THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  Soon he had his snout buried in a dish full of chopped bananas and milk and was snorting and squelching with satisfaction. Never again did he show off and try to be the Terror of the Jungle; in fact he became absurdly tame. A glimpse of his feeding dish would send him into squealing transports of delight, a frightful song that would only end when his nose was deep in the dish and his mouth full of food. He adored being scratched, and if you continued this treatment for long enough he would heel over and fall flat on his side, lying motionless, with his eyes tightly closed and giving tiny grunts of pleasure. We christened him Percy, and even Bob grew quite fond of him, though I suspect that the chief reason for this was that he had seen him chasing Mr. Kahn round the palm trees.

  Poor Mr. Kahn! He tried so desperately to be useful, and to gain some glory, however slight, from the arrival of a new specimen, even though he had nothing whatsoever to do with its capture. But the more he bounced and wobbled and grinned the more irritated we became with him. Ever since he had been chased by Percy he had been grimly determined to recover the prestige he felt sure he had lost during that encounter. He tried very hard to live it down, but Percy was always there, a living, grunting monument to the day when the great hunter Kahn had been soundly routed in full view of us all. One day Mr. Kahn had the chance of covering himself with glory, and he seized it in both fat hands. However, as it turned out the results were not all that he hoped for.

  Bob and I had been out on an expedition to the creeks, and we had returned, tired and hungry. As we neared our hut we were surprised to see Mr. Kahn dancing across the sand towards us, exuding triumph and perspiration in equal quantities. His shirt sleeves were rolled up in a workmanlike fashion, his shoes and trousers were sodden with creek water, and he held something in a mysterious fashion behind his back. He skipped towards us, his belly undulating with this unaccustomed activity and his teeth scintillating in the sun.

  "Chief," he panted. "Just guess what I got. Just guess. You'll never guess. Something you want. Something you'll go crazy for. I promised to get you one, and here it is."

  He held out one huge hand, and in it was a shapeless looking, glutinous object covered with froth. It moved lightly in his grasp. Bob and I looked at it.

  "What is it?" inquired Bob at length.

  "What is it?" repeated Mr. Kahn, looking hurt. "Why it's one of those carpenter birds that Meester Durrell wanted so much."

  "What?" I yelped. "Here, let me have a look."

  Mr. Kahn put the strange object into my hands, to which it stuck itself very firmly. On close examination I could see that it was some sort of bird.

  "What's wrong with it?" I asked.

  Mr. Kahn explained. The woodpecker had, for some reason best known to itself, flown into our hut during the afternoon, and Mr. Kahn, with great presence of mind, had attacked it wildly with a butterfly net. He had pursued it round and round until the poor bird was dizzy, and then, with a lucky swipe, had knocked it down. It was unfortunate that there happened to be a large jar of molasses standing in the hut, for with unerring accuracy the woodpecker fell into the jar with a sticky splash. Nothing daunted, Mr. Kahn had removed the bird from the jar and had carried it, dripping molasses from every feather, down to the creek. There he had proceeded to wash and scrub it vigorously with the aid of a bar of carbolic soap. This object in my hand that looked like a melting honeycomb covered with pink froth had been a very beautiful bird before Mr. Kahn started on it. How it had survived so long I don't know, but the poor thing expired in my hands as Mr. Kahn was proudly finishing his story. When I pointed out that his capture was now a corpse, and a very unattractive one, he was furious and glared at the bird as though it had deliberately flown into the molasses to spite him. For the next two or three days, goaded by our unkind remarks, he prowled around the hut, with the butterfly net in one hand, hoping that he would get the chance of catching another woodpecker, but he was unlucky. After that whenever we wanted to subdue Mr. Kahn we had only to bring the conversation round to peccaries or woodpeckers and he would fall strangely silent.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Toad With Pockets.

  During our stay in the creek lands we spent at least half our time afloat. We were, in fact, living on an island surrounded on all sides by a network of creeks varying in size and depth, but all running together to form an intricate system of water roads. Thus if we wanted to investigate the country around us we had to do so by water.

  During the day we made long excursions to remote Amerindian settlements in the backwaters, and at night we searched the creeks around the village, looking for the local nocturnal fauna.

  We soon found that the watery avenues around us were filled with a vast number of baby cayman of three different species. They ranged from six inches to three or four feet in length, and so were ideal as specimens. We found that the best time to hunt them was at night with the aid of a torch, for during the day they were far too wary to let you get very close, but at night you could dazzle them with a strong light. We would set off on these nocturnal hunts after dinner, paddling down the still, silent creeks, their waters still warm from the sun. The Amerindian paddler would be seated in the stern of the canoe, while Bob and I balanced precariously in the bows, armed with the torch, several tough bags and a long stick with a noose dangling at the end. We would paddle along silently until the torch beam picked out what appeared to be a pair of monstrous rubies lying on the mat of water plants and lily leaves that fringed the bank. We would make frantic gestures to the paddler, to indicate the direction he should take, and he, the blade of his paddle never breaking surface, would inch the canoe over the polished surface of the water as slowly and smoothly as a snail on a window-pane. The nearer we got to the fiery eyes the slower we went, until only a few feet would separate us from the water plants from which the cayman's head peered. Keeping the torch beam full in his eyes we would lower the noose, inch by inch, and work it carefully over his head, a manoeuvre that took a lot of practice but, once learnt, was easy to accomplish. As soon as the noose was over his head and behind his bulging eyes we would jerk the pole heavenwards, and the cayman would shoot out of the weeds like a rocket and dangle in the noose, wiggling frantically and giving harsh squealing grunts like a young pig. We were not always successful, of course; sometimes the paddler would misjudge the speed of the canoe, and its bows would touch the edge of the weeds, jarring the green surface slightly. There would be a loud plop, the cayman's head would vanish, and where it had been there would be only a ragged hole in the weeds, with the glinting water showing beneath.

  One night we had met with such success on a cayman hunt that our bags were soon full and a chorus of grunts and coughs rose from the bottom of the canoe and made further quiet progress impossible. As it was still early we decided to send the canoe back to the village with our catch, while we waited for its return. So we landed on a convenient grassy bank, and while the canoe with its noisy cargo drifted towards the village Bob and I worked slowly up the edge of the creek, searching or frogs.

  Now most people seem to be under the impression that a rug is just a frog the world over and that a species from South America is much the same as its English counterpart.

  Nothing could be further from the truth, for in frogs, as in ather animals, you find that they vary from country to country, displaying a bewildering variety of shapes, sizes, colours, and habits. There is, for example, the so-called flying frog of Asia , a large tree-dwelling species that has developed elongated fingers and toes with wide webs between them. As this frog leaps from tree to tree it is supposed to spread its fingers and toes wide, so that the webs are taut and act like the wings of an aeroplane, allowing it to glide from tree to tree. There are the goliath frogs of West Africa that measure two feet in length and can eat a rat, and a pygmy South American species that you could accommodate comfortably on your little finger-nail. The male hairy frog, also of West Africa , has the sides of its body and its legs covered with thick pelt of what appears to b
e hair but is in reality composed of tiny filaments of skin. It also possesses retractile claws, like a cat. In coloration frogs are perhaps the only creatures that can seriously claim to rival birds; there are frogs coloured red, green, gold, blue, yellow, and black, while the patterns they adopt would make the fortune of any textile designer. But when it comes to rearing their young, then frogs really produce some startling results. The midwife toad of Europe , instead of leaving its eggs in the nearest water to latch unattended, hands them over to the male, who winds hem round his hind legs and carries them about until they hatch. There is a species of tree frog that glues two leaves together, and when water collects in the cup thus formed the Tog lays its eggs in this home-made pond. Another species makes a tree-top nest out of froth, resembling the nest of the so-called cuckoo-spit insect in England , and in this frothy nursery the eggs are laid. But before this happens the outside layer of froth has hardened, so that the inside is kept moist for the tadpoles. As soon as they are old enough to fend for themselves the hard outer casing dissolves and allows them to drop through into the water below.

  Guiana has really more than her fair share of frogs that possess ingenious methods of safeguarding their eggs and young, and the creek lands proved to be the best place for catching them. Our first two discoveries we made that night while waiting for the canoe to return. Bob was amusing himself by dredging the creek with a long-handled net, while I prowled hopefully around some trees whose roots twisted and wound along the bank, half-submerged in the water. With the aid of the torch I succeeded in capturing three large tree frogs, dark green in colour, with great goggle eyes.

  These proved to be Even's tree frog, a species in which the female carries her eggs stuck in rows along her back, like a section of a cobbled street. Unfortunately, none of the ones I caught were carrying eggs. I was just congratulating myself on this interesting frog capture, when there came a shout from Bob.

  "Gerry, come and see what I've caught."

  "What is it?" I shouted, as I put my tree frogs into a cloth bag and hurried down the bank towards him.

  "I really don't know," answered Bob in puzzled tones, "but I think it must be some kind of fish."

  He had the net half-submerged in the water, and swimming around in it was a creature that at first glance did appear to be some sort of fish. I looked at it closely.

  "It's not a fish," I said.

  "What is it, then?"

  "It's a tadpole," I replied, after another scrutiny of the beast.

  "A tadpole?" said Bob. "Don't be ridiculous. Look at the size of the thing. What sort of frog would that turn into?"

  "I tell you it's a tadpole," I said firmly. "Look at it."

  I dipped my hands into the net and pulled the creature out, while Bob shone the torch on it. Sure enough it was a tadpole, but the largest, fattest tadpole I had ever seen.

  It measured about six inches in length, and its body was the size and circumference of a large hen's egg.

  "It can't be a tadpole," said Bob, "but I don't see what else it can be."

  "It's a tadpole all right, but what of?"

  We stood and watched while the giant tadpole swam merrily round and round the glass jar we had confined him in. I racked my brains, for I knew that somewhere or other I had read about these monstrous tadpoles. After a few minutes of hard thinking it suddenly came back to me.

  "I know what it is," I said, "it's a paradoxical frog,"

  "A what?"

  "A paradoxical frog. I remember reading about them somewhere. It's called that because instead of the tadpole being small and growing larger as it develops, it's the other way round."

  "Other way round?" echoed Bob, completely bewildered.

  "Yes, it starts off as a very large tadpole and as it develops it shrinks and eventually turns into a medium-sized frog."

  "But that's ridiculous," said Bob again, "it should be the other way round."

  "I know. That's why it's called a paradoxical frog."

  Bob thought about it for a bit.

  "I give up," he said at length. "What's the frog look like?"

  "You remember those small greenish frogs we caught at Adventure? Those ones about the size of an English frog? Well, I think those are the ones, although I never thought of it at the time."

  "It seems impossible," said Bob musing and staring at the gigantic tadpole, "but I'll take your word for it."

  We set to work with the net once more, and by the time the canoe had returned we had captured two more of these huge tadpoles and were feeling very pleased with ourselves.

  Later, when we had returned to our hut, we placed the jar that contained them under a strong light and examined them carefully. Except for their colossal proportions they were exactly like any tadpole you can find in an English pond in the spring. They were, however, a sort of mottled greenish-grey instead of black. The transparent edges of the tail were like frosted glass, and they had ridiculous pursed-up mouths with protruding lips that made them look as though they were blowing kisses at us through the glass.

  Watching them wiggling tirelessly round the jar gave one an uncanny feeling. You would feel the same sense of shock if you were walking through the wood one day and you came face to face with an ant the size of a terrier, or a bumblebee as big as a blackbird. They were so very ordinary but, magnified to those fantastic proportions, they took you by surprise and made you wonder if you were dreaming.

  Enthusiastic over our paradoxical frogs we returned the following night to the same creek, armed with nets, jars, and other impedimenta. In the first half-hour we caught two more Even's tree frogs and, after much dredging, one more giant tadpole. Then for three hours we caught nothing except bits of twig and a quite remarkable quantity of revolting slush from the creek bed. Eventually I moved further down the bank from the spot where Bob was still hopefully dredging, and I found a narrow, shallow tributary leading into the main creek, little more than a drain and thickly choked with leaves. It meandered away in the distance under a group of stunted trees. Thinking that it might be a more profitable hunting ground, I called Bob over, and we worked our way up the small waterway. But, if anything, it seemed to be more devoid of life than the main creek. Presently I sat down for a smoke, while Bob continued doggedly onwards with his net. I saw him haul his net out, as usual full of sodden leaves, and watched him tip them out on to the bank.

  He was just going to plunge his net into the water again when he stopped and peered down at the pile of leaves he had just dredged up.

  Then he dropped the net and clutched at the pile of leaves with a delighted squawk.

  "What have you got?" I asked.

  Bob was dancing about in glee, clasping something in his hands.

  "I've got one!" he yelped. "I've got one!"

  "What have you got?"

  "A pipa toad."

  "Nonsense," I said incredulously.

  "Come and have a look, then," said Bob, bursting with pride.

  He opened his hands for my inspection and disclosed a strange and ugly creature. It looked, to be quite frank, like a brown toad that had been run over by a very heavy steamroller. It's short, rather thin arms and legs stuck out stiffly, one at each corner of its squarish body, and made it look as though rigor mortis had already set in. Its snout was pointed, its eyes minute, and the whole thing was as flat as a pancake. It was, as Bob said, a large male pipa toad, perhaps one of the most curious amphibians in the world. Bob's excitement and pride was understandable, for ever since we had arrived in Guiana we had been trying to get specimens of this creature, without success. And now, in a most unlikely-looking spot, when we were not even thinking about pipa toads, we had captured one. So the misshapen object in Bob's hands sent us into an orgy of delight and self-congratulation, whereas most people would have been rather revolted by their catch and thrown it hurriedly back.

  When our excitement had died down a little we set to work and grimly dredged every inch of that small stream, producing a mountain of rotting leave
s which we picked over as carefully as a couple of monkeys searching each other's fur. Our perseverance was rewarded, for at the end of an hour we had captured four more of these weird toads.

  Moreover one of them was a female with eggs, a prize that was worth anything in our eyes, for the breeding habits of the pipa toad are the most extraordinary thing about it.

  During the breeding season, in the case of most species of frog and toad, the sexes can be found together some time before the eggs are actually laid. The male in a frenzy of love clasps the female round the body just below her front legs and remains on her back for quite a long time, clutching her in this nuptial embrace. Eventually the female lays her eggs, and as she does so the male fertilizes them.

  In the pipa toad, however, the process is slightly different. The male climbs on to the female's back and clasps her round the chest in the usual manner. But when the eggs are ready to be laid the female protrudes from her anus a long, pipe-like oviposit or which is curved up on to her back and under the male's belly. When this is in place the male starts to wiggle about, moving and pressing the pipe so that the eggs are squeezed out and deposited in uneven rows across the female's skin, where they stick like glue. At the beginning of the breeding season the skin of the female's back becomes soft and spongy, and so when the eggs have been placed and fertilized they sink into the skin, forming cup-like depressions. The glutinous part of the eggs which protrude above the skin surface then hardens and forms little convex covers. So the female pipa has all her eggs in a multitude of little pockets on her back. In these pockets her young spend the whole of their early life, turning from eggs to tadpoles and from tadpoles to toads. When they are fully developed they push up the little lid on top of the pocket and make their way out into the dangerous world.