Gerald also owned a Mini Cooper, his other passion in life. Naturally this was no ordinary Mini, but a “souped-up,” extremely modified Cooper S, rebuilt from the ground up with loving care by Gerald himself. The motor had been treated to every modification known to man in order to almost double its original power output. Gerald loved speed, and the highly-tuned engine of his Mini seldom operated below 8,000 rpm, way past anything registered on the dial. This resulted in constant overheating, blown head-gaskets, and the occasional seizure. But Gerald could make that car fly.
Tall and skinny, with boney knees and elbows and a beak-like nose, Gerald’s appearance belied the fanatical enthusiasm that was boiling away inside of him. When he was squeezed in behind the wheel of the Cooper, his lips would part as he ran his long pink tongue across them, his bulging eyes glazed over in ecstasy and anticipation of the power about to be unleashed. My greatest fear in life was to have to ride with Gerald in his beloved Mini Cooper S.
The episode with the cobra began on a day when my own car was in for service and Gerald happened to be visiting me at the park. Gerald insisted I accept a lift home with him, as he was heading in the same direction and, unable to conjure up a quick excuse, I reluctantly accepted. Soon we were cruising at low altitude with the Cooper just barely following the road as Gerald feverishly pushed for peak revs. Frozen in terror, both feet up against the dashboard in a pointless attempt to brace my body in preparation for the catastrophe I felt was imminent, I inwardly cursed my stupidity for allowing myself to be trapped into this situation. Negotiating a right-angled bend at fearsome speed, the Cooper roared off into the sand at the edge of the road. I was just about to let fly with a string of verbal abuse when suddenly, not thirty meters ahead of us, a large cobra with head raised proudly, sailed smoothly and speedily across the road into the underbrush.
Incredibly, without any change of facial expression, nor any reduction in speed, Gerald threw the steering wheel a full turn to the right to follow in the direction of the disappearing reptile. Instantly my body was hurled violently against the door and the air was rent with a tortured, wailing screech as all four tires strove to adapt to the sudden change in direction. The cab filled with the pungent smell of burning rubber as the Cooper’s body and suspension buckled under the terrible strain, still traveling in its original direction but now turned at a ninety-degree angle to the open stretch of tar road ahead. I almost bit my tongue clean in half as, impossibly, Gerald crashed the gear lever down from fourth to second without bothering to depress the clutch. Unperturbed, the powerful little motor never missed a beat but roared deafeningly in response, all but shattering my ear drums in the process.
We were still screaming sideways when I spotted the oncoming car. I was about to yell a warning when Gerald floored the accelerator to its maximum, precipitating a forward surge as the spinning front wheels pulled desperately at the road, with clouds of white smoke billowing from the screaming tires. The fast-approaching driver, with an expression of shock and astonishment on his face, slammed on his brakes, swerving dangerously to avoid us, just as the Cooper gained full power and roared off the side of the road and ramping a sandy embankment. Still at full throttle, we were now momentarily airborne, heading roughly in the direction the cobra had disappeared to only seconds before.
My mouth dripping with blood, I clung to my seat with all my strength as the Cooper touched ground again and tore through the tall grass, over rocks, and into a plantation of wattle trees. Through all this Gerald had not uttered a word nor changed expression, his eyes fixed rigidly ahead, but for the life of me I could not see any sign of the snake. Nevertheless, we kept right on going at full throttle, swerving amongst the trees until suddenly there appeared before us a fallen tree stump, raggedly sprawled across our path.
The Cooper slammed into it with such force that our bodies were hurled unmercifully against the windscreen, our faces squashed flat in a splattering of blood and twisted flesh.
With no more than a grunt, Gerald dived from the car and disappeared into the bushes. I could hear the sounds of a scuffle and saw sticks and stones scattering in his wake. Moments later he reappeared: torn and tattered with his nose still bleeding from the crash. In one out-stretched hand was a large snouted cobra suspended by the tail. I was speechless. My body ached all over, my nose was broken and bleeding, and the fool just stood there grinning! I closed my eyes and shook my head, convinced that this could not be happening. But when I opened them again, he was still there, smiling broadly and proudly, displaying his prize. Unable to control myself, I burst into laughter. Gerald joined me, rocking on his heels, and together we stood and roared with laughter. And the pain in my face was terrible.
The Cooper’s radiator was squashed all over the engine block, and steam gushed out noisily. Tottering clumsily in our somewhat mutilated state, we headed back towards the road, where we planned to hitch a ride back to the snake park.
Motorists passing along the old Hartebeespoort road that evening were treated to the somewhat unusual sight of two young men with broken noses and blood splattered clothing thumbing for a ride at the side of the road with a live, two-meter snouted cobra in tow. Not surprisingly, perhaps, no one stopped for us. After a while I suggested to Gerald that he hide the cobra. This he did by wrapping it around his waist, under his shirt, while holding the head securely with one hand. He now looked like a skinny Napoleon Bonaparte in the midst of Waterloo, with bloody nose and bony knees, but the very next car stopped to offer us a ride.
She was a kindly lady of about sixty years old, well spoken, neatly dressed, and driving a Volkswagen Beetle. She was very sympathetic and terribly shocked to hear of our accident in the Cooper. She also hoped Gerald’s covered hand would soon heal.
At last heading safely back towards the park, where we would house the cobra overnight, we were chatting away amiably when suddenly Gerald gave a yelp and there came a flurry of activity from the back seat. This was immediately followed by another yelp, and the next thing I knew there was a snouted cobra dangling over my shoulder, gazing intently into my face, as Gerald had obviously lost control of the creature. Our Good Samaritan still blithely chatting away, she took her eyes off the road for a moment to look at me. For a second or two she seemed not to focus as her mind battled with the unlikelihood of what her eyes were seeing. Then in mid-sentence, her mouth dropped open and with a piercing yell she rose straight up into the air and dived for the back seat. Not being quite as athletic as she might have once been, she landed head first, legs up over the back of her seat, the screaming now slightly muffled. The Beetle meanwhile careered across the road and I was obliged to ignore the cobra and grab for control of the steering wheel. Thankfully the snake showed no malice whatsoever, but seemed rather to be enjoying the ride (though was probably more intent on finding an avenue of escape). With the vehicle swerving dangerously from left to right, I fought desperately from the passenger seat to gain control. The difficulty here was further increased by our driver’s wildly kicking legs, which sporadically connected with my already-battered face. She continued to scream hysterically and, try as he might, Gerald could not dislodge her head from behind the back seat.
And that was how the traffic officer found us some minutes later as the stalled car bumped and shuddered to a halt a few meters off the side of the road.
Neatly parking his motorcycle, the officer strategically adjusted his sunglasses, swiped a finger across his moustache, pulled out his pen and ticket book, and strutted importantly up to the car. He was in an aggressive mood, and he shoved his head in through the open window to see what all the commotion was about. “Haai! Wat gaan hier aan? [Hey! What’s going on here?]” he blurted in a heavy Afrikaans accent. But any intended further aggression quickly turned to blind panic as he came face to face with the cobra. For a split second the officer’s eyes bulged before frantically back-peddling. The cobra, having now seemingly decided that enough was enough, darted like an arrow out the same window right where the
officer’s head had been a second before, slumped to the ground, and darted for the surrounding trees.
Gerald and, I meanwhile, were trying to calm the distraught woman enough to untangle her and remove ourselves from the little two-door car. This finally achieved, we were amazed to find our officious officer of the law heading speedily for his motorbike. Jump starting the machine, he called out in Afrikaans, “Julle Engelse is almal blerry mal! [You English are all bloody crazy!]” and sped off at speed without as much as a backward glance. Considering his earlier aggressive attitude, I suspected that he was experiencing a bad day, and having a snake lunge at him from inside a car was the final straw. Nothing like a cobra in your face to initiate reconsidering your options.
There was no sign of the cobra, which had most likely curled up under a log somewhere in the surrounding bush, glad to be away from all the chaos. Our lady friend, calmer now but still panting and wheezing heavily, seemed dazed and remained motionless where we sat her, propped up back behind the steering wheel of the Beetle.
Gerald and I looked at each other, unanimously deciding without the need for words to walk the rest of the way before she recovered enough to demand an explanation or before the traffic officer changed his mind and returned. Setting out at a fast pace, we arrived back at the park an hour later, painfully exhausted. The following weeks saw Gerald and myself with bruised noses and black eyes but otherwise little the worse for wear. The Mini had been towed and garaged in preparation for extensive repairs. The fact that nobody had been killed, bitten, or at the very least arrested that day remains in my mind one of life’s great mysteries. Testimony enough that snakes do not attack humans unless provoked; or sometimes, even when provoked.
CHAPTER 6
ON LOCATION WITH JULIE AND SLIMY
As funds became available, Jack poured everything possible into the further construction and improvement of the reptile and mammal housing conditions at the park. However, as the years passed, it became painfully obvious that takings at the gate, no matter how constant, could just barely support the conditions at that time. Besides the obvious costs incorporated in such a conglomeration, there were further expenses to be considered. The purchasing of certain species for the purpose of further propagation thereof, for example, played an essential part towards the future diversity and feasibility of the park. One could not simply expect to replace lost animals from nature, as though available on a store shelf. Many species were already becoming endangered, emphasizing the necessity for breeding programs.
However, the costs involved in the purchasing of compatible specimens, and especially breeding pairs from already established programs, locally or overseas, were enormous, sometimes running debts into the hundreds of thousands. And being a privately owned business as was Hartebeesport Dam Snake and Animal Park, no outside funding or government grants were forthcoming. Thus the takings at the gate were stretched to the limit, with barely a cent to spare.
Another consideration was the enormous feeding bill. Here the big cats (the lions, tigers, pumas, leopards) and a further assortment of smaller meateaters claimed a large slice, while the apes, monkeys, wild pigs, and birds took their share in fruit and vegetables. The snakes, too, though not necessarily fed every day, as was the case with the other animals, consumed large numbers of mice, rats, guinea pigs, and rabbits, which in turn consumed volumes of vegetables and specially formulated compressed food pellets. Now take into account salaries, electricity bills, and all the other general financial absorption typical of any business dependent entirely on the takings at the gate . . . dependent, in other words, solely on public support. It was a narrow fence to walk!
However, matters were to take a turn one day, when a casually dressed, soft-spoken man introduced himself to Jack as Jamie Uys, filmmaker. In fact the man needed no introduction, as he was already becoming known locally and internationally for his presentations, which for the greater part conveyed humorous episodes of typical early South African-type conflict between the British and the Afrikaner, forced into mutual, if somewhat reluctant, coexistence.
In parts of Africa people live in close proximity with wildlife, especially in rural areas. Jamie’s idea was to script sequences of human encounters with wild animals into his stories. These would mostly be humorous interactions. (One of these films, The Gods Must Be Crazy, was to later become a worldwide hit.) Having received favorable reports about the large variety of African and exotic reptiles and mammals housed at the park, and especially the mention that many of the animals were hand reared (therefore to some degree adjusted to human contact), he decided to pay a visit.
It was the beginning of a new era, with improved mutual financial gain for all concerned, as the wonderful world of moviemaking came to Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park. Working with wild animals on location was a whole new ballgame for me, and there was much to be learned and experienced. No matter how big or small, how tame or how docile the animals, they remained wild animals, with little or no inclination to do anything more or less than they pleased. Adult lions, tigers, bears, and other potentially dangerous animals were always more than a handful and often had to undergo long periods of basic training in preparation for a particular scene. Even this, however, did not guarantee absolute cooperation.
Another important factor for consideration was the preparation and basic training of the actors expected to perform in close proximity of, or sometimes in direct contact with, the animals. And as the business progressed, the demand and variation grew by leaps and bounds, from companies asking for brief animal appearances to others with hardcase directors demanding if not the impossible then something dangerously close . . . with dangerous being the operative word.
It was up to Jack to either accept or reject a project. Simply having the animal in demand was not reason enough to blindly attempt any scripted scene that was submitted. And if indeed the animal was available and suitable, there was still the matter of travel relocation, housing, feeding, and in the case of potentially dangerous animals, safety precautions and qualified staff able to assist.
Eventually, to more easily deter those more impractical and somewhat illogical celluloid miracle makers, Jack upped his prices drastically so that only the serious would approach for animal work contracts. Jack did not promise the impossible, but rather guaranteed satisfaction for the client once a script had been accepted. And this strategic move paid off, with the Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park becoming well known and respected over the years to come—both locally and internationally—as the professionals in the business of wild-animal rentals for commercial advertising, television, and film.
Snakes were always featured high on the wanted list, and in spite of the obvious difficulties and dangers of working with venomous species, they presented little problem, were easily transported and housed, and needed no feeding for days at a time. And in all the dozens of scenes designed to portray the serpent, never once, I am glad to say, did there ever develop a life-threatening situation for either handler or actor.
However, live reptiles on location, however safely housed, remained a matter of some disquiet amongst most film personnel, actors and crew alike. But the day I was called upon to conduct a scene that scripted the brief appearance of a four-meter African rock python, little did I imagine the consternation that would arise from this usually simple task.
The snake selected for the movie was named Slimy, a four-meter African rock python of calm disposition who had been bred and reared at the Park. Some eight years old at the time, Slimy was already a powerfully muscular creature, who feverishly attacked and devoured anything furry thrown his way.
However, when otherwise handled, Slimy was the purest example of a “friendly snake” and was a favorite amongst kids and adults alike, especially on weekends, when he would be liberated from his cage to pose with visitors for photographs. It seemed that Slimy loved the activity as much as those excitedly gathered around him. And having considered the facts, everybody concerne
d agreed, Slimy was the obvious choice for the film role in question.
A two-day shoot was scheduled on location in Northern Zululand, where an American/Canadian team was completing the final footage for an African adventure series. The python scene had been reserved for last, with the director not wishing to expose his actors to the “stress” of working with a live snake until all else was completed. Thus, two days later, after an eight-hour drive across the country, my unusual “baggage” safely and soundly asleep in the back of the Nissan Cruiser, I arrived at the location in Northern Zululand, where a temporary bush camp had been erected for the purpose of the film scene. Here I was introduced to all those taking part in this particular segment of the shoot.
The scripted scene was a simple one, as was the part for Slimy to play. The actress, an exquisitely beautiful young British woman named Julie Gooding, was to be pictured struggling for her life against the suction pull of quicksand, while the hero, Dave Duncan, a tall Canadian, was prevented from immediate rescue by the presence of a large python, which threatens him as he attempts to get near. No heavy heroics, nobody getting swallowed or “crushed” . . . simply a battle of wills, set against time, as the hero prods the great snake with a pole in an eventually successful attempt to get the reptile to retreat rather than attack.
At first sight, Julie Gooding—with her long, flowing, almost-snow-white hair hanging loosely around a lovely face, accentuated by cherry-red lips, chiseled nose, and sparkling blue eyes—seemed no less than a goddess, and I imagined immediately to be frantically in love with her. That is until she opened her mouth to speak to me for the first time.
“Make sure that Slimy creature stays the hell away from me at all times!” she almost spat at me, ignoring my greeting and self-introduction. “It’s bad enough I have to tolerate this festering jungle, but if that . . . that creature so much as comes near me, your head will roll!” And with that she turned and stormed away, as though in some way I had aroused in her all the anger she had obviously collected over the years.
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