by Tim Flannery
Pavel’s work yielded one more important finding. DNA samples he collected revealed that the Fijian monkey-faced bat is only distantly related to the monkey-faces of the Solomon Islands. Indeed, they may have evolved the characteristics they share—such as wings that join at the midline, complex teeth and robust muzzle—independently. If so, this would be a striking case of convergent evolution—rather akin to that of the evolutions of the wolf and the thylacine. This discovery has prompted Kris Helgen to re-classify the Fijian monkey-face by taking it out of the genus Pteralopex (winged Arctic fox) and creating a new genus name for it—Mirimiri, the Fijian word for mist.
CHAPTER 16
Nouvelle Calédonie
From Taveuni I flew to Suva, then on to Tontouta airport in New Caledonia. The island has always intrigued me. It is an ancient fragment of the continent of Gondwana which separated from the east coast of Australia ninety million years ago, and it has remained isolated ever since. Many species found there trace their ancestry back to this distant time, making it an ark filled with life forms that last flourished elsewhere during the age of the dinosaurs. Of most significance to our work, however, only eight native mammals were known from the island, which is a small number given the island’s large size and age. One possible reason for this was that New Caledonia might have its own as yet undiscovered species of monkey-faced bat. Hard work and much mountain climbing might just reveal its presence.
I was joined in much of the survey work by Alexandra Szalay, who had worked in the Australian Museum’s anthropology department prior to joining mammalogy. Her knowledge of Melanesian cultures and their use of natural resources was invaluable, as was her curatorial expertise, which saw the specimens we collected promptly and accurately catalogued. Long after the fieldwork documented here she was to become my wife.
We were unaware that we had arrived in New Caledonia at the commencement of the Feast of the Assumption, and were concerned to find that the Caldoche, as islanders of French descent are called, celebrate it as a serious and lengthy holiday. This made it impossible to meet the officials we needed to see in Noumea, and we realised that we must stay in town—which was both expensive and frustrating—until the government offices re-opened. Armed with a collecting permit, obtained in advance, we could, however, investigate localities within reach of the town. The most interesting of these was Mont Koghi, a forest-covered mountain that lay almost on Noumea’s suburban margins.
Working in New Caledonia can be very a different experience from working elsewhere in Melanesia. Paved roads are common and good food is easy to find. Nonetheless, we were bemused to learn that a paved road led right to the forest edge on Mont Koghi, and that just a hundred metres away was a café that served petits fours and excellent coffee. We set the mist-nets in spitting rain, and as the light faded retired to the café. For once it felt that the mammalogists had it as easy as the ornithologists.
I hardly expected to find anything interesting at such an accessible location. The café closed and, as darkness fell, we strolled to the mist-nets. Two small bats were hanging in them, their fur glistening with tiny droplets of mist-like rain. Their ears were enormously long and pleated, and on the end of their nose a short, fleshy leaflike structure was prominent. This made identification easy. They were Australasian long-eared bats—a genus never before recorded from New Caledonia. Thrilled at the ease of this major discovery, we placed the bats in canvas bags, took down the nets and prepared to return to Noumea for a celebratory drink.
The Australasian long-eared bats are notoriously difficult to classify to a species, but fortutiously the world authority was working on the Scott grant. Dr Harry Parnaby had written his doctoral thesis on the group, and he would go on to identify the New Caledonian specimens as a new species, which he named Nyctophilus nebulosus. The name refers to the rather nebulous physical differences that characterise the various kinds of long-eared bats, which genetic studies nonetheless tell us are distinct species. It was, Harry concluded, a close relative of an Australian species whose ancestors must have been blown to New Caledonia, probably within the last million years. Prior to this discovery the whole mammal fauna of New Caledonia had consisted of just eight species. To add a ninth was a satisfying achievement.
As we drove back down the road towards Noumea Alex spotted what looked like a small dinosaur. The size of my hand, it stood tall on its legs, and appeared to have two blunt horns at the base of its head. It was, I later found out, a knob-headed giant gecko, and it didn’t seem to mind at all when we pulled over and picked it up. Only much later I learned that the species can inflict a nasty bite and is quite capable of killing and eating other lizards. But this one was gentle in the hand as I examined and photographed it.
New Caledonia’s giant geckoes are many and varied, and among them is the world’s largest surviving gecko species—Leache’s giant gecko—which can grow to the length of a man’s forearm and almost as thick. Giant geckoes have been present on New Caledonia for a very long time—perhaps ever since the landmass broke away from Australia. And on an island with few competing species they’ve evolved to take advantage of many ecological niches. The largest species eat fruit, and thus take the place of possums and monkeys elsewhere. Smaller but still impressive species like Jean-Claude Gecko—as Alex named our new friend—replace carnivores such as stoats and quolls elsewhere. Such species are known as ecological vicars because, like vicars in the Anglican church, they stand in for somebody else.
As the holiday marking the Feast of the Assumption dragged on, we realised that it would be some time before anybody returned to work, so we looked about for ways to fill in our time. High on the priority list was a visit to Parc Forestier which, in addition to having a botanic garden filled with unique New Caledonian flora and in which all the trees are identified, has a small zoo. It was awe-inspiring to wander through the groves of ancient pines and other plants that had become extinct elsewhere millions of years ago, and I yearned for the opportunity to see them growing in natural conditions.
The zoo’s main exhibits are the island’s unique fauna, including the intriguing kagu. A large, pale-grey forest bird, it’s placed in its own family, its nearest relatives being the sun-bittern of South America and the extinct moa-sized adze-bill of New Zealand. It’s an example of a species that arrived in its island home by going the long way round—arriving across the wide Pacific from South America. Very few species have achieved this, though the ancestors of New Zealand’s short-tailed bats and Fiji’s iguanas must have made a similar journey. These voyagers against the wind are ancient migrants indeed, having arrived tens of millions of years ago. The kagu and short-tailed bats have been on their islands so long they’re classified in their own families. Just why the American immigrants are so few and ancient is not clear, but it’s possible that in earlier times winds or ocean currents made the long Pacific crossing from South America easier than it is today.
I longed to see a kagu in the wild, but their rarity precluded that privilege. I watched the pair in the Parc Forestier with great interest. The eyes of these all-but-flightless, carnivorous birds are very large, and their red bill is stout. But it’s their ridiculously floppy crest and bright patches of feathers, hidden in the folded wings, that give them much of their character. Surely, these feathers must be used for display—perhaps to a potential mate or a competitor.
Aspects of the kagu’s biology remain mysterious. Why should it, alone among birds, have one third of the usual number of red blood cells while those cells are three times as capable of carrying oxygen? And why does it have peculiar nasal corns—again unique among birds—covering its nostrils? The kagu is now so rare that it is difficult to study, but its breeding biology reveals a bit about why it has fared so poorly in the face of the European invasion. Kagus are monogamous. The female lays a single egg on the forest floor, which she makes no effort at all to conceal. Even though the offspring of previous years will stay around the nest to help raise and protect the young, a k
agu egg or chick must be an obvious and irresistible delicacy for a pig or rat. And so it is that the kagu finds itself on the endangered list.
Fired up by our success on Mont Koghi, and with the Feast of the Assumption at last behind us, Alex and I set off to see what the further reaches of this great island might offer. A colleague in the forestry department had suggested that we stay at a forest camp in a place called Col d’Amieu. Located at an elevation of around 400 metres in the middle of the island, it suited us well as a base from which to explore the mid-elevation forests.
After the luxury of a hotel in Noumea, accommodations at the forestry station were rudimentary—sawdust-filled mattresses on the floor in a cabin made of rough-hewn timber, an outside privy and no cooking facilities beyond our Trangia. But it was set in an idyllic forest, and the air was crisp and clean. After setting our mist-nets, which due to the terrain was more exhausting than it was at Mont Koghi, we retired at dusk to the cabin, and an early night’s sleep.
Long before dawn we woke to the jingle of metal, the creak of leather and low, equine snorting. I was unsure whether I was awake or dreaming; it was only the smell of frying sausages and eggs and the aroma of coffee brewing in the pre-dawn gloom that convinced me we had visitors. Cautiously, I opened the door to find a troop of gendarmes camped under the eaves. Dressed in handsome, if somewhat soiled, grey uniforms, they were a cavalry regiment—their horses stood calmly nearby. As they gathered round a small fire in the chilly pre-dawn light they looked like a troop of Confederate soldiers. Yet all except the officer were black-skinned Kanaks—the original Melanesian inhabitants of New Caledonia.
When I greeted them they explained that they were on patrol for rebels. At the time of our visit New Caledonia was still under colonial control, and to many Kanaks the colony seemed to be moving towards independence at glacial speed. Kanaks still make up just under half of the population and, prior to the Matignon Agreement, which was brokered in 1988, some were in open revolt.
The bloody events of the 1980s were only the final spasms of a conflict that had begun with French colonisation. In 1878 the Kanaks had attempted to drive the French from the island. Around a thousand were killed in the conflict, but that did not prevent a further revolt in 1917 or the establishment of an independence movement in the 1970s. By late 1984 the rebels had formed a liberation army and set up a provisional government. In response, the Caldoche ambushed and killed ten Kanak leaders. In May 1988 the violence again reached flashpoint, with Kanaks holding French gendarmes hostage in a cave on the island of Ouvéa in the Loyalty Group. Nineteen Kanak liberation leaders and fighters were killed in the rescue attempt—some while in French custody. Two years later, the search for rebels holding out in New Caledonia’s rugged central ranges clearly remained unfinished.
I hoped that our research in New Caledonia might yield a monkey-faced bat. After all, the island has many high peaks, and is not all that distant from the Solomons and Fiji. Instead, at Col d’Amieu, our nets trapped a diminutive flying fox which, until the 1960s, had been known from just two specimens. The New Caledonia flying fox is a diminutive, charcoal-coloured creature which like the monkey-faced bats has tiny ears, almost hidden in its fur, and multi-cusped teeth. Genetic studies reveal that the New Caledonia flying fox is not a particularly close relative of the monkey-faces, but perhaps it illustrates a stage in the evolution of the group, a time when it was just branching off from its ancestors and acquiring the features that make it so distinctive.
As the holiday had prevented me from obtaining formaldehyde in which to preserve specimens, I needed to obtain a supply. North of Noumea is the small town of Bourail, and I was relieved to find its pharmacy was open. The only difficulty I faced in obtaining the formaldehyde was my lack of French. Not to be put off by such trivial things, I approached the counter, behind which stood a rather serious-looking lady pharmacist in a white coat, and said, ‘Avez vous le préservatif?’ Préservatif is one of those French words which seems to be almost deliberately designed to confuse an anglophone zoologist, who uses preservatives to preserve his animal specimens. In fact un préservatif is a condom.
The pharmacist fumbled about behind the counter, and eventually re-emerged holding a small brown paper bag. Thinking that she’d tried to palm me off with just a few millilitres of formaldehyde, when I needed at least half a litre, I said in my appallingly accented French, ‘Non, plus grand. Un demi-litre.’ At this my pharmacist flushed red, and simply stood there. Hopelessly confused by this stalemate, and suspecting by this time that there might be more than one kind of préservatif, I tried to clarify matters by asking, carefully, ‘Avez vous le préservatif pour les animaux morts?’
My ignorance of French was such that I didn’t know that I’d just asked for condoms for dead animals, so the chemist’s explosion caught me unawares. The small paper bag flew in the air as she raised her hands above her head in an effort to drive what was clearly a pervert from her pharmacy. By this time, a small crowd of spectators had assembled, amongst whom was an elderly man. He stepped forward, asking in broken English what it was in fact that I wanted. ‘Ah, le formol,’ he said with a kind smile, and soon I had a small bottle of the precious préservatif in my hands.
One of my worst character flaws is not knowing my limits. We had many winding roads to drive, so I felt I should buy some travel-sickness pills. Again mustering my best French, I went to the traumatised lady behind the counter and said, rather grandly, ‘Avez vous le medecin pour le mal de travail?’ There was something about her response to my request for ‘work sickness pills’ that had me realise that I would just have to put up with the discomfort.
Our next destination was Mont Dzumac, a desolate-looking peak that is one of the highest in the south of the island. Driving the winding dirt road to the summit was challenging, but fascinating, for the maquis, as the scrubby heath flora of New Caledonia is known, was in full flower. Magnificent red bells, six centimetres or more long, hung from low tufted plants, and shrubs were decked in spectacular flowers of a variety of colours. Like Australia’s heath-lands, this vegetation owes much of its character to the soil it grows in. The rocks of New Caledonia were formed deep in the Earth’s crust, and they contain high concentrations of metals such as nickel. These are toxic to many plants, and only a few stunted varieties can thrive there. Yet these species must attract pollinators, which are few: hence the extravagant flowers.
Prior to leaving Australia I had met a Caldoche named Jean-Pierre Revercé. He was the deputy mayor of Bourail, and he’d invited us to visit if ever we were in the area. When we met up he took us to his seaside shack, which stood alone just behind the beach in a remote cove. It was surrounded by a forest of native trees covered in brilliant white gardenia-like flowers. Later, I learned that these were true members of the gardenia family and that they were native to the sandy coastal regions of the island. The shack was raised on poles and was largely without walls. Looking out over the bush to the turquoise sea, it was easy to imagine ourselves in paradise.
That afternoon we went out fishing in the lagoon, and I got to know Jean-Pierre a little better. ‘Do you want me to put your hook where the fish are?’ he asked, before tossing my line for me in a curious way. After some time without a bite I noticed Jean-Pierre quietly chuckling and, intrigued, I decided to trace my line. The hook was in our bait box, which was indeed full of bait fish! Despite such joking we caught enough fish for an abundant supper, but Jean-Pierre was not yet satisfied. ‘We must ‘ave mud-crabs,’ he said, and set out at last light with a torch and pole. True to his word, he returned in an hour with an enormous crab, which joined the fish on the barbecue. But he had brought something else with him as well—a perfect New Caledonian nautilus shell, which the tide had deposited on the sand right next to his boat. The New Caledonian nautilus is perhaps the most beautiful of an exquisitely beautiful genus of shells—wave patterned in white and chocolate brown, its spiral forming a perfect Fibonacci sequence. He gave it to Alex with a flouri
sh, saying, ‘it must be a gift from the sea to you.’
CHAPTER 17
The Mystery of Mont Panié
All our searches thus far had failed to find a monkey-faced bat on New Caledonia, and there was only one realistic option remaining: Mont Panié. At just over 1600 metres high it’s the tallest peak on New Caledonia, and on its upper slopes botanists had documented a distinctive vegetation that might, as with Fiji’s Des Voeux Peak, provide a refuge for such a bat. But Panié was far harder to reach than Des Voeux Peak. There was no road leading to the summit—only a steep track beginning at sea level. Arriving in the late morning, we engaged two young men from a local village as guides and set off through the tall, rank grass that clothed the mountain’s lower slopes. The burrowing grass seeds, which worked their way into our clothing and boots, made it an unpleasant trek. And to add to our woes, the weather was unbearably humid.
With all of us carrying heavy packs, it would take until sunset to reach our destination—a resting hut a hundred metres or so below the summit. But after a few hours we crossed into the coolness of the forest, and the walk became enjoyable. By mid-afternoon we’d reached an elevation of 1000 metres, and had crossed an invisible line into a region where persistent mist, cloud and rain sit against the mountain. Alex had struck up a friendship with one of our guides, the son of a local chief, and who was also called Alex. As we rested on the mountain in an ancient glade, she murmured something in French. ‘Oui, oui,’ answered the other Alex, and he continued in English, ‘Yes. Yes, the spirits are here.’
The constant moisture had created an enchanted land filled with trees I didn’t recognise. Some, I guessed, were akin to Australia’s grevilleas, but they had flowers and leaves so huge that they appeared monstrous. Others were impossible for me to classify: they had waxen buds shaped like miniature spacecraft or new growth of the most fantastic shapes and colours. They were quite literally like nothing else on Earth: members of plant families that are unique to New Caledonia’s mountains. Plant families are mostly ancient, and these plants had somehow survived on their island ever since it split from Australia. Since then a vegetable kingdom of such uniqueness had sprung up, making one dream of other worlds.
