Predators I Have Known

by Alan Dean Foster

  Northern Borneo, September 2010

  AN EFFICIENT VAMPIRE NEVER WAKES its victim, never unsettles their sleep, never alerts them to its bloodsucking presence, for the very good reason that the meal in question might object to serving as someone else’s dinner. Whether the fabled count himself injected anesthetic into his quarry in the course of his nocturnal imbibitions is a subject that never seems to merit discussion in the innumerable films in which he has starred. Similarly, the matter of whether or not his saliva included a useful dose of anticoagulant to keep the blood flowing freely is also glossed over. The producers of such entertainments would rather focus on cleavage than coagulants.

  In real life, those that thrive by drinking the blood of another usually, but not always, possess both weapons to facilitate their dining. Being subject to the attentions of one in particular turned out to be an oddly neutral experience. Not that it’s one I’d care to repeat, even for demonstration purposes. Still, I couldn’t escape the feeling afterward that the simple yet supremely efficient animal that had partaken uninvited of my bodily fluids was somehow apologetic regarding the entire incident.

  I’ve mentioned my brief encounter with a single leech in Papua New Guinea. It was small and so was its appetite. The tiger leech is another matter entirely: one that I unwillingly encountered in the Danum Valley of northern Borneo.

  The Danum is protected primary rain forest. Having never been cut, it’s still densely populated with exotic creatures such as pangolins, binturongs, flying frogs and squirrels, five feline species, including the rarely seen clouded leopard, the even rarer Sumatran rhino, pygmy elephants, many primate species besides the iconic orangutan, insects that look as if they were designed by Fabergé, and leeches. Millions and millions of leeches. No matter how hard you try to avoid them, they . . . will . . . find . . . you.

  While the common brown leech of Borneo (length less than two inches) tends to hug the rain-forest floor, the much larger tiger leech prefers to hang out on the ends of branches and leaves waiting for potential hosts to amble by. Able to sense its prey by both movement and heat, it will extend itself to its full length from the very tips of leaves in hopes of latching on to a passing meal. Once on board, it will efficiently and with surprising speed seek out bare flesh, attach its mouthparts, and begin to feed.

  I got struck twice, and both times if was my fault. The first occasion can be attributed to hubris, the second to oversight.

  My choice of jungle gear is a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt made by the now sadly vanished firm of Willis & Geiger. W & G was bought by a much larger firm that, in the daffy pseudo-prescient manner of such companies, decided the market for such specialized gear did not justify the cost of producing it. In all the years I’ve worn this carefully preserved clothing, nothing has ever managed to bite or sting through it. Not an army ant, not a wasp, nothing.

  Preparing to set out on a hike upriver, I carefully checked my attire. Long-sleeved shirt tucked into belted pants. Hiking socks and hiking boots. Broad-brimmed hat intended not to keep off the rain or sun so much as to provide a barrier against Things That Drop Out of Trees. All gear prepped and sprayed with permethrin. Insect repellent lightly slathered on exposed hands, face, and neck. And as the final touch, leech socks especially acquired for walking in the Danum. Unlike your standard hiking socks, whose breathable weave leeches can easily penetrate, leech socks are fashioned of fabric impervious to their probing. Something like plastic bags for your feet and lower legs, they are tied below the knee and add virtually no weight to your trek.

  Thus equipped and having already successfully concluded several walks in the forest without having received so much as a single nibble, I felt perfectly safe in setting out once again.

  The humidity that morning was high even for the Danum, and as the day warmed, I began to perspire more than usual. Long before I reached the end of the trail, I was steamed and drenched. At the terminus of this particular hike lies a flat, triangular peninsula of water-tumbled stone that sticks like a stony tongue out into the Danum River. Worn smooth by centuries of flash floods, car-size boulders dot the rubble-strewn terrain. The cooling breeze blowing down the river proved irresistible.

  After carefully checking one especially inviting, smooth-topped boulder to ensure it was uninhabited, I removed my shirt and lay down to cool off. Ten delightful minutes later, I sat up and happened to catch a glimpse of my nether regions.

  My legs were crawling with leeches.

  Brown and tiger, they were inching their way upward like miniature malevolent Slinkies in search of exposed flesh. They were unable to live in the water and unable to live on the hot rocks, but they were perfectly comfortable lying dormant in the moist sand and mud while waiting for a mouse deer, a bearded pig, or an overconfident visitor like myself. Keeping as calm as I could, I first checked my exposed chest. Thankfully finding nothing, I returned my attention to my legs and began to flick the ravenous visitors away. Except, they didn’t flick. Hanging on with ferocious single-mindedness, they forced me to pick them off one by one, roll them up, and toss them aside.

  I made a thorough job of it, checking and rechecking to ensure that not a single one had escaped my notice and trying not to think about what would have happened had I chanced to fall asleep on that fine, cool, comforting rock. One or two leech bites are harmless enough. Several would be more than a little uncomfortable. The potential effects on the body of several dozen gorging themselves when combined with the hot tropical sun and humidity was one I chose not to contemplate.

  Satisfied that I had seen off the last of them, I put my shirt back on, tucked it back in, and started back toward the trailhead. Looking down as I left, I saw still more of the hungry worm-shapes looping in my direction. I did not exactly sneer as I left them lurching futilely in my wake, but I did feel undeniably superior. With a single stride, I could cover more ground than any leech could in many minutes of extending itself to the fullest.

  Hubris. A bad companion in the jungle.

  Well pleased with myself and having thoroughly enjoyed the morning’s outing, I returned to my room at the lodge and immediately began to remove my sopping wet clothing in anticipation of the refreshing shower to come. Shoes, leech socks, and hiking socks came off outside, then the rest inside. I pulled off my shirt and prepared to hang it over the back of a chair to dry and . . .

  Plop.

  Plop is a sound more frequently associated with cartoon audio effects than real life, but I can assure you that what I heard at that moment was inarguably a distinct plop. Frowning, I looked around and down. Lying on the floor was an oblong shape about as long and thick as my thumb. It was a dark red-brown in color and quivering ever so slightly. Bending, I took a closer look. It was a tiger leech, and it was quivering because it was full of me.

  I don’t care what people say about maintaining scientific detachment. Unless they are your specialty, parasites are an unpleasant sight at any time. Seeing one lying on the floor bloated with an ounce or two of your own blood and writhing drunkenly in a desperate but feeble attempt to get away produces sensations in mind and gut that are anything but dispassionate.

  Resisting the urge to stomp my attacker to a pulp (and not wanting to mess the hardwood floor), I fought back the urge to heave, carefully scooped him up, and dumped him over the porch railing. There was nothing to be gained by artificially bringing forward the creature’s demise, besides which, birds and other creatures feed on leeches and might find this overstuffed individual especially nourishing. Feeling not very circle-of-life–ish, I stripped off the rest of my clothes and headed for the shower, wondering where and how I had been bitten.

  The answer to both questions was soon forthcoming. Just above the waistband of where my pants snugged against my body, a perfectly circular wound not much smaller than a dime was bleeding merrily away. I immediately cleaned it with soap and water. It continued to bleed. I patted it down and put pressure on it with a clean towel. As soon as I moved th
e towel away, the bleeding resumed. I put a Band-Aid over it. It bled through the Band-Aid. There was absolutely no pain or discomfort. Just a steady flow of crimson me.

  Digging into my supplies, I pulled out a packet of QR powder. Originally intended for the military, it’s formulated to instantly stop the bleeding from any wound. I was gratified to discover that it also works on tiger leech bites. But only temporarily. As long as the leech’s anticoagulant enzyme hirudin remains active in the wound, it will continue to bleed. Once my QR-induced scab came off, the bleeding resumed, albeit at a slower flow.

  This is not dangerous, but it plays hell with your laundry.

  Unlike the brown leech, which adds an anesthetic to the mix, the bite of the tiger leech is a sharp pinch you can feel. The one that got me must have hidden in the folds of my shirt, waiting to bite me until I put it back on. For such a primitive creature, it’s a sneaky little bastard. I felt the pinch, but thought it was from my waistband being too tight when I’d put my shirt back on.

  The second time I got bit was on the drive out of the Danum and back to the base town of Lahad Datu. Anticipating no reason to get out of the 4x4, I was wearing much more comfortable attire: shorts and a slightly undersized sleeveless shirt. On the way out, however, the driver stopped the vehicle and gestured at the top of a nearby tree.

  “Crested serpent eagle,” he explained, believing I’d want to get a picture. Indeed, I did. So I climbed out, camera in hand, and approached the tree for a better view, being careful of course not to make contact with any of the vegetation.

  But you don’t have to make contact with the vegetation. Sensing you coming, the tiger leech can extend its body two or three inches outward over empty space. As I discovered later that night, this was more than enough to reach me.

  Unlike my previous passenger, I never saw this one. Doubtless sated and content, it dropped off somewhere between the towns of Lahad Datu and Semporna. The calling card it left behind was unmistakable, though. That evening when I removed my shorts in the hotel, more than half a foot of fabric along the waistband was stained red. That’s right; I had been bitten in the same latitude, only this time five inches closer to my navel. They don’t hesitate, tiger leeches. Finding unprotected flesh, they immediately dig in and suck away.

  Whereas brown leech bites fade with time, tiger leech bites sometimes leave permanent marks. I still have both of mine. More irritating is the fact that even after three trips through the system, my dry cleaner is unable to extirpate all of the bloodstains on my irreplaceable trekking clothes. Whenever that bothers me too much, however, I just think back to that lazy morning on the Danum River shore, and what might have happened had I decided to drift off into a long, quiet nap instead of rousing myself and moving on. Who knows?

  I might still be drifting.

  XIV

  TEENAGE KILLER NINJA OTTERS

  Southwestern Brazil, May 2000

  OVER THE YEARS, I’VE BEEN fortunate enough to have observed and had encounters in the wild with hundreds of different animals. Big animals, small animals, animals considered conventionally beautiful, and animals regarded as unattractive. Creatures of the air, sea, and land. Some too small to see without the aid of a magnifying glass and others too big to avoid. Animals so inoffensive they would not harm you no matter how loutishly you intruded on their space, and animals of fallaciously benevolent mien that would chew your toes off entirely unprovoked.

  From among this raging, mewling, bellowing, snorting, stridulating menagerie, I am often asked, “Which is your favorite?”

  Well, if I had to choose one . . .

  It is a predator, though at first glance you might not think of it as such. If you have never been fortunate enough to come across an otter in person, you’ve certainly seen them on television. Otters have served as the stars of innumerable nature documentaries. Among all the denizens of the animal kingdom, few possess such natural magnetism or seem to have as much actual fun as the otter; rocketing effortlessly through the water, tobogganing headfirst down snowbanks, playing frenetic king-of-the-mountain atop slick rocks or convenient logs. Through no design of their own, otters fit comfortably into that non-Linnaean but very real and entirely human-created genus known as Cute. Not only are they naturally playful, they are furry, inoffensively small, bewhiskered, family-oriented, and they squeak charmingly. Note that the actual differences from rats, about which most people feel quite differently, are comparatively minor.

  As I have already pointed out, we are an incorrigibly visual species.

  There is one kind of otter, however, that while possessing in full all of the aforementioned Lutrinaean characteristics can be something less than playful and react in a manner other than cute. It is my favorite predator as well as my favorite animal in the world.

  Pteronura brasiliensis, the giant otter of South America, can grow to more than six feet in length and attain a weight of nearly eighty pounds. Cross your prototypical cuddly river otter with a seal and you’ll get some idea of what this master of the Amazon basin looks like out of the water. The giant otter is the largest member of the weasel family. In Spanish, it is known as el lobo de río or “the river wolf.” An apt name for a predator that eats piranhas for breakfast, along with pretty much anything else it can catch. Every bit as agile in the water as its smaller cousins, it is able to consume much larger prey.

  Excluding humans, the giant otter’s only real enemy is the caiman, particularly the black caiman. From its massive snout to its spiky dragon’s tail, this striking South American crocodilian can reach lengths of twenty feet. Individually, a giant otter is easy prey for the caiman. But a cooperative family group of otters cannot only drive off the armored giants, they have been known to kill smaller ones.

  They have also been reputed, on rare occasions, to seriously injure humans who intrude on their territory.

  Nearly wiped out by decades of uncontrolled hunting for their pelts, giant otters are now protected in many parts of the continent. Where their habitat has been left intact, they are making a slow but steady comeback from near extinction. Endangered but viable populations are reported from Guyana, Brazil, Peru, Ecuador, and Bolivia. Despite their wide range they remain scarce and often difficult to see. Though I missed them in Guyana, I have been fortunate enough to encounter them while crossing the small lakes they favor in Peru, Ecuador, and Brazil. From the time I first learned of their existence, it became a dream of mine to interact with them in their natural surroundings. In other words, to go swimming with them.

  Knowledgeable people to whom I confessed this longing told me in no uncertain terms that in their professional opinion this was a Really Bad Idea. Not unlike scratching a cheetah between its front legs.

  “A family group will almost always include one or two cubs, or at least juveniles, and they’re highly protective of their young,” one zoologist explained to me when I broached the possibility.

  I nodded understandingly. “So if I just happened to find myself in the water in their vicinity, what would they be likely to do?”

  The specialist considered. “One of three things. They’ll swim away, in which case you’re wasting your time. They’ll hang around briefly to satisfy their curiosity, barking and spy-hopping (lifting themselves vertically out of the water to get a better view of their immediate surroundings), in which case you’ll get a nice photo-op. Or they’ll attack, in which case you are frankly putting your life at risk.”

  I smiled wanly. “Maybe they’d just give me a warning nip to drive me out of the water.”

  My friend stared hard me. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll snap an arm, or bite off part of your hand. They eat bones, you know. If you’re not close to land or a boat and they take a couple of good chunks out of you, that’ll put a lot of blood in the water real fast. Which alters the environment in ways you don’t want it to be altered.”

  I knew where he was heading. “Piranha,” I said. He nodded solemnly.

  This florid conversational caveat was
at the forefront of my thoughts as I left my motel room and made my way to the small dock. Located on the side of the two-lane Transpantaneira highway that runs from the Brazilian city of Cuiabá to its terminus at the town of Porto Joffre in the heart of the Brazilian Pantanal, the Best Western Mato Grosso (yes, there really is such a place) was the only real hotel in the vast swampy region. The size of France, the Pantanal is the world’s largest wetland. While most of it lies within Brazil, significant portions extend into Bolivia and Paraguay. A paradise for wildlife of all kinds, it is under threat from expanding agricultural development and from proposals to alter the main river system into which it drains.

  The portion of the Pixaim (“pee-zham”) River I was about to explore was human inhabited, but save for the occasional incursion by herds of cattle it had suffered relatively little degradation from commercial exploitation. White caimans lay like chevrons on both dusty brown banks, occasionally hauling themselves up onto the boat ramps to sun themselves. Jabirus, storks that can be as tall as people, wandered along the shore like so many hopeful undertakers, careful to stay just out of snapping range of the motionless but ever-watchful crocodilians. Southern caracaras marched up and down the dock area and the rest of the modest hotel grounds, looking for handouts.

  These bold, handsome, chicken-size, land-loving predatory birds quickly lose their fear of humans and will allow you to approach quite close. While they will take live prey, they prefer carrion. They were also more than willing, I discovered, to sneak into the hotel’s restaurant via its unscreened windows to scour unguarded plates of everything from bacon scraps to scrambled eggs and toast. Striding purposefully about the grounds as if they own the place, they remind anyone with an interest in paleontology of the great carnivorous flightless birds such as Phororhacos and Diatryma that used to roam these very same savannas not so many millennia ago.

  Making inquiries soon after our arrival, my friend and I had been told that one or two families of giant otters had recently been spotted upriver. Conditions for a search were perfect. Though humid as always, the weather was unusually cool, in the seventies, and the forecast called for continued clear skies.