Gerald Durrell - THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE

Some little time later we were still discussing the iguana, when Ivan appeared, wearing his worried expression.

"What's the matter, Ivan?" I asked.

"Nothing, sir, but we will be arriving soon." Bob and I hurried to look over the rail, but the forested bank stretched away unbroken to the horizon. I was just about to ask Ivan if he was sure of his information when the steamer rounded a small bend, and out of the undergrowth rose a large shed, and pushing out among the mangroves was a small stone jetty. Across the corrugated iron roof of the shed was printed in bold white letters the word adventure. We had arrived.

It says much for Ivan's abilities as an organizer that by teatime on the day of our arrival we were installed in a house of our own on the main street of Adventure.

Our abode was a tiny wooden shack, worm-eaten, ant eaten, and only maintaining an upright position with a manifest effort. It was, like all the houses in Guiana , built upon wooden piles, and the interior consisted of three rooms, one to sleep and eat in, one to cook in, and one to keep the animals in. It was set well back from the road and separated from it by a wide, water-filled ditch spanned by a dilapidated wooden bridge. A short flight of steep wooden steps, ending in a small square balcony, led up to the front door. At the back a similar flight of steps led up to the kitchen.

That evening Ivan was in the kitchen performing strange rites that –ere producing a mouth-watering smell of curry, and Bob was in the sleeping quarters manfully trying to tie up three hammocks in a space that was scarcely big enough to hold one. I was sitting outside in the twilight on the top of the rickety wooden steps, books and pictures strewn about me, holding a conference with the local hunters that Ivan had summoned. This preliminary talk with the local inhabitants is a very important part of collecting: by showing them pictures of various animals you want you can learn much about the local fauna, and whether a certain species is rare or common. It also gives you the chance to state the prices you are willing to pay, and then both you and the hunters know where you are. The hunters of Adventure turned out to be a strange and interesting assortment; there were two large negroes, a short, fat Chinaman with the traditional expressionless face, seven or eight slim East Indians with fierce brown eyes and tangled mops of long jet-black hair, and a host of half-castes of varying shades and sizes. The fact that I had not been in the country long enough to get the hang of the local names was proving something of an obstacle.

"Ivan, there's a fellow here who says he can get me a pimpla hog," I would shout, above Bob's muttered profanity among the hammocks and the sizzle of curry.

"What is a pimpla hog, a sort of wild pig?"

"No, sir," Ivan would shout back, "a pimpla hog's a porcupine."

"And what's a kigihee?"

"It's a sort of small animal with a long nose, sir."

"You mean like a mongoose?"

"No, sir, bigger than mongoose, with a very long nose and rings round his tail. He walks with his tail in the air."

"Urrugh!" came a chorus of affirmation from the hunters around me.

"You don't mean a coatimundi, do you?" I would inquire, after due thought.

"Yes, sir, that is the name," Ivan would shout.

And so it went on for two hours. Then Ivan told us that food was ready, and so we dispersed the hunters and went inside.

By the light of the small hurricane lamp the living room looked as though someone had tried, not very successfully to erect a circus marquee. Ropes and cords festooned the room like a giant spider's web; Bob stood forlornly in the centre of the mess, a hammer in one hand, surveying the tangle of hammocks.

"I don't seem to get the hang of these things," he said moodily when he saw me."Look, here's the mosquito net for my hammock, but I'm damned if I see how I'm going to get it on."

"Well, I'm not very sure, but I think it goes over the hammock before you hang it up," I said helpfully.

Leaving Bob to puzzle it out, I went into the kitchen to help Ivan dish out.

We had cleared the table of some of its overhanging undergrowth of hammock ropes and demolished an excellent curry when Mr. Cordai arrived. There was a loud knock at the door, a hoarse voice called out"Good night, good night, good night," and Mr. Cordai staggered in. He was a half-caste with the East Indian blood predominating, a tiny, shrivelled little man with a face like a dyspeptic monkey and legs as bowed as bananas. It became noticeable almost at once that he was very drunk. He lurched over into the circle of lamplight and grinned foolishly at us, enveloping us in a blast of rum-laden breath.

"This is Mr. Cordai, sir," said Ivan, in his cultured voice, looking distinctly embarrassed.

"He is a very good hunter."

"Yes," agreed Mr. Cordai, seizing my hand and wringing it fervently.

"Good night. Chief, good night."

I had learned, by trial and error in Georgetown, that 'good night' was used as a greeting any time after the sun had gone down, and it was a trifle confusing until you got used to it. Mr. Cordai needed little encouragement to sit down and join us in a glass of rum. He stayed for an hour, talking volubly, if not always accurately, about all the animals he had caught in the past and all the animals he was going to catch in the future. Tactfully I led the subject round to a large lake that lay a few miles from Adventure.

Both Bob and I were anxious to visit this lake, to see an Amerindian village that was near it and to see what fauna had congregated round its shores. Mr. Cordai said he knew the lake well. It appeared that he had fought to the death with several snakes of astonishing dimensions in the forest around it and had swum across it on more than one occasion pursued by enraged animals that he had tried to capture. My faith in Mr. Cordai was by now diminishing rapidly. After another glass of rum we arranged that he should call for us the next morning and lead us to the lake. He said it would be a good idea to start about six, as we would get the worst of the walk over before the sun got too hot. So, breathing promises of the various animals we were to capture on the morrow, Mr. Cordai took his leave of us and wandered uncertainly out into the night.

We were up at five the next morning, bustling about getting ready for our trip to the lake. At half past seven Ivan made some more tea and sent a small boy in search of our trusty guide. At eight the small boy returned and said that Mr. Cordai had not returned home last night, and his wife was as anxious as we were to find out where he had got to, though doubtless for different reasons. At ten it became apparent that Mr. Cordai had forgotten our appointment, and so we decided to have a walk round Adventure and see what animals we could find for ourselves.

We crossed the road and made our way through the trees. Soon we came out on to a sandy beach, and before us stretched the Atlantic . I presumed the water would be salt, but I found that we were too close to the mouth of the Essequibo river: the water was fresh, discoloured with yellow mud and shredded leaves brought down from the interior. The sand dunes behind this beach were overgrown with large, straggling bushes and clumps of gnarled trees. These harboured a varied array of reptile life; crawling among the branches of the bushes were great numbers of anolis; small, slim, large eyed lizards, with thin, delicate toes. They were inoffensive and rather helpless creatures; they just scrambled wildly about the bushes and were very easy to capture. The stunted trees were thickly overgrown with long strands of Spanish moss hanging down like big clumps of grey hair, a hundred elderly wigs strung among the leaves.