The Aye-Aye and I

by Gerald Durrell

  In spite of being led by a dedicated madman like Carl and having to live in fairly primitive conditions, the team looked happy and seemed to be enjoying its work. It has always amazed me that these people who are trying to learn and understand the world around us before it is bulldozed out of existence, have to work on piteously low salaries or on minuscule and precarious grants, while they do one of the most important jobs in the world. For it is only by learning how the planet works that we will see what we are doing wrong and have a chance to save it and ourselves as well.

  As we were sitting around chatting and receiving firsthand news of the project, something delectable happened. There was a sudden rustle of wings and a pink pigeon flew into the tree twenty feet above us. Moreover, to our astonishment it was one of the birds we had bred in Jersey and sent out as part of the reintroduction scheme, as we could tell by its ring. It preened briefly and then sat there, full-bosomed, beautiful, wearing the vacuous expression all pink pigeons have, looking exactly like one of the more unfortunate examples of Victorian taxidermy. Of course, we gave it news of its brethren, which it received in a stoical manner and presently it flew off into the forest.

  When I accused Carl of having stage-managed the whole thing, he swore on the grave of that noted pigeon-fancier Lloyd George that this was not so. It was heart-warming to see a Jersey-bred bird perching on a tree in its island home: that is what zoos – good zoos – are all about.

  The next day, we set off in the government helicopter to Round Island, flying low over the brilliant-green sugar-cane fields, each decorated with mounds of volcanic rock too big to be shifted and looking like gargantuan elephant droppings. As we left Mauritius and flew out over the sparkling blue water, we could see Round Island lying ahead of us like the top half of a misshapen tortoise shell. It was 1986 before we were sure that we had solved the rabbit problem on the island and the last of these pests had been eliminated. Now the two rare species of palm, which had been planted in safety in the Pamplemousses Botanical Gardens, could be returned to their rightful home and the plant life left on the island could seed and grow in peace, free from the gastronomical attentions of both rabbits and goats.

  We landed, in a great cloud of dust, on what is called – euphemistically – the helipad and is, in fact, the only flat bit of the island a helicopter can land on. To the untutored eye, the island still looked like a huge piece of terracotta and grey clay that had been whirled around by a gigantic egg whisk and poured out onto the surface of the sea, a terrain that was, in miniature, like a Doré drawing of a piece of Dante’s Inferno. To the discerning eye, patches of green were appearing on the valley edges and in flat places, to us as gay as banners. Under the fan palms which had seeded were growing little regiments of their offspring, holding up their small green blades like a vegetable Pretorian guard, ready to march and colonise the bleak, hot continent of tuff. This new growth had produced a wonderful chain reaction, for the insect life had proliferated which, in turn, meant that the geckos and lizards had more to eat and were becoming fatter and more glossy, and that they, in their turn, were providing more food for the rare boa. What we had succeeded in doing was reversing the process brought about by man’s stupidity.

  The island, once thickly forested by palms and hardwoods, such as ebony, had been deforested by the introduction of two of the beasts most detrimental to green growth. They had eaten the island almost bald and the wind and the rain were eroding what tuff remained and drowning it in the sea. Now, with our help, it had a chance of recovery. Now we could bring back its tiny palm savannah and, hopefully, plant hardwoods that would spread over its miniature mountain range. It will take years and years of careful guardianship yet to return the island to its original state, but all the component parts are there and working. So we can truly say that, with the assistance of the Mauritian Government and many other people from all over the world, our Trust in Jersey has saved unique Round Island, the island that almost died. It is something we are very proud of and, although in fifty years we who have taken part in this will not be around, I hope that countless other people will take delight in our achievement.

  Carl had promised me that, on the evening before we left, I could see captive-bred kestrels that had been returned to the wild. We drove out to one of the many areas where he has reintroduced this diminutive hawk. It was a large, flat area, part sugar-cane field, partly the remaining stubble of a maize crop. The backdrop was a beautiful series of forested hills, undulating across the horizon like green waves. The sky was a soft blue with fragments of pink cloud dabbed here and there across it.

  ‘Now,’ said Carl, handing me a rather forlorn-looking dead mouse that he produced from his pocket. ‘Just go and stand over there and hold the mouse aloft while I call them.’

  I stood in the stubble and held up the mouse obediently, feeling like a macabre and portly Statue of Liberty. Now Carl started a series of ‘cooee’ noises, the soprano part of his voice coming into its own. This went on for some time and my arm started to ache.

  ‘Here they come!’ Carl shouted suddenly.

  There was the faintest angel’s breath of disturbed air, a flash – like an eye-flick – of a brown body, a gleaming eye, the gentlest touch of talons on my fingers as the mouse was deftly removed and the hawk flew off with it. It was an astonishing experience to have this bird, of which there had been only four specimens in the wild and which was now, with the aid of captive breeding, well on the road to recovery, swoop down from the sky like a dart and take a mouse from my fingers. Carl’s broad grin and shining eyes showed that he appreciated his hard work and success as much as I did.

  The next day we left for London, but as we lumbered along in the huge plane I could still feel the gentle scrape of the kestrel’s talons on my knuckles like a caress.

  When we arrived in Jersey it was freezing cold and, through some oversight, we were clad in our tropical clothing. We shivered our way off the plane and into the manor house, where we managed to get our blood temperature above zero by the application of malt whisky and every warm garment we possessed. Then came the glorious moment we had been waiting for – to see the lovely creatures we had gathered from Madagascar. We admired the beautiful kapidolo, their shells a-gleam, their wonderful cream moustaches looking as though they had just emerged from the loving hands of an expert barber. Then our beautiful snakes, smooth and warm as sea-sanded pebbles, one as plump as a favourite houri, which led us to suppose that she had been having a successful affair with another boa before she fell into our hands. We reminisced with Q about how, when we were discussing the campsite (a million years ago) one of these svelte snakes had slid across it, thus assuring our unsuperstitious minds of success. Then, since the combination of our clothing and the temperature in the reptile house was rapidly liquefying us, we went to visit the jumping rats.

  These extraordinary creatures had settled in with such aplomb that you would have thought it had been agreed unanimously at a recent neighbourhood meeting that all giant jumping rats should emigrate to Jersey where job and jumping opportunities, housing, food prices and so on were all superior to Morandava and (they had heard) there were fewer flies. They had settled down beautifully and – so far – had given us none of the heart-stopping problems that some newly caught animals can give. I began to have a suspicion that these creatures possessed greater intelligence than some of the lemurs and it behove us to keep an interested eye on them.

  Next, we went to see our lovely lake-dwellers, the gentle lemurs, now at last housed in spacious cages in our quarantine section. All of them looked good. Their fur – which is a useful barometer of their well-being – had fluffed out. Edward had grown considerably and was now displaying the beginnings of a belligerent mien. Araminta looked in good form with cumulous fur and an air of superiority just like her namesake.

  Finally, we came to the fabulous creatures we had gone so far to collect and to protect, our little tribe of magic-fingered ones. The first one I had ever met had given me a
shock, an extraordinary fibrillation of the nerves, a sense of astonishment that no other animal has given me. And yet I have met everything from killer whales to hummingbirds the size of a flake of ash, animals as curious as giraffe to platypus. Now to see aye-aye, at last, in Jersey, exploring their cages with eyes that, unlike other lemurs, are focused and seem to have a keen brain behind them, to learn that they had settled down and were feeding well was a tremendous relief. One felt one was on the edge of some enormous undertaking.

  Bryan Carroll, our curator of mammals, opened a cage and an aye-aye came running to him. He lifted it out and handed it to me. It was the little princeling Q had caught – huge ears, magnificent, calm, but interested eyes of the loveliest colour, his strange hands, black and soft and his magic finger crooked like a Victorian buttonhook. I thought of the animals we had just seen in Mauritius and what we had achieved for them. If only we could do the same for this strange cargo of creatures we had returned with. If, with our help and the help of others, remnants of the wonderful island of Madagascar can be saved and we can return the princeling’s progeny to them that, in some way, would be man’s apology for the way he has treated nature.

  The princeling looked at me with shining eyes, his ears moving to and fro. He sniffed my beard and combed it gently. Then, with infinite care, he inserted his magic finger into my ear.

  We had come full circle but, as we all know, circles have no end.

  Afterword

  by Tim Wright, Senior Mammal Keeper, Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust

  This book tells the story of Gerald Durrell’s now legendary last expedition to Madagascar. Six of the species collected went on to breed successfully once brought back to Jersey. Initiation of these out-of-country captive breeding populations is an important part of their overall conservation.

  Since the early 1980s Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust (then Jersey Wildlife Preservation Trust) has been working closely with the Madagascan government to help conserve Madagascar’s unique wildlife. This conservation work is a multidisciplinary co-ordinated blend of Jersey-based (e.g. captive breeding and research) and Madagascar-based (e.g. field research, community education, and habitat restoration) activities.

  The main aim of this expedition was to collect animals in order to start captive breeding programmes back here at Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust in Jersey. Despite horrific roads, disappearing bridges and elusive animals, a total of seven species were collected and brought to Jersey: six aye-ayes, ten gentle lemurs, five giant jumping rats, six flat-tailed tortoises, six spiny-tailed iguanas, four tree boas, and one ground boa. The ground boa later went on to another institution to join a breeding programme.

  I have been lucky enough to visit the ‘badly presented omelette’ myself twice now. Working as a lemur keeper at Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust for the last eight years has inspired me with a particular interest in Madagascar and its unique but rapidly disappearing wildlife.

  The aye-aye is an exceptional and truly amazing animal. I will always remember holding a nine-day-old baby in my hands for the first time; they are like perfectly scaled-down miniature adults complete with miniaturised ‘magical finger’ on each hand, but with floppy ears and green rather than orange eyes. Working with these animals every day, it is tempting to take them for granted, but I never fail to be amazed by their singular appearance and bizarre feeding methods.

  Of the six aye-ayes collected, four are still alive and well in Jersey. In 1992, Juliet, the second adult collected, became the first aye-aye ever to breed in captivity, after a little input from Patrice. Juliet has now had three offspring since coming to Jersey. She has a very gentle, friendly and easy-going nature, and has gradually developed a beautiful but wizened appearance that all old but very wise aye-ayes doubtless have. Her wild-caught baby, ‘Q’s little princeling’, has had three babies of her own. Patrice, one of the males collected by Gerald Durrell, was X-rayed for the first time in 2004, and we were shocked to discover that he had two bullets lodged in his neck. These did not appear to be bothering him, but they were removed. Evidently an angry farmer had shot at him when he was still living in the wild before coming to Jersey – a poignant reminder of the threats facing aye-ayes.

  Eight aye-ayes have been bred at Jersey to date, and there are currently around fifty in captivity in total. Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust maintains the international studbook (a register of all captive animals) for the aye-aye, and we run the European breeding programme for the species. We have begun to learn about their breeding behaviour, infant development, feeding habits, etc, but there is still more to learn. Back in the wild, these fabulous animals remain elusive and poorly studied.

  Gentle lemurs are anything but, as my and other keepers’ scars will testify. They are, however, beautiful creatures to work with. Like the aye-ayes, they all have their individual personalities; some timid, some bold, some friendly and some aggressive. The curtain-climbing ball of fluff known as Edward still very much possesses a ‘belligerent mien’. Two of the other youngsters caught by the Durrells, Fali and Andila, went on to produce the first ever captive bred Alaotran gentle lemur in 1993. Since then, this pair has become by far the most prolific breeding pair in captivity. Once, as a naive newcomer, I lovingly held out a juicy morsel of fruit for Andila to take. With much tenderness she slowly drew my hand towards her and as if to say ‘Congratulations on becoming a lemur keeper’, she affectionately sank her needle-like teeth into my thumb.

  We have now bred forty Alaotran gentle lemurs and coordinate a European breeding programme. There are currently sixty-five individuals held by eighteen zoos worldwide, with several other European zoos about to join the programme. At Jersey, in addition to learning how to breed them successfully, we have gathered vital information on infant development, social behaviour, nutrition and physiology.

  While building up a healthy captive population, Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust is carrying out considerable in-country work around Lac Alaotra where these animals come from. This includes field research on their distribution, abundance, remaining habitat, social behaviour and natural diet. Our team also runs community-based education programmes and habitat restoration projects, in which the importance of protecting what remains of the lake’s ecosystem, not only for the gentle lemur, but also for the villagers’ livelihood, is explained to them. We have recently introduced an annual incentive scheme in which the villages showing the most commitment to sustainable environmental practices are rewarded with grants for community-improvement projects. Other initiatives include campaigning against the illegal hunting of this lemur and for enforcement of the hunting laws. Our survey work suggests that the population has recently stabilized, after declining dramatically in recent years. Gerald Durrell would have been delighted that we have recently helped to get Lac Alaotra designated as a Protected Area.

  Another part of Madagascar on which the Trust is focusing effort is the Menabe region around the town of Morondava. Menabe is an irreplaceable jewel that we must act to save now, as many endangered species are exclusive to this area. The few remaining fragments of dry deciduous forest here are the only home to the giant jumping rat, flat-tailed tortoise, the narrow-striped mongoose, Berthe’s mouse lemur, three species of baobab tree, and several newly discovered reptiles, to name but a few. Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust is the only conservation organisation with significant hands-on experience in this area, and is carrying out a wide range of field research, government lobbying and community education in an attempt to safeguard this area, while at the same time taking into account the needs of the local people. International captive breeding programmes have been successfully established for the jumping rat and the flat-tailed tortoise using the animals collected on the 1990 Durrell expedition.

  Within eight months of arriving in Jersey with their charming growl but disappointing lack of jumping, jumping rats bred for the first time ever in captivity. Now there are around sixty rats held in seventeen zoos, mostly in E
urope. One of my tasks is to coordinate this international breeding programme. At the same time, members of the Trust’s Madagascar team painstakingly survey forest patches to learn more about this shy creature. We know their numbers have rapidly declined in recent years, probably largely due to habitat loss and increased disturbance from loggers, villagers and possibly hunters of tenrecs (small insectivorous mammals that are commonly eaten). There is still much to learn about the exact threats to this species, and about their preferred habitats, before we can help save them effectively – but we are running out of time. I have twice visited Madagascar and carried out fieldwork on the jumping rat to learn more about the population and threats facing it. As well as this urgent research, our Madagascar team is hoping to collaborate with local authorities to stop illegal deforestation and improve control of legal logging, increase legal protection of some areas of forest, and restore some areas of habitat. As with Lac Alaotra, our Madagascar staff have helped to establish a new Protected Area, which will help to safeguard this important habitat. One of the community initiatives which we help with is the annual Jumping Rat Marathon, or ‘Marathon Vositse’. This is a popular sporting event run through Menabe, which brings communities together and raises awareness of the importance of protecting the forests.

  The jumping rats share their forest floor habitat with Madagascar’s rarest tortoise, the flat-tailed tortoise. Once probably quite common, this beautiful animal is being rapidly wiped out from whole areas not only by habitat loss, but also by the massive illegal export ‘pet’ trade. Here in Jersey, the flat-tailed tortoise has been studied extensively since arriving in 1990. We have accumulated vital information on this species, particularly on their breeding biology. After vast effort, the dedicated reptile staff have managed to successfully breed and raise young. This knowledge has been usefully applied to the Trust’s tortoise captive breeding centre at Ampijoroa in Madagascar. In addition, our Madagascar staff are lobbying for more effective enforcement of international trade laws, as well as field research to tell us more about this animal in the wild.