‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘as long as it’s well tied up.’
That afternoon Bob set off in the boat, accompanied by the little Amerindian boy, to bring back the peccary. I had impressed upon him to buy any other worthwhile specimens he might see in the Amerindian village, and so I awaited his return hopefully. Shortly after the boat had left, the first children arrived, carrying their pets, and soon I was deeply engrossed in the thrilling and exciting job of buying specimens, surrounded on all sides by grinning Amerindians and a weird assortment of animals.
Perhaps the commonest ones were agoutis, golden-brown creatures with long, slim legs and rabbit-like faces. They are really not very intelligent creatures, and are so nervous that they have hysterics if you so much as breathe in their direction. Then there were pacas, plump as young pigs, chocolate-coloured beasts decorated with longitudinal lines of cream coloured blotches. Four or five squirrel and capuchin monkeys capered and chattered on the end of long strings, scrambling up and down the children’s bodies as if they were so many bushes. Many of the children produced young boa-constrictors, beautifully coloured in pink and silver and fawn, coiled round their owners’ waists or wrists. They may seem a rather unusual choice of pet for a child, but the Amerindians don’t seem to suffer from the European’s ridiculous fear of snakes. They keep the boas in their huts and allow the reptiles the run of the place; in return the snake discharges the function usually fulfilled by a cat in more civilised communities, that is to say it keeps the place free from rats, mice, and other edible vermin. I cannot think of a better arrangement, for not only is the boa a better ratter than a cat could ever be, but it is much more decorative and beautiful to look at; to have one draped over the beams of your house in the graceful manner that only snakes can achieve would be as good as having a rare and lovely tapestry for decoration, with the additional advantage that your decoration works for its living.
Just as I had finished with the last of the children there came a wild, ringing laugh and one of the red-headed woodpeckers swooped across the clearing and disappeared into the forest.
Ah!’ I yelped, pointing, ‘I want one of those.’
The children could not understand my words, but my gesture combined with my pleading, imploring expression told them what they wanted to know. They all burst into roars of laughter, stamping and spluttering and nodding their heads, and I began to feel more hopeful of getting a specimen of the woodpecker. When the Amerindians had gone I set to work to build cages for the varied assortment of wildlife I had bought. It was a long job, and by the time I had finished I could hear in the distance the faint chugging of the returning boat, so I walked down to the beach to meet Bob and the peccary.
As the boat came into view I could see Bob and Ivan on the flat roof, sitting back to back on a large box, with strained expressions on their faces. The boat nosed into the shallows, and Bob glared at me from his seat on the box.
‘Did you get it?’ I inquired hopefully.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Bob, ‘and we’ve been trying to keep it in this blasted box ever since we left the village. Apparently it doesn’t like being shut up. I thought it was meant to be tame. In fact I remember you telling me it was a tame one. That was the only reason I agreed to go and fetch it.’
‘Well, the boy said it was tame.’
‘The boy, bless him, was mistaken,’ said Bob coldly; ‘the brute appears to be suffering from claustrophobia.’
Gingerly we carried the box from the boat to the beach.
‘You’d better watch out,’ warned Bob, ‘it’s already got some of the slats loose on top.’
As he spoke the peccary leapt inside the box and hit the top like a sledgehammer; the slats flew off like rockets, and the next minute a bristling and enraged pig had hauled himself out and was galloping up the beach, snorting savagely.
‘There!’ said Bob, ‘I knew that would happen.’
Half-way up the beach the peccary met a small group of Amerindians. He rushed among them, squealing with rage, trying to bite their legs; his sharp, half-inch tusks clicked together at each bite. The Amerindians fled back to the village, hotly pursued by the pig, who was in turn being chased by Ivan and myself. When we reached the huts the inhabitants appeared to have vanished, and the peccary was having a quick snack off some mess he had found under a palm tree. We had rounded the corner of a hut and come upon him rather unexpectedly, but he did not hesitate for a minute. Leaving his meal he charged straight towards us with champing mouth, uttering a bloodcurdling squeal. The next few moments were crowded, with the peccary twirling round and round, chopping and squealing, while Ivan and I leapt madly about with the speed and precision of a well-trained corps de ballet. At last the pig decided that we were too agile for him, and he retreated into a gap between two of the huts and stood there grunting derisively at us.
‘You go round and guard the other end, Ivan,’ I panted. ‘I’ll see he doesn’t get away this side.’
Ivan disappeared round the other side of the huts, and I saw Mr Kahn waddling over the sand towards me. I was filled with an unholy glee.
‘Mr Kahn,’ I called. ‘Can you come and help for a minute?’
‘Surely, Chief,’ he said, beaming. ‘What you want?’
‘Just stand here and guard this opening, will you? There’s a peccary in there and I don’t want him to get out. I’ll be back in a second.’
Leaving Mr Kahn peering doubtfully at the peccary, I rushed over to our hut and unearthed a thick canvas bag, which I wrapped carefully round my left hand. Thus armed I returned to the scene of the fray. To my delight I was just in time to see Mr Kahn panting flat-footedly round the palm trees with the peccary close behind. To my disappointment the pig stopped chasing Mr Kahn as soon as he saw me and retreated once more between the huts.
‘Golly!’ said Mr Kahn. ‘That pig’s plenty fierce, Chief.’
He sat down in the shade and fanned himself with a large red handkerchief, while I squeezed my way between the huts and moved slowly towards the peccary. He stood quite still, watching me, champing his jaws occasionally and giving subdued grunts. He let me get within six feet of him, and then he charged. As he reached me I grabbed the bristly scruff of his neck with my right hand and plunged my left, encased in canvas, straight into his mouth. He champed his jaws desperately, but his tusks made no impression through the canvas. I shifted my grip, got my arm firmly round his fat body and lifted him off the ground. As soon as he felt himself hoisted into the air his confidence seemed to evaporate, he stopped biting my hand and started squeaking in the most plaintive manner, kicking out with his fat little hind legs. I carried him over to our hut and deposited him in a box that was strong enough to hold him. 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 slightly 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.
8. 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 for frogs.
Now most people seem to be under the impression that a frog 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 other 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 very 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 fingernail. The male hairy frog, also of West Africa, has the sides of its body and its legs covered with a thick pelt of what appears to be hair but is in reality composed of tiny filaments of skin. It also possesses retractile claws, like a cat. In colouration 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 hatch unattended, hands them over to the male, who winds them 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 frog 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.’
Three Singles to Adventure Page 14
