On entering the victim’s premises, the police discovered what seemed to be no less than a small reptile park. The collection housed species from around the globe, venomous and nonvenomous alike. Either the man was a keen collector or was dealing in sales of exotic, live reptiles. Whatever the case, it was an illegal operation. Not knowing anything about the reptiles in question, the police called for an expert to accompany them to identify and remove the snakes. As matters turned out, I was to be the expert.
The police were most apologetic for taking me away from my work, while I in turn expressed my gratitude for the opportunity to save the reptiles, which would surely have been destroyed otherwise. I was informed that the reptile owner would in due course be charged with illegal possession of venomous reptiles. I would then be asked to testify in court as to the accurate description of the species involved.
We arrived at the residence within the hour. It was a small house positioned high upon a slope. I went inside and was immediately confronted by numerous glass-fronted wooden cages piled one on top of another, each housing far too many snakes . . . proof enough in my mind that the man was indeed a dealer and not a collector. On closer examination I found most of the animals to be in rather poor shape, somehow surviving in atrocious conditions with little evidence of cleaning. This angered me, and I felt within my rights to confiscate the specimens to relocate and house them properly at the snake park.
Accompanying the police were two reporters who busily made notes and took photographs as I began to extract snakes from the various cages. A few minutes later, more police, members of the veterinary department, and more reporters arrived on the scene. This little incident was obviously making big news in the Harz. I was constantly bombarded with questions as I worked, while flashguns flared in my face. The room now seemed to be chock full of people, and, as I extracted each new specimen from its cage, there came a resounding chorus of oohs and aahs and flashing lights continuing to explode in my face. Half the time I couldn’t see a damn thing I was doing!
Steadily the flow of people increased as nosy neighbors now joined the throng, eager to get a piece of the action. Numerous times I politely asked everyone to stand back, to allow me room to work. This they did, apologizing profusely for their intrusion, only to crowd in again as soon as I reached for the next snake.
Amongst the specimens were a number of young boa constrictors and pythons, but the rest were venomous, some highly so. I was surprised to see medium-sized black mambas in one of the cages and decided to leave these for last, as their size, agility, and nervous disposition made them the most potentially dangerous of the collection. The man was running a big show here, probably supplying snakes to buyers across Germany and most likely beyond its borders. I counted about seventy specimens in all, and after a while the floor around me was covered with wriggling snake bags.
Reporters continued to shoot film and take notes as I tried to explain something of interest about each species. One thing was certain: I was going to make headlines somewhere in the German news, and I wondered if German TV might not get wind of it as well. As if by command, a new face popped through the doorway, followed by an enormous tripod onto which was attached a video camera. Then came a jumble of cables, lights, and various fittings. German TV news had arrived, and just in time for the grand finale—the removing of the four deadly black mambas.
Quickly I allowed a short interview and explained that the bagging of the mambas was going to be more difficult and dangerous than had been the case with the other snakes. I suggested everybody should leave the room as a safety precaution. This statement was met with a chorus of negative groans, but I was adamant. These snakes were a different kettle of fish altogether. One does not mess with four adult black mambas confined in a cage too small even for a single specimen. All I needed was an angry mamba streaking out into the crowd.
And two minutes later, that is exactly what happened.
Reluctantly, after much pressuring and against my better judgment, I agreed to allow only the TV crew to remain in the room, at a safe distance from where I was to work with the snakes. Then, using the longest snake tongs, I slowly and gently lifted the first snake and gradually coaxed it towards the entrance of the cage and the waiting bag. The animal glared at me distrustfully, with open mouth, in typical mamba fashion. These snakes had probably been tossed around quite a bit since leaving Africa and, nervous as they were, could be expected to attack at the slightest provocation.
There came a hushed murmur from behind me, accompanied by the continuous hum of the video camera. As the first snake cleared the cage door, balancing critically in the light grip of the tongs, I reached out to slide the glass door closed for fear of the others escaping. A specimen closer to the door than the others watched nervously with raised head and slight hood, but made no move to strike as I moved extremely slowly, extremely smoothly.
At this point, from somewhere behind, came an illuminating series of flashes triggered by eager photographers craning their necks from the doorway and hoping for a glimpse of the action. Simultaneously, there came an almighty crash as an overenthusiastic viewer, perched on a chair, overbalanced and careered forward into the group of tight-pressed reporters. Together the entire lot came tumbling into the room, a shower of bodies enveloping the TV crew and their cameras and other equipment.
Startled out of my wits, I almost dropped the mamba, and the sudden activity was just the excuse it was waiting for. Lunging at incredible speed, the mamba’s deadly head flashed forward. Instinctively I ducked my head and body to one side as the gaping black interior of the mouth, with gleaming white fangs, reached out for my face. Over balanced, I collided with the still-open glass cage, which toppled over, creating terrible panic amongst the three remaining mambas still inside. Within seconds the room was alive with scrambling bodies, tumbling camera equipment, four angry black mambas, and me, suspended upside down over the fallen cage, my legs waving in the air. Total pandemonium! And from somewhere from the back of the room, a single flash illuminated the scene. I clambered off the cage and looked around frantically. People were still scrambling out the door with yells of alarm, the last one slamming it shut with a resounding bang.
Oh bloody wonderful! I fumed. Now that all the action had been stirred up, with lots of nice pictures taken, guess who had been left behind to sort out the mess. It was the snake sit-in camera-crew scenario all over again! I hurled the snake tongs at the closed door and screamed at the top of my voice, “AND STAY THE BLOODY HELL OUT OF HERE, YOU MORONS!” No answer came, only nervous shuffling noises from down the passageway. The thought came to mind to throw open the door and set all four mambas after them, but I dismissed the idea. I was already in enough trouble as it was.
I gazed around the room, cluttered with hastily discarded cameras, tripods, and other paraphernalia, and marveled that nobody had been hurt or bitten in the incident. More astonishingly, the four mambas had all gathered together in a nervous group near the window, where they seemed content to remain, heads raised, staring at me suspiciously. It was my move, and as soon as I made it, the four heads reared up towards me, daring me to come closer. Here we go again, I thought. How to convince four frightened, angry black mambas that I mean them no harm.
Considering the situation for a minute, I decided that the old “dark corner” trick would be my best bet. It was as good a chance as any to save what was left of the day. Most snakes will head for the closest dark opening when trying to escape. Often one can coax a snake into a bag in this way, which makes catching the animal that much easier and safer. I had no heavy, dark-interior type bags with me, but a quick search in a linen cupboard yielded a blanket, which I decided would have to suffice. I spread the blanket out on the floor as close to the mambas as they would allow without causing too much panic. Then, reaching out at full arm’s length, I carefully raised the end closest to them by means of a meter-long snake tong. To my surprise, with barely a second’s hesitation, the snakes rushed for the offered
dark refuge, obviously relieved to escape the bright light and probably the sight of me. I now had four highly venomous black mambas tucked under a blanket, in a stranger’s house, somewhere in the northern Harz region of West Germany, in a little town called Helmstadt, about thirteen thousand kilometers from my home in Africa. Who would argue that herpetologists don’t have the most fun?
The next stage of the operation provided little problem as the blanket enabled me to extract one snake at a time, sliding each straight into separate, wide-mouthed bags. Twenty minutes later I stepped out of the room and announced to the nervously waiting crowd that all was under control. This statement was met with a great cheer of “Wundebaar!” and cameras clicked and notebooks reappeared. Soon after I was being transported back to the snake park by police vehicle, the trunk and back seat of which was laden with bags of wriggling snakes.
The following day, Jurgen arrived back from his trip. Bristling with excitement and an arm load of bundled newspapers, he called my name. “Austeen! Austeen! Where you . . . Austeen?” With this heavily accented English, Jurgen pronounced my name with a double “e” instead of an “i.” When I appeared, he ran over and would surely have hugged me had it not been for the newspapers in his arms.
“Austeen! I read everything! You make my park famous!” He was bursting with pride as he searched for more English words with which to express himself. “You do goot job for us, Austeen. You picture in all newspapers.” He pushed one of the bundles over to me. I unrolled it and there I was, slap bang on the front page of the local Harz news, with both legs straight up in the air, the rest of me dangling ludicrously over the up-ended mamba cage, with snakes disappearing in all directions and the headline read, “Schlangen experte aus Africa zeigt wie es gemacht ist. [Snake expert from Africa shows how it’s done.]” I stared at the picture in disbelief, feeling my face flush. Of all the dozens of pictures that were taken, they had to pick that one! And I thought to myself; These Germans drive me crazy!
CHAPTER 9
SULTAN THE CROC AND OTHER STORIES
Sultan was a two-meter Australian saltwater crocodile that lived in a large glass hothouse in the center of the German park’s open-air arena. This he shared with an aquarium full of piranhas, another containing three American turtles, and one with Asian water snakes. Jurgen had always worked this area, which included scrubbing out Sultan’s pool when algae began to grow. Jurgen had told me that Sultan was quite docile, and that one simply had to shove him aside with a broom when scrubbing the pool, so as to gain access to all the corners and edges. I remember thinking briefly how unusual that was, as I recalled reports from other parks about how bad-tempered saltwater crocs usually are, even smaller specimens like Sultan. Largest of all the world’s crocodiles, the saltwater crocodile can reach over six meters in length and are known to attack and eat humans, should the opportunity present itself.
Thus came the day when Jurgen was away on business and no less than five busloads of tourists were booked for a visit. The weather had picked up somewhat over the previous days, with more than the average sunshine drenching the Harz area. I noticed algae was gathering thick and fast on the sides and surface of Sultan’s pool, where the flat green surface was broken only by a pair of scaly nostrils and two glowing yellow eyes. Not wanting to present an example of neglect to the expected public, I decided for the first time to tackle the cleaning of the pool myself. It was early morning, and the day promised to be warm with plenty of sunshine bursting out between the low cloud formations. I decided this was the day to get better acquainted with Sultan, while at the same time rendering him more visible to the visitors.
There were no visitors in the park as I entered the hothouse, and I was hopeful of getting the job completed without interruption. Working in an enclosure with animals always draws a crowd, which can easily distract one’s attention and in turn cause a potentially dangerous situation, as was the case with the Asian cobra incident, still fresh in my mind.
The two yellow eyes peeking out through the film of green surface algae watched me with interest as I exchanged my regular shoes for a pair of gumboots (slang for rain boots). Taking up a long-handled broom, I cautiously stepped into the water. The eyes remained where they were, so I began to scrub away vigorously at the algae. The temperature in the glass house was just below 30° C (86° F), and within minutes the sweat was pouring down my face and arms, soaking into my shirt. The algae was proving to be stubborn, resisting my attempts to remove it, eventually forcing me to sit down on the side of the pool for a breather. Just as I sat down, I felt a gentle nudge against my right boot. Looking down I found myself staring straight into a pair of almost luminous golden eyes. Sultan was inspecting the new arrival. He seemed quite calm, and with Jurgen’s words fresh in my mind, I lifted the broom to give the crocodile a gentle shove with the brush end . . . and all hell broke loose!
With a tremendous bellow, Sultan raised his head clear of the water, lunged at the broom with lightning speed, snapping it in two with one mighty chomp of his jaws. Momentarily paralyzed with fear, I stared at the splintered handle in my hand. Immediately Sultan lunged again, this time fastening his gleaming jaws around my right gumboot, and one powerful twist later I found myself toppled upside down on my back in the green slush—all this in a split second. As my head sank below the surface, I envisioned the headlines: “South African snake man killed by docile Australian crocodile in Germany!” What a way to end it all!
Twisting my body around, I lifted my head for air, at the same time clawing at the side for a hold, but finding none. Viciously, the crocodile twisted again, and I allowed my body to go limp, knowing instinctively that, if I resisted, my leg would go the same route as the broom handle. Crocodiles are known to break up and drown their prey in this fashion. Thankfully the pool was not too deep, which allowed me the chance to break the surface for air. Frantically then, in panic, I began to kick and pull with all my strength until I finally managed to free my foot from the gumboot. With my breath coming in short, sharp gasps, I scrambled out of the pool, throwing myself clear onto the side. Mentally I cursed myself. How could I have been so stupid? With all my years of experience! And still I let Jurgen’s words lull me into a false sense of security, resulting in my almost being dismembered by his “docile” crocodile.
Sultan glared at me defiantly from his green pool, the gumboot still clasped firmly between his powerful jaws. I glared back, suppressing an urge to beat him over the head with what remained of the broom.
When somewhat angrily relating this story to Jurgen on his return to the park a few days later, he burst out laughing. “Oh Austeen, he do that to me first times also. He always do that when he in water. You must first let water out. Then Sultan climb out and lay on side. He docile when out of water.” He was shaking all over with mirth. Placing both hands on my shoulders, he said soberly, “I lose many gumboots this way.” Disgusted, I contemplated beating him over the head with a bloody gumboot, but he turned away, still chuckling, leaving me fuming to myself.
Sometime later, when nobody was around, I slipped into the hothouse to test Jurgen’s theory for myself. It seemed unlikely, nothing like what I had ever experienced with captive crocodiles in the past. Quickly I pumped out the water, and lo and behold, once the water was drained, out climbed Sultan. He perched himself neatly on the far side of the pool, allowing me complete freedom of movement. Somewhat astonished, I watched him as I scrubbed at the still-stubborn algae, and his toothy jaws opened slightly into a hideous grin. I could have sworn there was a twinkle in his eye.
Though I encountered many a keen amateur herpetologist during my stay in Germany, some proved not to be knowledgeable enough when taking on an exotic animal species as a pet. In Germany, at the time at least, as in many other parts of the world, it was a simple matter to purchase, virtually over the counter, even such animals as lions, tigers, or pythons. Reptiles especially need expert attention as well as daily monitoring. Also, their diet is very specific and tempe
rature control is of the utmost importance.
In Germany I came across some of the most unusual reptile problems ever experienced in my career, most of them due to carelessness and the lack of knowledge on the part of the keeper. After a show one afternoon at the park, a young woman approached me and rattled away excitedly in German about having a friend who bred African ball pythons. She went on to explain that she herself had in fact chosen and paid for an egg and was waiting for it to hatch any day now. Having just watched my show, during which I had allowed the audience to handle a ball python, the woman expressed how much she was looking forward to doing the same with her own snake, once the egg had hatched.
In return I explained that ball pythons are sometimes problem feeders, and I advised that correct temperature and humidity would be crucial to the successful raising of such a snake. Furthermore, I explained, a newly hatched snake would require especially good care to ensure it fed well. To all this she nodded vigorously, assuring me that her friend had supplied her with all the necessary information. It seemed she knew it all, and I felt pleased that this would not turn out to be another case of a pet snake’s death due to lack of knowledge. I then asked by way of conversation when the paid-up egg was expected to hatch and when she hoped to collect her specimen. It is not uncommon for breeders to accept payment in advance for as yet unhatched eggs of sought-after species. Responding to this question, the woman’s face lit up, and, plunging her hand into her pocket, she proudly produced a wrinkled, semiputrid, oblong object that only slightly resembled a snake egg. Stroking the smelly object lovingly, she explained that she was keeping it close to her body for warmth, as her friend had advised, and that she expected it to hatch any day now. With this she popped the egg back into her pocket and strolled off to gaze raptly into the ball python cage, leaving me dumbfounded, grappling to fully comprehend what I had just witnessed. I did not pursue the matter . . . there seemed no point.
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