The Bafut Beagles

by Gerald Durrell

  Another creature that started to blossom into his true colours when we arrived at base camp was the Black-eared Squirrel, the beast that had created such havoc on the steps of the villa in Bafut. This episode of the steps was, if I had only known it at the time, but a slight indication of what he could do when he put his mind to it, for his one delight in life seemed to consist in escaping and being chased by a crowd of people. He was, as I have already mentioned, quite a baby, and within a very short time after his arrival he had become extraordinarily tame and would allow me to pick him up and place him on my shoulder, where he would sit up on his hind legs and investigate my ear, in the hope that I had been sensible enough to secrete a palm-nut or some other delicacy there. As long as there were not more than four people about, he would behave with the utmost decorum; a crowd, however, filled him with the unholy desire to be chased. At first I thought that a crowd of people worried and frightened him and that he ran away to try to escape from them. I soon discovered that it was nothing of the sort, for if he found his pursuers lagging behind, he would stop, sit up on his hind legs, and wait for them to catch up. There was a certain humour in the fact that we had christened the little brute Sweeti-pie (because of his docility and nice nature) before we discovered his vice. The first race organized by Sweeti-pie took place three days after we had arrived at the marquee.

  Our water supply for the camp was kept in two great petrol drums which stood near the kitchen. These were filled every day by the convicts from the local prison. They were a cheerful group of men, clad in spotless white smocks and shorts, who toiled up the hill to camp every morning carrying brimming kerosene tins of water on their shaven heads. Behind them would walk a warder in an impressive fawn uniform, his brass buttons flashing in the sun, swinging a short truncheon with a capable air. The convicts, whose crimes ranged from petty theft to manslaughter, went about their tedious task with great good humour, and when you greeted them they would all beam with pleasure. Once a week I distributed a couple of packets of cigarettes among them, and they would be allowed by their warder (who was having a glass of beer with me) to wander round the camp and look at our collection of animals. They thoroughly enjoyed this break in routine, and they would cluster round the monkeys and double up with laughter at their antics, or else peer into the snake-box and give themselves thrills.

  On this particular morning when the convicts arrived I was on my way to feed Sweeti-pie. The convicts filed past me, their faces gleaming with sweat, grinning amicably, and greeting me with, ‘Morning, Masa. We done come … we done bring water for Masa … Iseeya, Masa …’, and so on. The warder gave me a frightfully military salute, and then grinned like a small boy. While they were emptying the contents of their tins into the petrol drums, I got Sweeti-pie out of his cage, sat him on the palm of my hand, and gave him a lump of sugar to eat. He seized the sugar in his mouth and then, glancing round, he saw the group of convicts near the kitchen, exchanging gossip and saucy badinage with the staff. Having made sure that there were enough people there to give him a good run for his money, he took a firmer grip on his sugar, leapt lightly off my hand, and galloped off across the camp clearing, his tail streaming out behind him like a flame in a draught. I set off in pursuit, but before I had gone more than a few paces Sweeti-pie had gained the thick bushes at the edge of the clearing and dived out of sight. Thinking that it would be the last I should see of him, I uttered such a wail of anguish that everyone dropped what they were doing and ran towards me.

  ‘Dat beef done run,’ I yelled to the convicts; ‘I go pay five shillings to man who catch um.’

  The results of my offer were quite startling: the convicts dropped their kerosene’ tins and rushed off into the bushes, closely followed by their warder, who discarded both truncheon and hat in case they hampered his movements. The entire staff also joined in the hunt, and the whole crowd of them went crashing through the bushes and short undergrowth in search of Sweeti-pie. They combed the area thoroughly without finding any signs of the animal, and then it was discovered that the little brute had been sitting in the branches of a small bush, watching the search sweep to and fro around him, quietly finishing off his sugar-lump. When he saw that he was spotted, he leapt to the ground, ran through the camp clearing and out on to the path leading away over the hill, hotly pursued by a panting mob consisting of warder, convicts, and staff. They all disappeared from view over the skyline and peace descended on the camp. But not for long, for in a few minutes Sweeti-pie appeared again over the brow of the hill, galloped down into camp, shot through the marquee, and scrambled into his cage, where he innocently started to eat a piece of sugar-cane. Half an hour later the warder, the convicts, and the staff straggled back to camp, all hot and perspiring, to report that the animal had escaped them and was now doubtless deep in the bush. When I showed them Sweeti-pie (who had now finished his meal and was quietly sleeping) and told them how he had returned, they gaped at me for a minute in amazement. And then, being Africans, the humour of the situation struck them and they reeled around the camp yelling with laughter, slapping their thighs, the tears streaming down their faces. The warder was so overcome that he collapsed on the neck of one of the convicts and sobbed with mirth.

  Every day after that the warder and the convicts would bring some offering to the beef that had made them run so fast and ‘fooled them too much’: sometimes it was a bit of sugarcane, or a handful of groundnuts, sometimes a bit of cassava or a piece of bread. Whatever it was, Sweeti-pie would sit up at the wire and receive the offering with squeaks of pleasure, while the convicts would gather round and relate to each other, or to any new member of their group, the story of how they had chased the squirrel. Then there would be much laughter, and Sweeti-pie would be praised for his skilful evasive tactics. This was only the first of many occasions when Sweeti-pie caused havoc in the camp.

  Of the many different creatures that were brought to us while we were at base camp, about a fifth were babies, and, although they were charming little things for the most part, they caused a great deal of extra work for us, for very young animals require just as much care and attention as a human baby. All these young creatures endeared themselves to us, but one of the most charming and, at the same time, irritating trios of beasts we acquired were three little fellows that we called the Bandits. These animals were Kusimanses, a kind of mongoose which is fairly common in the forest. When adult, they are about the size of a large guinea-pig, clad in thick, coarse chocolate fur, a bushy tail, and a long pointed face with a rubbery pink nose and circular protuberant boot-button eyes. The Bandits, when they arrived, were about the size of small rats and had only just got their eyes open. Their fur was a bright gingery colour, and it stuck up in tufts and sprigs all over their bodies, making them look rather like hedgehogs. Their noses were the most prominent part of their anatomy, long and bright pink, and so flexible that they could be whiffled from side to side like a miniature elephant’s trunk. At first they had to be fed on milk mixed with calcium and cod-liver oil, and this was no easy task; they drank more milk than any other baby animal I have ever met, and the whole business was made more difficult because they were far too small to suck it out of the feeding-bottle I used for the others. So they had to be fed by wrapping a lump of cotton wool round a stick, dipping it in the milk and then letting them suck it. This worked admirably at first, but as soon as their sharp little teeth began to appear through the gums, they started to be troublesome. They were so greedy that they would take hold of the cotton wool and hang on to it like bulldogs, refusing to let go and allow me to dip it into the milk again. On many occasions they would grip so hard that the cotton wool would come off the end of the stick, and then they would try to swallow it; only by sticking my finger down their throats and capturing the cotton wool as it was disappearing could I save them from being choked to death. Sticking a finger down their throats always made them sick, and, of course, as soon as they had been sick they would feel hungry again, so the whole performance woul
d have to be repeated. Anyone who prides himself on his patience should try hand-rearing some baby Kusimanses.

  When their teeth had come through and they had learnt to walk really well they became most inquisitive and were always trying to push their pink noses into someone else’s business. They lived in what we called the nursery – a collection of baskets that housed all the baby animals – and were placed between our two beds, where they were within easy reach for any bottle feeds that had to be given at night. The top of the basket which the Bandits inhabited was not too secure, and it was not long before they learnt how to push it off; then they would scramble out and go on a tour of inspection round the camp. This was extremely worrying, for the Bandits seemed to be completely lacking in fear and would stick their noses into monkey cages or snake-boxes with equal freedom. Their lives were devoted to a search for food, and everything they came across they would bite in the hope that it would turn out to be tasty. At that time we had a fully grown female Colobus monkey, a creature which possessed a wonderfully long, thick coat of silky black and white hair, and a long, plume-like tail, also black and white, of which she seemed very proud, for she was always most particular about keeping it clean and glossy. One day the Bandits escaped from the nursery and wandered round by the monkey cages to see what they could pick up. The Colobus was reclining on the bottom of her cage having a sun bath, and her long and beautiful tail was sticking out between the bars and lying on the ground. One of the Bandits discovered this curious object and, since it did not appear to belong to anyone, he rushed at it and sank his sharp little teeth into it to see whether it was edible. The other two, seeing what he had found, immediately joined him and laid hold of the tail as well. The unfortunate monkey, screaming loudly with rage and fright, scrambled up to the top of her cage, but this did not shake off the Bandits; they clung on like a vice, and the higher the Colobus climbed in her cage, the higher her tail lifted the Bandits off the ground. When I arrived on the scene they were suspended about a foot in the air, and were hanging there, revolving slowly, all growling through clenched teeth. It took me several minutes to induce them to let go, and then they did so only because I blew cigarette smoke into their faces and made them cough.

  When the Bandits became old enough to have a special cage of their own, complete with bedroom, feeding them was a job fraught with great difficulty and danger. They grew so excited at meal-times that they would fasten their teeth into anything that looked even remotely like food, so that you had to watch your hands. Instead of waiting until the food dish was put inside their cage, like any sensible animal, they would leap through the door to meet it, knock the dish out of your hand, and then fall to the ground in a tangled heap, all screaming loudly with frustrated rage. Eventually I became rather tired of having the Bandits shoot out like ginger rockets every time I went to feed them, so I evolved a plan. Two of us would approach the cage at meal-times, and the Bandits would hurl themselves at the bar, screaming loudly, their eyes popping with emotion. Then one of us would rattle the bedroom door, and they, thinking that the food was being put in there, would throw themselves into the sleeping quarters, fighting and scrambling to get there first. While they were thus engaged you had exactly two seconds’ grace before they found out the deception: during that time you had to open the cage door, put the food inside and withdraw your hand and lock the door again. If you were not quick, or made some slight noise to attract their attention, the Bandits would tumble out of the bedroom, screeching and chittering, upset the plate, and bite indiscriminately at the food and your hand. It was all very trying.

  About this time we had another pair of babies brought to us, who proved to be full of charm and personality. They were a pair of baby Red River Hogs and, as with the Kusimanses, they looked totally unlike the adult. A fully grown Red River Hog is probably the most attractive member of the pig family, and certainly the most highly coloured. They have bright rusty-orange fur, with deeper, almost chocolate markings round the snout. Their large ears end in two extraordinary pencil-like tufts of pure white hair, and a mane of this white hair runs along their backs. The two babies were, like all young pigs, striped: the ground colour was a deep brown, almost black, and from snout to tail they were banded with wide lines of bright mustard-yellow fur, a colour scheme that had the effect of making them look more like fat wasps than baby pigs.

  The little male was the first to arrive, sitting forlornly in a basket carried on the head of a brawny hunter. He was obviously in need of a good feed of warm milk, and as soon as I had paid for him I prepared a bottle and then lifted him out on to my knee. He was about the size of a pekinese, and had very sharp little hooves and tusks, as I soon found out. He had never seen a feeding-bottle and treated it with the gravest suspicion from the start. When I lifted him on to my knee and tried to get the teat into his mouth, he kicked and squealed, ripping my trousers with his hooves and trying to bite with his tiny tusks. At the end of five minutes we both looked as though we had bathed in milk, but not a drop of it had gone down his throat. In the end I had to hold him firmly between my knees, wedge his mouth open with one hand while squirting milk in with the other. As soon as the first few drops trickled down his throat he stopped struggling and screaming, and within a few minutes he was sucking away at the bottle as hard as he could go. After this he was no more trouble, and within two days had lost all his fear of me, and would come running to the bars of his pen when I appeared, squeaking and grunting with delight, rolling over on to his back to have his bulging stomach scratched.

  The female piglet arrived a week later, and she was brought in protesting so loudly that we could hear her long before she and the hunter came in sight. She was almost twice the size of the male, so I decided that they must have separate cages to start with, as I was afraid that she might hurt him. But when I put her in the pen next door to him, their obvious delight at seeing each other, and the way they rushed to the intervening bars, squeaking and rubbing noses, made me decide that they should share a cage straight away. When I put them together the tiny male ran forward, sniffing loudly, and butted the female gently in the ribs; she snorted and skipped away across the cage. He chased her, and together they ran round and round the cage, twisting and turning and doubling back with astonishing agility for such portly beasts. When they had worked off their high spirits, they burrowed deep into the pile of dry banana leaves I had provided for them and fell asleep, snoring like a beehive on a summer night.

  The female, being so much older, very soon learnt to supplement her bottle-feed with a dish of chopped fruit and vegetables. After giving both of them their bottle I would put a broad, shallow pan full of this mixture into the cage, and she would spend the morning standing there with her nose buried in it, making slushy, squelching piggy noises and sighing dreamily at intervals. The little male could not understand this, and he used to become very incensed at being ignored; he would go and prod her with his snout, or nibble at her legs, until she would suddenly turn on him with squeals of rage and drive him away. He tried several times to see what it was in the dish that was attracting her, but could not discover anything very exciting about a lot of chopped fruit, so he would wander off moodily and sit in a corner by himself until she had finished. One day, however, he decided that he, too, could get an extra meal, by the simple expedient of sucking the female’s long tail. He became convinced that if he sucked it long enough and hard enough he would get milk from it. So she used to stand there with her nose buried in the dish of food, while behind her stood the male with her tail held hopefully in his mouth. This did not seem to worry her unduly, but he sucked so enthusiastically that her tail became quite bald, and in order to let the hair grow again I had to keep them in separate cages, only allowing them to be with one another for a game twice a day.

  Life in the marquee with half a hundred animals to look after was anything but dull. We were surrounded on all sides by animals of all shapes, sizes, and kinds, from tree-frogs to owls, and from pythons to monkeys. At a
ll hours of the day and night a steady mutter of strange noises filled the air – noises that ranged from the maniacal screams and giggles of the chimpanzees to the steady rasping sound of a Pouched Rat who was convinced that, by sticking to it in spite of all opposition, he could gnaw his way through a metal feeding-pot. At any time of the day you could find something to do, or something new to note or observe. The following extracts from a week’s entries in my diary give some indication of the wealth of small but exciting or interesting incidents that were worth noting:

  The young female Stanger’s Squirrel’s eyes have now changed from that beautiful shade of sky blue to steel grey; when you disturb her at night she makes a noise like a clockwork train when it is lifted off the rails … one of the Palm Vipers has given birth to eleven young: about five inches long, ground colour pale slate grey with cross bands of dark ash grey, making wonderful contrast to vivid green and white mother; they all struck viciously at a stick when only a couple of hours old … large green tree frogs make a noise like a clock slowly ticking, just before rain, but will stop if you go near their cage, and won’t perform again until next cloudburst … discovered that the galagos like the flowers of a species of marigold that grows around here; they hold flower head in one hand and pluck off petals with the other, cramming them into their mouths; then they play with the remains as though it were a shuttlecock, looking quite ridiculous, with their great eyes staring …