In semi darkness now, as the torch lay abandoned on the floor where it had fallen, I wrestled desperately with the terrible head filled with teeth, feeling the power of the snake as it attempted to pull me deeper into the pipe. Having long, recurved teeth, especially designed to secure prey animals with furry bodies, I knew that I had to somehow force the jaws forward, deeper into my face, before I would be able to unhook the teeth and release the head back again. I also knew that, with so many teeth embedded in my face, I was not going to manage this without multiple lacerations. I clearly remembered an incident some years earlier when a herpetologist was bitten on the arm by an Asian reticulated python, the resulting wounds requiring forty-six stitches. What would a similar bite do to my face?
All this ran through my mind in no more than a few seconds, as in final desperation I jammed the fingers of my right hand into the front of the snake’s upper jaw, feeling the teeth penetrate my fingers as I did, and forced the jaw up and out of my face. The pain in my fingers was terrible, but preferable to that experienced in my face. With the top jaw now dislodged, any further control I had mustered evaporated, allowing panic to prevail. With little thought for the consequences, I ripped the snake’s bottom jaw free, breaking off the last remaining embedded teeth as I forced it away. Blood streamed from multiple lacerations running down into my neck and shirt. I was free but still a long way from safe, as the head now clutched feverishly in my blood-soaked hands pushed and squirmed to get free. To lose my grip now would be disastrous, as I had little space to maneuver and the snake was steadily uncoiling and pushing towards me.
I had to get myself and the snake out . . . and now!
Obviously, this was easier said than done. My blood-slippery hands struggled to maintain their grip on the neck as I shuffled backwards towards the concrete junction entrance. I would have to do it all backwards, dragging the python with me. I dared not lose my grip on the head and I dared not allow any body coils to get around my neck. Desperate now, I called out to Mr. Jackson, who by now must have been wondering what was going on and probably feared the worst after hearing my first scream of panic.
“Mr. Jackson! Can you grab my legs and pull?” I tried to sound as calm as possible as I maneuvered myself onto my back and shoved my legs through the drain opening. My eyes were full of blood, the snake was pushing and twisting in my sticky hands, and I was about to exit the drain upside down, legs first, hopefully dragging four meters of angry python with me. All in a day’s work for me . . . but not so for Mr. Jackson, who hesitated when first I stuck my legs out the drain opening. I could sympathize with his confusion, but had little time to explain. “Pull me out by my legs. Quickly! My hands are full of snake!”
Fortunately for me, Mr. Jackson caught on quickly and proved to possess considerable strength as he grabbed hold of my protruding boots and tugged with all his might. I felt the skin scrape off my back as I attempted to assist his efforts by wiggling and maneuvering myself steadily over the rough concrete edge of the drain entrance. Finally my head emerged, and there came an audible intake of breath from the whole family, as for the first time they were exposed to my head and shoulders, which were covered in blood. Face and head wounds are known to bleed profusely, usually looking worse than they really are; however, I must have really looked a mess because the younger of the two boys clutched at his mother’s dress and burst into tears. Everyone else just stared in horror as I steadily emerged, bloodied and battered, with a giant gaping head in my hands that continued to writhe, push, and hiss.
Until this time I had not even been able to wipe the blood from my eyes, and the sticky blindingness of it brought fears that one or both of my eyes may have been punctured by the python’s teeth. Once free from the drain, I unceremoniously dragged the rest of the giant snake out onto the surrounding open ground and was finally able to release its head. Quickly wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, relief flowed through me as my vision cleared. At the same time, the now-released snake made a lunge at my legs, determined to seek revenge. With the whole snake now exposed on the open ground, and my no longer being confined by the drainpipe, I was back in control and easily side-stepped the strike.
Meanwhile, the Jackson family all stood huddled together a good distance away, watching the scene with some trepidation, their eyes rigidly fixed on the python. Suddenly the elder son now also broke into hysterical tears, followed closely by Mrs. Jackson, as Mr. Jackson made futile attempts to console them all. Good grief! Just how bad did I look? Not fully comprehending at first, I turned to look back at the snake, and all became clear. Strategically placed right where the reptile’s tummy would be located, was a large lump. Could this be the Jackson’s pet terrier? Another resounding howl emanated from Mrs. Jackson and the two boys, while Mr. Jackson continued his futile attempts to console with soft words and hugs.
As if the day had not already been traumatic enough for the family, the giant snake now began to writhe its body from side to side while at the same time contracting its length into a concertina shape. I recognized the maneuver immediately. Any snake that has recently swallowed a large meal will quickly regurgitate it if disturbed, thus affording it a better chance of escape. This snake had been seriously disturbed, having being dragged out of its hiding space by the neck, and was now about to disgorge its meal right in front of the watching Jackson family. It had been stressful enough coming to terms with the fact that a giant snake had eaten their pet dog without the need to see its squashed, slime-coated body being regurgitated from the snake’s mouth right before their very eyes.
Quickly I stepped over to where the Jackson’s stood huddled together. As one they stepped back, horror etched on their faces. The boys clutched even more tightly to both parent’s legs, a fresh bout of tears bursting from their eyes. I had momentarily forgotten how bad I must have looked, my face, chest, and hands all covered in sticky blood. Urgently signaling Mr. Jackson over, I whispered in his ear. “Take the family inside quickly. The python is regurgitating its food. They don’t want to see this.” Somewhat confused, he stared at me uncomprehendingly . . . then suddenly his face registered my meaning. The soon-to-be-materializing pet wire-haired terrier was not going to resemble anything as cute and cuddly as they last remembered it.
About to follow my suggestion, Mr. Jackson turned to his family to usher them away when at that very moment there came a gurgling, scraping sound from behind me. As one we all lifted our eyes in the direction of the sound, just in time to see a large, furry, unrecognizably slimy object spurt from the gaping jaws of the snake.
“Bwwwaaa.” A renewed burst of uncontrollable tears flooded from the boys, while Mr. and Mrs. Jackson stared stricken at the regurgitated object, as if unable to fully comprehend what they were witnessing. Rationalizing the predicament, I chose to ignore this renewed onslaught of hysteria, directing my attention instead towards the snake, which was already heading unerringly back towards the storm-water drain. I could not and would not face another episode in that drainpipe!
Sprinting forward, I made a desperate lunge for the snake, grabbing it at mid-body with both hands, just in time to pull it back from the edge of the storm-water entrance chute. The constrictor naturally took offense to this handling and effectively retaliated with an open-mouthed reverse lunge at my body, striking me squarely on the thigh. Once again needle sharp teeth penetrated my flesh. Taking advantage of the action, I released the mid-body and instead fastened both hands behind the snake’s head. Secured now, it remained only for me to fight the rest of the body into one of the large snake bags that lay scattered on the ground. But I needed help.
“Mr. Jackson,” I called out hopefully, “could you give me a hand please . . . if you don’t mind?”
Mr. Jackson stared across to where I stood, gripping the head of a giant, wriggling python attached to my now bloody thigh. What was I thinking? Of course he minded! Mr. Jackson would rather stick bamboo shoots under his fingernails than help the crazy man covered in blood with a giant,
wriggling python attached to his thigh! It was not that he was unwilling, just that he correctly estimated that, if he walked away now, he may still have a chance to live a long life and see his boys grow to maturity. Having witnessed the results of my two encounters with the enraged snake, there was no way in hell Mr. Jackson wanted to come near me.
Surprisingly though, after some hesitation, Mr. Jackson did slowly move closer and, under my instruction, successfully helped stuff the great muscular body of the python into a bag, while I kept the deadly head well secured between my bloody hands. Finally bagged and sealed, we both breathed a sigh of relief. I ran a shaky hand over my face, both sticky with drying blood. Pinpricks of pain indicated the incidence of numerous fractured snake teeth embedded in my forehead and chin, but the bleeding had basically subsided, as was usual with sharp, razorlike cuts. There would be time to clean up for proper examination later; right now there remained the matter of the regurgitated pet terrier. This would have to be disposed of as discretely as possible to avoid the family being further traumatized. I suspected that already the nights to follow would be riddled with nightmares and more crying.
Turning our attention for the first time to where the regurgitated animal lay in a sticky mess on the sand, we were surprised to see the eldest boy standing over the carcass, a look of euphoria growing on his face. “Dad, that’s not Moppet . . . that’s . . . something else.” And the realization suddenly dawned on me that we had all gotten so wrapped up in the whole business that we automatically assumed that their dog, Moppet, was indeed the cause of the bump in the python’s body. I bent down to examine the mystery prey animal and was quick to realize that this was not a dog but rather a large, grey wild hare, common in the area. The snake had after all fed on its natural prey, and the fact the dog was missing was no more than a coincidence. Smiles and jubilation broke out amongst the family, as just on cue, as though planned by a higher power, a car rolled up to the gate. “Hey Jim,” a man’s voice called out from the open passenger side window. “Got Moppet here with me. Found him way down the other side of the plots. There’s a bitch in heat down there somewhere; dogs all over the place. Better tie him up for a while.” And with that, Moppet, the wire-haired terrier I had yet to meet, nimbly hopped out the window and ran over to examine the interesting, smelly, freshly regurgitated scrub hare that had until then been the source of our fullest attention. Needless to say all attention was now quickly transferred to Moppet, the wayward terrier, who lapped it up with wagging tale. And general happiness prevailed, with earlier traumas placed securely in the past.
As for me, after splashing my face and hands with some water from an outside tap, I bade the Jackson family farewell, tactfully declining their offer to stay for coffee by stating the need to get the snake back to the park. In reality, this had been one of the most difficult snake extractions I had ever undertaken and I really needed to get back to examine all the damage to my person. As matters turned out, with the aid of some flat-edged tweezers, I eventually removed eleven broken needle points of python teeth from my face and scalp, leaving another three deeper tips embedded. These I knew, from previous experience, would fester out over the following days or weeks. The numerous lacerations otherwise inflicted healed without the need for stitches but did leave a few scars that would be slightly visible on my face for years to come. Just another typical day as curator of herpetology at the Hartebeespoort Dam Snake and Animal Park.
After measuring and notching a few of the python’s ventral scales (for identification purposes in the event it be encountered again in the future), and knowing we had no need for pythons at the park, I released the snake back into the wild, a good distance from human habitation. It goes without saying that, on being released, the unforgiving reptile further pursued its attempts to rip my face off with a series of vicious strikes . . . but who can blame it after my dragging it from its hiding place and causing it to lose its hard-earned meal. Unable to explain to the snake, I knew, however, that had I not removed it from the area, it would in all likelihood sooner or later have turned up on someone’s property, where it might have been killed by a less-conscientious property owner than Mr. Jackson.
All’s well that ends well.
While some calls for snake removal play out in a similar fashion to the story above, an incident reflecting the extreme opposite manifested itself one particular morning. Shortly after the python episode, an urgent call came through to the park that a man was “trapped” in his house by a dangerous snake. Knowing how people often overreact to the presence of a snake, I was skeptical. Managing quite easily to locate the property, I drove up a long, grassy driveway to the house, where I parked the car close to the front door. As I stepped out, a thunderous roar came from within the house, followed almost immediately by another. The entire building reverberated with shockwaves, sending me diving behind a low stone wall. Another two explosions followed. Then suddenly the front door burst open, and what seemed to be a half-crazed person with blazing eyes and hair standing on end rushed out onto the veranda brandishing a twelve-gauge pump-action shotgun.
“I got him!” The man cried hysterically, punching a fist at the sky. “I got him!” And turning swiftly, he charged back through the open door. I decided that where I was, safely hidden behind the stone wall, was as good a place to be as any. Absolutely furthest from my mind was any idea of approaching the house at this stage of the game. If I was going to die prematurely, it should at least be from snake-bite, not a shotgun wound! I waited. Five minutes passed. No further sounds came from the house. I decided to call out. Raising my head cautiously above the wall, I peered nervously in the direction of the open door.
“Anyone at home?” I called out, and then ducked back down just in case. “I got him!” the same hysterical voice screamed from inside. “You can come inside. I got the monster!”
Slowly I stood up and, still nervous of what to expect, headed for the house. Pausing in the doorway, I peered into the gloom. The strong smell of cordite burned my nostrils as my eyes adjusted to the dim light. Then I saw the man. He was perched on a couch in the living room area, loosely pointing the shotgun towards the floor, his gaze fixed intently on one spot. Lamps, a television set, side tables, couch pillows, and even paintings lay crashed all around him, all riddled with bullet-holes. Even the chandelier, walls, floor and ceiling, were peppered with lead shot.
Without getting off the couch the man gestured with the shotgun. “I got him!” he said triumphantly. “He’s there under the carpet. I’m just waiting for him to move again.” The carpet was an expensive one, I noted, now too ruined by lead shot.
“Please point the gun away, sir, and I’ll see if I can find the snake,” I said as politely as my quivering nerves would allow. Unsteady as this lunatic was, I was not planning to venture inside while he still brandished the shotgun. Jerking his head upright, he looked for the first time directly at me, then screamed, “Are you mad?” His eyes blazed. “Are you totally insane? That’s a rinkhals under there. Keep away. When it moves, I’ll blast it to hell!” He hoisted the gun to the ready position.
Well that was that as far as I was concerned. There was no way I could see getting around this one. It was very obvious the man harbored a more than average fear of snakes. I looked at him one more time. His eyes were blinking rapidly and his mouth twitched as he stood in the ready position, waiting for the slightest sign of life from beneath the carpet. A bad case, I decided, a real phobia. Quietly I stepped back from the door and headed for the car. This one, I told myself, was above and beyond the call of duty. I was better left out of it. Leaving as I had come along the driveway, I reached the main road just as two more explosions rocked the house. I put my foot down and headed back to the park, my thoughts a mixture of confused emotions.
Examining a beautifully marked puff adder. This snake has a powerful tissue destroying venom and is responsible for about 80 percent of all African snake bite casualties.
Exposing the hollow, needle-like
hinging fangs of the African puff adder. The fangs fold back up into the top jaw when not in use, as do all adders.
The Gaboon viper/adder is the largest viper in Africa with fangs measuring up to 5cm (2in). The venom is nerve and tissue destroying, resulting in respiratory failure and possible gangrene poisoning.
Just a scratch from one fang of a Gaboon viper introduced enough venom into my system to cause this amount of swelling and tissue damage to my hand and finger.
Being interviewed by phone in the snake cage during the 107-day world record sit-in. One curious cobra tries to “listen in” as others lay claim to the bed.
Potentially Africa’s deadliest snake, this black mamba poses defensively, ready to strike.
A beautiful and rare banded snouted cobra with hood spread in defensive warning.
With this Egyptian cobra’s attention being diverted elsewhere, the cameraman moves in for a rear-end close-up.
The rock python is the largest snake in Africa, reaching a length of 6 meters (20 feet). Though nonvenomous, its mouth is rimmed with sharp teeth capable of inflicting a nasty bite.
The colorful Gila monster is one of the only two lizard species in the world that have evolved venom glands for aiding in the killing of prey.
Approaching a desert chameleon on a sand dune during the making of the documentary film, Dragons of the Namib.
An accommodating rock monitor lizard located while on film location in Namibia, displays no fear of being handled.
Washed down almost to the Namib coast by inland desert flooding, this huge black mamba was eventually relocated back to its more typical habitat.
Snakemaster Page 10
