The New Noah

by Gerald Durrell

  Late that night, when we were asleep in our hammocks, I was woken by a terrific uproar coming from the direction of the animals’ cages. I jumped out of my hammock and, seizing the small lantern which I always kept by my bed for such emergencies, dashed over to see what was happening. I found Cuthbert sitting on the floor, looking extremely annoyed and peeting away to himself. Apparently, he had looked round the various cages and decided that the only one that would be suitable for him to roost on was the cage inhabited by a group of small squirrel monkeys. So he had flown up on top and prepared himself for sleep. Unfortunately, he did not notice that his tail was dangling down in front of the bars and in the bright moonlight the monkeys could see it quite clearly. They were very intrigued by it, and so they pushed their hands out through the bars to feel it and find out what it was. When Cuthbert felt them lay hold of his tail, he obviously thought that he was being attacked by some monstrous animal and flew up to the ceiling like a rocket, leaving two of his large tail feathers still firmly gripped in the monkeys’ paws. It took me a long time to soothe his ruffled feelings and to fix him up a new place to sleep, on which he felt quite safe from attack from the rear.

  When Cuthbert eventually arrived back at our base camp in Georgetown, I let him have the run of the big garden in which I kept the animals, and he was always creating an uproar, owing to his delight in collapsing across people’s feet when they were not looking. The garden was surrounded by a very tall fence made of corrugated iron which was too high for Cuthbert to fly over.

  However, he became convinced that if he went on trying hard enough he would eventually succeed in getting over the top of the fence. So every day he used to practise. He would walk away ten yards and then turn round, run towards the fence with a fierce expression on his face, flapping his wings so that gradually his heavy body would rise from the ground and he would zoom towards the fence, flapping vigorously.

  But he never quite succeeded in getting high enough and he had never mastered the art of being able to turn suddenly in mid-air, and so he would fly on and on, straight for the fence, and as it came closer and closer and it became quite obvious to him that he was going to crash into it, so he would utter loud squawks as if he were endeavouring to tell the fence to get out of the way. Then there would be a terrible crash and Cuthbert would slide down the corrugated iron in a flurry of feathers, his long nails making the most bloodcurdling screeching noises as he tried to stop himself. These crashes that he had did not seem to do him or the fence any harm, and as long as he was happy, I left him alone.

  One day, however, Cuthbert approached the fence to have his daily battle with it and discovered to his delight that someone had left a ladder leaning up against it. By the time I had noticed this, Cuthbert had hopped his way up to the top rung and was sitting there looking extremely proud of himself. As I went up to the ladder to try to catch him, he flapped his wings and flew down on to the road on the other side. There he stopped for a moment to have a quick preen before sauntering off in the direction of the market. Hastily I called all our helpers and we rushed out into the road in pursuit of the truant Cuthbert. He glanced over his shoulder and saw us bearing down on him in a body, and so he turned and ran as fast as he could.

  He led us a gay dance round the market-place with half the stall owners and most of the customers joining in the hunt, and it was not until half an hour later that we eventually cornered him and carried him peeting loudly back to the garden.

  Other birds that used to cause us a lot of amusement were the big highly-coloured macaws. All these birds had been hand-reared by various people in Guiana, from whom I had purchased them. So they were all quite tame. For some reason or other all macaws in Guiana are called Robert, in the same way that parrots in England are generally called Polly, so when you bought a macaw you were quite certain that, as well as being able to scream like a factory siren, they would be able to say their own name. We had eight of these birds and they would carry on lengthy and most amusing conversations with each other, using only the word ‘Robert.’ ‘Robert?’ one would say in a questioning tone of voice. ‘Robert, Robert, Robert,’ another one would reply. ‘R-r-r-robert,’ a third one would say, and so they would go on, and they would cock their heads on one side and look so wise that I was almost forced to believe that these silly conversations meant something.

  One pair of these macaws did not like being confined in a cage at all, for they were used to having the run of the house. I used to let them wander all over the garden while we were in Georgetown, but when the time came for me to sail with the collection, I had to put the macaws in a cage. I built a very nice cage for them with a strong wire front but I had forgotten that with their great beaks these birds can gnaw their way through any sort of wood.

  We had not been on the ship for more than three days before this pair of macaws had nibbled right round the edge of their cage front and the whole thing fell out with a crash. Three times I repaired the cage and pushed the angry macaws back inside it, and three times they nibbled my repairs to pieces and escaped once again. In the end I gave it up as a bad job and used to let them wander round the hold whenever they wished. They would walk slowly and carefully along the tops of the line of cages, talking to me or to their companions in their ‘Robert’ language.

  In which I meet several new animals including the moonshine unwarie

  One of the most amusing animals to be found in Guiana is the tree porcupine. It is a short, fat creature covered with black and white spines, and has a long, naked tail which it uses to aid itself in climbing trees. It has fat, flat hind feet, a great swollen wobbling nose and two small round eyes like bulbous boot buttons. If these funny-looking creatures had not been so absurd to watch, you would have felt quite sorry for them, for they did everything with a well-meaning, rather puzzled air, and they were always very surprised when it turned out to be the wrong thing.

  If four bananas were given to one of them, for example, he would first of all try to carry all the fruit in his mouth. When, after several attempts, he had come to the conclusion that his mouth was not big enough to accommodate this quantity, he would sit there with his bulbous nose whiffling about, wondering what to do. He would pick up one banana and hold it in his mouth, and then clasp one in each paw but then, looking down, he would discover to his dismay that there was still one left on the ground, so he would drop the one he had in his mouth and pick up the one that was left on the ground. Then he would notice that there was still one banana to be carried, so he would put the whole lot down again and sit and think about it. Eventually, after about half an hour’s struggle, a brilliant idea would strike him, and sitting there he would eat one of the bananas and carry off the other three triumphantly.

  These porcupines had an amazing habit of indulging in boxing matches. Two of them would climb into the upper branches of their cage and settle themselves comfortably on their haunches, facing each other, twisting their strong tails around the branches for extra safety. Then they would lunge and parry at each other with their paws, aiming savage upper-cuts and short-arm jabs to the body, while all the time their noses whiffled from side to side and their little round eyes had a meek and rather worried expression in them. The amazing thing about these boxing matches was that they would go on sometimes for as long as half an hour, but never once during the whole of that time did one porcupine hit the other one.

  Sometimes, after their bout of sparring, they would do a little juggling. They would find an old mango seed, or something similar, and, sitting on their haunches, would toss it from paw to paw in a fumbling sort of way that made you think they were about to drop it at any moment, but they never did. Watching them, I was very much reminded of the sad, flat-footed, mournful-faced clowns you see at the circus, who are forever getting into trouble, or doing something funny with the most serious expressions on their faces.

  Guiana can boast of having, among other strange creatures, the largest rodent in the world, a creature called the capybara. These
look rather like gigantic guinea-pigs, grow to the size of a large dog and can weigh nearly a hundredweight. They measure about four feet long and stand about two feet high at the shoulder. Compare this with the English harvest-mouse which measures four-and-a-half inches including its tail and weighs about one-sixth of an ounce. Seeing these two animals together, you would never believe they were related.

  I got my first capybara very soon after our arrival in Georgetown; in fact it was, I learned, too soon. I had not yet found a suitable spot for our base camp and we were living in a small boarding house in the back streets of the town while I searched. Our landlady very kindly said that we might keep any animals that arrived in her garden until such time as I moved our base camp.

  Very soon I had a bird and one or two monkeys in neat cages piled up near her flower beds. Then, one evening, a man walked in leading on a length of string a fully-grown capybara. While I bargained with him, the capybara wandered about the garden with a fearfully aristocratic expression on his face, occasionally nibbling at a bloom when he thought I was not looking.

  Eventually, I bought the rodent and put him in a large, new cage that I had built, which was long and coffin-shaped with a specially strong wire front. All sorts of delicacies were piled in for him to eat and he was left to settle down. The room in which I slept over-looked the garden, and at about midnight my companion and I were woken by a most peculiar noise. It sounded like someone playing a Jew’s harp, accompanied by somebody else banging in a vague sort of way on a tin can. I lay there, wondering what on earth it could be, when I suddenly remembered the capybara.

  Uttering a loud cry of ‘The capybara’s escaping!’ I leapt out of bed and rushed downstairs into the garden in my pyjamas, where I was soon joined by my friend.

  In the garden everything was quite quiet and we found our rodent sitting on his haunches, looking down his nose in a superior manner. My friend and I had a long argument as to whether or not it was this animal that had been making the noise. He insisted that it could not have been, because, he said, the capybara looked so innocent, and I said that it was the capybara for exactly that reason. Since the sound was not repeated, we went back to bed, and no sooner had we settled down, than the awful row started again, only this time it was worse than ever. Looking out of the window I could see the capybara’s cage shaking and shuddering in the moonlight.

  Creeping downstairs and approaching very cautiously, we could see what the animal was doing. He was sitting there in his cage with a rather sneering expression on his face; then he leant forward and put his great curved teeth round a strand of the wire front, pulled hard and released it so suddenly that the whole cage vibrated like a harp. He waited until the noise had died away and then raised his fat behind and thumped with his feet on the tin tray, crashing away like thunder. I presumed he was applauding his own musical efforts. We decided that he was not trying to escape but merely doing this because he liked the sound it produced.

  It was out of the question to allow him to continue making this noise, for I felt that before very long the other people in the boarding-house would start to complain. So the tin tray was removed and the front of the cage covered with sacking in the hope that this would soothe him into going to sleep. Then, hopefully, we went up to bed again. No sooner had I snuggled down than, to my dismay, the awful twanging sound started once more in the garden. I could think of nothing with which to put a stop to it, and while my friend and I were arguing about it, several of the other people in the house woke up and came along to knock on the door and tell me that one of the animals was escaping and making so much noise in the process that they had been awakened. I apologized profusely to them while wondering what on earth could be done to stop the wretched rodent.

  It was my friend who had the bright idea: he suggested that we carried the capybara, cage and all, down to the natural history museum, which was not far away and with whose curator we were friendly; the beast could be left there in charge of the night-watchman; and we could collect him on the following morning. We put our clothes on over our pyjamas and, going down into the garden, crept up to the long, coffin-shaped cage, wrapped it in sacks, and started off down the road with it. The capybara was very annoyed at having his private concert disturbed and showed his disapproval by running from one end of the cage to the other, making it tilt up and down like a see-saw. It was only a short way to the museum, but because of the capybara’s antics we had to rest several times.

  We rounded the last corner to the museum gates and bumped straight into a policeman. It is extremely difficult to explain to a policeman why you are carrying a large rodent in a cage through the streets of the town at one o’clock in the morning, especially when you have dressed hurriedly and bits of your pyjamas are hanging out of your clothes. At first, I think, the policeman thought we were burglars just back from a raid on some nearby house, then he decided we must be murderers who were carrying the corpse of our victim in this coffin-shaped box. Our story about the capybara he obviously found very difficult to believe and it was not until we had unwrapped the sacks and shown him the animal that he realized we were telling the truth.

  He then became very charming, and even helped us to carry the cage up to the museum gates, and there the three of us stood and shouted for the night-watchman, while our captive, in order to soothe our ruffled feelings, played us a little tune on the wire cage front. But there was no response to our shouting and it was soon obvious that the night-watchman, wherever he might be, was certainly not watching the museum. After thinking about things for a bit, the policeman suggested we should take the capybara down to the local slaughterhouse where there was sure to be a night-watchman who would probably take care of the beast until the morning.

  On the way to the slaughterhouse we had to pass our boarding-house once again and I, therefore, suggested that we left the animal and his cage in the garden until we had been to the slaughterhouse and made sure they would give him a night’s lodging. It was quite a long way and I did not think it was very sensible to carry him there only to find they would not accept him.

  So leaving the capybara still inventing little songs on his cage front, we wended our way sleepily through the empty streets, and eventually, after losing ourselves once or twice, found the slaughterhouse, and to our joy there was a light in the window. We threw stones up at it and called until presently a very old Negro poked his head out and inquired as to what we wanted. I asked if it would be possible for him to give a night’s lodging to a capybara, but he obviously decided that we were both quite mad, especially when we said that we had not brought the animal with us but would go to fetch it, if he would take it in. Then he wanted to know what a capybara was, and when I explained that it was a large sort of rodent the old man looked very worried and shook his head.

  ‘Dis place is slaughterhouse,’ he said, ‘dis place is for cowses. I don’t tink rodents allowed here.’

  In the end, however, I managed to persuade him that capybaras were really like ‘cowses’, only smaller, and it would not ruin the slaughterhouse to keep the creature for me for one night. With that settled, we walked back to our boarding-house to fetch the beast. There, the moonlit garden was silent and serene, and, on looking into the cage, we saw the culprit curled up in the corner asleep, snoring gently to himself. So we left him, and he slumbered on and did not awaken that night. We came down the next morning, feeling quite exhausted after our nocturnal efforts to obtain a temporary abode for the animal, to find the capybara looking very fit and not the slightest bit tired.

  There are found in Guiana several species of animals called opossums, which are chiefly remarkable for the fact that they are the only animals outside Australia which carry their young as a kangaroo does, in a pouch. The opossums in South America all look rather like rats with long, shaggy fur and long, naked tails, though the different species vary in size, some being as big as a cat and others as small as the smallest mouse. As I say, they look very rat-like; it is when you see them climbin
g about in the trees that you realize they are really nothing like rats at all. Not only can they climb as skilfully as monkeys, using their hands and feet, but they can also use their tail to help them as well, and it twists and turns its way around the branches like a snake: indeed, its grip is so strong that, even if they should lose their hold with their hands and feet, they could hang suspended by their tail and save themselves from falling to the ground.

  The most attractive of the Guianese opossums was one of the smaller varieties. The people in Guiana call the opossums ‘unwaries’, and this particular kind they called the ‘moonshine unwarie’, because they said it only came out when the moon was full. They were really quite pretty little animals with dark charcoal-black upper parts; a lemon-yellow tummy; pink tail, feet, and ears; and two thick, white eyebrows of fur, similar to coloured bananas over their dark eyes. They were about the size of an ordinary rat, although their faces were much more pointed and their tails much longer.

  The first moonshine unwarie I obtained was brought to me by a little East Indian boy who had caught it in his garden late one night. He came with the animal dangling on the end of a piece of string just as I was about to leave that particular village to travel back to our base camp in Georgetown. The ferry-boat was waiting to take me down the river, and I really had not a moment to lose.