Predators I Have Known

by Alan Dean Foster

  In the motionless water-heavy air, the thunderous blast of sound that erupted from the trees resounded as loudly as Gabriel’s horn announcing the apocalypse—except that this herald came equipped with her own built-in trumpet. I thought instantly of the bent side-view mirror and the hole in the tough glass of the Land Cruiser’s windshield. Our guide’s reaction was instantaneous.

  “RUN!” he yelled at the top of his lungs as he turned to his left and burst into a mad sprint perpendicular to the trees.

  I started to comply, only to have my leg pause literally halfway off the ground as I gaped at him in confusion. My sister stood frozen, her gaze darting rapidly back and forth between guide and brother. I don’t think I stammered.

  “But you said not to run under any circumstan—”

  “Run, run!” He slowed his pace long enough to look back at the trees and at us, but he did not stop.

  Unsurprisingly, we ran.

  A couple of hundred yards away, we were forced to stop to catch our breath. Perspiration poured down the length of our bodies like slender threads of channeled whitewater. Looking back at the section of forest we had been a mere couple of steps from entering, we saw nothing. No movement, and no sign of whichever elephant had startled us into anxious flight.

  “Cruella?” Bent over with her hands on her knees, my sister was panting hard, but she hadn’t fallen. As was her preference, she had been hiking barefoot.

  “Possibly.” Our guide was studying the motionless trees intently, still not wholly content with the distance we had put between them and ourselves. “No way of telling unless she comes out.”

  “How close were we?” my sister asked.

  I looked at her, then I looked at our guide. He looked at me.

  “Too close,” he said. “A matter of feet, not yards. She was right there, just inside the first branches.”

  I had not seen so much as a trace of elephant. I did my best not to sound accusing. “You told us not to run.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Almost every time, you don’t run. Ninety-eight percent of the time, you don’t run.” He nodded in the direction of the trees from whence the overwhelming blast of sound had originated. “But when you’re that close, you run. Might well have been a mother with a calf. Just letting us know we were getting too close.”

  As we slugged down the contents of our water bottles, a part of me was sorry we had not seen the elephant in question. It would have been interesting to know its identity. And while I realize that I am succumbing to easy anthropomorphizing, I cannot escape this image of Cruella, lying on her back in the forest with her forelegs crossed over her chest, trunk in the air, laughing some self-satisfied, uncontrollable, elephant laugh.

  * * *

  Mikongo Camp lies not in the Congo but deep within Lopé National Park in the center of Gabon. Its simple but sturdy individual wooden chalets boast showers, large beds, and plenty of mosquito netting, though nothing can keep rain-forest bugs completely out of any building. As you go about your business, you learn to dance around the potentially dangerous ones, admire the attractive ones, and ignore the ants. It’s their forest, after all.

  With a pair of dedicated trackers, we were off searching for mountain lowland gorillas. As the hours wore on and we found ourselves struggling up and down mud-slicked jungle paths, we found plenty of gorilla spoor but were unable to catch up to the local group itself. We were advancing along a trail cut into the side of a steep hill when my sister stopped in front of me. Intent on keeping watch for insects and other denizens of the forest floor (we had encountered a young green mamba the day before), it dawned on me that not only had everyone stopped, but they had gone completely silent.

  Then I saw our lead guide gesturing for us to back up.

  I had been on numerous jungle walks with a wide assortment of guides on four continents and had been their recipient of a full compliment of hand gestures, but this was the first time one of them had ever indicated I needed to back up. The other guide had placed a finger against his lips in the universal signal for silence.

  From my position at the back of the line, I strained to see past them. Around us, the trees rang with the symphony of the forest: unseen chattering monkeys, the occasional cry of a bird that was a flash of iridescence as it darted between branches, the electronic whine of cicadas. Buttressed boles fought their neighbors for precious sunlight. Spreading its wings and thereby surrendering its camouflage, an audacious butterfly shone sapphire as it briefly exposed itself like a Manhattan flasher. All about us there was sound, no fury, and little movement.

  Peering past the heads of my sister and our guides, I could see nothing in front of them but leaves, twigs, and trees. What had brought about such an abrupt halt to our hike? Straining to make out any disruption to the all-pervasive greenery, I finally saw it. A single eye, gazing back in our general direction. That was all, just an eye. An eye topped by lashes as elegant as any curled in a Beverly Hills beauty salon, only considerably longer than those favored by the most outrageous drag queen. No other eye has lashes like that, or is as likely to be found so high off the ground.

  Behind the eye was a forest elephant.

  Though less than ten yards distant, I could not see anything else of its owner. The elephant blended in completely with the surrounding forest. Unlike their more recognizable East and South African relatives, the forest elephant of central Africa (Loxodonta cyclotis) is smaller, has rounder ears, tusks that tend to point downward and are composed of harder ivory than that of other elephants, and five toes on its front feet and four on the back as opposed to its savanna-dwelling relatives, which have one less toe on each foot.

  I badly wanted to put a number of questions to our guides, but I kept silent. Stuck on the flank of a steep, slippery, jungle-encrusted hill, we had nowhere to run if the elephant decided to charge. So we stood utterly motionless for long moments, not all the sweat that was pouring off us a consequence of the heat and humidity.

  Five minutes passed without anyone saying a word. The time had doubled when our lead guide gestured that we could advance, albeit slowly and carefully. A few minutes later, we stopped by an opening in the brush that intersected our trail. Kneeling, the guide pointed out broken branches and spoor.

  “Elephant make this trail. The forest is full of them.” He grinned as he rose. “But they like to use our trails, too.”

  Once more, I had occasion to reflect on the silence of elephants. Be they inhabitants of the open plains of East or South Africa, the deserts of Namibia, or the forests of the Congo Basin, they wear a hush like an overcoat and move with a silence that never fails to astonish. In the deep jungle, you can pass within feet of one and never know it’s there. The smaller species are the graceful gray ghosts of the forest, and it is a pity they are less well known than their larger African and Southeast Asian cousins.

  And it is a very good thing for those who choose to go for a stroll among their haunts that they are strict vegetarians. . . .

  X

  EVER WONDER HOW WE TASTE?

  Papua New Guinea, October 1995

  NORTH OF PORT MORESBY, THE capital of Papua New Guinea, lies the most accessible of that remarkable country’s national parks—accessibility in such a region being a relative term. PNG’s second largest metropolitan area, Lae, is technically just as accessible as the capital, if one overlooks the fact that for a sizable, developed city it may boast the largest concentration of car-swallowing potholes in the world. I am not exaggerating. The combination of unstable ground, tropical soils, a seaside setting, insufficient financing for infrastructure repair, and fierce rain creates cavities in the frail urban pavement that in other countries would be referred to not as potholes but as cave-ins.

  From Mosby, as its inhabitants like to call it, to Varirata National Park it’s a good half-day’s drive in a sturdy 4x4. Ascending from sea level to more than 2,500 feet, the Sogeri Road soon becomes a dirt track and, if it hasn’t rained too hard or too recently, stays passa
ble as it follows the course of the rushing Laloki River. Along the way, you are likely to encounter farmers and traders and just possibly, raskols, PNG’s infamous bandits and all-around antisocial types. As compensation, Varirata offers a distinctly cooler climate than Mosby in addition to the opportunity to see some of PNG’s fabulous wildlife while still keeping a base in the capital city. From several designated vantage points, there are also spectacular views out over the city and across Bootless Bay.

  I had come up to Varirata in hopes of seeing a few of the birds for which PNG is justly renowned. Among them can be counted the Goura pigeon—the world’s largest—and a vast variety of songbirds. The park being located so close to the city, I did not hold out hopes for seeing anything especially unusual. I did not expect to have an encounter with something as rare, for example, as a black leopard.

  Journey in expectation of seeing nothing, and you will invariably be surprised.

  Since there were no regular tours to Varirata, I had hired a car and driver. Edward was not a guide, though he was willing to accompany me into the forest—for an additional fee, of course. The trails in Varirata being well marked and reasonably well maintained, I decided instead to head off for a couple of hours on my own. Many of my most memorable rain-forest encounters have taken place when I was by myself. The less noise you make, the less disturbance you create, the less presence you bring, the better your chances of seeing something out of the ordinary. Conversation with fellow humans I can get anytime.

  Trekking Varirata involved some up-and-down hiking, but I came across no slopes that proved particularly strenuous. While it was indeed cooler than down on the coast in Port Morseby, I was still in the tropics and soon found myself drenched in familiar perspiration. I was wearing what at that time I thought was appropriate attire: short-sleeved shirt, shorts, and sandals. Having liberally dosed myself with insect repellant, I considered myself reasonably well defended from mosquitoes. Varirata was not the Amazon. While present, the park’s mossies (as the Australians call them) were nothing like the anemia-inducing hordes I had encountered elsewhere.

  Though the forest was relatively open, I stayed on the trail. Since within a mature rain forest, everything looks exactly the same in every direction, you can walk twenty feet off a trail and quickly find yourself hopelessly lost. Small streambeds present another danger, since when dry they often resemble trails and can easily lead the unwary astray.

  I was entirely alone. Varirata is not Yellowstone (though it was that American park that directly inspired Varirata’s creation). Spectacular, enormous birdwing butterflies soared overhead, as if someone was periodically shaking Christmas tree ornaments out of the rain-forest canopy. As I walked, I kept a wary eye out for snakes. In some countries, poisonous serpents have been bequeathed innocuous names, like the deadly but blandly named Australian brown snake. In New Guinea, you have the death adder. There’s a reptile whose name would not lead to unnecessary queries as to its lethal potential.

  You want to walk quietly in the rain forest, but with a heavy step. Exceptionally sensitive to vibration, a snake detecting your approach is eager to slither off into the brush and out of your path. It’s the terrestrial equivalent of shuffling your feet in shallow water to alert any dozing stingrays.

  Weird cries from unseen sources intrigued but did not unsettle me. One was especially loud and sharp. It struck me that this was because the sound was now coming from almost directly overhead. Tilting back my head, I searched the trees, squinting at the occasional burst of sunlight that thrust down between the branches. Something was moving among the leaves. It was sizable, mostly golden-brown in color, with a tail that more than anything else resembled a Persian potentate’s fly whisk.

  Raggiana bird of paradise.

  I had never seen a bird of paradise in the wild, though I had hoped to do so. Here, not far over my head, was the national bird of Papua New Guinea, indifferent to my gawking presence and busily squawking its head off. I struggled with my camera. The Raggiana is not an especially rare bird of paradise, but for someone whose most common avian acquaintances are canyon towhees and blue jays, it was as alien as a pterodactyl.

  What I did not realize, in my excitement and enchantment, was that I was standing still as I was recording video. And while I was standing still, certain denizens of the rain forest were not.

  I was not alerted to the presence of my fellow traveler until I was back in my hotel room and stripping off my sweat-sodden clothes preparatory to climbing into the shower. I took off my right sandal and was working on the heel strap of its companion when I noticed something dark brown, almost black, clinging to the top of my left foot. It glistened. Thinking it a curled leaf, I brushed at it and was startled to find that a) it didn’t move, and b) it was cylindrical and solid, albeit a bit on the pulpy side. I bent over for a closer look. Though this was my initial encounter with one of the little literal hangers-on, I knew now what it was.

  My first leech.

  If I had not looked directly at it, I would never have known it was there. I felt nothing: no weight, and certainly no discomfort. About an inch and a half long and the thickness of a small pencil, it clung contentedly to my foot, sucking away in silence. I’m sure had I ignored it, it would have concluded its meal quite contentedly and dropped off without my ever having become aware of its presence.

  I am ashamed to say I reacted like the extra in a bad movie who always dies first. You know the type: the non-lead character who is constantly scanning the jungle nervously muttering dialogue like, “This is a bad place, sir, a bad place. The natives here say that this forest is haunted by evil spirits, and that no one who goes in is ever seen again.” The leads turn away momentarily, we hear a high-pitched scream, and . . .

  Guess which character gets chomped by a jaguar, or strangled by an anaconda, or eaten in his sleep by army ants.

  I flailed wildly at the leech. Unlike as with so many other creatures in this book, I did so without pausing to study its behavior or striving to recall its scientific nomenclature. For those of you who live in places like New York or Chicago or London and have to deal with leeches every day and therefore are in desperate need of this vital information, there are several ways to get a leech to drop harmlessly off your body. Apply insect repellent (DEET works), salt, vinegar, lemon juice, vinegar, or tobacco spit. If none of these is available, place a lighted match next to the leech. The best method involves no chemical intervention at all. Press your finger against your skin and slide the nail up against the back end of the sucker, breaking its suction hold on your body. When that happens, it will usually release its bite, whereupon you can then pick it up and flick it away.

  I am abashed to admit that in the heat of the moment I had put every one of these recommended remedies completely out of my mind. All I could think of was an unshaven, exhausted Humphrey Bogart slogging through the reeds dragging Katherine Hepburn and the African Queen behind him: indisputably the most memorable sequence involving leeches in the entire history of film.

  My frantic shoves finally succeeded in knocking the little sucker off. As it writhed and twisted on the floor, seeking a purchase—seeking me—it left behind a small bloody circle on my foot. Disdaining my usual scientific approach, I flushed the parasitic invader without a moment’s concern for the life of another living creature.

  Thanks to the anticoagulants secreted by the leech, the circle bled longer than was usual for such a small infringement. But before too long, the bleeding stopped and the spot healed over. I have a scar there to this day: a reminder that where parasites are concerned, it is always best to act with patience and knowledge and not in haste. It also serves as a reminder of something important for anyone who wants to ensure their safety while battling their way through damp jungle. A critical precaution that should be adhered to no matter how oppressive the heat and the humidity.

  Forget the elephant gun. Leave behind the Bowie knife. The machete is useful but not essential.

  Wear socks.<
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  * * *

  Tanzania, July 1984

  WHAT HALTED THE ADVANCE AND the spread of nomadic cattle herders across all of East and Southern Africa was not intertribal warfare, nor the arrival of Arab slavers or European colonists, nor a shortage of adequate pasturage or water for their animals. It was, as is so often the case throughout human history, a disease. And in this instance, a disease that affects cattle and cattle herders alike.

  African trypanosomiasis is far less benign than the name it is commonly known by: sleeping sickness.

  Besides obliterating cattle by the herd, this exceedingly unpleasant affliction was for many years the number-one cause of death among the human population in some parts of Africa. Once infected, a person begins to suffer fever, headache, and joint pain. Swelling of the lymph nodes, sometimes to prodigious size, follows. Left untreated, the disease spreads throughout the body and methodically overwhelms its defenses. It starts to affect the brain, manifesting itself in bouts of confusion and a complete disruption of the normal sleep cycle, which leads eventually to coma and death. Survivors often suffer permanent neurological damage, including at least one variety of Parkinson’s disease. The disease is caused by the introduction of the protozoan Trypanosoma, into the bloodstream of cattle and humans. The protozoan itself is transmitted to cattle and their herders by the tsetse fly.

  If sleeping sickness is a benign malady, give me malaria.

  Having read about Africa all my life, I had naturally come across innumerable references to the tsetse fly and to sleeping sickness. So it was with some trepidation that when preparing to visit East Africa for the first time, I wrote our friend and host Bill Smythe to ask about whether or not the disease was present in any of the areas where we intended to travel.

  “Plenty of tsetse flies,” Bill replied, “but very little trypanosomiasis.”