The Aye-Aye and I

by Gerald Durrell

  When we got back to camp, we got our charges safely installed and thought that we deserved a beer. The flies joined us. I had thought that the team’s complaints at the quantity of flies were an exaggeration, so I was shocked to find that, if anything, their description had been understated.

  Firstly, there were the houseflies. At least, I suppose that’s what they were. After pouring out a beer and putting the cap back on the bottle only to find that ten flies had committed mass suicide in my glass, I became too dispirited to try to identify them. They were plump and about half as big again as the housefly that causes such alarm in the kitchens of Europe. They took their job to be with us from sun-up to sundown very seriously. The speed with which they could get themselves into a glass of beer or onto a plate of food had to be seen to be believed. The tent poles were black with them, the table top a black moving tablecloth of them. Many of them, when off duty, came and hummed the latest fly pop song in your ear and neither the tune nor the lyrics were more intelligible or less irritating than the average human pop song. They accompanied this serenade by mountaineering up legs, arms, face or any other exposed bits of the anatomy. They had a particularly joyous time when they found someone defenceless in the bath house or the latrine.

  As if these ministrations were not enough, when the sun was really high, gaping down on us like a dawn bread oven, the flies were joined by the sweatbees. Tiny, rotund and glossy black with gauzy semi-transparent wings, these insects were, if anything, more irritating than the flies. They appeared by the hundred, as silently as shadows, and descended on us in droves. Their desire was for moisture and, of course, under that blistering sun, we sweated continuously and we and our clothes represented manna from heaven for these tiny creatures. They would settle on us in clouds until our arms, legs and face were so covered with the multitude that we looked as if we were suffering from a severe case of chickenpox. In their greed for the moisture we were exuding, they would try to crawl into our ears, up our noses or, most irritating of all, endeavour to get into our eyes. Killing them gave little satisfaction. So drugged and drunk with having found such an oasis, they crawled, stupefied, upon us. It was possible to destroy fifty or more at one slap but their place was immediately taken by fifty of their compatriots, and the maddening, tickling sensation recommenced. I have often thought that if you pegged a spy out naked in the sun in a sweatbee-infested area, you would get a confession in a trice without the vulgarity of bloodshed.

  Slightly later in the day, when the houseflies and the sweatbees had driven us mad, the horseflies would arrive. They were fast, silent and could land so delicately that we were unaware of their arrival. However, each one appeared to be equipped with chain-saws instead of jaws so we were not left long unappraised of their presence. The sudden agony as they pierced the skin felt as if some malignant millionaire was extinguishing a large and expensive Havana cigar on the exposed parts.

  The irritating thing about all these noxious insects is that they are so fascinating. Look at a dismembered housefly or mosquito under a microscope and immediately you become captivated by the architectural beauty of their construction. The compound eye of the housefly, for example, is a miracle of design. The delicacy of the wings of some of these insects under the microscope show stained-glass windows more beautifully wrought than anything to be seen in Chartres Cathedral. Indeed, once you have seen the component parts of some of these creatures magnified and studied their incredible intricacies of design, you have a faint, guilty qualm at swatting one and crushing such a structural miracle. The fly family is, of course, an enormous one spreading all over the world. They can live in all the places where man can, and live and rear their young in habitats in which man could not survive, let alone produce progeny. The shoreflies live and breed in brine so salty you wonder how the young can cope. Other species, for reasons best known to themselves, inhabit hot springs in Iceland, America, Japan and New Zealand, their young living happily in water temperatures that climb up to 55°C. In California – where else? – there is a species of fly that lives in lakes of crude oil, the larvae breathing through a tube, a sort of aqualung. When they feed on dead insects, they take oil into their systems as well as food, but by an extremely clever piece of internal engineering, only the food is digested and not the oil.

  The list of what the fly family and their young can feed on is astonishing and seemingly endless, ranging from cow dung, rotting flesh, pus and the sap of diseased trees, to more savoury things like narcissus and onion bulbs, asparagus and carrots. The amount of other creatures they prey on, both for food and as a parasite, is extraordinary. The young of the cluster fly take up their abode in earthworms, other species live in bumble bees and yet others in various caterpillars. As parasites, they prey on anything from man downwards. Fruit flies can cause the unpleasant disease called yaws and, by feeding on the moisture in the eye, can cause conjunctivitis. The skipper fly, a gourmet among these insects, likes high-quality cheese, such as Gorgonzola or Stilton, in which to rear its young. Some iron-willed gourmets insist that a cheese is not ready for consumption unless it heaves and trembles with baby skipper fly maggots. Few would be so case-hardened, however, if they knew that the maggots are impervious to human digestive juices and may go on living happily inside the gourmet’s tummy until their vigorous activities cause severe inflammation of the stomach’s mucous lining.

  The eating of parasites is not confined to civilized Europe. In North America, a kind of snipe fly, whose families congregate under bridges to drop the larvae before they die, are collected by certain Indian tribes and baked into the Red Indian equivalent of a hot cross bun. One fairly horrifying parasitic fly in the housefly group lays eggs on an unfortunate – and presumably absent-minded – toad. When the larvae hatch, they take up residence inside the nasal cavity and there, not content with destroying the mucous membranes, go on to eat away the whole front of the unfortunate amphibian’s head. (Another species in North America called the screw worm attacks human beings in the same way and with the same disastrous and horrifying results, if not treated.)

  Flies, believe it or not, have their charming, whimsical and useful side, as well as a macabre one. One of the pomace flies, for example, enabled a major breakthrough to be made in our knowledge and understanding of genetics, so it was and is of the greatest importance to mankind.

  The termite fly, as well as having an extraordinary life history, repays the creature it exploits. Originally, the flies are males but, later, by some insect alchemy they become female. They lay only one large egg at a time and then another extraordinary piece of witchcraft takes place. The fully grown larva soon hatches and within a few minutes it turns into a pupa, surely one of the most hurried life histories in the animal kingdom. Of course, the fly lives in the termite colony and feeds on the termites’ eggs but the termites adopt a live-and-let-live policy for the fly repays them. At the end of its ponderous body are sometimes yellow tufts which produce a secretion that the termites consider to be a delicacy and so, working on the old biblical principle that you should not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn, the termites tolerate their strange guest and its minor depredations among its eggs.

  Some of the danceflies have a charming ritual for seducing an attractive female. The would-be courtier catches another insect and wraps it in a sort of silken wedding veil it manufactures from its body. He takes this gift and dances with it in front of the lady of his choice and she, overcome by the graceful generosity of his attentions, becomes immediately receptive. While she eats this provender the male mates with her. In one species, the males, calculating and hard-hearted brutes, have discovered that their females are much more easily seduced. None of this exhausting running about catching insect presents for the chosen one; he simply takes the veil and dances with that. The female, dazzled by the implications of the veil, works herself up into a state of premarital bliss. Then the male throws aside the veil, presents himself in his true colours and the female falls victim to his lust. Life am
ong the flies can be as complex and unreal as any TV soap opera.

  During the next few days we added steadily to our collection of kapidolo. The slight rainfall just before we came had enticed them out of hiding and they were trundling about the forest floor and taking their lives in their hands by slowly crossing the logging roads that criss-crossed the area. We were also lucky with the jumping rats and had soon caught our quota of three pairs, all of which had settled down splendidly in their new homes and on their new diets. It is curious that the scant literature on this beguiling beast makes no mention of their vocalization, for their growls, hisses, yaps and deep sighs soon became part of the wild chorus around us as soon as the sun had set.

  On the last morning, we were a bit late setting out into the forest and when we got to the trap-line the sun was up, fierce and implacable, crisping the forest into kindling. I begged off going round the trap-line and said that I would wait by the road and occupy myself with some birdwatching.

  The voices of the others had scarcely died away when the tangle of creepers that adorned the trees above me was visited by a group of Souimanga sunbirds, a slender scrap of a bird with a curved black bill like a scimitar. Its head, chin and throat were a vivid, glittering, metallic green and on its grey-brown back were patches of metallic purple. The breast was glittering blue, edged with red and bright yellow and the tail was green. It was as bright and gay as any gypsy caravan and it lit up the leafless vine it was investigating. The sunbirds are, of course, the African answer to the hummingbird and some are as beautiful as their South American counterparts. The ones a few feet above me were hunting insects, for there were no flowers on the vine from which to sip nectar. They flew in rapid darts, too fast for the eye to follow, weaving strange geometrical patterns through the branches. They would suddenly come to a stop on blurred wings and peck at an insect too minute for my eyes to discern without a hand lens. The little flock kept in touch and presumably reported progress by a series of sharp sibilant little cries. Soon they had denuded the vine of its insect inhabitants and they moved off into the forest like a miniature firework display.

  My next visitors were eight Vasa parrots, endearing birds with rounded tails and pale horn-coloured bills. They arrived vocally and, for a parrot, quite musically, flapping and gliding their way into a fairly large tree some fifty yards away. There was no fruit in the tree nor any other edible substances so I got the impression that they used it more in the nature of a gymnasium, hopping from branches, hanging upside down and having mock battles. They accompanied all this activity with raucous, cackling cries or melodious pipings. They were loud, happy and amusing birds to watch.

  I had just been driven back into the red-hot interior of the Toyota by the attentions of the sweatbees when I had another visitor, a remarkable one that I never thought I would be able to see. A flash of russet red caught my eye in the bushes some six feet in front of the vehicle and, suddenly, from out of the undergrowth, silent as a cloud shadow, came a fosa which walked languidly to the middle of the road and sat down. There was no mistaking that slouching, indolent, cat-like gait. I was observing the largest carnivorous mammal in Madagascar, looking very like a young puma and with a puma’s walk. When it got to the middle of the road, it sat down some ten feet away from the Toyota, of which it took no notice at all, and remained immobile for a minute or two. It was relaxed and perfectly at ease: no furtive glances over its shoulder, no ear twitches, no tensing of the muscles. It looked as if it had been invited. Since it seemed to be happy and at home, I relaxed too, moving my cramped legs gently to a more comfortable position.

  The fosa had a long, athletic-looking body and an inordinately long tail. Its head seemed small in comparison to the rest of its body and reminded me of the ancient Egyptian carvings of sacred cats. Its fur looked dense and sleek and was a beautiful, warm honey-gingerbread colour. It was, after all, carrying the banner of the lion, the tiger and the jaguar, to name but a few of the host of beautiful carnivores found worldwide and so, to be one of their company, it behove it to put on a bit of side. It sat, silent and unmoving for a few minutes, and then commenced to groom itself thoroughly as a cat does, lifting its plump paws to be licked and have the odd burr nibbled away, stretching its hind legs out to receive a wash, curry-combing its thick tail assiduously. The whole process took perhaps five or six minutes and it was wonderful to watch an animal totally unaware of my presence or, if he was aware of it, giving no sign, ignoring me as an aristocrat would be unaware of the presence of a peasant.

  Having repaired the minuscule damage which only he could discern on his immaculate fur, he sat upright again, sighed, yawned prodigiously with a flash of white teeth, tested the wind and, then, slowly and gracefully, he crossed the road and disappeared into the forest, his immense sickle of a tail swinging from side to side like a bellrope behind him. I heaved a sigh of deep contentment. To have spent ten minutes with such a rare and beautiful creature was a privilege. Yet the Malagasy dislike and fear the fosa for, they assert, it is quite fearless and will attack zebu calves and man himself if provoked. It may be true, but my fosa looked benign and noble and as if, were he deferentially approached, he would curl up at your fireside, a large, gentle, honey-coloured adornment to your hearth.

  I had thought that I had been given my fill of good luck for our last day but more treats were in store. As we were driving back to camp, we came upon a troupe of eight sifakas relaxing in the sun-speckled shade of the trees some twenty feet from the road. They were so perfectly grouped and exhibited so many different forms of behaviour that you suspected that they had just signed a very lucrative contract with the BBC and were in the middle of a rehearsal. One sprawled lengthways along a branch, feet and arms hanging flaccidly. Occasionally, he would open his eyes and survey us without interest. Once, he made lethargic attempts to swat a large blue butterfly, which was flitting around in that indecisive way that butterflies have, but he failed to connect. Two were locked in mock mortal combat, throwing their arms round each other, biting gently and then leaping away. Above them, four members of the troupe were sun-worshipping, with their heads back, arms widespread, looking ridiculously like a travelling opera company singing one of the more difficult parts of the Ring cycle. In a patch of shade a female sat, her woolly baby on her lap, carefully examining it to make sure that it was unblemished by ticks or burrs or anything else injurious to its well-being. Like all infants, the baby was more interested in trying to climb onto its mother’s head so that it could reach up and join the two adults who were doing battle. We spent some time with this enchanting group, photographing them and watching their antics. They took no more notice of us than if we had been a herd of zebu. At last, reluctantly, we left them and they watched our departure with incurious golden eyes. It was salutary to know that we were much more interested in them than they were in us.

  The next day, we left Morandava with its gently roasting forest and its superfluity of flies. We had been highly successful and had caught almost everything we wanted. Now we only had the tricky job of getting all back safely to Jersey. I was sorry that there had been little rainfall before we arrived to green the forest, for I felt it would be a nice, friendly place, full of fascinating animals, if it had only been dressed in a few leaves. True, its nudity allowed one to see more in the bare branches but a wardrobe of leaves might have gone a long way to sheltering us from the sun. As we bowled down the red, dusty road between the army of stalwart baobabs, a flock of Vasa parrots flew overhead shouting goodbye from the gentian-blue vault of the sky.

  Chapter Five

  The Hunt Begins

  Our search for the beast with the magic finger started with an argument which, unfortunately, I won. We were sitting in the Hotel Colbert’s bar, waiting for the Jersey Channel Television team to arrive to film us, poring over maps and discussing the route to our destination, some 350 miles from Antananarivo. Firstly, we would have to go due east towards Tamatave on the coast. We knew that this road was a good one because
Tamatave was an important port and the Malagasy needed to keep it in reasonable condition. After this, the trouble would begin when we turned northwards and had to travel a rough road with a whole series of river crossings aided only by unpredictable ferries. As the road ran along the edge of the sea we would have to contend with not only the wayward currents of the rivers but the tides as well. The trip boded to be interesting.

  ‘I do wish you’d be sensible and fly,’ said Lee. ‘You can be picked up in Mananara and driven out to wherever John and Q have decided to make base camp. To drive up there is going to play havoc with your hips.’

  My hips, which had been my stalwart companions for sixty-odd years, had recently played a dirty trick on me and developed arthritis, necessitating their removal, banishment and replacement with steel and plastic. The X-ray photographs of my hips after the operation looked like one of the less salubrious barbed-wire entanglements from World War One. They behaved in this dastardly way while we were filming our television series in Russia, finally collapsing when we were up in the tundra, only 900 miles from the North Pole. Our director had found a magnificent patch of miniature wild flowers some five hundred yards from our camp and he wanted me to do a ‘piece to camera’ sitting on this lovely, colourful carpet. As the tundra consists of solid ice with a covering of moss and pygmy bushes, it is about as safe to walk upon as a skating rink. I told our director that I simply could not walk that distance when I was in such pain. He went away, crestfallen, and there was a long consultation with the Russians. Then the helicopter which had transported us to this wild and remote spot was started up, I was tenderly transported to it and was flown the five hundred yards, tenderly extracted from the helicopter and deposited among the flowers to do my piece, then equally tenderly transported back to camp. It is the only time in my life that I have felt like Elizabeth Taylor.