Five Bestselling Travel Memoirs Box Set

by Twead, Victoria

  To get down to the new enclosure we’d been forced to carve steep steps into the slope. They ran through a narrow gap between trees and thick bramble bushes. The gap was almost exactly one giant tortoise wide, which meant that for the trip down the stairs only four people could get at him to lift him; two at the back and two at the front. I took a back corner.

  Jimmy and Danielo edged backwards down the steps until the tortoise was level with their waists. We all took the strain and lifted. With gritted teeth we moved Meldrew just over the edge. He tipped dangerously downwards. It was only then, far past the point of no return, that both Johnny and me realised there was no way on this earth we could hold him back with our tenuous grip on the edge of his shell. There was a desperate cry of “Cuidado!” from Johnny, and Meldrew slipped from our fingers.

  Jimmy and Danielo both possessed reflexes conditioned by a life of constant danger. Or else they were bloody lucky. They’d seen the flaw in our plan at exactly the same time as we had, and with no other choice had reacted accordingly.

  The tortoise careened downhill, picking up speed like a gigantic green skateboard.

  On my left Jimmy now writhed in the middle of a bush full of spiky bitch plants. To my right Danielo had thrown himself headfirst into the swamp.

  Neither of them looked particularly happy.

  Meldrew had carved a path through the steps, which in his wake had become a ramp. He ended up lodged against a fence post at a crazy angle with all his limbs drawn into his shell. It must have been one hell of a ride.

  And that was that. Meldrew emerged and was fed, Johnny pronounced himself satisfied and we all turned and hiked back up the slope. As we were leaving Mark pointed out a long black smear running down the centre of my t-shirt from neck to navel. He himself was suspiciously clean. What had I done that he hadn’t? Aha! Taken a back corner.

  Shit, it seemed, had happened after all.

  Hole

  In between working, which often knocked off at 2:30pm, and the second daily feed at 4pm, we liked to take a bit of time for ourselves. It wasn’t worth getting showered and changed just to have some monkey climb all over you with hands and feet caked in his dinner, so this spare time was the perfect time to relax, regroup, especially after a physically demanding day. It was also the most pleasant time to be outside, a sort of ideal equilibrium between the harshest heat of the day and the icy chill of night.

  I was reclining in a hammock with my little dog on my belly. I had one hand behind my head and the other draped across Machita’s ribs. I could feel her breathing through a growing layer of puppy fat, and was gazing out at one of my favourite views. The hillside fell gently away from the front of the house, then plunged down steeply towards the valley floor, itself out of sight a few hundred metres below. Everything glowed a brilliant green in the strong sunshine, the whole view was the very image of Eden. I loved these gorgeous, lazy days. And there seemed to be an endless supply of them. In my mood of contentment, I didn’t mind at all being disturbed by a fraught looking Brenda, approaching from the direction of the animal enclosures.

  She didn’t wave, which was unusual. She just came to the gate and beckoned me over. I gently scooped my sleeping dog up and deposited her on the ground.

  “Hola!” I smiled at Brenda. She didn’t smile back.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “the caiman is dead.”

  What? “No, no,” I explained, “he doesn’t move much. He doesn’t move at all. He’s always like that.”

  “Come and see,” she told me. “I am sure he is dead.”

  I followed her to the open ground in the middle of all the cages. We’d taken to leaving the croc sitting out in the sun during the day, in the hope that the direct rays would warm his blood and boost his healing. He was there, sitting motionless exactly where I’d left him that morning. I’d gone down to feed Osita after that, and hadn’t been around this area at all since then.

  I got right up close, within easy striking distance. Nothing happened. My heart was beating rapidly, stress and fear for both myself and the reptile. Closer I edged until I could lay a trembling finger tip on the tough pointed scales of his back. Still nothing. I was knelt down beside him, bending right over, praying that he was both alive and in a forgiving mood. My hand moved off and hovered in the air above his head for a few seconds – then I dipped down to touch his snout. It was stone cold. There was no breath. The caiman was dead.

  The tension left my body and I sprawled sideways onto the grass. The relief at not being attacked welled up, a short rush of adrenaline, and was gone in less time than it takes to tell. Behind it, it left a strange emptiness, a weariness, a sinking feeling in my stomach that had begun on the walk over. All that work. All that time. So much… emotion invested. I felt… gutted. Robbed. Snatched away when we were so close, so very fucking close… All gone now. Nothing prepared me for the shock – not even the tragic yet inevitable death of the ocelot only days before. The cat’s time had come, sooner perhaps than I’d have ordained, but this was… different. I’d been cheated. We all had been. I couldn’t imagine any of the others being so unreasonable, but there it was. I’d bled for that creature, faced terror to help treat it, I’d felt bound to it almost. And now it was dead.

  I picked myself up off the floor, stood staring disconsolately at the spot where just a few hours ago my bare hands had placed a living, breathing crocodile. I kept thinking I should cry, that I was certainly expecting to. The death was affecting me as no previous one had. But I didn’t cry.

  “We should bury him.” Brenda spoke softly behind me. I turned to see Mel and Mark, Gloudina and Emer standing nearby. Everyone wore a sad expression. But they were all looking at me. They knew, I thought, they knew how close I felt… It all seemed stupid now. “I’ll bury him,” I said.

  Wordlessly, Brenda fetched a shovel and passed it over. Moving robotically back to the patch of grass I raised the shovel and drove it into the ground. For a second it occurred to me that the others probably thought I was overreacting, but when I looked over my shoulder they’d all drifted off, giving me the space they could tell I needed. Sometimes it was like that, living so close to people through so many intense experiences, you could just tell what they needed without asking. So they carried on with their day and I dug a grave. It wasn’t very deep; the ground, tough enough to dislodge with the excavadora, yielded slowly and grudgingly to the shovel. But it was deep enough by the time I was finished, and quite neat for my first.

  I placed the caiman in the hole, and only then realised that alone of all the creatures I’d formed an attachment to, I’d never given him a name. I dropped the first shovel full of loose earth back over the hard, scaly body and it looked so out of place there. And then the tears came.

  I finished the burial, eyes and nose streaming, shoulders shuddering, breath coming in ragged gasps. I was hot now, not empty but burning with effort and anger. I wanted to lash out at anything, hit something just for the satisfaction of feeling it. There was nothing nearby that I could risk damaging, so I took the shovel, made a few steps towards the empty field in front of our house and launched the thing with a cry. And that done, there was nothing else to do. I just sat, alone on the grass next to the slight bump of bare earth, and let the tears flow.

  Mark was in the lounge as I passed through, headed for my bunk. “Sorry Tony,” he said, one hand going automatically to my shoulder. “Sometimes it’s just like that.”

  No-one else said anything to me that day.

  The Perils of Boar-dom

  The program of new enclosure building was still barrelling along full force. It seemed like there wasn’t a tiny corner of land anywhere that Johnny didn’t want a cage putting on. Jimmy would lead us on a procession around the land, tools on shoulders like the Seven Dwarves off to work singing “Hi-ho!” Eventually he’d arrive at a certain spot and explain that today we’d be building a cage for an aardvark/star fish/fruit bat/plesiosaur*.

  (*NB. We didn’t actually have a
ny plesiosaurs at Santa Martha, as they became extinct in the Cretaceous Period, about 65 million years ago. However, some of our tools did date from this period.)

  None of us bothered to use gloves any more – our hands were much tougher now, or else we were. What I would have previously considered a ‘slice’ from a ragged metal edge was now a ‘scratch’, no matter how much it bled. We were becoming very proficient at this unique form of construction, and small enclosures were often the work of one day.

  Johnny had taken to visiting the volunteer house of an evening, giving us a few clues on what to expect over the coming days. I think this informal arrangement had taken the place of Toby’s regular morning visits to Johnny’s house, which I had secretly dreaded having to make. Thankfully my tactic of simply not bothering had paid off in spades, and now instead of having to ‘discuss’ details of the day’s work in Spanish with ‘El Jefe’ (the boss) we just waited on the porch for Jimmy to collect us. Johnny’s little visits on the other hand were perfect for me to practice my language skills. He always spoke slowly, as was his way, looking around at all of us. I found it easy to sit concentrating on his voice and working out suitable responses, as with a table full of volunteers to absorb his focus I didn’t feel so pressured. Although this system did render my official status as co-ordinator somewhat redundant, the others evidently decided to spare my feelings and let me at least act like the boss. It didn’t matter one bit to me – though I felt honoured and immeasurably proud to have been asked to be volunteer co-ordinator in Toby’s absence I was under no illusions about who was in charge. And I was also kind of glossing over the fact that, at the precise time Toby had departed, there was literally no-one else. I had no reason to believe that that had influenced Johnny’s decision in any way.

  Along with explaining some financial issues the farm was facing and sharing his vision for the glorious future of Santa Martha, Johnny would occasionally let slip the identity of some creature or other soon to be added to our stable.

  So it took Jimmy only minimal pantomiming to inform us that the enclosure we were currently constructing was to house a wild pig. Actually I already knew the word for ‘pig’. ‘Puerca’, sounding not too dissimilar to ‘porker’ was fairly easy to guess. I was sure most of the others knew too. We just all found it far too entertaining to watch Jimmy, pointed fingers held against his cheeks as tusks, pawing the ground and rooting through some imaginary bush. I could hear the repressed laughter in Mel’s voice as she feigned sudden understanding: “Oh, it’s a giraffe!”

  “No,” said Steve, “One o’ them chipmunk type things, with them little teeth!”

  “Um, un anaconda, Jimmy?” I offered.

  The pig, or more accurately the Wild Boar, was every bit as friendly as his not-wild relatives were vicious. I’d loathed, detested and feared feeding Johnny’s pigs since the very first time; whenever I approached with a bucket of kitchen scraps they would go wild, mobbing the door I had to get through in order to feed them. I knew they would tear through my flesh with the same mindless ferocity they attacked their food with, if they ever got the chance. If I slipped over in their sty there was a good chance I wouldn’t be getting up again. They were massive, savage and in the grip of a constant feeding frenzy – and quite honestly they scared the living shit out of me.

  So the contrast with the boar was truly remarkable. And relieving, since once the fence was built and the little fellow in residence, we had to feed him every morning.

  “He eats vegetables,” Johnny had sagely informed me when I enquired, “and fruit.”

  So the same as everything else then.

  Routines being as they are it usually fell to either Mark or myself to feed ‘Shortly’ the boar. I never minded, except for one very peculiar habit. I mentioned it to Mark one time as we approached the enclosure.

  “Watch what he does,” I told a bemused Mark. “Seriously! It’s really weird!”

  With that I swung myself over the low, stout fence, cradling an armful of apples and potatoes. Immediately the boar waddled over and began to nuzzle my knees. I kept my legs firmly together. I could tell from the smirk that Mark knew what was coming.

  “Now look,” I said. I allowed a slight gap to appear between my legs. Instantly the boar was in it, shoving through with all his worth. He worked his powerful head and forequarters between my legs with much wiggling and jiggling of the rest of him.

  Mark was already cracking up at the sight, and called to Mel to come look.

  Safely wedged between my knees the boar was finally able to achieve his aim. Quivering all over he began to toss his head back, like a horse shooing a fly, over and over again. And each time at the apex of its arc, his snout slapped me squarely in the bollocks.

  Mel came hurrying over to find her boyfriend doubled over with laughter, tears streaming down his face, as the pig redoubled his efforts. Each flick seemed increasingly energetic and my balls were starting to protest the rough treatment. I’d let the behaviour continue far longer than normal for demonstration purposes, and was already starting to regret it. By now the pig’s front legs were leaving the ground with momentum as he continued to reverse-head-butt me in the knackers.

  When I tried to lift a leg to step away it only made my package a better target, and the pig moved with me so that when I put the leg down again I was still straddling him. Both Mel and Mark were now in hysterics as I took an unlucky hit that drove the breath from my lungs. I lunged for the fence and fell across it to safety. I lay on the ground curled into a foetal position for a few seconds, belatedly protecting my jewels. Mel and Mark were far too far gone to be of any help.

  I slowly stood and stretched, gingerly patting my crotch. No obvious damage. That had all gotten a little out of hand.

  When Mark could breath again he offered me his considered medical opinion.

  “Oh Tony,” he gasped, “I think he likes you!”

  “It’s a good job you weren’t wearing your other work jeans,” he added as we made our way back past the parrot cage. “You know, the, um, crotchless ones. I mean, his hair can be quite prickly.”

  “Not to mention if he thought it was feeding time!” Mel commented.

  It was a bit uncomfortable, the others discussing my genital exposure so casually.

  “I’m gonna throw those trousers out,” I decided.

  “Oh! Thank God for that!” Mel was positively jubilant. “You should tell Emer and Marie. They’ll be over the moon to know! I think they’ve been getting quite disturbed about it.”

  I caught my breath at the depth of the conspiracy. They’d been talking about my balls behind my back! Or more accurately, about my balls in plain sight… Had Gloudina been included in these clandestine conversations? God I hoped not. I loved those jeans. But since Machita had faithfully dissected most of my underwear I’d been going commando quite a lot. Maybe too much… I was suddenly eager to change the topic of conversation.

  “Weird what that pig does though, isn’t it? You ever seen that before?”

  Mark was happy to oblige. “Ah yes, you see, he has a scent gland on the back of his neck, and he’s rubbing it on you. He rubs it on me sometimes, too, only not so… enthusiastically!”

  “Oh. Why me then?”

  Mel had a theory. “Maybe you’re giving off some kind of irresistible pig pheromone? Do pigs normally go crazy around you?”

  I considered how to answer this for a few seconds.

  “No.” It wasn’t, strictly speaking, the truth.

  “I don’t know then. Maybe it’s your deodorant…”

  “I don’t wear deodorant!” I protested.

  They exchanged a knowing look before Mark replied for the both of them.

  “Ah. Well then. Maybe that’s it.”

  And they stepped smugly into the house together, a perfectly matched pair of cheeky, cheeky bastards.

  You can’t handle the tooth!

  There are some things that just don’t mix; like Toby and globules of decomposing chi
cken mucus for example, or me and electricity. The morning after my twenty-fourth birthday I discovered another pair of mutually antagonistic elements: the whine of a dentist’s drill and the epic hangover caused by drinking half a vat of free Cuba libre. Result: loss of one’s breakfast in Johnny’s sink.

  It had been yet another week of fond farewells. Gloudina had left in the evening, slipping out of my life as effortlessly as she’d slipped in. I hoped to see her again, as she was staying on in Quito to work at Leonardo’s surgery. But fate, never my biggest fan, conspired against me. I’d laid my eyes on her lithe, tanned form for the last time. Mel and Mark, thank the Goddess, stayed with me. I don’t think I could have coped without them. Emer left quietly the day before her sister, planning to meet up for one final night out (which conveniently corresponded with my birthday, the legacy of which I was just experiencing).

  That left just one person. Marie’s departure was very nearly as hectic as Marie’s arrival. There was a great deal of mess and there was a great deal of noise. Plenty of cheerful swearing, punctuated by bouts of less cheerful swearing. And then, like a friendly (but still rather violent) tornado, she swept off down the mountain. The hole she left was considerably bigger than she was – largely due to the fact that she’d been storing every item she owned on the floor around her bed like a gigantic moat of underwear and hair dryers, curlers, books and dresses. The efficiency of her organisation had been staggering; items not needed were simply added to the pile at its lowest point. Finding anything from a toothbrush upwards had required extensive excavation, usually accompanied by a running commentary in her lilting Irish brogue. It was like having our own private comedy act, showing several times a day, and never funnier than twenty minutes after she was supposed to have left for work (which was usually about the time she tried to discover that toothbrush).