THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  "Francis!" I yelled.

  "This is not a race … I'm trying to stop … stop!" The idea slowly took root in our guide's mind, and a look of acute disappointment spread over his face. Reluctantly he drew in his horse, and, to my infinite relief, mine followed suit. We stopped and waited until Bob danced up on his animal, and then I worked out a new arrangement: Francis was to lead. Bob was to follow him, and I was to bring up the rear, and thus keep Bob's steed up to the mark. So, at a gentle walk, we continued on our way.

  The sun was now very hot, and the savannah stretched away before us, shimmering in its rays. Mile upon mile of grassland, green, gold, and brown, and in the distance, it seemed at the very rim of the world, a line of humpbacked mountains of pale greeny-blue. There was no life to be seen on this ocean of grass; the only moving things were ourselves and our shadows. For over two hours we rode through the knee-high grass, led by Francis who was slouching at ease in his saddle, his hat over his eyes, apparently asleep. The monotony of the view and the hot sun made us sleepy, and we followed our guide's example and dozed.

  Suddenly I opened my eyes and found to my surprise that the flat savannah had produced a hollow, a great oval crater with gently sloping sides, and in the centre was a reed-fringed lake, its banks covered with a scattering of stunted bushes. As we skirted the lake everything seemed suddenly to come to life: a small cayman slid into the smooth waters with hardly a ripple; ten jabiru storks marched solemnly along the further shore, gazing down their long beaks in a meditative kind of way; the bushes were full of tiny birds, twittering and fluttering.

  "Bob, wake up and enjoy the fauna," I suggested.

  He peeped sleepily from under the brim of his hat, said "Um" as intelligently as he could, and went back to sleep again.

  Two emerald green lizards darted across the path between my horse's slowly plodding hoofs, so eager in their pursuit of each other that they never noticed us. A diminutive kingfisher dropped from a branch into the lake and flew up to his perch again with something in his beak. Gold and black dragonflies zoomed about the reeds and hovered over the tiny pink orchids that bloomed like a mist over the swampy ground. On a battered tree stump sat a pair of black vultures: they watched us with a macabre hopefulness that was far from reassuring, in view of our guide's mental condition. We rode past the lake and headed once more across the grassland, and the twittering of the birds faded and died behind us. Then there was only the steady swish of our horse's legs pushing through the grass. I went to sleep.

  I was awakened by my horse ambling to a standstill.

  I found that Francis had also awakened and now sat on his horse surveying the area like a battered Napoleon. In front of us the land lay flat as a chess-board; on our left the ground rose gently, the slope covered with great clumps of grass and stunted bushes. I rode up alongside our guide and looked at him inquiringly. He waved a brown hand and gestured at the country. I presumed that we had arrived at anteater territory.

  "What is it?" inquired Bob.

  "I think this is where he saw the anteater."

  Francis, we had been assured, could speak English, and now was the great moment when he was to give us the details of the chase. Looking me squarely in the eye he proceeded to utter a series of sounds which, for sheer in comprehensibility I have rarely heard equalled. He repeated it twice while I listened carefully, but still I could not make out a single word that seemed at all familiar. I turned to Bob, who had been easing himself painfully up and down in the saddle and taking no part in this exchange.

  "Didn't you say you could speak an Indian dialect?"

  "Well, yes. But those were Indians in Paraguay , and I don't think it's anything like Munchi."

  "Can you remember any?"

  "Yes, I think so. Just a smattering."

  "Well have a shot at trying to understand what Francis is saying."

  "Isn't he talking English?" asked Bob in surprise.

  "For all I can make of it he might be talking Patagonian. Go on, Francis, say it again."

  Francis, with a long-suffering air, repeated his little speech. Bob listened carefully with a frown on his face.

  "No," he said at last, "I can't make anything of it. It's certainly not English."

  We looked at Francis, and he looked pityingly back at us.

  Soon, however, an idea occurred to him, and with many gestures and shrill cries he at last managed to explain what he was getting at. This was the place where he had seen the anteater. Somewhere in this area it was probably asleep here he folded his hands against his cheek, closed his eyes and uttered loud snores. We were to spread out into a line and beat through the undergrowth, making as much noise as possible.

  So we spread out at thirty-yard intervals and urged our steeds through the long grass with loud cries and yodel lings feeling somewhat stupid as we did so. Francis, away on my right, was giving a very fair imitation of a pack of hounds in full cry while on my left I could hear Bob singing snatches of Loch-Lomond, interspersed with shrill screeches of "shoo!" – a combination guaranteed to flush any anteater. Thus we progressed for about half a mile, until my throat was sore with shouting, and I was beginning to wonder if there really had been an anteater there, or if, indeed, there were any anteaters in Guiana at all. My cries lost their first rich quality and became more like the depressed cawing of a lone crow.

  Suddenly Francis uttered a piercing and triumphant cry, and I could see a dark shape bobbing through the long grass in front of his horse. I turned my steed and rode towards it as fast as I could, yelling to Bob as I did so. My horse staggered wildly over the tussocks of grass and the deep heat cracks in the soil as I urged him on. The dark shape burst from the cover of the long grass and started off across a comparatively grass less plain at a rolling gallop, and I saw that it was indeed an anteater, and a bigger one than any I had seen in captivity. He travelled across the plain at remarkable speed, his great icicle shaped head swinging from side to side, and his shaggy tail streaming out behind him like a pennant. Francis was in hot pursuit, uncoiling his lasso as he rode and cheering his horse on with wild, staccato cries. I had by now extricated my horse from the long grass, and I headed him towards the anteater, but no sooner did he catch sight of our quarry than he decided he did not like it, and he turned and made off in the opposite direction with speed and determination. It took me all my time to turn him, for his mouth was like a bucket, but eventually I managed to gain a certain control over him.

  Even so, we approached the fray in a circular and crab-like fashion. I was just in time to see Francis gallop alongside the anteater, and, whirling his lasso, drop it over the beast's head. It was a bad throw, for the noose slipped right over the anteater's head, and he simply cantered straight through it, swerved wildly and headed back towards the long grass. Francis was forced to pause, haul in his rope and recoil it, and meanwhile the quarry was heading at full speed for thick undergrowth, in which it would be impossible for Francis to lasso him.

  Urging my reluctant mount forward I succeeded in heading the anteater off, and steering him back on to the plain, and by keeping my horse at a brisk canter I found I could stay alongside the animal.

  The anteater galloped on over the plain, hissing and snorting down his long nose, his stunted little legs thumping on the sun-baked earth. Francis caught us up again, spun his rope round two or three times, and dropped it neatly over the animal's forequarters, pulling the noose tight as it reached its waist. He was off his horse in a second, and, hanging grimly to the rope, he was dragged across the grass by the enraged anteater. Asking Bob to hold the horses, I joined Francis on the end of the rope. The anteater had incredible strength in his thick bow legs and shaggy body, and it was all the two of us could do to bring him to a standstill. Francis, the sweat pouring down his face, peered round; then he uttered a grunt and pointed behind me. Looking round I saw a small tree growing about a hundred yards away, the only one for miles.

  Gasping and panting, we managed to chivvy the anteater to wards
it. When we at length arrived at the tree we succeeded in getting another loop of rope round the angry animal's body, and then we proceeded to tie the loose end to the trunk of the tree. Just as we were tying the last knot Francis looked up into the branches and gave a warning yelp.

  Looking up I saw, about two feet above my head, a wasp's nest about the size of a football, with the entire colony clinging to the outside and looking extremely irritated, to say the least. The anteater's struggles were making the small tree sway as though struck by a hurricane, and the movement was not appreciated by the wasps. Francis and I backed away, silently and hurriedly.

  At our retreat the anteater decided to have a short rest before getting down to the stern work of removing the ropes.

  The tree stopped swaying, and the wasps settled down again.

  We made our way back to where Bob was holding the horses and unpacked the various items we had brought with us to capture the anteaters: two large sacks, a ball of thick twine, and some lengths of stout cord. Armed with these and a murderous-looking jack-knife belonging to Francis, we again approached the tree. We were just in time to see the anteater shake himself free of the last loop of rope and waddle off across the savannah. I was only too pleased to leave Francis to disentangle his lasso from the wasp-infested tree, while I pursued the quarry on foot, rapidly tying a slip-knot in a piece of cord as I ran. I dashed up alongside the creature and flung my make-shift lasso at his head. I missed. I tried again with the same result. This went on for some time, until he became a trifle tired of my attentions. He suddenly skidded to a standstill, turned, and rose up on his hind legs facing me. I also halted, and examined him warily, particularly the great six-inch claws with which his front feet were armed. He snuffled at me, quivering his long nose, his tiny boot-button eyes daring me to come a step nearer. I walked round him in a circumspect manner, and he revolved also, keeping his claws well to the fore. I made a rather half-hearted attempt to throw the noose over his head, but he greeted this with such a violent waving of his claws, and such enraged snuffling hisses, that I desisted and waited for Francis to bring his lasso. I made a mental note that seeing an animal behind bars in a well regulated zoo is quite a different matter from trying to catch one armed with a short length of cord. In the distance I could see Francis still trying to disentangle his lasso from the tree without bringing the wasps down about his ears.

  The anteater sat down on his tail and proceeded solemnly to brush bits of grass off his nose with his large, curved claws. I had noticed that each time he hissed or snuffled a stream of saliva dribbled from his mouth, hanging in long and glutinous strands like thick spider's web. As he galloped across the plain this sticky saliva trailed on the ground and collected bits of grass and twig. Each time he tossed his head in anger these strands of saliva and their debris were napped on to his nose and shoulders, where they stuck like glue. Now he had come to the conclusion that this armistice was an ideal moment for a quick wash and brush up.

  Having cleaned his long grey nose to his satisfaction, he then rubbed his shoulders on the grass to free them from the adhesive saliva. Then he rose to his feet, gave an absurdly dog-like shake and plodded off towards the long grass as slowly and calmly as though such things as human beings with lassos had never entered his life. At this moment Francis joined me, out of breath but unstung carrying his rope; we started after the anteater, who was still shuffling along in a slow, nonchalant way. Hearing our approach he sat down again and watched us in a resigned fashion. With two of us to deal with he was at a distinct disadvantage, and while I attracted his attention Francis crept up behind him, threw the noose over his shoulders and pulled it tight round his waist. He was off again in a moment, dashing across the grass and dragging us with him. For half an hour we struggled back and forth across the savannah, but at last we succeeded in getting so many ropes around him that he could not move. Then we thrust him, trussed up and immobile as a Christmas turkey, into the largest sack, and sat down to have a much needed cigarette, feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

  But then another snag made itself apparent. All the horses were unanimous in their disapproval when we tried to hoist the sackful of anteater on to their backs. Their alarm was increased by the anteater, who uttered loud and prolonged hisses every time we staggered up to the horses with him. We made several attempts but had to give up, for the horses showed every symptom of indulging in a collective nervous breakdown. After a good deal of thought Francis indicated that the only way out of the difficulty was for me to lead his horse while he followed behind carrying the anteater on his back. I was a bit doubtful whether he would succeed, as the sack was extremely heavy and we were a good eight or nine miles from Karanambo. But I helped him to get the sack on to his back, and we set off. Francis struggled along bravely, the sweat pouring off him, his burden making things as difficult as possible by wiggling violently. The heat of the afternoon sun was intense, and there was no breeze to fan the brow of our anteater-carrier. He started to mutter to himself. Soon he was lagging fifty yards behind. We progressed a tortuous half mile, and Bob turned round to have a look.

  "What's the matter with Francis?" he asked in astonishment.

  Turning round I saw that our guide had put the anteater down and was walking round and round it, talking to it violently and waving his arms.

  "I have a horrible feeling that the world's turning round on him," I said.

  "What?"

  "That's what he says happens when he has a fit."

  "Good God!" said Bob, really startled.

  "I hope you know the way back from here?"

  "No, I don't. Anyway, hang on to his horse a second, and I'll go back and see what's happening."

  I cantered back to where Francis was having his long conversation with the anteater. My arrival did not interrupt him in any way; he did not even look up. From the expression on his face and his wild gesticulation I gathered that he was going into the subject of the anteater's ancestors with all the thoroughness allowed by the Munchi dialect. The object of his abuse was gazing up at him unmoved, blowing a few gentle bubbles from its nose. Presently, having exhausted his vocabulary, Francis stopped talking and looked at me sorrowfully.

  "What's the matter, Francis?" I asked soothingly, and rather fatuously, since it was perfectly obvious what was the matter. Francis drew a deep breath and then let forth a torrent of speech at me. I listened carefully, but all I could understand was the oft repeated word draftball which, whatever it was, struck me as having nothing whatsoever to do with the matter in hand. After some considerable time I gathered that what Francis wanted us to do was this: someone was to stay with the anteater while the other two rode to the outstation (a distant speck on the horizon he pointed out to me), in order to procure this very necessary item, a draft ball. Hoping we would find someone at the outstation who had a greater command of English, I agreed to the suggestion and helped him carry the anteater into the shade of some nearby bushes. Then I rode back to explain to Bob.

  "You'll have to stay here with the anteater while Francis and I ride back to the outstation for a draft ball I said.

  "A draught board?" asked Bob in amazement. "What the devil for?"

  "Not a draught board a draftball" I corrected airily.

  "And what is a draftball?"

  "I haven't the faintest idea. Some form of transport, I imagine."

  "Is this your idea, or did Francis think it up?"

  "Francis. He seems to think it's the only way."

  "Yes, but what is a draftball?"

  "My dear chap, I'm no linguist; some form of cart, I think. Anyway, there will be other people at the outstation, and I can enlist their aid."

  "By which time I will have died of thirst, or been disembowelled by the anteater," said Bob bitterly. "What a wonderful idea."

  "Nonsense, the anteater's perfectly safe in his sack, and I'll bring you a drink from the outstation."

  "If you reach the outstation. For all you know, Francis, in his present ment
al condition, might take you on a four-day jaunt over the Brazilian border. Oh, well, I suppose I shall have to sacrifice myself once again for the sake of your collecting."

  As I rode off with Francis, Bob shouted after us: "I would like to point out that I came to Guiana to paint, not play nursemaid to a blasted anteater … and don't forget that drink…"

  I prefer not to remember the ride to the outstation. Francis made his horse go like the wind, and mine, obviously under the impression that we were going home for good, followed suit. It seemed as if we rode for ever, but at last I heard dogs barking, and we galloped in at a gate and drew up in front of a long, low white house, in a manner I have rarely seen equalled outside a Western film. I half expected a sign informing me that we had arrived at the Gold Dust Saloon. A delightful old Amerindian appeared and greeted me in Spanish. I grinned stupidly and followed him into the blessed cool and shade of the house. Two wild-looking youths and a handsome girl were seated on the low wall of the room, one of the youths engaged in splitting up a stick of sugar cane and dropping the bits to three naked infants who sprawled on the floor. I seated myself on a low wooden form, and presently the girl brought me a most welcome cup of coffee, and while I drank it the old man conducted a long conversation with me in a mixture of English and very inferior Spanish. Presently Francis reappeared and led me outside to a field, where grazed a large and very obvious bull.