The Aye-Aye and I

by Gerald Durrell

  On my return to Jersey, I tried to find out more about this extraordinary head. It appears that the dorso-ventrally flattened shape of the head induces minimal drag when the animal is pursuing its prey. Hammerheads feed largely on squid, which are extremely fast-moving, and one species includes rays in its diet, which are even faster movers. Furthermore, the ‘wings’ of the head contain greatly developed olfactory and electroreceptive organs and the location of the eyes gives superior binocular vision. Another neat point is that the position of the eyes protects the shark from the flailing tentacles of a captured squid. So, in this horror-movie head, we have excellent binocular vision, excellent scent organs and a form of radar. What more can a shark need?

  The road now wound its way upwards into the hills and became worse and worse. It ceased to bear any resemblance to a road and seemed rather like an ancient, dried-out river bed, where water had exposed huge carapaces of boulders the size of bathtubs and created potholes around them that looked as though they had been gouged out by a gigantic ice-cream scoop. We all flopped from side to side like rag dolls and my hips started to complain in no uncertain manner. Although Frank drove with great skill, it was impossible to avoid bumps since the whole road looked as though it had been shelled relentlessly by an invading army and there were simply no smooth patches to alleviate the monotonous thump, shudder and bang.

  The bridges that spanned the ravines and rivers did nothing to ease our passage. For the most part, they consisted of two wooden beams stretched between the banks and laid crossways on these were a series of planks. Neither the cross-beams nor the planks were new, and most of them showed signs of decay. For the most part, the planks were not fixed down and so they leapt and wobbled and banged as the vehicle passed over, with a noise like a gigantic wooden xylophone. Each car had to stop having crossed the bridge while the occupants rearranged the displaced planks for those that followed. Of course, for two vehicles to be on one of these bridges at a time would have invited catastrophe.

  At one bridge, we did have an unpleasant accident which could have been infinitely nastier than it was. We had come to quite a broad river, tawny as a lion and spanned by an impressive steel bridge. Even though the cross girders were steel, laid across them were the same semi-rotting planks as the other bridges had. I was just about to teach Frank to suck eggs by telling him that if the planks gave way the art was not to get your wheels stuck between the steel girders, when that is precisely what happened. Suddenly, the planks disintegrated and the Toyota lurched over drunkenly. The steel girder started to shed bits of itself and the car sank lower and lower.

  ‘I think Lee and I ought to vacate the car,’ I said thoughtfully, opening the door.

  ‘Coward,’ said Frank.

  ‘I don’t care what sort of unpleasant things you did to the unfortunate Gene Autry,’ I pointed out, ‘but I am not a singing cowboy and I have a foolish preference for clinging to life for as long as possible.’

  ‘You’re deserting in the face of the enemy. You’re a cad, sir,’ said Frank. ‘And, anyway, what about me?’

  ‘You’re expendable,’ I said callously, climbing out onto the comparative safety of the bridge.

  ‘Yes, we will probably direct the film much better without you,’ said Lee, sweetly.

  ‘Rats leaving a sinking Toyota,’ said Frank, as the bridge gave a groan and the car sank still further. He opened his door and got out.

  ‘I’m damned if I’m going to be the only one to go down with the ship,’ he said.

  On investigation, we found that the huge steel cross girders were so rusted away that they looked as if they were made of some strange variety of lace. There were places where you could stick your finger through a quarter of an inch of steel. The difficulty was that if another vehicle attempted to drive on to the bridge in a rescue attempt, in all probability it would collapse and both cars carrying all our vital equipment would plummet some seventy feet into the sleek river below. Luckily the other Toyota and the much lighter cars had already reached the other bank. We hitched a rope to the other Toyota and slowly and very carefully it dragged its twin out and across the bridge.

  With all the discomforts and hazards on the road, it was always a relief to get to a ferry, even though it slowed down our progress. The ferries were made of steel pontoons from the last world war, lashed together like giant canoes with planks on top, and propelled by a stout ferryman wielding an immensely long and thick bamboo pole. Getting on and off these ferries was quite a feat. The ferry simply edged its way to the bank or landing stage and four planks were adjusted at an acute angle. Then the driver would have to align the wheels of the vehicle onto these four planks, drive up them and land with a bang on the ferry, which would buck and sway, doing a sort of waltz in the brown waters. If the ferry was not on your side of the river, you generally had to ring a bell attached to a palm tree, and should this be lacking (as it frequently was) you had to rely on shouting yourselves hoarse until the ferryman heard you, ceased his dalliance with some voluptuous village maiden and reluctantly and slowly poled his way across to fetch you.

  Once aboard the ferry, however, peace reigned. The movement was slow and smooth, the sun was pleasantly warm and the only sound was the steady plop and swish of the mammoth bamboo as it was thrust into the water by the ferryman’s muscular arms. Occasionally, we would see a flight of egrets, white as stars, flying in formation to new fishing grounds, sometimes the vivid blue and russet of a pygmy kingfisher flying straight as an arrow down the river, and in the sky above us kites circled like black crosses. Now and then, we would be passed by tiny pirogues or canoes, plying the waters so gently that they made scarcely a ripple, looking like fallen leaves or seed pods as they slid silently on the river’s surface.

  The road afterwards got worse and worse, until we were progressing at a snail’s pace, but even then we could not avoid the bone-crushing potholes nor the immense rocks. The road climbed so that we were several hundred feet above the sea, with an almost sheer drop down to it through coconut palms and ravenala and an almost sheer hillside above us. This had, at one time, been cleared for agriculture and then abandoned, so the low growth and vines had taken over, through which burst like a green rocket the occasional palm tree or a ravenala, spreading its fronds like a green peacock tail. The coastline was a series of huge bays with beautiful biscuit-brown beaches and occasional rocky outcrops. The sea itself was a very deep blue and where the waves broke on the brown sand they left surf in endless chains like white coral necklaces.

  Eventually, we stopped at a village where we were supposed to rendezvous with Professor Roland Albignac, an old friend of ours who had created the Man and Biosphere Reserve around which we were to work. However, like most meetings in Madagascar, it did not come to pass. The local people were, as usual, helpful and full of news about our friend. He was coming by air, he was coming by car, he was coming by sea, he was here, he was there, he was in Paris and not coming at all.

  Bewildered by this largesse of misinformation, we decided to have lunch at the local hotely on the off-chance that Pimpernel Albignac would turn up. If he did not, we decided we would press on, for we were anxious about the next ferry which was dependent on the tide, about which we had also been given a superfluity of doubtful information.

  Fortified by our simple but excellent lunch of fresh fish, chicken and the huge, obligatory bowl of rice without which no Malagasy meal is considered adequate, we pressed on. We had quite a way to go and, to our alarm, the road deteriorated still further and our progress became slower and slower, so that when we finally reached the river the sky was turning a delicate shade of green and the shadows were lengthening ominously.

  To our relief, the ferry was on our side of the river, but the ferrymen were worried that the tide was going out rapidly and making the river’s water level fall. If it fell too far we could not drive off on the other side and we would be marooned on the river bed, which was not an attractive thought, as such comforts as pillows, la
mbas and straw mats were packed deep in the cars and it would have necessitated disembowelling our vehicles, to say nothing of food. Hastily, we drove onto the ferry – fortunately a large one which could take two cars at a time – and the ferrymen poled us speedily across the darkening river. When we got to the other side we found, to our alarm, that the tide had rushed out faster even than we expected and it was impossible for us to get off because by now the ferry was three or four feet below the landing stage. Nothing daunted, the ferrymen said they would land us on a small beach some fifty yards downriver.

  To add to our joy, it had now begun to rain, not heavily, but that sort of fine rain which has a leech-like ability to penetrate everything. We reached the little sandy beach and here, to our relief, we managed to land safely. Hurriedly, the ferry turned around and went to fetch the others. We sent a message to them that we would go on to a village which lay four miles ahead and have food ready for them when they reached there. To give them additional courage, we said that we would unpack the beer. So we drove off through the drizzle, being bumped and thrown about even more now that it was dark. Our headlights were throwing all sorts of strange shadows across the road and it was impossible to tell which was a rock or pothole and which was caused by flickering lights.

  Finally, we got to the village which was all dark and its inhabitants soundly asleep. Our arrival was greeted by a few dogs that barked in the most desultory fashion and soon returned to their beds. The hotely was a long, low, uninviting building of wood and bamboo with a thatched roof. The patron’s ample wife and his family displayed no symptoms of alarm or irritation at our arrival but roused themselves from their beds with great good humour. We explained to Madame that there would ultimately be eleven of us and, as we had not eaten since noon, we were all in a mood to take up cannibalism should she not produce at once enough food to revictual an army. She gave us a wide, placid smile, the sort of smile to give to precocious but amusing infants, and serenely drifted off to the kitchen quarters, shepherding her flock of children ahead of her.

  The living-cum-dining room was large, with thick poles as cross-beams on top of which you could see the frowsty bamboo thatch. The place was furnished with long, ancient tables made out of thick untreated planks, as were the long wooden trestles. In each corner, two minute oil lamps burned, casting a faint ribbon of light that, if anything, was more unhelpful than a fire would have been. Everything had a musty, woodsmoke smell and the woodwork was faintly greasy to the touch. A few posters had been nailed to the walls to give the place a ‘civilized’ look – a couple of bulbous blondes advertising some improbable and possibly fatal product, and an incongruous picture of the New York skyline. Apart from this, one could have been in a pre-medieval farmhouse in England under one of those Saxon kings with improbable names like Cnut and Ethelred.

  Faint puffs of smoke wafted through the door that led to the kitchen, carrying a reassuring smell of food. On the tables, two cats sat folded up like pincushions in that extraordinary way that cats have. Beneath the tables lay several dogs, sleeping or voluptuously scratching their fleas, while from one corner two drowsy chickens and a duck regarded us vacantly. From behind the kitchen door, a bevy of tiny, curly-haired children, clad in tattered clothes, watched us with black eyes the size of eggcups, overawed at this invasion of strange vazaha and their incomprehensible equipment. We must have looked like visitors from Mars to them.

  We decided to wait dinner for the others and sent Bruno back to the ferry with encouraging messages about food and some beer to quench their thirst. In about an hour, Bruno came back and told us that the ferry had made a valiant attempt to get the last car and the Toyota across, but had been beaten by the tide. They were marooned in the centre of the river and would remain there until the tide turned.

  We gave Bruno his dinner and then sent him back in case he could be of any help and to act as liaison. We decided that, as we had no means of knowing what tricks the tide might play, it was more sensible that we ate too. We had not expected a Lucullan meal, but Madame had conjured up a delicious stew of various shellfish and crabs, a big bowl of ‘underground’ peanuts in a hot sauce and, naturally, enough rice to stuff half a dozen pillows. We were just gluttonously wiping our plates clean with bits of bread when Bruno arrived back in a panic. The ferrymen had tried to land the Toyota too soon on the little beach. She had nose-dived off the ferry into the sand and stuck on the beach while the tide, with glee, was now coming in fast. If something were not done quickly the Toyota would disappear under water completely, carrying half of our valuable equipment. Fortunately, our Toyota had a winch on the front of her – just what was urgently needed. Bruno took our Toyota and raced back to the rescue.

  They arrived exhausted: getting the vehicle out of the sand and water, heavily laden as she was, had proved a difficult task even with the winch. Without this valuable piece of machinery they would probably be there still. They sat down and wolfed their food and then set to work to unload the Toyota and see what damage had been caused by its submersion. To everyone’s astonishment, relatively little had been damaged and it was not nearly as horrendous as it might have been. Unfortunately, the things that had suffered most were our precious batteries, but after each one had been taken out and dried we found that only 70 out of 300 had been too long immersed in seawater to be of any use. Mercifully, this left us more than enough for our purposes.

  The next day, it was still raining hard, which made our problem of drying everything doubly difficult. However, under the overhang of the roof, a line was rigged and our tents were draped over it, looking like whale skins. Every other bit of equipment had to be carried into the main room of the hotely and minutely inspected for damp. Wherever possible the seawater had to be washed off with fresh water. With the rain pouring down, the drying process was slow.

  John discovered two more doors in the dining room and when these were opened it gave us much more light inside for examining the equipment. These three doors were rather like upright television screens so, sitting on a trestle inside, I could watch the curious happenings outside the hotely in the main street of the village. First, the lanky frame of John would pass, carrying some piece of equipment as carefully as if it was made out of glass. Then Q would pass, going in the opposite direction engaged on the same mission. Next, Bob would putter by like a clockwork toy, his hands full of sheafs of paper, his lips moving silently, a frown of concentration on his face. Then other members of the crew would appear, hoiking the dynamo or a boxful of irreplaceable batteries. Beyond this activity, groups of children stood in the rain and watched, fascinated, at what to them must have been as good as a circus.

  A small white puppy with a pot belly and an air of officiousness, with all of Madagascar to choose from and after some deliberation, came and peed copiously on one of the Toyota’s wheels. Under the car itself, a group of damp, bedraggled chickens had taken shelter from the rain, while several ducks and a pig seemed to be enjoying the inclement weather, the pig rooting in the mud with small, excited grunts and squeaks and the ducks in a solemn flotilla, tails wagging, waddling, made their way down the street as if on their way to an urgent appointment. A man passed driving a small herd of zebu and, although it was obvious that both the zebu and their owner would have liked to stop and stare, they hurried on.

  Presently, the rain stopped and the sun made a valiant attempt to force its way through the grey, gauzy sky. Frank unpacked his fishing rod and he and Lee made their way down to the sea, a few hundred yards away, and tried to catch our lunch, with no success. John and Q went off on a hunt and came back with a Typhlops, a harmless, blind, burrowing snake, black and shiny as a liquorice bootlace and about five inches long. These curious little snakes are not entirely blind but their eyes are covered by transparent scales, making it possible that the creature can only distinguish between light and dark. They live quiet, sedate lives burrowing beneath the soil and feeding on minute insects and termites. They are so secretive that practically nothing is k
nown about their private lives.

  Now the sun had come out in full force and our piles of equipment steamed quietly. Hopefully, everything would be dry on the morrow and we could continue our journey to Mananara.

  Chapter Six

  Crystal Country and Beyond

  We left early the next morning and, although it seemed impossible, the road got worse. Flurries of huge stones sent us sliding into the very potholes we tried to avoid. The rain had given the mud the consistency of red dough and embedded and hidden in this slippery surface were sudden surprise packets of rock. My hips and back were now so painful that I began to wish I had taken Lee’s advice and flown up to our destination instead of undertaking this bone-shattering ride. However, the sun was shining and the sky was blue and everything steamed gently.

  We saw surprisingly few birds but plenty of other fauna.

  A pair of ring-tailed mongooses with chocolate-brown faces and a swaggering walk prudently let our caravan pass before crossing the road slowly and nonchalantly, gazing with interest at us from golden eyes, their tails held upright, stiff as exclamation marks. Once, a boa crossed the road in front of us, making his way sinuously through the mud in a series of slow loops. Reaching the other side, he paused for a rest – although he must have been aware of our presence – before slithering up the bank and disappearing, his body gleaming as if freshly oiled. On the whole, I reflected, all the mammals and reptiles in Madagascar were so tame that they were easy targets for a well-aimed machete or the attention of even the most inadequate of marksmen.

  After we had passed one village, tucked away in the folds of the hills and almost invisible, we overtook a group of its inhabitants walking along the road, carrying something. As we got nearer, we could see that the group consisted of men and youths, all wearing the straw ‘trilbies’ so favoured by many of the Malagasy. In their midst were four men carrying a rough stretcher on which lay the corpse of an old man, partly covered by a lamba. The funeral cortege seemed very merry, chatting away volubly, smoking cigarettes, waving to us as we passed, while the elderly corpse bounced and jiggled on the stretcher as if he were still alive.