In particular, as “action presenter,” I was expected not only to get as close to my subjects as possible but also to deliver a running commentary as I did so, simultaneously dividing my attention between the necessary camera angles and exposing myself to the particular wild animal at that time in my presence. And anyone who knows anything about working with wild animals will tell you that losing concentration for even one second, while doing the latter could lead to the unthinkable.
Not one to waste time, right at the beginning of it all, I simply went straight in and did just that—lost concentration for one second and almost paid the price.
In retrospect, I should not be surprised. I was new to the business of “action” film presenting. Sure, I had a world of experience in the handling of venomous reptiles. Certainly I had plenty of experience giving lectures and entertaining the crowds. However, with each of those scenarios, I was in complete control of every element of the action. Now suddenly I was attached to a radio microphone that recorded every breath I took, every sound I made. Overhead was a boom microphone, and two video cameras were pointed at me from different angles. I needed to deliver not only the action but also the angles and dialogue that make up the stuff of adventure documentary filmmaking. (Sound recording is a complicated business and easily distorted, thus two systems were employed wherever practically possible.)
As if this was not enough, it had to all be done with stylish enthusiasm, for cinematic effect. Holy mackerel! And that first mistake I made could so easily have ended it all before it had even begun.
In spite of a few unfortunate “mishaps,” I still consider myself one of the luckier herpetologists in that I have had few dangerous bites, even though I have, for the purpose of manufacturing antivenom, extracted venom from hundreds of snakes, performed countless public shows and lectures and have spent years in the field catching and photographing venomous snakes. However, of these accidents, without question, the most embarrassing remains the snake-bite I endured from the snouted cobra encountered on my very first shoot as Austin Stevens, Action Presenter.
There I was, some eighty kilometers out in the field, about to show my daring skills with a huge snouted cobra that I had just enticed out from under a long, dead log in the Swakop Riverbed. As familiar with cobras as I am, having worked with so many over the years, I did not calculate for the potential capability of such an old and wizened specimen. As a slightly improvised old saying might go, familiarity breeds complacency.
As is usual for African cobras, the snake struck out at me deliberately as I hunched down close to it. Expertly I flipped my arm out of reach of the strike. I had done this so many times before that my reaction was second nature. With the action picking up now, the camera crew moved in for closer effect as the cobra struck out again . . . but this time in an unusually angled direction, resulting with one fang just catching my index finger as it was speedily being retracted.
Suddenly there was a rush of blood, and I was quick to realize that a vein had been penetrated. There is no more serious bite than a venous bite. By this route the venom can very quickly be transported throughout the body. The realization struck me that I might have only minutes to live!
My first rule of filming has always been, where possible, to keep filming, no matter what. I feel it is important to record every incident, planned or unplanned. Even in the case of a life-threatening occurrence, as this now turned out to be, I felt it important to keep one camera rolling, lest it all be for nothing. There were enough members in the team to lend assistance while still having one cameraman operating. I was very serious about this. Thus, under my explicit instruction, one cameraman somewhat reluctantly kept rolling while other crew members gathered around to do what they could to assist me.
Having antivenom with me, I began preparing for treatment should it be necessary. On closer examination of the wound, I concluded that the fang had sliced through the vein rather than injected into it. Hope flared as I considered the possibility that the initial rush of blood may have flushed away any venom. Hurriedly packing up our equipment into the two vehicles at our disposal, we steadily made our way back across the burning desert, heading for the Cottage Hospital in Swakopmund.
Covering the distance in record time, at the hospital I was placed under observation for two hours, after which time it was decided my life was most likely not in any danger, though further observation was advised. However, I felt certain that, had any venom entered my bloodstream, I should long ago have registered the effects. I now experienced an overriding need to get the job done. Against my better judgment, and that of the medical staff, I led the crew back out into the field in the unlikelihood that I could locate that cobra again and complete the shoot.
With my finger all bandaged up and fairly painful, I must admit I was feeling weak, somewhat disorientated, and nervous. I felt that I had to do this immediately, so as not to lose my nerve. Can’t afford to be a ninny!
As luck would have it, and as I had dared to hope, the cobra had simply returned to the security of its log, probably quite pleased with itself for having nailed me on the finger earlier in the day. And, as could be expected, the snake was not thrilled to see me again. Immediately going into the offensive, it rushed towards me, hood raised menacingly. The snake struck out viciously, exerting as much effort as possible in a blatant attempt to kill this man-thing that would not go away. This, in conjunction with the bloody footage of the actual bite, and the treatment administered in the field and at the hospital, was in itself a winning combination to be cut into the sequence.
Finally I was able to deliver my piece to camera while simultaneously demonstrating the snake’s behavior and defensive strategy. I knew it would hold any audience spellbound. Snapping up dozens of close-up shots as the cobra dramatically postured just inches from my Canon 35–105 mm lens, I secretly rejoiced in my returning confidence in the face of such a magnificent and potentially dangerous adversary. Finally, the action over, the shoot all wrapped up, we all breathed a sigh of relief. The snake, too, by this time aware that it was obviously not in any real danger from this antagonizing human, got bored and headed off to the closest tangle of bush.
I sat down, suddenly seized by a burst of uncontrollable shakes. This was not an action I wanted to repeat too often. Little did we suspect at the time that this film, which became known as Seven Deadly Strikes, would eventually lead to the making of the hugely popular Austin Stevens: Snakemaster, Austin Stevens: Most Dangerous, and, later on, Austin Stevens Adventures, which was a big-budget series of twenty-eight episodes that would be some eight years in the making.
My idea behind the scripting of the series was basic: I outlined it on just a few typed pages, noting down what reptiles and animals on the planet were of most interest to me. I then categorized these animals according to the countries they could most likely be located in, and set off to go find and expose them to the world of nature television. There was no script as such, just a rudimentary idea that could be built on and altered according to how matters progressed . . . or regressed, as might be the case.
The serious planning came with arranging flights to locations, places of accommodation, and the transport of everything that would be needed on each individual expedition. This was handled by a base team who worked tirelessly at their respective offices before, during, after, and between each shoot. The crews for the early episodes of the series, including myself, consisted of eight people. This number was later reduced to six as carefully calculated budget money was steadily eaten away by rising travel and production costs. Most of the crew was based in the UK, but others were from South Africa, Canada, USA, and Australia, with my calling Namibia home at the time. As much as possible, it was important to have the same members of the team recruited for each expedition so as to build up familiarity and work experience together. However, this was not always possible, as most members of the team were invariably freelance operators, often committed to other projects.
The transporta
tion of film equipment was an eternal nightmare and cost throughout the making of the series, with sometimes as many as fifty heavy metal cases needing to be flown to airports around the world, from where they would then have to be further transported overland, often to some seriously inhospitable places over difficult terrain. Not all of the equipment was used all the time, of course, but it was essential that we not find ourselves missing something when the need arose. This was to be a big-budget series, compared with others in a similar class, with provision being made for the use of two high-definition video cameras, a 16 mm film camera, two lesser digital video cameras, twelve high-speed Nikon motor-driven still cameras for time-slice operation, and a nine-meter collapsible camera crane.
There were heavy battery packs, miles of cables, body-cam equipment (a complicated body-fit mechanism which allows supported free-roaming movement of a heavy video camera), reels of film, one hundred one-hour cassettes of video tape, mountain and tree climbing gear, tool boxes, lighting equipment and stands, tripods, monitors, sound-recording equipment with more battery packs and more digital tapes, diving equipment and underwater-camera housings . . . the list was seemingly endless. Vehicles and drivers were hired to transport all of this to and from airports, oftentimes in areas of difficult terrain. Local porters would be employed to physically carry the necessary equipment on their shoulders, sometimes with the aid of horses, camels, mules, and, on one location in India, even an elephant.
Some locations would necessitate as many as five flights with aircraft of varying sizes to reach the designated destination. Four-wheel-drive vehicles were used where roads or tracks were available, boats and canoes where water was encountered. Horses and mules most often played a part, while the rest of it was up to hard, physical manpower. Desert areas usually allowed for a minimum of transportation problems, while jungle travel usually consumed everything available at our disposal just to get through.
It is important to note that, from the onset, it was decided that the filming of this series was to be as thorough as a full feature-film production, with every effort being put into the artistic and wide-screen creative design at the time, incorporating only the top people and equipment available. This was not to be a happy-go-lucky, over-the-shoulder, one-camera production. It was to be a cinematic experience for the viewer, as much as it was planned to be an exciting adventure, taking place through twenty-five countries around the world.
Thinking back now, considering all that we had to contend with, it is a wonder that we managed the energy, stamina, and patience to finally capture the action sequences that we did.
CHAPTER 13
THE GIANT RETICULATED PYTHON OF BORNEO
Reptiles being my specialty, it was decided that the entire first series would revolve exclusively around these fascinating creatures. The bigger and deadlier, the better! This was to be Austin Stevens at his best . . . or worst, depending on who was to be the judge. Anybody in the business knows that being on television potentially affords one the opportunity to disappoint the entire watching population at one time. So at least there was no pressure.
Though the pilot episode, Seven Deadly Strikes, featured venomous snakes only, nonvenomous snakes can also be potentially dangerous. The largest and heaviest-bodied snakes found on the planet are nonvenomous. As mentioned earlier, these giant serpents have rows of long, needle-sharp teeth fixed in their jaws, and, though these snakes can have a terrible bite, they have no apparatus for delivering venom. A person unlucky enough to be seriously bitten by one of the so-called “giant snake” species will need stitches rather than antivenom. These snakes are constrictors, the recurved teeth designed only to secure the prey. With these teeth firmly imbedded, the snake then pulls the prey animal into its waiting coils. Once trapped within the coils, escape is impossible, and death by constriction a certainty.
Some of these snakes measure over seven meters in length, with unsubstantiated records claiming nine meters and more. Whatever the case, a six-meter-plus snake is a powerful creature, capable of constricting an adult human. Fortunately these large serpents do not usually consider humans as prey but will not hesitate to defend themselves if threatened . . . especially if it is an Asian reticulated python, the longest recorded species in the world, and well documented for its irritable temper and eager inclination to bite. Was there any doubt then that I should end up on the wrong side of one of these?
I had of course on numerous occasions previously, while working with captive specimens, experienced the muscle power generated by giant snakes. Once when tackling a large green anaconda in the Amazon, I came close to being drowned by the sheer weight of the reptile. The anaconda is potentially the second-longest snake in the world, while at the same time being recognized as the heaviest bodied, capable of catching and constricting prey as large as a donkey.
However, though the anaconda I tackled naturally tried to bite me in self-defense and easily pulled me into the water in an attempt to break free of my grip, it made no attempt to constrict me, rather concentrating all of its efforts on escape. It is generally accepted amongst herpetologists that constrictors apply their constricting technique only to kill their prey, not as a self-defense strategy. So what went wrong in Borneo?
Borneo is one of the largest islands on the planet, much of which is covered in dense jungle and undisturbed by human encroachment. It was here that I set out to find the reticulated python. I had worked with a four-meter specimen in captivity, a snake so powerful that I was unable to control it alone and needed at least two other keepers to assist me. So you can imagine my dismay when I came upon a specimen almost seven meters long, alive and well . . . and defiant!
Amazingly, after spending many hours tracking the snake through the undergrowth, I was disappointed when first I spotted it amongst the roots of a tree submerged in a slow-moving stream. The parts of the body that were visible suggested that it was a specimen of less than average size, I guessed around four meters. A formidable snake to be sure, but not the giant snake I was seeking to catch on film. The pieces of discarded skin that I had collected along the way suggested that the snake was in the process of shedding. This would explain the reptile’s submerging itself in the water, to help loosen the old skin.
The size of a snake’s head usually gives a good indication of what lies behind it. However, though I could see parts of this reptile’s body through the murky water, there was no sign of the head. A snake is capable of remaining submerged for long periods of time on only a single breath. This made me somewhat nervous, as I was well aware of the danger of a strike from those tooth-filled jaws. Nonetheless, having pointed out the submerged snake to my crew, and giving them time enough to prepare their cameras and sound apparatus, I approached cautiously.
“Keep some distance,” I warned my first cameraman as he closed in behind and slightly to the side of me. “I am not sure exactly what we have here.” Further back, encompassing a wider view, the second cameraman positioned himself. Above my head the sound technician’s hand held a microphone suspended on an extendable boom pole, ready to take in every sound. On my belt was a battery clip feeding the tiny microphone fastened to the inside of my collar.
As I approached, the brightly patterned coils of muscled body just below the surface did not move, not even a ripple. The body was partly obscured by a tangle of roots growing down into the water. Bracing myself with legs spread wide and shoulders hunched, I carefully pushed my right arm through the closest coils, right up to the elbow, and pulled upward with all my might.
Expecting to heave the snake bodily out of the water with one powerful, fluid motion, I was somewhat taken aback when nothing happened . . . the coils did not budge. Grunting, I tried again, forcing my arm in deeper and encircling what I imagined to be a number of slippery coils at one time. Spreading myself now with one leg up to the knee in the water, I reinforced my grip to once more apply all my strength in an upward motion. Still nothing happened. I was baffled; it was like trying to lift a tree stum
p!
For the first time, I contemplated the possibility that this reptile, barely visible below the surface of the murky water, might be somewhat bigger than previously anticipated. Or possibly the snake might have attached itself to the underwater root system growing down from the overhead tree.
Fully aware that the cameras were all the while still rolling, I changed position. With both legs now in the water, I recklessly plunged both arms in amongst the reluctant coils of snake in a now-desperate attempt to bring them to the surface. I needed to get this snake out of the water and onto dry land, where I could better evaluate its size and deliver a piece to the waiting camera.
And it was at this very moment, bent over forward with both my arms encircling the coils of the resisting snake, that I saw the bubbles suddenly rise to the surface, not 50 centimeters from my face, followed closely through the murky gloom by an enormous head. And I knew, without any shadow of doubt that, if I did not drop everything and leap for safety, I was going to lose my face . . . literally. My experience with the African rock python in the stormswater drain all those years ago remained forever etched in my mind. I clearly recalled the frightening agony of it and did not even want to imagine what would be the outcome of a similar scenario now with a huge reticulated python . . . the meanest of all the python species.
“Get back!” I screamed to the team, as the water in front of my eyes seemed to boil to life. “Get back!”
And like an offshore volcano erupting through the surface of the sea, the giant snake’s head exploded upward, jaws wide open, baring six rows of glistening teeth, curved like hooks. Upward it came, gushing water ahead of it as I desperately released my grip and hurled myself back and to the side for all I was worth. Like a gleaming lance, the head rose up towards me, and, though I was fast and agile, I had no hope of avoiding the inevitable. Missing my face by centimeters, the huge mouth shot passed my turned head to unerringly redirect towards the next most obvious movement . . . my flailing arm.
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