Thus it came about that reptile parks the world over took to the milking of snake venom (the process of safely extracting venom from a snake to be used for antivenom), which, after being desiccated, was stored for later sale to laboratories as demand prescribed. The Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park, situated some forty kilometers outside the capital city of Pretoria, South Africa, where I now found myself employed as curator of reptiles, was no exception, with tourists and the general public alike arriving in their droves to witness these exciting and potentially dangerous “snake milking” exhibitions.
Once I had safely secured the puff adder behind its head, basically minimizing any further existing danger to me, I now only need to coax the reptile’s mouth over the edge of the prepared milking flask. The design of the flask is not relevant, but across the open top a thin plastic membrane is stretched through which the snake’s fangs must penetrate. Thus simulating a bite, the snake will usually eject a quantity of venom from each fang. After a number of extractions, the flask is cleared and the venom desiccated. In its dried form, snake venom retains its concentrated toxicity indefinitely.
With the demand for certain snake venoms at its peak in the mid- to late 1970s, the reptile parks realized the crowd-attracting potential such displays would render if advertised and performed on a regular basis. Thus a new era was born, with park attendance figures increasing steadily as the word spread that “life-threatening” feats with venomous snakes were being performed on a daily basis . . . in the presence of live audiences. And though to us professional snake handlers the entire matter was considered to be no more than part of the job, I imagine that to the general public, with their ingrained natural (or unnatural) fear of snakes, it was unusual and exciting to witness. And of course, the possibility always existed that someone might get bitten. What a show that would make!
But with the advent of these venom-extraction shows, a shortage of the particular snakes in demand quickly developed. Generally, the parks were forced to rely on the public to supply, or at least report the whereabouts of, snakes, and those in close proximity to the park would be collected by one of the staff. But as the venom extraction process was detrimental to the general health of the snake, the mortality rate was high, while the demand was ever increasing.
Snake venom is in fact a complex protein. Regular draining of this protein forces the snake’s body to continuously replenish the loss. Add this to the trauma suffered each time it is handled, and soon the reptile’s condition deteriorates. This will often be followed by a reluctance to eat, and inevitably, death.
To prevent the loss of reptilian life, construction of a much larger park was called for that was capable of housing hundreds of hygienic, single-quarter snake enclosures, specifically designed for the needs of the milking stock. In other words, if a very large collection of the desired species could be housed, individuals could be rotated, with longer periods of rest afforded between venom extractions. This would minimize trauma, while allowing plenty of time for correct feeding and replenishing of the lost protein. However, the costs involved in the creation and staffing of such laboratories was substantial, and not within the grasp of any but the larger reptile institutions at the time.
In South Africa, cash rewards were offered for any snakes delivered uninjured to the park, a move that precipitated a craze of catching, especially amongst the farmers living in the hot, dry northern areas of South Africa, where a variety of snake species—especially puff adders—were prolific. And soon, instead of the occasional drum or box container of captured snakes arriving by train at the railway station for collection by the park, the farmers themselves began to arrive, their vehicles fully packed with the luckless reptiles. I recall numerous occasions when more than five hundred puff adders would be delivered at one time, not to mention an assortment of other specimens, both harmless as well as venomous. With such an astonishing abundance of snakes available in these areas, one could at least reason that, were the reptiles not caught for sale to the parks, they would in all likelihood otherwise have been killed on sight, as was the case most anywhere else in the world.
However, as time passed the matter was eventually investigated by the Department of Conservation and, thankfully, by the early 1980s a law had been passed prohibiting the capture or killing of any reptile species found in South Africa, venomous or otherwise. For what it’s worth, this at least somewhat deterred the further blatant rape of the herpetofauna (local reptile and amphibious species), though it is a certainty that many snakes continued to be killed simply because they were snakes.
Entering the next phase of my demonstration now, I grip the neatly captured puff adder firmly behind the head with my right hand while supporting the heavy body with my left (at the same time clasping the plastic covered flask). I then bring the snake and flask together, allowing the snake’s mouth to feel the edge of the flask being pressed between its lips. Instinctively the snake is prompted to bite. With hinging fangs instantly erect, it lunges forward, with the crowd gasping as venom gushes to the bottom of the flask. This is what they had come to see! Dramatic demonstration of snakebite in action! And as I stroll around the arena with snake and flask both raised high for a better view, and with the reptiles huge needle-like fangs now plainly visible through the plastic membrane, the crowd excitedly cranes forward for a better look. And as always, they are amazed, with a hundred new questions bubbling over in their minds. These questions I address on the move, thereby keeping up a constant repertoire of Q&A so as not to lose the interest of those in the crowd I have already passed by. Having completed my rounds, I finally return the puff adder to its holding container. The audience breathes a sigh of relief . . . as I secretly do as well. Gripping a large, venomous adder behind the head as its long hinged fangs relentlessly chew in an attempt to prick a finger is not a matter to be handled brazenly.
Introducing the next reptile for discussion, I produce an African tree snake from the bushy branches of a shrub-like tree growing in the middle of the display arena. A number of these snakes lived in the tree, coming to ground only when food was presented below. This is a back-fanged species, unusual in that, unlike most other back-fanged species, the African tree snake, or boomslang, manufactures a hemotoxic venom of particularly virulent proportions. However these snakes are docile serpents, seldom attempting to bite but rather choosing to disappear with lightning agility into any available overhead vegetation. Securing the snake’s tail in one hand while draping the rest of the slender body over the front end of a grab-stick, the audience is now treated to a few jittery moments as the serpent is suspended over the arena wall to dangle ominously in their midst as I pass. The calm disposition of the snake astonishes the crowd. A flood of questions erupts from those more curious, while those more nervous cringe at the close proximity of the reptile. A close encounter with a potentially deadly serpent in the hands of a competent handler—one way or another—is always a crowd pleaser.
The boomslang is eventually returned to its tree, which now leaves only the grand finale of the show. Locating a harmless species in the arena, usually a one-meter-long common mole snake or juvenile African rock python, I offer this to be either held or simply touched by members of the audience, thereby at first hand disproving the popular fallacy that the serpentine skin is slimy and hopefully somewhat dispelling their fear of being in close proximity with the creature. This personal encounter with a snake was always well received, with many of the public volunteering to have the snake draped around their necks for a photograph—a personal prized memento of their exciting visit to the snake and animal park. All in all a practical lesson in nature, in this case concerning a drastically misunderstood creature of some undeserved negative repute.
Throughout my years spent as curator of reptiles at three major parks during the 1970s through the early 90s (two in South Africa, one in Germany), I must have physically handled over a hundred thousand snakes—extracting venom from many of these—as well as performing countless p
ublic shows, demonstrations, and lectures. Over that period of time, though experiencing a number of close calls, never was I ever seriously bitten by a venomous snake while performing and lecturing to the public; that all happened behind the scenes!
CHAPTER 2
A BIT OF BACKGROUND AND THE HARTEBEESPOORT DAM SNAKE AND ANIMAL PARK
I was just twelve years old when I brought home my first reptile, a juvenile red-lipped herald snake. Though this species is not considered dangerous to humans, my parents were unimpressed and forced me to dispose of the luckless reptile. I was very upset, having now seen the forbidden fruit but not allowed to eat of it. Thus began my love/hate relationship with my parents as I battled relentlessly to coax them over to my way of thinking, while they in turn threatened to send me off to boarding school if I did not behave as was expected of me.
It is not easy to explain why snakes and other reptiles affect a young child so. It might be the unusual way in which they move, or their incredible color patterns displayed on shiny scales, or it might be because these creatures are so secretive and mysterious, some even reputed to be deadly. It may be one or all of these things. All I know, and what I have witnessed with many people I have introduced to snakes, is that once they have touched a snake, felt its smooth, cool body move effortlessly through their hands, they are never quite the same again. Everything changes, and there seems suddenly to be a new awareness of the beauty of this wondrous natural thing.
Needless to say, my parents did eventually succumb, and by my late teens I had procured an extensive collection of snakes that I housed in a variety of glass enclosures in my bedroom. By this point my parents now proudly discussed my “pets” with all friends and visitors, showing pride and genuine respect for my accumulated knowledge and enthusiasm of the subject. Little did they suspect how these creatures would affect the rest of my life.
I had never touched a camera until some years later, when I first became professionally employed at the then-named Transvaal Snake Park. Suddenly I had access to all these wondrous reptiles from around the world, reptiles of every color and shape. So I purchased a little fixed-lens instamatic camera and began to take pictures. However, within a short while, realizing that I was not doing these magnificent creatures the justice they deserved, I progressed to a more advanced camera, one that incorporated interchangeable lenses that allowed me access, especially, to a variety of close-up macro lenses.
Now I could get down to fine detail, showing all aspects of the wonderful color patterns and scale formations of these reptiles, amongst other features. Soon I was photo crazy, shooting up roll after roll of slide film. Eventually I began writing articles about these exotic creatures, supporting each article with my own photography. (Over the period of my writing, I have had more than 150 wildlife articles published in a variety of magazines in Southern Africa and around the world.)
My earliest experience with television work came about at a time when I was performing lectures and public reptile demonstrations at the Transvaal Snake Park in South Africa. At the time, in the mid-seventies, South Africa had just recently launched its first television station, and it was not long before a SABC (South African Broadcasting Company) film crew turned up at the park to record one of my public reptile demonstrations. This led to an offer to do a followup program at the Johannesburg SABC studios, bringing all my reptiles with me to appear on a program called Compass. This I did, with the show proving to be so popular that I was asked to return to perform two further shows.
However, it was only many years later, after I had relocated from South Africa to Namibia (South West Africa), that I first looked through the viewfinder of a 16 mm movie camera as I prepared to embark on a TV documentary film concerning the life of snakes. This I did for NDR (Norddeutscher Rundfunk; in English, “North German Broadcasting”) Television in Germany and titled the film Die Natur der Schlange (The Nature of the Snake). The goal of the film was to document interesting behavioral patterns of some of Southern Africa’s unusual snakes. And, to my delight, the film was nominated in the “First time film maker: Best documentary” category, at the Grenable Film Festival in France.
Moving with the times, I later changed to video format and spent seven months in the dunes of the Namib, where I tracked and filmed the secret lives of desert chameleons. Titled Dragons of the Namib, this film was aired on the National Geographic Channel and distributed globally.
Thereafter I was on numerous occasions contacted by international film companies to participate in a variety of film projects where reptiles were being featured, especially for UK-based companies. After completing work on a number of these programs, I was finally approached and asked if I thought it might be possible to do an interactive adventure episode involving venomous snakes. I said yes, that I thought this was possible, and the resulting dramatic film, Seven Deadly Strikes, became the catalyst that eventually led to Animal Planet’s initiating the production of my first television series, Austin Stevens: Snakemaster/Austin Stevens: Most Dangerous. This was followed later by a second series involving dangerous mammals, Austin Stevens Adventures.
My personal history with the Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park reaches back many years, to the age of seventeen, when, with a growing sense of excitement, I read the snake cage “sit-in” challenge in the evening newspaper. The next morning saw me furiously pedaling my bicycle in the direction of the park, some forty kilometers away from where I lived on the outskirts of Pretoria. Hours later, exhausted but no less enthusiastic, I presented myself to Mr. Jack Seale, owner of the park, who was at the time locked in a snake enclosure with twenty-four venomous snakes, attempting to set a world record. The challenge I had read in the newspaper had come from Jack himself, daring anyone to have lunch with him in the cramped space he was sharing with the venomous snakes.
Thus it came about that I met Jack Seale for the first time and found myself now the subject of much media attention and a specific newspaper article that read, “Boy, 17, at ease with mambas.” This was my first publicity article, with me in no way suspecting the many that would follow over the years to come.
Over a period of two days I spent some eight hours in the cage with Jack. We chatted, learning about each other and eating lunch amongst the serpents, a stunt that thrilled the gawking visitors and press personal alike as they gathered around the glass enclosure. It was time enough for Jack and I to establish a friendship that, unbeknown to us at the time, was to endure for more than forty years, to the present day. Little did we suspect that some twenty years later, to raise funds and awareness to the plight of the African gorillas, I would myself set a new world record of 107 days and nights spent in a cage with thirty-six of Africa’s deadliest snakes. It would be the highlight of the many years I was to spend working at the park as curator of herpetology.
Jack had been fascinated by reptiles since his early childhood, his career beginning with a tiny snake park he constructed some twenty kilometers outside the Hartebeespoort area. At around this time, a small private zoo had begun to take shape right on the edge of the Hartebeespoort Dam itself, opposite the old Lake View Hotel. Jack later formed a partnership with the zoo owner, transferring his reptile collection to the new park. Shortly afterwards, Jack’s partner grew tired of the operation, allowing Jack to buy him out and take over the business in its entirety, and the Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park was born and still remains today.
The park began its design a hundred meters back from the water’s edge, but as time passed and funds became available, further development was initiated with new sections being created for other animals as well as reptiles and soon these sprawled out along the waterfront. This created a unique setting enabling visitors to access the displays while at the same time offering a breathtaking view across the water, where colorful sailboats skimmed silently across the surface.
The park was Jack’s dream, his passion, his life. It was all he ever wanted, and when he stood on the great turreted, stone-wall perimete
r overlooking the dam, with his arrogant stance and thick walrus moustache jutting into the wind, he felt no less pride than a king surveying his kingdom.
When Jack offered me the position of curator of herpetology, it was to be the beginning of my professional career in the fields of herpetology and zoology, which in later years would progress to my interest in wildlife photography and documentary filmmaking.
Each evening the park closed its gates more or less as the sun was setting behind the Magaliesburg Mountains, which edged the northern perimeter of the Hartebeespoort Dam itself. At the western edge of the park, constructed high up on a steep incline surrounded by trees and with a magnificent view of the water, stood a rustic cottage built of natural stone—my home for the many years of my stay as curator of herpetology at the park. Here, each evening, as the last diurnal animal calls gradually diminished with the onset of night, to be replaced by the roars, grunts and howls of those of the nocturnal, I felt satisfied and at peace.
Accepting my position at the park was a lifesaver in more ways than one. It enabled me to immediately become independent of my parents, while at the same time giving me a positive direction toward the fields to which I was obviously drawn. Despite my parents’ wishes that I become a doctor (or at least a lawyer), I knew with some certainty that it would never happen. For better or worse, I was drawn in another direction. This was a natural compulsion I either obeyed or spent the rest of my life wondering where it might have led. I did then, and still do today, believe that being content in one’s work overrides earning the “big bucks” in an unhappy environment.
My title as curator of herpetology in fact encompassed not only the reptile section but a wide variety of general work around the park. Under the supervision of Jack, as well as two other staff members in managerial positions, a large team of African staff were employed to do the daily maintenance, clean cages, and do the general animal husbandry. Though reptiles were my forte, with so many other animal species housed on the property, it was imperative to gain at least a general knowledge and experience concerning their well-being and keeping. Being a privately owned park, its design and construction had evolved somewhat erratically over the years as funds became available. The resulting outlay presented the visiting public with an interesting walk amongst a variety of species of mammals as well as reptiles, with a varying selection of each scattered along the way.
Snakemaster Page 3
