The Bafut Beagles

by Gerald Durrell

  As the skink and I sat there and watched each other I was busy trying to work out a plan for its capture. The butterfly net was some twenty feet away, but it might just as well have been in England for all the use it was, for I knew the skink would not lie there and allow me to trot over and fetch it. Behind him stretched a limitless jungle of long grass, and once he ran into that I knew he would disappear for good. Just then, to my dismay, I heard the Beagles returning. I knew I should have to do something quickly, as their approach would frighten the reptile. Slowly I rose to my feet, and the skink raised his head in alarm; as the first of the Beagles trotted through the grass, I flung myself desperately towards the skink. I had him at a slight disadvantage, for, having contemplated me in a motionless condition for a quarter of an hour, he had not expected me to launch myself through the air like a hawk. But my advantage was only temporary, for he recovered from his surprise quickly enough, and as I landed in the grass with a thump he scuttled to one side with great agility. I rolled over and made a wild grab at his rapidly retreating form, and as I did so the Beagle entered the clearing and saw what I was doing. Instead of leaping to my rescue, as I had expected, he uttered a prolonged shriek, jumped forward, and proceeded to drag me away from my quarry. The skink scuttled off into the dense tangle of grass and was lost; I shook off the Beagle’s clutch on my arm and turned on him savagely.

  ‘Bushman!’ I snarled angrily. ‘Na what foolish ting you do?’

  ‘Masa,’ said the Beagle, clicking his fingers in agitation, ‘na bad, bad beef, dat ting. If ’e go bite Masa, Masa go die one time.’

  With an effort I controlled my irritation. I had long ago found that, in spite of all arguments, the Africans clung tenaciously to their belief that some harmless species of reptile were deadly poisonous. So I resisted the temptation of telling the Beagle that he was an unmitigated idiot, and tried another line of argument instead.

  ‘How you de call dis beef?’ I asked.

  ‘We call um Que-fong-goo, sah.’

  ‘You say he get poison too much, eh?’

  ‘Time no dere, Masa. Na bad beef.’

  ‘All right, stupid man, you done forget that European get special medicine for dis kind of beef, eh? You done forget if dis beef go bite me I no go die, eh?’

  ‘Eh! Masa, I done forget dis ting.’

  ‘So you go run like woman, you de hollar and you de hold me so I go lose dis fine beef because you forget, eh?’

  ‘Sorry, sah,’ said the Beagle contritely.

  I tapped his woolly skull with my finger.

  ‘Next time, my friend,’ I said sternly, ‘you go tink with your brain before you go do dis kind of ting, you hear?’

  ‘I hear, sah.’

  When the other Beagles arrived on the scene, the incident was described to them, and there was much gasping and clicking of fingers.

  ‘Wah!’ said one of them admiringly. ‘Masa no get fear. ’E done try for catch Que-fong-goo.’

  ‘An’ Uano done catch Masa,’ said another, and they all laughed uproariously.

  ‘Ay, Uano, you get lucky to-day. Sometime Masa go kill you for do dis stupid ting,’ said another, and they all went off into fresh paroxysms of laughter at the thought of the Beagle having the temerity to stop me catching a specimen.

  When they had recovered from the humour of the situation, I questioned them closely about the reptile. To my relief they assured me that it was fairly common in the grasslands and I should have plenty of opportunities of obtaining more specimens. They were all agreed, however, on the deadly properties of the skink. It was so poisonous, they assured me, that even if you so much as touched its body you immediately fell to the ground writhing in agony, and died within a few minutes. Then they asked me about the medicine I had to counteract this deadly creature, but I was suitably mysterious. I said if they found me a Que-fong-goo I would catch it and prove to them that I did not die writhing in agony. Cheered and intrigued by the thought of this grisly experiment (for none of them really believed in my medicine), they promised to do this. One of the Beagles said that he knew of a place where a great many such reptiles were to be found; he insisted that it was not very far distant, so we packed up the equipment and set off, the hunters chattering away to each other, presumably laying bets as to whether or not I could survive an encounter with a Que-fong-goo.

  The Beagle eventually led us to a hillside about a mile away. The heavy mountain rains had stripped most of the red earth from the slope and left great sheets of grey rock exposed in its place. Occasional clefts in the rock had allowed a pocket of earth to form, and in these grew such plants as could draw nourishment from so small an area of soil. The sheets of rock were hemmed in by tall golden grass and a curious thistle-like plant with a pale buttercup-yellow head. The rock, lying exposed to the sun, was almost too hot to touch; the thin rubber soles of my shoes stuck to the surface as I walked across, so that I felt as though I was walking over a fly-paper. I began to wonder if this baking rock-face would not prove too much for even the most sun-loving of reptiles. Suddenly a flying streak of colour shot out of a clump of low growth across the shimmering rock, and disappeared into the sanctuary of the long grass and thistles.

  ‘Que-fong-goo!’ said the Bafut Beagles, stopping short and clutching their spears more tightly. Thinking that they would probably be more hindrance than help in any capture I might have to make, I told them to stay where they were and went ahead by myself. I had armed myself with a butterfly net, and as I cautiously approached the clumps of herbage that grew in the rock crevices I prodded them gently with the handle of the net to make sure there were no Que-fong-goos lurking inside. It was quite astonishing what even a small clump of grass would contain, and I disturbed innumerable large locusts, clouds of moths and gnats, a mass of brilliant butterflies, some beetles, and a few dragon-flies. I began to understand the attractions that this scorched and barren place might have for lizards.

  Presently I struck lucky: on inserting the net handle into a clump of grass and wiggling it gently, I disturbed a Que-fong-goo. He slithered out of hiding and skimmed across the rough surface of the rock as smoothly as a stone on ice. I gave chase, but discovered almost immediately that a skink’s idea of suitable country for sprinting was not mine. I caught my toe in a crack and fell flat on my face, and by the time I had picked myself up and recovered the net my quarry had disappeared. By now I was dripping with sweat, and the heat from the rock slabs was so great that any exertion made the blood pound in my head like a drum. The Beagles were standing at the edge of the long grass in a silent and fascinated group watching my progress. I wiped my face, clutched the net in one sticky hand and approached the next clump of grass doggedly. Here I was more careful; I edged the handle in among the grass-stalks and moved it to and fro very gently and slowly once or twice, and then withdrew it to see what would happen. I was rewarded by the sight of a Que-fong-goo, who stuck his head out of the undergrowth in a cautious manner to see what had caused the upheaval. Quickly I kicked the clump of grass behind him, and swept the net down as he ran out. The next moment I lifted the net triumphantly with the Que-fong-goo lashing furiously about in its folds. I pushed my hand inside the net and grabbed the reptile round the middle, and he retaliated by fastening his jaws on my thumb. Though his jaws were powerful, his teeth were minute, so his bite was quite painless and harmless. In order to keep him occupied, I let him chew away on my thumb, while I lifted him from the net. I held his dazzling beautiful body up aloft and waved it like a banner.

  ‘Lookum!’ I shouted to the Beagles, who were watching me open-mouthed. ‘I done catch Que-fong-goo!’

  As the Beagles were carrying the soft cloth bags I used to transport reptiles in, I left the net lying on the rocks and walked towards them, still clutching the skink in my hand. As one man, the Bafut Beagles dropped their spears and fled into the long grass like a herd of startled antelopes.

  ‘What you de fear, eh?’ I shouted. ‘I go hold um tight for my hand, I no go let um run
.’

  ‘Masa, we de fear too much,’ they replied in chorus, keeping a safe distance away in the long grass.

  ‘Bring me bag for put dis beef,’ I ordered sternly, mopping my brow.

  ‘Masa we de fear … na bad beef dat,’ came the cry again.

  It became apparent that I should have to think of a fairly stiff argument, or else I should have to pursue my tribe of hunters all over the grasslands in my efforts to get a bag to put the skink in. I sat down at the edge of the long grass and glared at them.

  ‘If someone no go bring me bag for put dis beef one time,’ I proclaimed loudly and angrily, ‘to-morrow I go get new hunter man. And, if de Fon go ask me why I go do dis ting, I go tell him I want hunter man who no get fear, I no want women.’

  A silence descended upon the long grass while the Bafut Beagles decided whether it was better to face a Que-fong-goo in the hand, or a Fon at Bafut. After a short time the Que-fong-goo won, and they approached me slowly and reluctantly. One of them, still keeping a safe distance, threw me a bag to put my capture in, but before I put the skink inside it I thought a little demonstration would be a good thing.

  ‘Lookum,’ I said, holding the struggling lizard up for them to see. ‘Now, you go watch fine and you see dis beef no get power for poison me.’

  Holding the skink in one hand, I slowly brought the forefinger of my other hand close to his nose; the reptile immediately gaped in a fearsome manner, and, amid cries of horror from the Beagles, I stuffed as much of my finger as I could into his mouth and let him chew on it. The Bafut Beagles stood rooted to the spot, watching with expressions of incredulous stupefaction as the reptile gnawed away at my finger, their eyes were wide, they held their breath and leant slightly forward with open mouths as they watched to see if the creature’s bite would have any effect. After a few seconds the Que-fong-goo tired of biting ineffectually at my finger, and let go. I dropped him neatly into the bag and tied up the neck before turning to the hunters.

  ‘You see?’ I inquired. ‘Dis beef done bit me, no be so?’

  ‘Na so, sah,’ came an awed whisper from the Beagles.

  ‘All right: he done give me poison, eh? You tink sometime I go die, eh?’

  ‘No, sah. If dat beef done bite Masa and Masa no die one time, den Masa no go die atall.’

  ‘No, dis special medicine I done get,’ I lied, shrugging with becoming modesty.

  ‘Whah! Na so; Masa get fine medicine,’ said the Beagles.

  I had not gone through all this merely as a demonstration of the white man’s superiority over the black; the true reason for this little charade was that I dearly wanted a great many Que-fong-goos and I knew that I should not obtain them unless I had the help and co-operation of the Beagles. In order to get this, I had to overcome their fear, and the only way I could do this was by showing them that my mythical medicine was more than a match for the deadly bite of the Que-fong-goo. At some future date, I thought, I would provide them with a quantity of innocuous liquid disguised as the medicine in question, and, armed with this elixir, they would sally forth and return with sackfuls of glittering Que-fong-goos.

  On the way back to Bafut I strutted along, proudly carrying my precious skink and feeling very pleased with myself for having devised such a cunning scheme for obtaining more of the lovely reptiles. Behind me the Beagles trotted in silence, still gazing at me with awed expressions. Each time we passed someone on the path they would give a rapid résumé of my powers, and I would hear gasps of surprise and horror as the tale was told, slightly embellished with each repetition, I have no doubt. When we reached the villa, and I had my skink nicely housed in a large box, I gathered the Beagles together and made them a little speech. I pointed out that, as they had seen with their own eyes, my medicine was sufficient protection against the bites of Que-fong-goos. They all nodded vigorously. Therefore, I went on, as I wanted a great many specimens of the reptile, I proposed to supply them with the magic potion the next day, and thus armed they would be able to go out and hunt Que-fong-goos for me. Then I beamed at them complacently, waiting for the cries of delight I expected. None came; instead the Beagles stood there looking extremely glum and twiddling their toes in the dust.

  ‘Well,’ I inquired after a long pause, ‘you no agree?’

  ‘No, Masa,’ they mumbled.

  ‘Why you no agree? You no savvay dat I go give you dis special medicine, eh? Why you de fear?’

  They scratched their heads, shuffled their feet, glanced helplessly at each other, and then one of them eventually plucked up the courage to speak.

  ‘Masa,’ he said, having cleared his throat several times, ‘dis medicine you done get na fine one. We savvay dis ting. We don see dis beef bite Masa time no dere, and Masa no die.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Dis medicine, Masa, na juju for white man. No be juju for black man. For Masa na good ting dis medicine, but for we no be good ting.’

  For half an hour I argued, pleaded, and cajoled them. They were polite but firm; the medicine was fine for whites, but it would not work with black people. That was their belief and they were sticking to it. I tried every argument I could think of to make them change their minds, but it was no use. At last, thoroughly irritated by the failure of my little scheme, I dismissed the Beagles and stalked off to have my meal.

  Later that evening the Fon turned up, accompanied by five council members and a bottle of gin. We sat on the moonlit veranda for half an hour or so, discussing various subjects in a desultory fashion, and then the Fon hitched his chair closer to mine and leant forward, giving me his wide and engaging grin that lit up his whole face.

  ‘Some man done tell me dat you done catch Que-fong-goo,’ he said. ‘Dis man speak true?’

  ‘Na so,’ I nodded, ‘na fine beef dat.’

  ‘Dis man done say you catch dis beef with your hand,’ said the Fon. ‘I tink sometime dis man tell me lie, eh? Dis na bad beef, dis Que-fong-goo; you no fit catch um with you hand, eh? ’E go kill you one time, no be so?’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘dis man no tell lie. I done catch dis beef with my hand.’

  The council members let out their breath with a hiss at this information, and the Fon sat back and regarded me wide-eyed.

  ‘An when you done catch um what ’e done do?’ asked the Fon at last.

  ‘He done bite me.’

  ‘Whaaaaa!’ said the Fon and the council members in unison.

  ‘He done bite me here,’ I said, holding out my hand, and the Fon shied away as, though I had pointed a gun at him. He and the council members examined my finger from a safe distance, chattering eagerly to each other.

  ‘Why you no die?’ asked the Fon presently.

  ‘Die?’ I asked, frowning. ‘Why I go die?’

  ‘Na bad beef dis ting,’ said the Fon excitedly. ‘’E de bite too much. If black man go hold him ’e go die one time. Why you never die, my friend?’

  ‘Oh, I get special medicine for dis ting,’ I said airily.

  A chorus of ‘Ahhs!’ came from my audience.

  ‘Na European medicine dis?’ asked the Fon.

  ‘Yes. You like I go show you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, na foine!’ he said eagerly.

  They sat there silent and expectant while I went and fetched my small medicine chest; from it I extracted a packet of boracic powder, and spread a little on the palm of my hand. They all craned eagerly forward to see it. I filled a glass of water, mixed in the powder and then rubbed the result on my hands.

  ‘There!’ I said, spreading my hands out like a conjurer.

  ‘Now Que-fong-goo no fit kill me.’

  I walked over to the skink box, opened it, and turned round holding the beast in my hands. There was a fluttering of robes and the council members fled to the other end of the veranda in a disorderly stampede. The Fon remained rooted to his chair, a look of disgust and fright on his face as I walked towards him. I stopped in front of him and held out the reptile, who was busily trying to amputate my f
inger.

  ‘Look … you see?’ I said; ‘dis beef no fit kill me.’

  The Fon’s breath escaped in a prolonged ‘Aieeeeeee!’ of astonishment as he watched the lizard. Presently he tore his fascinated eyes away from it and looked up at me.

  ‘Dis medicine,’ he said hoarsely, ‘’e good for black man?’

  ‘Na fine for black man.’

  ‘Black man no go die?’

  ‘Atall, my friend.’

  The Fon sat back and gazed at me in wonder.

  ‘Wha!’ he said at last, ‘na fine ting dis.’

  ‘You like you go try dis medicine?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Er … er … yes, yes, na foine,’ said the Fon nervously.

  Before he could change his mind, I put the skink back in the box, and then prepared some more of the boracic mixture. I showed the Fon how to rub it on his enormous hands, and he massaged away for a long time. Then I brought the box, pulled out the skink, and held it out for him.