Snakemaster

by Austin Stevens

  Okay, let’s do this. And turning to face the crew, the director called out, “Places, please. First take. When you’re ready.” And looking around critically, he added, “Clear the floor please. Move those cases out of sight . . . and the ropes, please. All those not participating . . . out of sight now! Thank you.”

  There followed a few moments of shuffling and maneuvering until finally all movement and sound ceased.

  Looking around critically, and now removing himself to a safe location from where to oversee it all, the director made final calls:

  “Camera one . . . ?” And from the camera one operator . . . “Speed!”

  “Camera two . . . ?” And from the second camera operator . . . “Speed!”

  “Camera three, overhead . . . ?” And from the third operator, hoisted high above in a harness and pulley system ready to be released . . . “Speed!”

  “Sound . . . ?” And from the soundman . . . “Rolling!”

  And with one last critical look around . . . “Quiet please! . . . And . . . ACTION!”

  Suddenly everything was in motion. Cameras and sound equipment were all around me as I walked along my designated route, rattling off my piece. Other than the delicate timing required for the scene, it should have been a fairly simple shoot. And indeed all was going well . . . right until a loose stone dislodged under my booted foot, twisting my ankle sharply and forcing me to stumble and fall to the left off the steep edge I had been negotiating, and gravity hurled me down towards the jagged rocks below—all in one split second of time!

  A searing pain tore through my ankle and calf as I fell. In that moment, registering the rocks rushing up to meet me, I twisted my body in the air, offering my back rather than my face and chest to absorb the inevitable collision. With my full body weight now behind the fall, I hit the jagged rocks with terrible force, screaming as I did so. Pain exploded through my back, as though the very life were being crushed out of me. Terrible, terrible pain forced the air from my lungs and left me gasping for air that would not come. Desperately I screamed in agony, only to find myself rendered incapable of anything more than a hoarse, breathless howl, followed by suffocating blackness.

  Consciousness returned within seconds, my mouth wide open and my chest burning like fire from the lack of oxygen. My head hurled backwards, and I desperately tried to catch my breath, but with no way to make it happen. As my diaphragm and surrounding muscles spasmed from the crushing blow they had received, the laryngeal muscles contracted to produce only an aspiratory strident sound.

  And the pain of it was terrible!

  Suddenly my team was at my side, worried faces looking down on me, frightened and unsure of what to do.

  “He’s struggling to breathe!” The director called in alarm. “Get him onto level ground, quickly!” The sound of his voice filtered through the roaring agony that suffused my body and brain. Hands reached for me as my vision once again grew dark, the agony multiplying as my constricted diaphragm stubbornly refused to relax. I knew I was suffocating, and I was rendered powerless to do anything about it.

  Then suddenly, as I was bodily lifted to level ground, air miraculously flooded back into my lungs! Like a burst of fire, it came in, almost as painful as when it had been so dramatically forced out. Then another breath . . . and another . . . each one less painful than the last. The dimness in my brain cleared, as did my vision. I was alive and could breathe again. Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! Never before had good old everyday taken-for-granted air felt so good in my lungs.

  My euphoria was short-lived, however, as with the return of my breath I was now able to focus on the advancing pain in my ankle, already swelling at an alarming rate. My back, too, pained terribly with each breath I took, and I knew with some certainty that some of my ribs were broken. Stubbornly, I tried to stand up, feeling the need to be vertical.

  “Don’t move!” ordered the director, as he stared down into my face, his hands feeling through my hair, presumably for signs of a head injury. “Stay still until we can assess your condition.” He turned to the others gathered around. “Get the medical kit, and bring me the sat [satellite] phone. This shoot is over.”

  His words struck me like a blow to the stomach. This could not be happening! Surely this was just a little setback; I would be fine again in a day or so! Again I attempted to raise myself, this time using my foot to push with . . . and the pain of it seared up my leg like fire. Screaming in agony I looked down, and for the first time began to comprehend the true dimensions of my injury.

  My entire foot had swollen to twice its normal size, with a purplish, yellowish tinge already beginning to show. If not broken, then at the very least my tendons were torn. This was to be a long-term recovery. I shifted my position slightly, a move that rendered a spasm of pain through my back, a reminder that there was that little matter to consider as well!

  Remaining at my side where I lay on the floor of the cave, the director continued to issue a string of orders. It was imperative that I be moved back to base camp as quickly as possible. A difficult route lay ahead, as we had to head back out through the cave system, followed by some miles of dense jungle with rough terrain. We had walked in carrying all our kit and equipment. I would be lucky to get myself up and out in one piece.

  My whole body now seemed wracked in agony. Having rested on the hard floor for some twenty minutes, I once again, with the aid of several crew members, attempted to get myself vertical. My breath came in short, fast, painful gasps, with the agony in my foot doubling in size as the blood flowed down towards the stricken limb.

  Psychologically, at least, standing erect made me feel better. There is no more demoralizing a feeling than being laid out on the ground in pain, especially in front of my crew. But I was up now and determined to remain so. One of the local guides appeared with a crudely fashioned, forked branch cut from a nearby root system, which he presented to me for a crutch. Crude though it may have been, it did the job admirably, and I thanked him. I could now hobble along under my own steam, mostly unsupported.

  All around me the crew was hurrying to pack up the set in preparation for leaving the area, while two local porters were dispatched ahead to report our situation to base camp. From there an attempt would be made to drive a vehicle as close to us as possible so that I might be transferred to the closest town in search of a doctor. Meanwhile the first priority was to get me out of the cave system itself and back out into the jungle. This was the more difficult of the many hurdles that lay ahead, as we had to negotiate the steep climbs up and down the same rickety pole ladders we had scaled on the way in. This took two hours to achieve, with every step of the way offering a new experience in agony.

  Finally emerging from the mouth of the great exterior cavern, our bodies drenched in sweat, we were greeted by the smiling faces of the two local porters sent ahead to report our situation and organize a vehicle. This they now proudly displayed to us in the form of a dilapidated 100 cc Yamaha motorcycle that had definitely seen better days. And while incongruous at first, it made sense. Where the bulk of a four-wheeled vehicle could not possibly pass through the dense undergrowth to get close to our position, a motorbike certainly could, as they had themselves now proved. Consideration of how exactly I was, in my condition, supposed to be transported back through the jungle on this vehicle seemed not to have been calculated.

  The director, meanwhile, via satellite phone, had finally made contact with our “fixer,” Charlie, who was based in Bali, the person overall in charge of our arrangements concerning the expedition. On hearing of our predicament, Charlie immediately set the wheels in motion for my extraction from the island. There was apparently no adequate medical facility on the island itself, other than a lone doctor who dispensed simple medicines from his home.

  “I will contact the SOS doctors’ team immediately,” Charlie’s voice emerged through static over the satellite phone. “They’ll be on the next flight out. If you can get Austin comfortable in a room somewhere
in the town, I’ll arrange that the local doctor at least take a look at him.”

  “How long before the SOS team arrives?” The director asked, sweat running down his face and onto the satellite phone. He peered anxiously in my direction.

  “Two days,” came the reply. “The only flight to the island is in two days time. You just have to sit tight. Let me know when you get back to the town and where you are. I’ll get things organized from here.” He rang off.

  Two days? Holy mackerel! The director looked over in my direction, where I practiced clumsily to stay upright on my primitive crutch. Suddenly aware of his attention, I looked up. “What?”

  “There is no proper hospital on the island. We have to get you to town and then on a flight to Bali. The next flight is in two days. How do you feel?”

  Wincing with the effort just to breathe, not to mention to stand upright, I lied. “Not too bad,” as I almost fell off my crutch. More frustrating than anything was the thought that the whole expedition would now be delayed for who knows how long. I could just imagine the paperwork involved in the insurance claim. One episode delayed meant the whole series would be delayed—time schedules disrupted, editing and delivery schedules extended, crew and equipment rebooked, flights and accommodation rearranged, to mention just the basics. And all this on the first day’s shoot. I had not even seen a Komodo dragon yet! I tried not to dwell on the logistics of it, because right now I had to get myself out of this jungle in one piece. The rest would take place all in its own good time. I looked at the battered little Yamaha and grimaced. This was going to be the hard part.

  “Help me onto the back of the bike and let’s get going,” I said, sounding more confident than I felt.

  With the driver of the motorbike settled into the seat, I was carefully lifted up behind him, from where I could encircle my arms around his waist for support. Using camera tape, my crutch was somehow attached along the side of the bike, upon which I could rest my swollen leg. And with another two local porters running alongside the motorbike, we began a journey of some four kilometers through the dense jungle over terrain that no vehicle was ever meant to cross.

  It was a journey of horrific proportions that I will never forget, as pain seared through my body with every bump and jolt, twice sending me into the air and off the bike as I screamed my agony to the indifferent surrounding vegetation. By the time we finally emerged from the jungle to a waiting, expectant gathering of locals and four-wheel-drive vehicles, I was reduced to a jabbering, incoherent bundle of pain. Kilometers behind, the rest of the porters and crew trudged along with full packs of equipment, not expected to arrive back till sometime after dark.

  For me the worst was over, as I was carefully stretched out on the back seat of a vehicle and driven to a local lodge. There I was assisted to a room with a double bed and adjoining bathroom. Here I was to remain for the next two days and nights, during which time the local doctor came by to offer assistance and advice. I was doused with painkillers that seemed to have little effect, and finally with sleeping pills, which, thankfully, knocked me out.

  The story of my accident had spread like wildfire throughout the little town, and indeed the whole of the island. Many locals visited the lodge, asking about my condition and wishing me a speedy recovery. Some even apologized for the wrath their “cave spirit” had chosen to render upon my person, assuring me that this would surely have been avoided if I had made a sacrificial offering before entering the sacred cave. A few special herbs scattered into a fire . . . some secret chantings and a chicken slaughtered by the hand of an island Shaman . . . was all it would take, seemed to be the general consensus. How come I did not know this?

  Everybody on the island knows this!

  The pain in my chest and back continued undiminished throughout the two days waiting for the plane to arrive from Bali. Getting to the bathroom involved carefully rolling my body off the bed to settle on hands and knees, affording me mobility enough to crawl painfully along to the bathroom toilet. The local doctor agreed with my belief that ribs were indeed broken and strapped my chest with stretch bandages, affording some slight feeling of security against my fragility rather than any actual relief of pain.

  When shifting into certain positions, I could feel jagged ends of broken bones gritting against each other in my back. It was not a pleasant feeling. My ankle meanwhile remained enormously swollen and extremely tender to the touch, making it impossible to stand on. Depression set in. It was once again in my life a time to endure.

  As scheduled, the Bali flight finally arrived two days later with the SOS team on board to assist and accompany me back across the ocean. Deciding to at least make use of the time and effort already expended in getting to Flores, some of the film crew remained behind to shoot as much footage as possible of scenic views and any other aspects of the island that might be usable when we finally returned to complete the shoot. The director and the production coordinator traveled with me to Bali.

  The turbo-prop, twenty-seat plane was cramped and uncomfortable, but we made good time. Within two hours I was in hospital and being X-rayed. The result proved my assumption correct, with no less than four ribs completely snapped off close to the spine. My ankle, on the other hand, showed no break, but tendons and muscle had been badly torn, a serious condition that could leave permanent weakness if not carefully treated.

  Two weeks later I was on crutches getting onto a Cathay Pacific flight back to South Africa, and on to my home in Namibia. A further two months passed before I was able to begin lightly walking on the damaged foot. Another month and I began to do some light training, which at first produced a fair amount of pain in both my back and my foot. However, the exercise relieved the frustration of just waiting and promoted the feeling of building up again. Another month and I informed my team that I was ready to work.

  The adventure that followed, as we probed with our cameras into the mysterious life of the Komodo dragon, was one of the most thrilling I have ever experienced. This included an unusual occurrence when a subadult dragon was found scavenging amongst our kit in the boat, where the lizard presumably had picked up the scent of our food packs. This animal was almost two meters in length, large and powerful enough to resist all our attempts to encourage it to leave the boat. A chunk of raw meat attached to the end of a pole eventually lured the giant reptile onto the gunwale of the boat, allowing me access to the tail and a final shove over the side. One does not want to share a little boat with a ravenous, meat-eating, prehistoric reptile.

  Once in the water, the lizard took off at a healthy pace towards the shore, some hundred meters away, moving as effortlessly as a shark. On impulse, I dove in after it, the excitement and thrill overriding any thoughts of a logical outcome. Stretching out in my fastest stroke, I was finally rewarded when I caught up to the lizard, my outstretched fingers fleetingly touching its tail as it swam. Startled, the dragon swung around in the water, eyed me with some distaste, then dramatically increased its pace, leaving me floundering behind.

  Thinking back now, I realize how foolish I was to allow my enthusiasm to overwhelm me. Nobody ever went swimming with a Komodo dragon before, and with good reason! There was no telling how it might react. Exhausted from the fast-paced swim and in deep water as I was, if the dragon had turned on me, there was no telling what would have happened. Having considered this, however, I will never forget the thrill of it, the look in the dragon’s eyes as it turned and reacted to my touch. This was, after all, a top predator, powerful enough and armed with claws and dentition enough to dismember and eat a human being, and I was swimming with it, out in the ocean surrounding the wild islands of Komodo! I cannot help but think I would do it again anytime, should the unlikely opportunity ever arise.

  Oh, and yes . . . this time we did pay our respects to the cave spirit before beginning the return shoot . . . with Shaman, herbs, fire, slaughtered chicken, and all. Little wonder everything went smoothly.

  Don’t knock what you don’t understand
!

  A fiery sunset enhances the stormy sky while on location in Tanzania.

  An aloe tree in grassy plains after good rains in the Namibian Desert; an area I regularly frequented for scenic and reptile photography.

  Here I am caught on camera displaying a variety of nimble ballet techniques unconsciously acquired over a lifetime of dodging striking snakes; in this instance an aggressive juvenile African rock python.

  This black spitting cobra species found in Namibia, typically has scattered bars across the length of its body, though not always.

  Catching a large Zambian black spitting cobra by the tail for relocation away from the track where it had been defiantly posturing.

  The Welwitschia plant, found only in Namibia and southern Angola, is the oldest living plant, some specimens being over 2,000 years old.

  Photographing the awesome scenic beauty of the Augrabies Canyons in South Africa. A paradise for numerous desert mammal and reptiles species.

  A species known to cause most snake bite deaths in Central and South America, this giant lance-head viper located in Costa Rica, provided a frighteningly exciting sequence on camera.

  The mysterious beauty of the Cyprus Swamps of North Florida is home to many species of venomous reptiles, including cottonmouths and copperheads.

  Known for its abundance of wetland wildlife populations, the Everglades of South Florida are now also home to many invasive species.

  The infamous and poisonous cane toad of South America, introduced into Australia, continues to spread and decimate native species which attempt to feed on it.

  Locating alligators in the Everglades is not difficult; attempting to pose with one for a film piece on camera proved to be more difficult.