On another occasion, a woman came rushing into the park carrying a baby basket. Inside, covered with a little pink blanket and surrounded by little fluffy toys, was an obese-looking juvenile boa constrictor. The woman was almost in tears as she gestured insistently towards her snake and then to me. It was obvious there was something terribly wrong, but for the life of me I could not make out what the problem was. Boa constrictors are amongst the most common harmless snakes kept as pets, and this young specimen look fine and well fed. The woman rattled on so fast, almost hysterically, that I could not make out a word and was forced to call on Jurgen to translate. Having somewhat calmed the woman down, Jurgen listened to her explanation and finally translated to me. It seemed there were two boa constrictors. Oh, I thought, the other must be sick. Quickly I pulled back the little pink blanket. No sign of the other snake. Must be under the bottom blanket, I mussed, and soon I had removed everything from the basket. Still no sign of another snake. Turning to the woman I candidly pointed this fact out to her, and with a heart-wrenching howl of anguish she dropped her head on my chest and burst into a fresh spasm of tears.
I began to suspect there was some sort of misunderstanding here and looked again to Jurgen for help. Once more he took the distraught woman in hand and slowly coaxed her through the story one more time. At last he turned to me with a broad smile. Apparently the poor woman had kept a pet boa for many years. Then one day it took sick and died. She had raised it from a young snake, in the same baby basket now lying before us. She had been heart broken by the loss until one day she decided she was ready to get a new pet boa. But this time, to prevent any further heartbreak, she decided to purchase two snakes. In the event of one dying, so the logic went, she would still have the other to console her. She had no experience with the keeping of more than one snake, however, and unwittingly introduced two dead mice into the basket for her new babies to eat before nipping off to call her neighbor over to see her new babies enjoy their first meal. On their return, however, instead of two small boas, they found only one rather larger boa with a tail protruding from between its jaws. What had happened was clear. Obviously both snakes had latched onto the same mouse at opposite ends (a common occurrence when feeding more than one snake in a confined space), and the more aggressive specimen had simply swallowed the mouse as well as the snake attached to it. This explained the healthy, well fed boa I held in my hand at that moment.
Again the unfortunate woman burst into tears, this time flinging herself onto Jurgen’s chest. Jurgen looked helplessly to me for assistance. There was absolutely nothing I could do about the eaten snake, so instead I made some coffee to calm her down and practically pointed out that one snake was far less trouble than two, and that her plan had after all been successful, as she now still had one snake instead of none. At this Jurgen rolled his eyes, while the woman sobbed more loudly than ever, leaving me with no further comfort to offer.
It was a stark reminder for promoting the importance of research before acquiring an exotic pet. This is especially the case when dealing with something far removed from the usual domestic pet menagerie. Reptiles, amongst other exotics species, require specific and detailed attention if they are to live a long and comfortable life.
Word had gotten out that there were daily snake “milking” demonstrations taking place at the park, and to most Germans this was something new. Nowhere else in Europe could one actually witness the handling of highly venomous snakes, not to mention the ‘exciting’ venom extraction process. The Germans picked up the new phrase quickly. They called it “schlangen melkung,” and I was amazed at how many visitors would ask when the “schlangen melkung” show was to begin, making up-and-down cow-milking movements with both hands. I suspect that, after watching a demonstration of venom actually being “milked” from a snake, many people were quite surprised, perhaps even disappointed. One person went so far as to ask if snake milk could be consumed by humans, and if so, what price it might fetch in a store. I soon became accustomed to this type of question, displaying little surprise, instead patiently explaining the basic facts concerning “schlangen melkung.”
One day I became involved in a discussion with a couple who badly wanted to purchase a special snake to keep as a pet in their home. They were a genuine couple who had done their homework. They knew exactly what they wanted and how to look after it, having gleaned all the available facts from all the literature on the subject. Good common sense told them that purchasing a snake from a dealer was not in their best interest, as there was no telling where the animal had come from or whether it was internally healthy or not. On that day I had displayed a young African ball python and had allowed individuals to handle it, as I often did during shows. This was when the couple approached me and expressed their desire to purchase such a reptile. As it happened, six ball python eggs had been successfully hatched at the park a few months before, and the youngsters had quadrupled in size since then. Jurgen had wanted to sell off four of the specimens, as our collection already numbered eight. The couple was ecstatic, and begged to be allowed to purchase a pair immediately, despite the hefty price of DM300 (roughly the equivalent of 150 euros) each. (The average price at the time for captive-bred, good feeding juveniles)
As we were negotiating the deal just outside the laboratory entrance, another couple stepped forward from the watching crowd. They were a Chinese couple and asked if there were a possibility of them purchasing the remaining two specimens. I was amazed. Seldom did I have the opportunity to sell four exotic, expensive reptiles all in the space of one hour. Jurgen would indeed be pleased. Mr. Chang spoke perfect English, assuring me of his knowledge of reptiles, and without further ado he produced a large wallet, from which he extracted six one-hundred-DM bills. Minutes later two very happy couples left the park, their newly purchased pets snugly housed in warm woolen bags for transport.
Two weeks passed by, during which time the first couple telephoned periodically to report on the progress of their pet snakes, which by all accounts were growing in leaps and bounds.
“No trouble at all,” the proud father exclaimed enthusiastically.
“Better than having babies,” the proud mother chimed in.
I wondered how the Chinese couple were making out with their pair of youngsters. As if in answer to this thought, just four days later, while shopping in the town of Goslar, some forty kilometers from the park, I spotted the Changs walking along the crowded main street some distance ahead. I called out to them and waved wildly to get their attention. Mrs. Chang recognized me first and quickly pulled her husband over towards me.
“How are you? I asked. “And how are the ball pythons?”
Smiling brightly, Mr. Chang nodded vigorously. “Oh very nice!” He said. “Very nice! We will buy from you again. Every few months we have family come visit from Hong Kong, and it is always nice to serve something special for dinner.”
CHAPTER 10
THE ASIAN COBRA INCIDENT
The daily routine at the German park naturally called for the handling and working with highly venomous snakes. Though my duties included doing snake handling shows for the public, it was on a much smaller scale than what I had been doing in South Africa, and so proved to be of little potential danger to my person. Working with the off-display laboratory specimens was another matter, however, as the large majority of these were housed in a variety of small glass cages. The daily cleaning of these cages was difficult, as each reptile had to be removed from the cage before cleaning could commence. This meant that every reptile, venomous or nonvenomous, had to be handled with every cleaning, the confined space making any other method potentially dangerous. Ironically, it was not the cleaning and handling of the snakes that saw my downfall, but the feeding.
The snake in question was a very irate and permanently bad-tempered Asian spitting cobra. A juvenile, at just sixty centimeters long, I had always made sure to handle this specimen with snake tongs and keep my eyes protected against the spray of venom the snak
e relentlessly threw in my direction. I have seldom encountered such an aggressive reptile, and on this fateful day, my last at the park before my flight back to South Africa with all my collected camera equipment, I stupidly decided to feed this little monster one more time before I left.
The feeding technique simply involved placing a freshly killed laboratory mouse into the snake’s cage. I did this with the aid of a pair of forceps which were thirty centimeters long making sure my hand came nowhere close to the open cage door while doing so. On this day, as usual, the little cobra raised its head threateningly as I approached, watching my every movement. Sliding the glass door open carefully, I pinched a dead mouse from the feeding tray with the forceps and, as gently as possible, threw it into the cage. Usually the snake would immediately attack the dead mouse, striking and biting into it with determination, “killing” it again and again to its own satisfaction. . . but not this time. With a perfectly timed lunge, the little cobra flung its body out the open door and all the way over the forceps to accurately jab both fangs into my thumb . . . and there it hung suspended, injecting venom into my hand with gusto.
I simply could not believe my eyes as my heart sank. This could not be happening to me. Not again! Quickly I grabbed at the snake’s body, which was whipping about in the air, and gave it a powerful tug. No time to worry about breaking its fangs; every second meant more venom being injected. I had to get the snake off my hand, and immediately! The tug pulled the snake loose, streaks of blood materializing as the teeth and fangs raked across my flesh. With a quick flip of the wrist I flung the cobra back into its cage and slammed the door closed.
I was shaking all over with shock and disbelief. This was to be my last day in Germany. I was all packed and ready to leave, cameras in hand, excited to begin work on my new project in Africa. With painful resignation, I suspected that I would not be catching my flight. Even if I were to survive this, I was going to be in Germany for a while . . . unless I did something fast!
I hurried my way to the laboratory fridge, where all the medical equipment and medicines were stored. Blood from my bite wounds splattered over everything as I frantically searched through all the serums for something that might cover the Asian cobra species. It took me just a minute to go through the lot, locating a variety of serums for just about any venomous species on the planet, but nothing specifically covering Asian cobras!
Bloody hell! What was Jurgen thinking? It was important that we carry serum for all species housed at the park. Time is always of the essence where a snake bite is concerned. The sooner the serum is administered, the better the results. And this is what worried me about the spitting cobra. Back home in South Africa, where spitting cobra research had been conducted, some evidence had been accumulated to show that the terrible necrotic effects of the Southern African spitting cobra venom could be avoided if specific serum was injected intravenously within at least thirty minutes after the bite. It was just possible that the same might apply to the Asian species. I desperately needed to get the specific serum. Finding nothing in the fridge, I ran from the laboratory out across the park to the main building, where Jurgen was working in his office.
Barging through the door, my heart pounding, my hand dripping blood all over the place, I almost shouted, “Jurgen. I’ve been bitten! I need spitting cobra serum. I can’t find the right serum.” And I held my bleeding hand aloft for him to see. I knew I was doing all the wrong things, getting my heart rate up instead of taking everything slow and easy, but in my desperation I felt that, if I was to prevent a long and painful recuperation period, I needed to get that serum into me as fast as possible.
Like a startled rabbit, Jurgen jumped up from his chair and rushed over for a closer look at my hand.
“Austeen! This bad! You need doctor,” he cried in his usual heavily accented and broken English. “I call doctor now!” And he dived for the phone on his desk and frantically began to place a call to medical services. His stating of the obvious infuriated me.
“I know I bloody need a doctor, Jurgen,” I blurted out in frustration, “but I need to get the correct serum immediately, or I’m going to have necrosis problems later.” Like most Germans, Jurgen was not accustomed to handling such emergency matters himself, having been taught by the book. And the book said such matters as snake-bites were to be handled by doctors only. The making of decisions amongst Germans relies on precedents, and when a situation is unprecedented, people are uncertain how to behave.
So there I was, myself an expert in the treatment of snake bites, expected to await the distant arrival of a German doctor, who, living in a country that had no highly venomous snakes to speak of, in his whole life had more than likely never seen a single snake-bite, least of all a bite from an exotic species from another continent, to help me. Holy mackerel!
By this time my hand was swelling and in pain, all the worse from all my activity. Frantically I lunged at Jurgen and pulled the phone from his ear, forcing him to look into my face.
“Jurgen! You can call the doctor later. Right now I need to know if we have any serum for Asian cobras! I need to know this now!”
Shocked at the anger in my voice, and probably the vision of my bleeding hand splattering blood all over his neatly arranged desk, Jurgen stared at me with wide, frightened eyes. The last thing he wanted was a dead “Austeen” on his hands.
“Do we have serum, Jurgen?” I repeated, almost shouting into his face, forcing him to come to his senses and help me directly. There would be plenty of time to phone the bloody doctor later, but there was no time to waste right now if I was going to save myself from a repeat experience of the terrible necrotic effects of snake-bite poisoning. If there was any serum about, I needed to get it into my veins immediately!
“Ja . . . ja! I have many serum in van for snake transport.” Jurgen finally managed, his eyes focused rigidly on my face, his mouth quivering as he spoke. “I have all for Austellung [exhibitions]. I get it.” And he ran from the office. I should have thought of it myself. Transporting snakes around the country for display and public shows, Jurgen naturally kept serum available in the transporter van. I just hoped he had what I needed.
Carefully I replaced the fallen telephone receiver and waited, making a conscious effort to calm down. An increased heart beat meant a speedier circulation of venom, venom that right now was coursing through my body in search of the most efficient way to destroy all my living systems. My blood, my nerves, my tissue—all of it would die in a very short while if I did not get the correct serum. Outwardly I calmed down, but inside I was shocked to my very core that I had somehow allowed this to happen to me again.
Within seconds Jurgen reappeared with a large emergency medical case in hand, retrieved from the truck. I grabbed the case from his hands and wrenched it open. And there it was, ampoules of serum for various species of venomous snakes . . . including Asian cobras! My heart leapt. (Not a good thing for someone with snake venom in his system, but my relief was great nonetheless.) On the down side, I could find no antihistamine. I would have to take my chances without it.
Quickly I ripped open a 10 ml syringe and fitted a needle. Next I snapped off the tip of the first ampoule of serum and sucked up the life-saving fluid. I knew I needed at least three ampoules, probably more. I just felt it—more later, possibly, but an immediate three ampoules right now if I was to survive. Jurgen watched me as though in a trance, not believing that I was actually about to inject myself with antivenom. He had been taught that, under no circumstances, was one supposed to do anything without a doctor present. Great in theory . . . not so great when knowing I probably had more snake-bite experience than most doctors and also knew that their first advice would be to wait for symptoms to appear, by which time it might be too late. If my suspicions were correct and Asian spitting cobra venom did produce a similar cytotoxic effect to that of the South African species, I needed to cover myself quickly.
So transfixed was Jurgen with what I was doing that I now had to
remind him to phone for the medical assistance he was so keen to call for earlier. I had the serum in hand, but I was treating myself, so any further assistance would be most welcome. And without further ado, I plunged the needle into a prominent vein in my left arm . . . and slowly pressed down on the plunger as I did so. The shock of it made me dizzy and I felt myself stagger. This was not a time to go weak at the knees. I needed help.
“Jurgen, get over here.”
Quickly he obeyed, shock written all over his face as he stared at the needle in my arm. Twenty minutes had passed since the bite. Borderline! I knew it may even be too late, but there was no turning back now. It was a race against time to get that serum into my system. Anaphylactic shock was a real possibility without the antiallergic properties of an antihistamine being injected first, but I had never shown any signs of negative reaction to serums in the past and so was willing to take the gamble. Risky, when I think of it now, but such was my fear of necrosis setting in. I just did not believe I had the strength to live through that again. I was in a strange country with strange people who I feared might not have the experience necessary in this field, so I wanted just to take care of myself to the best of my ability. It was about this time that I began to feel myself slipping away, and slowly I slid off the chair I was occupying to lay down on the floor.
“Jurgen,” I whispered through a veil of dizziness and steadily progressing pain, “Please don’t let me die. Give me all the serum we have.” My life was now in his hands . . . and I knew it was the worst thing I could do to him.
It is said that the true character of a person can best be judged when faced with a difficult or even life-threatening situation. This is when a person’s “true colors” are revealed. And going against all his carefully cultivated instinct and all he had been taught by a protected society to leave matters to others better qualified, Jurgen now rose to the occasion, believed in what I asked of him without fully understanding, and proceeded to take over the job of getting the remaining ampoules of serum into my vein—something he would never have believed he was capable doing of just a few short minutes earlier.
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