The Bafut Beagles

by Gerald Durrell

  Four of them followed the example of the first one and dashed off at right angles, thus avoiding both the hunters and the nets; the remaining three, however, ran straight for our trap, and, as we dashed towards the scene we could see the top of the net jerking – a certain indication that they had got themselves entangled. Sure enough, we found them firmly entwined, glaring out at us and giving vent to the loudest and most awesome gurking noises I have heard from a squirrel. It was a completely different sound from the loud chuck that they had been making: it was fearsome and full of warning – a cross between a snore and a snarl. They kept this up while we were unwinding them, giving savage bites at our hands with their great orange incisors. When we had at last got them into canvas bags we had to hang the bags on the end of a stick to carry them, for, unlike the other grassland squirrels, who lay quietly when they were put in the gloom of a bag, these creatures seemed quite willing to continue the fight, and the slightest touch on the outside of the bag would be greeted by a furious attack and a rapid series of gurks.

  The squirrels in the forest were thoroughly alarmed, and the trees echoed to the sound of frantic chuckings. Now that they had realized how dangerous we were it was useless to try to attempt another capture, so we had to be content with the three we had caught; we packed up our nets and other equipment and made our way back to Bafut. Once there I placed my precious squirrels in three solid, tin-lined cages, filled their plates with food, and left them severely alone until they should have recovered from the indignity of capture. As soon as they were left alone they ventured out of the darkness of their bedrooms and demolished the pile of succulent fruits with which I had provided them, upset their water-pots, tested the tin lining of the cages to see if they could be gnawed through, and, finding that this was impossible, retired to their bedrooms again and slept. Seen at close quarters they were quite handsome beasts, with pale yellow bellies and cheeks, russet-red backs, and great banded tails. The effect was somewhat spoilt by their heads, which were large and rather horse-like, with tiny ears set close to the skull, and protuberant teeth.

  I had read somewhere that these squirrels climb to the top branches of the forest trees in the early morning and utter the most powerful and astonishing cries: deep rolling sounds that were like the last notes of a giant gong being struck. I was interested to hear this cry, but I thought it unlikely that they would produce it in captivity. However, the morning after the capture I was awakened at about five-thirty by a peculiar noise; the collection was on the veranda outside my window, and when I sat up in bed I decided that the noise was coming from one of the cages, but I could not tell from which. I put on my dressing-gown and crept out of the door. I waited patiently in the dim light, chilly and half awake, for a repetition of the sound. It came again in a few minutes, and I could definitely trace it to the squirrels’ cage. The noise is extremely difficult to describe: it started like a groan, and as it got louder it took on a throbbing, vibrating note, the sort of thrumming you hear from telegraph poles – the sound seemed to blur and waver, like a gong hit very softly, rising to a crescendo and then dying away. The squirrels were obviously being rather half-hearted about their attempt; in the forest they would have put much more force into it, and then I should imagine it would be a weird and fascinating cry to hear, drifting through the misty branches.

  That evening the Fon appeared, as usual, to find out what success the day had brought, and to present me with a calabash of fresh palm wine. With great pride I showed him the squirrels, and described the capture in detail for him. He was intrigued to know exactly where we had caught them, and, as I did not really know the locality, I had to go and call one of the hunters – who was merry-making in the kitchen – to explain to him. He stood in front of the Fon, answering his questions through cupped hands. It took quite a long time for the hunter to do this, for the country we had been in was uninhabited, so he could only describe our route by reference to various landmarks in the shape of rocks, trees, and curiously shaped hills. At last the Fon started to nod vigorously, and then sat for a few minutes in thought. Then he spoke to the hunter rapidly, making wide gestures with his long arms, while the hunter nodded and bowed. At length the Fon turned to me, smiling benignly, and carelessly, almost absent-mindedly, holding out his empty glass.

  ‘I done tell dis man,’ he explained, watching me fill the glass with an apparently uninterested eye, ‘’e go take you for some special place for mountain. For dis place you get some special kind of beef.’

  ‘What kind of beef?’ I asked.

  ‘Beef,’ said the Fon vaguely, gesturing with his half-empty glass, ‘special kind of beef. You no get um yet.’

  ‘Na bad beef dis?’ I suggested.

  The Fon put his glass on the table and spread out his enormous hands.

  ‘Na so big,’ he said, ‘no be bad bad beef, but ’e bite too much. ’E go live for dat big big rock, ’e go go for under. Sometime ’e de hollar too much, ’e go Wheeeeeeeee!!!’

  I sat and puzzled over the creature, while the Fon watched me hopefully.

  ‘’E look same same for Cutting-grass, but ’e no get tail for ’e larse,’ he said at last, helpfully.

  Light suddenly dawned, and I went in search of a book; I found the picture I wanted, and showed it to the Fon.

  ‘Dis na de beef?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah! Na so,’ said the Fon delightedly, stroking the portrait of the rock hyrax with his long fingers; ‘dis na de beef. How you de call um?’

  ‘Rock hyrax.’

  ‘Rooke hyrik?’

  ‘Yes. How you de call um for Bafut?’

  ‘Here we call um N’eer.’

  I wrote the name down on the list of local names I was compiling, and then refilled the Fon’s glass. He was still gazing in a trance at the engraving of the hyrax, tracing its outline with one slender finger.

  ‘Wha!’ he said at length in a wistful voice, ‘na fine chop dis beef. You go cook um with coco yam …’

  His voice died away and he licked his lips reminiscently.

  The hunter fixed me with his eye, and shuffled his feet as an indication that he wanted to speak.

  ‘Yes, na whatee?’

  ‘Masa want to go for dis place de Fon de talk?’

  ‘Yes. We go go to-morrow for morning time.’

  ‘Yes, sah. For catch dis beef Masa go need plenty people. Dis beef fit run too much, sah.’

  ‘All right, you go tell all my boys dey go for bush tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sah.’

  He stood and shuffled his feet again.

  ‘Whatee?’

  ‘Masa go want me again?’

  ‘No, my friend. Go back for kitchen and drink your wine.’

  ‘Tank you, sah,’ he said, grinning, and disappeared into the gloom of the veranda.

  Presently the Fon rose to go, and I walked with him as far as the road. As we paused at the edge of the compound he turned and smiled down at me from his great height.

  ‘I be ole man,’ he said; ‘I de tire too much. If I no be ole man I go come with you for bush to-morrow.’

  ‘You lie, my friend. You no be ole man. You done get power too much. You get plenty power, power pass all dis picken hunter man.’

  He chuckled, and then sighed.

  ‘No, my friend, you no speak true. My time done pass. I de tire too much. I get plenty wife, and dey de tire me too much. I get palaver with dis man, with dat man, an’ it de tire me too much. Bafut na big place, plenty people. If you get plenty people you get plenty palaver.’

  ‘Na so, I savvay you get plenty work.’

  ‘True,’ he said, and then added, his eyes twinkling wickedly, ‘sometimes I get palaver with the D.O., an’ dat de tire me most of all.’

  He shook my hand, and I could hear him chuckling as he walked off across the courtyard.

  The next morning we set off on our hyrax hunt – myself, the four Bafut Beagles, and five of the household staff. For the first two or three miles we walked through the cultivated
areas and the small farms. On the gently sloping hills fields had been dug, and the rich red earth shone in the early morning sunshine. In some of the fields the crops were already planted and ripe, the feathery bushes of cassava or the row of maize, each golden head with its blond tassel of silken thread waving in the breeze. In other fields the women were working, stripped to the waist, wielding short-handled, broad-bladed hoes. Some of them had tiny babies strapped to their backs, and they seemed as unaware of these encumbrances as a hunchback would be of his hump. Most of the older ones were smoking long black pipes, and the rank grey smoke swirled up into their faces as they bent over the ground. It was mostly the younger women who were doing the harder work of hoeing, and their lithe, glistening bodies moved rhythmically in the sun as they raised the heavy and clumsy implements high above their heads and then brought them sweeping down. Each time the blade buried itself in the red earth the owner would give a loud grunt.

  As we walked through the fields among them they talked with us in their shrill voices, made jokes, and laughed uproariously, all without pausing in their work, and without losing its rhythm. The grunts that interspersed their remarks gave a curious sound to the conversation.

  ‘Morning, Masa … ugh!… which side you go?… ugh!’

  ‘Masa go go for bush … ugh!… no be so, Masa?… ugh!’

  ‘Masa go catch plenty beef … ugh!… Masa get power … ugh!’

  ‘Walker strong, Masa … ugh!… catch beef plenty … ugh!’

  Long after we had left the fields and were scrambling up the golden slopes of the foothills we could hear them chattering and laughing and the steady thump of the hoes striking home.

  When we reached the crest of the highest range of hills that surrounded Bafut the hunters pointed out our destination: a range of mountains, purple and misty, that seemed an enormous distance away. The household staff gave gasps and moans of dismay and astonishment that I should want them to walk so far, and Jacob, the cook, said that he did not think he would be able to manage it, as he had unfortunately picked up a thorn in his foot. Examination proved that there was no thorn in his foot, but a small stone in his shoe. The discovery and removal of the stone left him moody and disgruntled, and he lagged behind, talking to himself in a ferocious undertone. To my surprise, the distance was deceptive, and within three hours we were walking through a long winding valley at the end of which the mountains reared up in a wall of glittering gold and green. As we toiled up the slope through the waist-high grass, the hunters explained to me what the plan of campaign was to be. Apparently we had to round one of the smooth buttresses of the mountain range, and in between this projection and the next lay a long valley that thrust its way into the heart of the mountains. The sides of this valley were composed of almost sheer cliffs, at the base of which were the rocks where hyrax lived.

  We scrambled round the great elbow of mountain, and there lay the valley before us, quiet and remote and filled with sparkling sunlight that lit the gaunt cliffs on each side – two long, crumpled curtains of rock flushed to pink and grey, patched with golden sunlight and soft blue shadows. Piled at the base of these cliffs were the legacies of many past cliff falls and landslides, a jumble of boulders of all shapes and sizes, some scattered about the curving floor of the valley, some piled up into tall, tottering chimneys. Over and around these rocks grew a rippling green rug of short undergrowth, long grass, hunched and crafty looking trees, small orchids and tall lilies, and a thick, strangling web of convolvulus with yellow, cream, and pink flowers. Scattered along the cliff faces were a series of cave mouths, dark and mysterious, some mere narrow clefts in the rock, others the size of a cathedral door. Down the centre of the valley ran a boisterous baby stream that wiggled joyfully in and out of the rocks, and leapt impatiently in lacy waterfalls from one level to the next as it hurried down the slope.

  We paused at the head of the valley for a rest and a smoke, and I examined the rocks ahead with my field-glasses for any signs of life. But the valley seemed lifeless and deserted; the only sounds were the self-important and rather ridiculous tinkle of the diminutive stream, and the wind and the grass moving together with a stealthy sibilant whisper. High overhead a small hawk appeared against the delicate blue sky, paused for an instant, and swept out of view behind the jagged edge of the cliff. Jacob stood and surveyed the valley with a sour and gloomy expression on his pudgy countenance.

  ‘Na whatee, Jacob?’ I asked innocently; ‘you see beef?’

  ‘No, sah,’ he said, glowering at his feet.

  ‘You no like dis place?’

  ‘No, sah, I no like um.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Na bad place dis, sah.’

  ‘Why na bad place?’

  ‘Eh! Sometime for dis kind of place you get bad juju, Masa.’

  I looked at the Bafut Beagles, who were lying in the grass.

  ‘You get juju for dis place?’ I asked them.

  ‘No, sah, atall,’ they said unanimously.

  ‘You see,’ I said to Jacob, ‘dere no be juju for here, so you no go fear, you hear?’

  ‘Yes, sah,’ said Jacob with complete lack of conviction.

  ‘And if you go catch dis beef for me I go give you fine dash,’ I went on.

  Jacob brightened visibly. ‘Masa go give us dash same same for hunter man?’ he asked hopefully.

  ‘Na so.’

  He sighed and scratched his stomach thoughtfully.

  ‘You still think dere be juju for dis place?’

  ‘Eh!’ he said, shrugging, ‘sometimes I done make mistake.’

  ‘Ah, Jacob! If Masa go give you dash you go kill your own Mammy,’ said one of the Bafut Beagles, chuckling, for Jacob’s preoccupation with money was well known in Bafut.

  ‘Wha’,’ said Jacob angrily, ‘an’ you no love money, eh? Why you go come for bush with Masa if you no love money, eh?’

  ‘Na my job,’ said the hunter, and added by way of explanation, ‘I be Beagle.’

  Before Jacob could think up a suitable retort to this, one of the other hunters held up his hand.

  ‘Listen, Masa!’ he said excitedly.

  We all fell silent, and then from the valley ahead a strange cry drifted down to us; it started as a series of short, tremulous whistles, delivered at intervals, and then suddenly turned into a prolonged hoot which echoed weirdly from the rocky walls of the valley.

  ‘Na N’eer dis, Masa,’ the Beagles whispered. ‘’E de hollar for dat big rock dere.’

  I trained my field-glasses on the big huddle of rocks they indicated, but it was some seconds before I saw the hyrax. He was squatting on a ledge of rock, surveying the valley with a haughty expression on his face. He was about the size of a large rabbit, but with short, thick legs and a rather blunt, lion-like face. His ears were small and neat, and he appeared to have no tail at all. Presently, as I watched, he turned on the narrow ledge and ran to the top of the rock, paused for a moment to judge the distance, and then leapt lightly to the next pile of boulders and disappeared into a tangle of convolvulus that obviously masked a hole of some sort. I lowered the glasses and looked at the Bafut Beagles.

  ‘Well?’ I asked, ‘how we go catch dis beef?’

  They had a rapid exchange of ideas in their own language, then one of them turned to me.

  ‘Masa,’ he said, screwing up his face and scratching his head, ‘dis beef ’e cleaver too much. We no fit catch him with net, and ’e fit run pass man.’

  ‘Well, my friend, how we go do?’

  ‘We go find hole for rock, sah, and we go make fire with plenty smoke; we go put net for de hole, an’ when de beef run, so we go catch um.’

  ‘All right,’ I said; ‘come, we go start.’

  We started off up the valley, Jacob leading the way with a look of grim determination on his face. We struggled through the thick web of short undergrowth until we reached the first tottering pile of boulders, and there we spread out like terriers, and scrambled and crawled our way round, peering into ev
ery crevice to see if it was inhabited. It was Jacob, strangely enough, who first struck lucky; he raised a sweaty and glowing face from the tangle of undergrowth and called to me.

  ‘Masa, I done find hole. ’E get beef for inside,’ he said excitedly.

  We crowded round the hole and listened. Sure enough, we could hear something stirring inside: faint scrabbling sounds were wafted to us. Rapidly we laid a fire of dried grass in the entrance to the hole, and when it was well alight we covered it with green leaves, which produced a column of thick and pungent smoke. We hung a net over the hole, and then fanned the smoke into the depths of the rock with the aid of large bunches of leaves. Blown by our vigorous fanning, the smoke rolled and tumbled up the tunnel into the darkness, and then suddenly things began to happen with bewildering rapidity. Two baby hyrax, each the size of a large guinea-pig, shot out into the bushes with it tangled round them. Close on their heels came the mother, a corpulent beast in a towering rage. She raced out of the hole and leapt at the nearest person, who happened to be one of the Beagles; she moved so rapidly that he had not time to get out of her way, and she fastened her teeth in his ankle and hung on like a bulldog, giving loud and terrifying ‘Weeeeeeeee!’ noises through her nose. The Beagle fell backwards into a great blanket of convolvulus, kicking out wildly with his legs, and uttering loud cries of pain.