“Slowly, Jurgen,” I said . . . “slowly.” It was important that the serum be administered at a slow, regular speed, so as not to further shock my already-traumatized system. All I wanted was to get the serum circulating in my system; thereafter, I would be happy to receive any further medical attention advised by a doctor.
Doctors do not like being told what to do, and I can understand that, but I was not going to get into a lengthy explanation concerning the potential postenvenomation effects of Asian spitting cobra venom if serum was not administered as soon as possible. There are many doctors and herpetologists alike who still advise not to introduce antivenom until symptoms are beginning to manifest themselves. And that’s fine; they are welcome to their opinion on whatever grounds they base them. But at this point in time, my life was at stake, and I was making the call according to all the experience and knowledge I had gained over many years in the snake business. As a studied and experienced person in the field of herpetology, I felt it was my right to decide on the method of treatment.
I will never forget an incident some years earlier in South Africa when a venomous boomslang (back-fanged tree snake) I was rescuing from a flooded ditch struck out at me, just managing to imbed its front teeth into the palm of my right hand. Instinctively I jerked my hand away, leaving behind a few bleeding puncture marks. I felt fairly confident at the time that the rear fangs housed on each side of the snake’s upper jaw had not penetrated my flesh. However, prudent thinking suggested that I admit myself into a hospital, where an overnight vigil, including blood counts, would confirm whether I had indeed been envenomated or not.
A doctor “specializing” in snake-bite treatment was notified and presented himself at my side at the hospital in question and closely studied my bitten hand for some minutes before finally concluding that, in his “expert opinion,” this was not the bite of a venomous boomslang. It was a case of mistaken identification. I was quick to explain that I was a herpetologist and, without question, could identify a boomslang when I saw one. Visibly bristling at my doubting his “expertise” and self-proclaimed knowledge on the subject, the doctor then refused to admit me even for overnight observation, stating that I would be needlessly occupying a bed required by someone who was really sick!
Holy cow!
I could not believe my ears, and it took some argument and numerous frantic phone calls to friends and associates able to confirm my status as a qualified herpetologist before I was finally, and somewhat reluctantly, admitted for tests and overnight observation, the doctor in question all the while still insisting that he had seen boomslang bites before, and this was not a boomslang bite.
As matters turned out, overnight hourly blood counts confirmed that no venom had entered my system. I had been lucky, but my confidence in so-called medical “experts” in the field of snake-bite was somewhat shaken. I could have been left to die . . . or at least forced to wait for symptoms to manifest themselves. In the case of the powerful hemotoxic effects of boomslang venom, the damage to my body might have been irreversible.
Suddenly the air was alive with the irritating, wailing sound of an ambulance siren as it pulled up in a screech of rubber just outside the snake park. This was followed by an invasion of paramedics and a full-blown doctor, who immediately pounced on Jurgen as he was withdrawing the needle after administering the last ampoule of serum into my arm. Sternly he reprimanded Jurgen, insisting that no treatment should be administered until snake-bite poisoning be positively established by the occurrence of symptoms. I sighed inwardly. Thank you, Jurgen, for getting the job done before the arguments began.
I felt mentally exhausted, but alive. No matter what treatment would follow, I had received the serum I needed. Nothing more to do but hope it was in time to prevent serious local tissue damage by the potential cytotoxic properties that I was not even sure occurred in Asian spitting cobra venom. Only time would tell, and I lay back in submissive acceptance of things to come.
The ride to the hospital was something to remember, as the vehicle sped along narrow streets with the siren going full blast. Some cars were forced off the road, while others skidded to a halt to allow the emergency vehicle to pass. Curbs were mounted, stoplights ignored, and pedestrians forced to dive for areas safe from the speeding emergency vehicle. Obviously this was a life-and-death situation of the most grievous nature.
Strapped down on a gurney in the back of the vehicle with a 500 ml saline drip filled with a concoction of treatments emptying into my body at a frightening rate while being fussed over by half a dozen very concerned-looking medics as the ambulance jostled and lurched and swerved its way towards the hospital, the thought occurred to me that death by motor-vehicle accident might be the more likely outcome of this experience.
When I arrived at the hospital the chaos continued, as more enthusiastic German nurses, doctors, and any other available staff appeared, transferring me from ambulance to a hospital ward at full emergency tilt. Exotic snake-bite cases were a rare occurrence in Germany, and it seemed the entire medical fraternity wanted a piece of the action. Not surprisingly, considering the fuss and noise of the whole operation, television press arrived with cameras rolling as I was hurriedly wheeled down a corridor to the emergency room. With luck, and if I lived through it all, I might catch myself on the 7 p.m. news. And I thought to myself . . . these bloody Germans are crazy!
Swollen now to its maximum, my arm was extremely painful to the touch—different, though, from that of a viper bite. There was none of the terrible burning sensation at the site of the bite, no oozing of fluid, no sign of blood-filled blisters. Of course with cobra venom, a powerful neurotoxin, one has to be prepared for the unexpected, and after some discussion with the doctor in charge, a tall blonde-haired woman of serious disposition, it was agreed that at least two more ampoules of serum be fed gradually into my system via the saline drip. Hopefully this would be enough to continue the battle against the venom. Continual monitoring of my system was now all that remained to be done. In spite of strong painkillers, it proved to be a night of little sleep.
The next day, however, found me feeling stronger and more comfortable in spite of my painful and swollen arm. I believed I was out of danger, that the serum had done what it was designed to do. There was no sign of necrosis at the sight of the bite and no discoloration anywhere along the length of my arm. My gamble had paid off. I was alive and on the mend.
My diagnosis did not impress the doctor, though after a close examination she reluctantly agreed that my condition seemed not to have deteriorated overnight. This was all the encouragement I needed, and I immediately announced that I wished to leave as soon as possible, as I had a plane to catch back to South Africa. This statement was first met with stares of astonishment by doctor and all staff present but slowly evolved into patronizing smiles of disregard.
“This not possible,” the doctor said, voicing the general consensus, and everybody nodded in agreement. She focused a stern look towards me. “After such traumatic und life-threatening experience as venomous snake-bite, vun must obviously remain hospitalized und under observation for some days, und thereafter take it easy for an extended period. International flying is something not even to be considered for some time to come. Ja!”
Jurgen, who was forever trying to convince me that his park in Germany should become my home, did not want me to leave anyway, and so agreed whole heartedly with the doctor’s prognosis. But I was adamant. My Lufthansa flight was scheduled for 9 p.m. that night, and I was going to be on it one way or another. Admittedly it would not be an easy task. My arm was painful and swollen to twice its size, reducing carrying or any other traveling activity to one arm only. Most importantly, to my way of thinking at the time, I had a packed collection of cameras and other painstakingly purchased equipment waiting. I had an idea in my head, a film to make. I was going home . . . tonight.
There followed further justifiable argument on the part of the doctor, but finally she capitulated, unhappily p
roducing a German version of an RHT (refuse hospital treatment) form for me to sign. This I did, and, after sincerely thanking her and all the staff involved for all their efforts on my behalf, I left the hospital with my arm in a sling, a bottle of painkillers, and a letter from the doctor describing my condition, should there be any questions at the airport. I knew I was again taking a chance with my life, but such is the way of youthful enthusiasm. I had a goal set in my mind, and all else seemed irrelevant.
A very unhappy Jurgen drove me to the airport. “I’m sorry, Jurgen,” I muttered, somewhat unsure of how to express my inner emotions. “I just simply have to be on that flight home to Africa.” I tried to explain how I felt but saw by the confused look in his eyes that I was not having much success. I could imagine and sympathize with his confusion. I was hurt and potentially still in danger for my life, yet still insisting on leaving immediately, while he on the other hand was offering me a permanent position and job security in Germany. To Jurgen, the Schlangenfarm and Germany were the be-all to end-all of life. And though I could understand this, sometimes even tempted to submit myself into the security of it all, I simply could not do other than to follow my heart. I had an idea in my head that I was striving towards—a feeling that there was something I had to do back in Africa, and nothing could change my mind. This was simply the way it had to be. I could not properly understand it myself, so how could I explain a personal, driving emotion to someone from a vastly different background?
Reluctantly Jurgen saw me safely to my terminal, wishing me well as he did so, with the promise that his door would always be open should I ever wish to return. “I never forget you, Austeen,” he called as I turned and waved before passing through the gate. And I knew we would be friends forever.
My arm in a sling promoted much attention, and I was not short of people offering help with my heavy hand luggage full of camera equipment. I was about 20 kg overweight, but I was sent on my way without so much as a suspicious glance. (The good old days, before the threat of international terrorism.)
My aching arm rendered the flight uncomfortable but otherwise uneventful. I dosed myself with pain pills and tried to sleep. My arm was not getting worse, but I knew there remained still the danger of possible relapse if the amount of serum introduced into my system proved not to be sufficient and had not neutralized all the cobra venom. Though I had not advertised this to anyone, I carried the last two ampoules of serum available at the park in my jacket pocket. I also carried a syringe loaded with a sterile needle. I could just imagine the chaos should I experience a relapse on the plane and need to be treated. Oh lordy!
When I think of these things so many years later, I am astounded at my daring stupidity. As matters turned out, I arrived back in South Africa feeling well enough, collected my Land Rover from storage, and headed out into the wilderness on a twenty-five-hundred-kilometer trip across two deserts—the Kalahari and the Namib—to a little town on the Skeleton Coast of South West Africa called Swakopmund. From here I would attempt my first solo documentary film. Little did I suspect at the time that this would become my base and home for the next twenty years of my life.
CHAPTER 11
FILMING IN AFRICA
In returning to Africa with all the camera and film equipment, my plan was to secure some interesting wildlife footage with which to tempt a production company to allocate funds that would allow me to proceed with my envisioned project. My first idea was to make a film about unusual species of snakes and other reptiles native to the Southern African region and record any unusual behavioral patterns. First I chose to work with those species closest to where I lived in the middle of the great golden-desert sand dunes located along the Atlantic Coast. These included the elusive side-winding adder, two species of legless lizards, the little-known golden mole, and the prehistoric-looking Namaqua desert chameleon.
It was in fact a Namaqua chameleon that I encountered first with my camera, as it strode purposefully across the dunes at a hurried pace. This reptile is an amazing example of desert adaptation, surviving extreme conditions in a waterless realm of heat, dryness, and blowing sand, armed only with the ability to camouflage and a long, sticky tongue housed in a toothy set of jaws. As with all chameleon species, the desert chameleon’s eyes swivel individually. After several weeks of following the reptile, I was able to bring the camera very close, though even when hunting I noticed one eye remained ever-watchful, given my close proximity.
I spent many weeks in the dunes with this one particular female chameleon, who I named Rosy because of the beautiful mottled pink color she adopted when directly exposed to the harsh rays of the desert sun. During this period, Rosy led me on a merry chase over a large area of her desert territory. Gradually, her daily routine was exposed to me. I witnessed Rosy snap up hundreds of dune-dwelling beetles with her lightning-fast tongue, along with a few large locusts, numerous other insect species, and even a dune lizard.
To my astonishment, Rosy one day tackled a side-winding adder that had surfaced close to where she was perched amongst the fleshy leaves of a dollar bush. In an attempt to defend itself, the little adder desperately lashed out with vicious, venomous bites to Rosy’s head, but soon succumbed to her crushing jaws. Interestingly, I noted that the little adder’s venom seemed to have no obvious effect on the chameleon whatsoever. After about an hour of struggle and complicated swallowing, Rosy waddled off down a dune, her stomach dragging in the sand, stuffed with snake. I was fortunate to have caught the whole episode on film. My perseverance was beginning to show dividends. Now at last I felt I had something to offer the world of wildlife documentary making.
As it turned out, Germany’s NDR Television liked what they saw and was interested in financing the completion of the proposed film. Thus I was, for the first time, introduced into the complicated business that exists behind the making of a wildlife documentary. Unceremoniously, I was thrown in at the deep end. Not only was I expected to find and film unusual behavior amongst the reptiles I might pursue, I needed to record sound to match, transfer all my 16 mm footage to video, edit the video into an acceptable rough-cut version, and take it all across the world to Germany. There, with the aid of a professional editor, I would be allocated a studio where, for a period of some two months, I would work the film up to an acceptable standard for network release. An exhausting task, as I was soon to find out.
However, for the most part this all lay in the future. With the security of an allocated budget in my pocket, I was free to roam Southern Africa’s wilderness areas, cameras at the ready, in search of the interesting footage I imagined may be lurking out there. Cobras, like sharks or lions, always excited documentary viewers, so as a start, I set out in search of one of these predators, the African snouted cobra.
For some weeks I searched the rocky regions and dried riverbeds hundreds of kilometers inland from the coast without success. One can never find a snake when one needs one. Instead, I came across a large male rock monitor lizard, which one day entered my camp and helped itself to everything edible that was available, including much of my stock of raw eggs. Presumably recognizing a good thing when he saw it, the giant lizard decided to stay. Munchy seemed as good a name as any for my newfound hungry lizard friend, and with an inspired change of filming schedule, I now turned to following Munchy all over the surrounding countryside, recording the daily activities of one of nature’s most interesting reptiles.
Coincidentally, one day this included sniffing out the elusive snouted cobra I had so long desired to find. As I was to learn over future projects, staying with one animal will often lead to interesting interactions with others. The snouted cobra in this instance was quick to defend itself against Munchy’s attack, raising its hood menacingly and striking out, its fangs loaded with deadly venom. Apparently familiar with the scenario, Munchy did not for one second hesitate, instead lunging forward with open jaws. Grabbing the meter-long cobra at mid-body, quickly spinning as he did, Munchy hurled the cobra across the ground.
Quick as a flash Munchy followed up, and, fixing his powerful jaws over the stunned cobra’s head, he crushed down with all his might. He then proceeded to bash the writhing body from side to side till satisfied no life remained in it. After some ten minutes of this activity, Munchy began to swallow the snake down whole. As astonishing a feat as any I have ever witnessed, and, once again, I had caught the whole action on film. My project was now moving forward nicely thanks to my hungry lizard friend.
It was not long after this incident that Munchy disappeared back into the bush, never to be seen by me again. Not even my cracked raw eggs, strategically placed at night, produced any results. It was almost as if he had come just to show me the way and, with this achieved, was once again free to roam the wilderness that was his home. It is not unrealistic to imagine such things when one is spending long days and nights alone out in the bush. Immersed in empty, sweeping landscapes by day, replaced each night by a darkened canopy of overwhelming, starlit heavens. It is as though one is gradually absorbed into the surrounding majesty of it all. Never am I more acutely aware of my connection with, yet insignificance in, the overwhelming vastness that is our universe than when lying on my back on the sandy floor of a desert, staring up at the wondrous night sky above. This is my time of greatest peace and wonder; it is all that keeps me sane in an ever-increasing world of insanity.
Before leaving the area I scattered about a dozen raw eggs as a goodbye and thank-you gift, should Munchy by some chance return to the area.
Snakemaster Page 14
