in what I hoped was a cheerful voice and stepped up to its side, whereupon it waltzed sideways and showed the whites of its eyes.

"Good boy," I crooned huskily, trying to get my foot into the stirrup.

"It's not a he, it's a she," said Bob helpfully.

I at last managed to hoist myself on to my mount's bony back, and I gathered up the reins hastily. Bob's beast seemed more tractable, letting him get mounted before showing any signs of restiveness. Once he was planted in the saddle, however, it proceeded to walk backwards, quite slowly but with grim determination, and would, I think, have gone on until it reached the Brazilian border if its progress had not been halted by a large and prickly bush. It stopped dead and refused to move.

By this time Francis had mounted his grim black horse and was jogging off down the path, so, with an effort, I pulled my mount over and followed him. Bob's cries of encouragement to his steed grew faint in the distance. We rounded a corner, and he became lost to view. Presently he caught up with us, his horse cleverly executing a form of motion that was a cross between a walk and a trot, while Bob jolted in the saddle, red in the face, clutching in one hand a large twig with which he be laboured the creature's backside whenever he could spare a hand to do so. I reigned in and watched his progress with interest.

"How does it feel?" I inquired as he passed.

He gave me an awful look.

"It… would … be … all… right…" he replied, speaking between jolts, "if. he. would. only. move. properly."

"Wait a second," I said helpfully, "and I'll come up behind and give him a slap."

From behind. Bob and his steed looked as though they were performing an intricate rumba of the more Latin variety. I kicked my mount into a trot, and as I drew level –with the waggling rump of the animal in front I gathered up my reins and leant over to give it a slap. Up till then my horse's actions had been exemplary, but now he decided that I was making a sly and dastardly attack on him for no reason at all, so he gathered himself into a bunch and leapt forward with the alacrity of a grasshopper. I had a quick glimpse of Bob's surprised face, and then we were shooting down the path towards Francis. As we drew level with him he turned in his saddle and grinned broadly. He chirruped to his horse, flapped the reins on its neck, and, before I realized what was happening, we were galloping neck and neck down the path, Francis uttering strange guttural yelps to his mount to encourage it to further efforts.

"Francis!" I yelled.

"This is not a race … I'm trying to stop … stop!" The idea slowly took root in our guide's mind, and a look of acute disappointment spread over his face. Reluctantly he drew in his horse, and, to my infinite relief, mine followed suit. We stopped and waited until Bob danced up on his animal, and then I worked out a new arrangement: Francis was to lead. Bob was to follow him, and I was to bring up the rear, and thus keep Bob's steed up to the mark. So, at a gentle walk, we continued on our way.

The sun was now very hot, and the savannah stretched away before us, shimmering in its rays. Mile upon mile of grassland, green, gold, and brown, and in the distance, it seemed at the very rim of the world, a line of humpbacked mountains of pale greeny-blue. There was no life to be seen on this ocean of grass; the only moving things were ourselves and our shadows. For over two hours we rode through the knee-high grass, led by Francis who was slouching at ease in his saddle, his hat over his eyes, apparently asleep. The monotony of the view and the hot sun made us sleepy, and we followed our guide's example and dozed.

Suddenly I opened my eyes and found to my surprise that the flat savannah had produced a hollow, a great oval crater with gently sloping sides, and in the centre was a reed-fringed lake, its banks covered with a scattering of stunted bushes. As we skirted the lake everything seemed suddenly to come to life: a small cayman slid into the smooth waters with hardly a ripple; ten jabiru storks marched solemnly along the further shore, gazing down their long beaks in a meditative kind of way; the bushes were full of tiny birds, twittering and fluttering.

"Bob, wake up and enjoy the fauna," I suggested.

He peeped sleepily from under the brim of his hat, said "Um" as intelligently as he could, and went back to sleep again.

Two emerald green lizards darted across the path between my horse's slowly plodding hoofs, so eager in their pursuit of each other that they never noticed us. A diminutive kingfisher dropped from a branch into the lake and flew up to his perch again with something in his beak. Gold and black dragonflies zoomed about the reeds and hovered over the tiny pink orchids that bloomed like a mist over the swampy ground. On a battered tree stump sat a pair of black vultures: they watched us with a macabre hopefulness that was far from reassuring, in view of our guide's mental condition. We rode past the lake and headed once more across the grassland, and the twittering of the birds faded and died behind us. Then there was only the steady swish of our horse's legs pushing through the grass. I went to sleep.