Lady smiled back at her. “Mum,” she said, “do you know if there’s a spa near here?”
It took me most of the following taxi ride to comprehend the depth of my stupidity. I must have chatted to Lady’s mum a hundred times without ever realising why she was being so friendly to me. Worryingly, I’d stopped to buy an empanada almost every time I’d ever been to Tambillo – even when I’d cancelled dates with Lady to get drunk at the refuge, claiming illness… Oh, the word ‘busted’ just didn’t come close.
Thank the Goddess for Lady. She seemed to be the tolerant type. She didn’t even get mad with the taxi driver the third time he brought us to entirely the wrong place. She just accepted that we would be visiting a hotel instead of a spa, paid and got out. I guess if anyone was used to the complexity of getting what you wanted in this country, it was her. I still hadn’t figured out what exactly was involved with a trip to a ‘spa’, and not having any swimming shorts with me I was happy to leave it that way.
The hotel was more of a guest house, where meals were included in the price and served in a relaxed sitting-cum-dining room with picturesque views over the surrounding countryside. Dinner was set for 7pm, just over two hours away. We took our key, thanked the old proprietor, and I paid the bill in advance, marvelling again at how inexpensive such pleasant lodgings were. It was certainly a small price to buy back my tarnished honour.
Lady locked the door behind us and embraced me. I laughed in sheer relief, that she was still here and happy. Then she kicked off her pointy shoes, crawled onto the bed and crooked her little finger, beckoning me to join her.
We never went for dinner.
Stitched Up
There were times, in Ecuador, when I wondered what the hell I was doing. Like now for example, as Johnny held the crocodile out for me to take. As crocodiles go, this caiman was a very small one – but still, and my mind kept circling back to this fact, it was A CROCODILE! Was I mad? Was Johnny mad for offering it to me? Or was he finally developing some respect for my hard-won animal handling skills? Had his faith in me reached such strength that it was now greater than my faith in myself? No. He was clearly mad. I mean, it was a crocodile for God’s sake!
But there was still a job to do. With no choice left (beyond turning and fleeing, waving my hands above my head and shrieking as I went), I reached out to Johnny and slowly took hold of the beast. I could hardly believe what I was doing. I wrapped one hand around the nose and mouth – very aware of the teeth glistening wetly between my fingers. My other hand curled around the tail, tensed in case the little thing thrashed around and tried to break out of my grip. The ridged scales on its back dug into my palm as I gripped the tail tightly.
“Got him?” Johnny asked?
“Sí.”
And he let go. The caiman didn’t move a muscle. It just lay there in my grip, either not wanting to move or not able. Not because of the superhuman effort I was putting into restraining it, but because the fearsome looking creature was dying. From this angle it was hard not to lose my eyes in the depth of the wound slashed across the creature’s neck.
“Sure you got him?” Johnny was concerned after all. Though most likely for the croc.
“Sí. No problema!” I hoped he didn’t hear the quaver in my voice.
“Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.”
And he vanished indoors. I stood there, holding my breath and gritting my teeth, willing the injured animal to lie still. I felt a tremor in response, the faintest ghost of a struggle. In one piece this guy would thrash so powerfully I could never have hoped to hold him. As it was, he was nearly cut in half. And I was still nervous. Surely someone was filming my plight for a hidden camera show? Watching and betting on how long I would stand there, clinging to the miniature crocodile, until I broke and ran for help?
But then Johnny was back, calmly tying a strip of cloth around the croc’s snout with as much drama as tying his shoe laces. Obviously it was not his first time.
The side door to Johnny’s house banged open and Leonardo led Mark out into the yard, straw hat and all. The Ecuadorian vet was lecturing the English one on last minute surgical tips, something which Mark was making a heroic effort to follow. Between them the two carried the few simple items Mark would need for this procedure. A bottle of iodine. A kidney shaped steel bowl for the implements – and most worrying of all, the implements themselves. I stared in morbid fascination as Mark proceeded to thread the most vicious looking needle I’ve ever seen. It was like something an arch-villain would threaten to torture James Bond with – gleaming silver, curved and barbed, with a pointed razor blade on the business end. A ‘cutting needle’ he named it when he caught my gaze. I could only imagine the mess it would make of his fingers if his grip slipped whilst pushing on it. No anaesthetic for the caiman; it was too far gone already. Quite what reaction it would have when Mark started putting the needle into its flesh was anyone’s guess.
The outdoor sink, where we filled the animals water bowls, was being pressed into service as an operating table. Onto the concrete draining board I lowered the caiman, gingerly lest he decide not to appreciate it. Needless to say I kept a firm grip on both ends.
Mark looked a little nervous too. Hardly surprising – there can’t have been much call for stitching up crocodiles during his career in the UK. Not a very common pet there. He took several deep breaths, and practice-aimed the needle a couple of times. Then he put the needle down and reached for the iodine – for a second I thought he was going to take a quick swig to calm his nerves! No. He doused the wound and probed the edges with his finger tips. It never looked as nasty as it did at that moment, with Mark’s fingers all the way inside the torn flesh, lifting and pressing back the different layers of raw meat. I could hardly believe this thing was still alive. The cut, doubtless from a machete, had sliced more than half way through the neck at its deepest point, and the ragged edges of the wound stood testimony to how poorly sharpened the blade had been. A couple of other shallow cuts to either side of the main wound told a story Leonardo could easily read. A farmer had found the caiman in his field, he explained, launching into a graphic re-enactment of the scene. He pointed out an imaginary caiman on the ground in front of him, then stomped with crushing force on its tail. On the table the real caiman had badly ripped and shredded scales on its tail just above where I was holding him. Then with an imaginary machete in hand, Leonardo slashed down once, twice, three times with increasing frustration. “Not good machete,” he suggested, pointing out the smaller cuts. Then miming a two-handed grip he made an exaggerated chop groundward – the result of which was the huge gash we were hoping to repair.
The wound cleaned, Mark took up the needle again and pushed the razor tipped point into the caiman’s scales. The caiman didn’t even twitch. its innards gleamed a dull, wet grey through the opening in its neck. I had the thought for about the hundredth time: how the hell was this thing still alive?
Mark was having trouble. His first couple of passes with the needle had been difficult, the scaly skin much tougher even than it looked; yet they had been successful and now a few strands of catgut bridged the gap in the creature’s flesh. Only now the needle wouldn’t go in. Two passes through the croc’s tough hide had blunted it, and with all the pressure he could safely put on the needle, Mark still couldn’t drive it through again. Leonardo leant over to take a look, then made a suggestion which I caught the gist of. Threading a second of the evil looking needles, Mark peeled the wound back a little more, and inserted it into the softer flesh just beneath the scales. There was no blood – either crocs don’t bleed, or this one had done all the bleeding it could manage. The cutting needle slid much more easily through what Mark described to me as the subcutaneous tissue, and he breathed a small sigh of relief. He passed the needle back and forth faster now, stitching the severed flesh together just below the surface.
Even going much better, it was a nerve wracking procedure. I could see sweat running down Mark’s face, could feel it
running down my own. I longed to wipe a drip off my nose, but I knew it would be a good while before I’d have a hand free to do it. A stitch pulled out as the thread followed the needle, and had to be re-sewn slightly deeper. The leading edges started to draw together as the stitching progressed. Mark frequently paused to take up the slack on the thread, shrinking the wound a centimetre at a time. My arms and shoulders ached from the tension, but I was determined not to relax. Though the creature wasn’t struggling, Sod’s Law would surely come into play the moment my grip faltered. The sun beat down on the concrete yard, so hot on the back of my neck that for a fraction of a second I almost envied Mark his ridiculous straw boater.
Then, with a last couple of stitches, the main task was done. Mark squeezed the edges of the wound together and tugged gently on the thread with his other hand. Slowly the gash pulled closed. The scales overlapped each other and almost nothing could be seen at the surface. Mark stepped back and eyed his handy work, and allowed himself to breathe again. He wiped his face on his shirt and resettled his hat on his head. I just stayed bent over, elbows resting on the makeshift table and both hands fastened firmly around the patient. It was going to live! I just knew it. No way we could have expended so much stress and effort for nothing.
“Good job old bean,” Mark told me generously.
And just like that I realised – we’d done it! Well, more accurately Mark had done it while I held it for him – yet I’d been completely involved, and with the operation over and successful, I felt powerful beyond measure. What could I not do now? Apart from stand up straight, of course, or scratch my nose…
Mark cleaned up the other wounds as best he could, and Leonardo stepped in to demonstrate giving an injection between the scales. Then they followed me as Johnny led us over to our newly created reptile house.
In the greenhouse where Toby had planted his beloved vegetable garden, there had been a massacre. The infant vegetables had been attacked with azadóns, violently disinterred and smashed to bits in the process. The earth had been raked thoroughly, turned over and packed flat again, and a pond efficiently constructed by digging half a plastic barrel into the ground. I was amazed by the speed and brutality of the transformation. The ladies responsible, Mel, Emer and Gloudina, were definitely not to be pissed off when carrying tools. Their ruthless efficiency had created a purpose built crocodile sanctuary in a couple of hours. A low fence with a latchless gate split the entrance and a small standing area off from the caiman’s domain. Even Jimmy was involved, off welding a latch together even as we spoke. Presumably in case the injured croc tried to open the gate and flee. The only thing keeping the place from being perfect was the absence of a great big heat lamp. The girls had already disinfected the whole greenhouse and were busy disposing of the corpses of Toby’s vegetables when I arrived with the patient. After a bit of debate we decided to free his nose; I held tight as Johnny untied the rag, then gentled settled the croc into his new home… and sprang back with all the reflexes I’d developed in over two months at the centre!
The little guy barely moved. He’d already been through far too much, and his chance of survival rested on…. well, rest. So long as he didn’t move too much the stitches should hold, and so long as we got antibiotics into his system any infections should be kept at bay. Leonardo was super cautious on this point, having inadvertently overdosed our last caiman. Rather than one large injection, instead he’d prescribed several smaller shots, to be administered twice a day. Beyond that it was all down to the croc, and the life-giving energies of the sun.
No-one needed to ask who would be catching the croc twice a day; it was both the advantage and the disadvantage of being the boss. All the things no-one else wanted to do naturally fell to me. I didn’t mind though. I was willing the little guy to live will all my heart. I’d never felt so intimately involved in the saving of a life.
Johnny favoured Gloudina and me with a stern look. “Now you must feed him. He needs chicken.”
“Is the truck coming today then?” I asked.
“No. Not for a few days. Anyway, he needs fresh meat.”
“Oh.”
“Go to the chicken enclosure.”
“Yeah?”
“Catch one, kill it, and give him that.”
WHAT?! I felt the blood drain from my face at the prospect. Johnny must have noticed. “Can you do it?” There was a trace of something in his voice… Humour? Sarcasm? He was enjoying this.
“Yeah, I can do it,” I told him. Except I couldn’t. I feel guilty for swatting flies. I catch spiders and put them outside. I even own a ‘humane’ mouse trap. I looked over to Gloudina. Strong, dedicated, female – surely she was tougher than me. “We can do it,” I amended.
Johnny walked off chuckling to himself.
I turned to Gloudina. “You kill bulls and things in your country don’t you? With big spears?”
“I don’t! Not personally! I mean…” she searched for a suitable example, “I don’t even kill insects!”
Oh dear. This was going to be difficult.
“Well,” I suggested, “we could catch the chicken first, and then worry about it.”
We walked slowly towards the chicken run. It was right in front of the volunteers’ house, yet we managed to make the walk there last a good five minutes. I was walking slowly in the hope that she’d come to some decision and announce a plan before we arrived. She was doing the same. It didn’t help.
Unsurprisingly, the chickens saw us coming. They’d have to be blind not to, us being several hundred times bigger than them. And they ran. Now you might think, being as how they were trapped, that they would have nowhere to run to. This was not the case. Those were some damn fast chickens. They ran left. I ran left. They ran right – I was still going left. By the time I’d skidded to a halt and turned around they were already behind me, and probably having a right old laugh. Little buggers, I thought, when I catch you I really am going to kill you! But luckily for them I couldn’t. I did pull off some spectacular sliding tackles though.
“Got one!” Gloudina shouted. She was proudly brandishing a clucking ball of feathers.
“Nice one! Damn, these sons-of-bitches are impossible to catch! Did you jump on it?”
“No, it ran at me and I just sort of picked it up.”
“Pah! Well then it deserves to be eaten.” I beat the worst of the mud and dust off my jeans and t-shirt and paused to snarl angrily at the rest of the chickens. They didn’t seem overly bothered.
We climbed out of the run and stood looking at each other again. Only now it was a three way staring match. I glared at the chicken. It gazed vacantly back.
“Okay,” I said to Gloudina. “Kill it.”
“You kill it!” She told me. “I caught it! I don’t know how to kill a chicken!”
“Um, you… You know, like, strangle it.”
“Eww!”
“Well you can’t tickle it to death!”
“I can’t strangle it, I’m holding it!”
Good point, and one to be quickly exploited. I made a quick grab and took over the heavy responsibility of holding the beast. “Okay, I’ve got it. Now strangle it.”
Gloudina stared doubtfully at the chicken. “I can’t! It just looked right at me!”
“Well I’m holding it!” I complained.
Gloudina flexed her fingers momentarily. “No, I can’t do it.”
The chicken merely dangled and surveyed the area, serenely unaware that its life hung in the balance.
The idea occurred to both of us at exactly the same moment.
“MARK!”
Together we made our way back to the monkey cages, where the other volunteers were now doling out oaty, fruity goodness by the ladleful. Mark, having paused only long enough to inhale a cheese sandwich, was already back out and helping with the feed. Gloudina jogged towards him as I shuffled along behind with my hands wrapped around a now slightly perturbed chicken.
“What’s up?” Mark was cheerful as al
ways. With good reason today, as he’d already saved one life. And I was about to ask him to end another. In my heart I knew that he had the hands of a killer. Of chickens.
“We have to, err, you know, for the caiman,” Gloudina drew a finger across her throat for emphasis. “But we can’t do it. Neither of us has ever killed a chicken.”
“I’ve slapped a few for looking at my girlfriend though,” I quipped. The joke fell on deaf ears. Or, possibly, on ears that didn’t find it funny.
Mark looked at the chicken squirming in my hands, then at me. “It’s years since I’ve done anything like this,” he said, coming in for a closer look. “I don’t know if I can still remember.” He looked me full in the face. “Usually, what I’d do…” And with inhuman speed his hands shot forward mid sentence, twisting the chicken’s neck completely around about fifteen times like they were opening a bottle of Coke. It was over before I even registered what was happening. The chicken thrashed in my grip. In shock and horror I looked at Mark, then at Gloudina, then back to Mark.
Mark was grinning at me. “No problem!” He said.
“I thought you were… Thought you were… Going to tell me when…” my mind hadn’t fully caught up yet.
“It’s easier like that. Didn’t want to worry you.”
“Ur… thanks Mark…” I managed.
Gloudina recovered quickly and clapped me on the shoulder. “Let’s go then!”
The chicken convulsed again. I let out a pitiful moan. “It’s still moving!”
“Yeah, it’ll do that for a bit,” Mark said as he steered me by the elbow along the path to the caiman’s greenhouse. “Careful! You’ll get blood on you.”
I looked down and saw blood pissing out of the chicken’s torn neck.
“I ripped the neck a little bit,” Mark confessed.
My stomach turned over. The chicken gave a last pathetic shudder and was still. My hands were warm, and my fingers were wet.
“You’re okay, aren’t you?” Mark asked in sincere concern.
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