As the winter months grew to a close, to be replaced by warmer spring air, I began to find more evidence of snakes and was fortunate enough to film various species in action. This included such scenes as a venomous tree snake raiding suspended nests of weaver birds while the birds launched a daring attack on the reptile in an attempt to save their chicks; black mambas in mating combat, their bodies entwined and raised high in the air; a black mole snake stalking, attacking, and constricting a mouse; a side-winding adder demonstrating its undulating body motion and burying ability in the dune sand; and a pair of puff adders mating in the grass, their tails entwined and joined in amorous display.
This latter scene reminded me that most adders deliver live young. In the months that followed, though I came across many male puff adders, it was only towards the end of the year that I finally located a female whose body appeared swollen enough to convince me that she was within days of producing her young. Not wishing to lose the opportunity and knowing that the snake might easily elude me in the field, I placed her in an empty apple box that I kept in my vehicle where she could remain safe until it was time for her to give birth. Thus having the snake under my constant observation, I was sure to be ready with my camera when the time approached. Naturally, matters do not always pan out as one might expect.
Three days later at about 4 a.m., my female snake, who I chose to call Mum, feeling the time to be near and obviously not satisfied with the location I had provided, somehow managed to force the lid of the box open. She slithered out and over my body as I lay sleeping in my truck, to give birth to no less than twenty-eight healthy, wet, and venomous offspring. And it was with some bewilderment that I was awakened not to the patter of tiny feet but rather to the slithering of tiny scales as the little reptiles explored their new and exciting world. Needless to say, never before in the history of wildlife filmmaking had a vehicle been so speedily vacated, rendering me wide awake, scantily clothed, and freezing in the glow of dawn. Staring at the Land Rover from a few meters away, I considered what exactly to do next.
In fact, it took an hour by torchlight to locate about half the tiny snakes, which huffed and puffed their indignation at my attempts to capture them. This was by no means the end of the matter, as for the next week the tiny adders kept turning up, usually at the most inopportune times: One in a cup as I was about to prepare some tea, another under my pillow where minutes before I had been dozing. One even crawled between my bare toes while I was driving, almost causing me to have a heart attack and veer dangerously off the path. And I will not go into detail about the one wedged comfortably inside a toilet-paper roll, to be discovered one dark night, when spade in one hand, toilet-paper roll in the other, I went to answer the call of nature! All in all, it was about two weeks before I was relatively certain that my vehicle could once more be considered a “snake-free zone.”
Though disappointed at having missed the opportunity to successfully film the birth of these tiny snakes, they otherwise certainly provided me with some nervous entertainment, as I was forced constantly to be aware that one might suddenly appear out of nowhere at any given time. Though small in size, new-born puff adders are miniature replicas of their mother, their tiny venom glands and fangs capable of delivering a venomous bite. Live-born snakes leave their mother immediately after birth to fend for themselves, thus it was no problem for me to release these individuals back into the wild as they appeared.
While most front-fanged snakes recorded around the world are considered dangerously venomous, only a very few of the back-fanged species may be potentially lethal to humans. Of these few, two are proven to be deadly, both being found in the Southern regions of Africa. They are, in order of toxicity: the African boomslang (tree snake) and then the African twig or vine snake. The latter is so named because of its unique ability to make itself look to take on the appearance of tree bark. The snake relies on this camouflage when it lies in wait for prey, blending in perfectly with the surrounding branches. Remaining motionless amongst the dry branches of a bush, the slender snake extends its orange-colored tongue as a lure to attract lizards and small birds on which it feeds.
The boomslang grows larger than the twig snake and varies in color, with the females often being of a brown or black coloration, while the males generally are bright green. The venom apparatus of the tree snake is primitive compared with those of the mambas, cobras, or adders. A number of grooved teeth situated halfway back in its upper jaw are used to direct the flow of venom into the wound inflicted by the teeth. Venom is not forcibly “pumped” into the wound, with the result that tree snakes are generally inclined to hold onto their prey, chewing continuously while allowing the venom to penetrate into the wound. There have been a number of tree snake bites recorded (by me, among others) where envenomation has not occurred simply because the snake has been pulled off quickly, allowing it no time to chew the back fangs into the flesh.
Few cases of tree snake bites are recorded as the snakes are shy, elusive, and nonaggressive. They spend most of their time well out of reach of humans, high up in the foliage of trees, where they hunt birds and chameleons, their prey of choice. Their only human victims are usually handlers and catchers. The venom of the boomslang, though slow acting, is extremely toxic, with just a scratch from a fang being enough to kill a human. The boomslang is considered by many herpetologists to be, drop for drop, the most venomous snake in the world; in other words, needing the least amount of venom to cause human fatality. Falling victim to the bite of a boomslang, one would suffer massive hemorrhaging throughout the body over a period of forty-eight hours or longer before fully succumbing to the effects. On the positive side, this provides a good length of time for the victim to reach professional medical attention. A specific monovalent serum (designed to act against a specific antigen) is produced specifically for this snake, which is only made available to hospitals on positive confirmation of a bite, as the product is generally in short supply.
Needing to get some footage of Gaboon vipers to complete the tropical section of my film, I traveled to Zululand on the north-eastern coastal region of South Africa, where these snakes were still known to occur in the dense undergrowth of the tropical Duka Duka forest. The largest and heaviest-bodied adder in the world, the Gaboon viper is recognized by its beautiful camouflage pattern specifically designed to blend in with forest floor vegetation, where it lies in wait for prey animals, such as large rats and rabbits. The broad head and mouth houses huge fangs, often over three centimeters long and capable of delivering a lethal dose of a virulent cocktail of neurotoxic and hemotoxic venom. These snakes are rare and elusive, their perfect camouflage making them all but invisible in the undergrowth. I knew it would take some searching and a lot of luck to capture one on film.
Because of the lush tropical conditions of the region, numerous other species of snakes could be encountered. These included the forest cobra, both the black and green species of mambas, puff adders, twig snakes, and the boomslang, to name but a few. One day while exploring for a potential Gaboon viper habitat, I was attracted by the excited chattering of a group of African cane cutters, heads upturned, gathered around the foot of a large wild fig tree. Curiosity getting the better of me, I approached closer to investigate. The cane cutters greeted me cordially as I stepped from the bush to join their circle. Enquiring as to the reason for their excitement, they pointed upwards into the overhead branches in an attempt to guide my eyes.
“Up there, mister . . . you can see it?” The calloused finger of an old man pointed roughly towards the network of branches, high up near the top. “Mamba!” he exclaimed with certainty, and, as one, the entire group echoed the name—“Mamba!”—as though in awe of a god.
I knew that most snakes the local people encountered in these rural areas were referred to as “mambas,” but as both the green and black mambas do occur in the region, I did not doubt the possibility.
“You see it, mister?” The old man continued to point. Shading my eyes from t
he streams of sunlight penetrating the leafy canopy, I peered up into the branches. Then I spotted it. A safe distance from the ground, the snake was lying relaxed on a thin branch, its head directed downward, apparently interested in the activity below. The beautiful green body was long and slender, and any novice might easily mistake it from this distance, with the bright light as a backdrop. I noted immediately, however, that it was a large male African boomslang. From where I stood it looked like an exquisite specimen for some photography, but I knew any attempt to get near would startle the reptile into flight.
Observing my longing gaze, and taking note of my camera suspended by its strap over my shoulder, the old man spoke again: “You want heem mister? I knock heem down with my stick.” And from his belt he pulled a meter-long stick, worn shiny smooth from much handling, with a carved knob at one end. A knobkerrie (traditional African club), I thought without enthusiasm. Although the Zulu people are well known for their prowess in handling this centuries old traditional weapon, I could not imagine how he intended to get the snake down with it.
“I get him for you, mister!” the old man repeated, and, like a boomerang, he spun the stick upwards into the branches, where, unbelievably (I will never know whether by chance or expertise), it hit the poor, unsuspecting reptile squarely on the head, bringing it down to land with a thud, virtually at my feet, and sending the old man and all his coworkers scampering off in superstitious fright. I was dumbfounded! The snake lay motionless on the matted cane leaves. I bent down to examine it carefully without touching it. Then, satisfied that there was no sign of life, I lifted the limp body in my hands. I had of course not for one moment imagined the old man would actually kill the snake, or I would never have allowed him to try to dislodge it.
Seeing me handling the dead serpent, curiosity overcame fear, and slowly, in dribs and drabs, the men approached, until they were all there again, the whole lot crowding around me, all talking at once and gesturing at the lifeless body of the snake. The old man rubbed his hands together with glee. “I get heem good, hey mister?” he grinned.
“Yes,” I answered reluctantly with a sigh, deciding there was no point in spoiling his delight. “You get him good alright.”
As they all pressed tightly around me, some of them reached out nervously to touch the smooth, shiny underbelly as I turned the reptile over in my hands and like children with a new toy, they ogled, “oohed,” and “aahed.” I reached for the head and was about to examine the mouth when suddenly, as though shot through with a jolt of electricity, the snake’s body stiffened, the head snapped up, and in my hands I felt the life throbbing back into the creature. For one split second everyone froze, as if turned to stone, myself included. Then, as the deadly head jerked round towards me, there came a spontaneous cry of “ooh sheet!” from the workers, as involuntarily I hurled the snake up into the air before joining the surge of bodies striving to create distance between themselves and the now obviously very much alive “mamba.”
By the time the dust had settled, there was no sign of the tree snake, which had obviously only been stunned in the first place and was by now probably striving to achieve as much distance between itself and us as we were from it a few seconds earlier.
“Ho boy!” The old man spoke from his hiding place behind a log, his wrinkled, weather-beaten brow etched with concern. “Next time, the mamba spirit kill us all—sure thing!” And all the others, now slowly emerging from their hiding places, solemnly nodded their heads in awed consensus.
Bidding farewell to them all, I casually mentioned that I was heading back to the central forest area to pursue my quest for the elusive Gaboon viper. Expecting exclamations of shock or dismay that I would actively seek out these deadly creatures, I was surprised when the old man, who seemed to be the only one with a spattering of English, spoke up again.
“You want Gaboon?” It was more a statement than a question. “We have Gaboon. You come see.” And taking me by the elbow, he guided me along a narrow pathway leading through the sugarcane field, the others following closely behind, chattering excitedly as we went. Soon we came upon a clearing where a half section of a two-hundred-liter steel barrel stood, topped off with a piece of hardboard being held down with two rocks. “You look inside,” the old man gestured, “You find Gaboon—fifty rand, please [approximately seven dollars in those days]?” He waved me forward.
I was beginning to understand now. Removing the rocks and then the board, I gazed into the depths of the hollow drum, my eyes taking a few seconds to properly adjust to the dark interior. And there it was—what I had been searching for all along—a beautiful specimen of a Gaboon viper. I shook my head in dismay. It appeared that anything resembling a “mamba” was taboo, the reputation of the snake being well ingrained in legend and folklore, but a Gaboon viper was no problem. And I knew why. These snakes were so scarce and elusive that only those people working in their region on a daily basis might come across one. Ever in demand amongst herpetologists and snake parks, monetary rewards were offered for their capture. Cane cutters coming across a specimen would keep it safely housed until their contact arrived to collect.
My own search for the elusive snake so far having proved fruitless, this was not an opportunity I was going to let slip by. It appeared that, irrespective of what agreement the cane cutters might have with any other party or parties, they were not overly concerned about who took possession of their captive, as long as cash changed hands. Without hesitation, I paid the price, transferred the huge snake to a secure bag, and headed back to my camp like a happy Father Christmas with his bundle of toys. Not only had I found my specimen to film, but I had also saved the snake from a life in captivity, as I would release it again into the forest once I had secured the footage I needed. All in all, this was an interesting and successful day in the life of a somewhat still in training documentary wildlife filmmaker.
Finally, after some eight months spent in the field and seventy-two eleven-minute reels of 16 mm film exposed, I felt that my footage was sufficient and ready for editing. In South Africa I had all the reels transferred to professional Beta SP digital video. From these I had time-coded VHS copies made to work from rather than risk damaging the professional tapes. This enabled me to do a rough-cut edit in which I would reduce my twelve hours of footage to just two hours. Thereafter, a final edit would eventually reduce it all to the desired fifty-two minutes of broadcast time allotted by NDR.
The rough cut was a major task that took me the better part of the next three months to complete, with the resulting film released in Germany as Die Natur der schlange (The Nature of the Snake). The film was received with great enthusiasm in Europe and nominated for an award at the Grenoble Film Festival in France. Needless to say, I was thrilled.
Following the completion of The Nature of the Snake, I became, to a lesser degree, partly involved in the making of numerous documentaries featuring lions, baboons, vultures, desert elephants, and wild dogs. On occasion I was recruited to shoot reptile footage needed in the production of other reptile documentaries that were being produced at the time. However, remembering the unusual behavior I had witnessed while filming the desert chameleon section of The Nature of the Snake, another idea was forming in my head. It was an idea that would later result in the production of my second full-length wildlife documentary, to be titled Dragons of the Namib.
Thus, some time later, I once more found myself back in the great sand dunes of the Namib Desert, this time with my eye looking through the viewfinder of a newly acquired video camera specifically purchased for the making of my proposed project, a project that I believed in so strongly that I was prepared to attempt it alone, with or without encouragement from outside financial sources. It had become obvious to me that this was me at my most content. Admittedly it is a risky business; however, for anyone who loves nothing more than to live in a vehicle or remote tent-camp locations while recording the secret behavioral patterns of some wild animal or reptile, the rewards are quite satisfyin
g. It is a life of outdoor wonder filled with four-wheel-drive travel adventure, campfire nights under starlit skies, and the subdued sounds of the surrounding wilderness.
Dragons of the Namib was a project that took over seven months to complete, time that I spent mostly in the sand dunes of the Namib Desert, where I habituated and followed the daily life cycle of another extraordinary female desert chameleon I named Ependa (“the brave one,” in the language of the local Namibian Herero people). The film was later released on the National Geographic Channel, where it proved to be extremely popular and is still being aired today, some thirteen years later.
It was soon after the completion of this documentary film that I was approached by Tigress Productions, a UK-based film production company, that enquired if I thought it might be possible to make a one-episode documentary about my work in the field—how I locate reptiles and photograph them. I said that I believed this to be possible and, after a meeting in Bristol, the project was confirmed, with work beginning almost immediately. Little did I suspect at the time that it would be the beginning of a new era in my life, an era that would take me to the far reaches of the planet in search of wilderness and reptiles that I could otherwise only have dreamt of or imagined. It was to be an experience of mind-boggling proportions.
CHAPTER 12
THE MAKING OF SNAKEMASTER
As must be expected when venturing out into wilderness regions of the globe in search of wild animals to film in close proximity, there will be risks involved. Though every precaution was taken to ensure the safety of myself and my team, the whole idea of the film was to demonstrate how certain wild animals live and behave. This to some degree necessitated that we expose ourselves to certain scenarios and conditions that were oftentimes potentially dangerous.
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