By the following day the news had spread through the village that there had arrived a mad gringo who was willing to pay good money for live animals, and the first trickle of specimens started. The first arrival was an Indian carrying, on the end of a length of string, a coral snake striped in yellow, black and scarlet, like a particularly revolting old school tie. Unfortunately, in his enthusiasm, the Indian had tied the string too tightly about the reptile’s neck, and so it was very dead.
I had better luck with the next offering. An Indian arrived clasping a large straw hat tenderly to his bosom. After a polite exchange of greetings I asked to see what he had so carefully secured in his hat. He held it out, beaming hopefully at me, and then looking into the depths of the hat I saw reclining at the bottom, with a dewy-eyed expression on its face, the most delightful kitten. It was a baby Geoffroy’s cat, a small species of wild cat which is getting increasingly rare in South America. Its basic colouring was a pale fawny yellow, and it was dappled all over with neat, dark brown spots. It regarded me with large bluey-green eyes from the interior of the hat, as if pleading to be picked up. I should have known better. In my experience it is always the most innocent-looking creatures that can cause you the worst damage. However, misled by its seraphic expression, I reached out my hand and tried to grasp it by the scruff of the neck. The next moment I had a bad bite through the ball of my thumb and twelve deep red grooves across the back of my hand. As I withdrew my hand, cursing, the kitten resumed its innocent pose, apparently waiting to see what other little game I had in store for it. While I sucked my hand like a half-starved vampire, I bargained with the Indian and eventually purchased my antagonist. Then I tipped it, hissing and snarling like a miniature jaguar, out of the hat and into a box full of straw. There I left it for an hour or so to settle down. I felt that its capture and subsequent transportation in a straw hat might be mainly responsible for its fear and consequent bad temper, for the creature was only about two weeks old, as far as I could judge.
When I thought it had settled down and would be willing to accept my overtures of friendship, I removed the lid of the box and peered in hopefully. I missed losing my left eye by approximately three millimetres. I wiped the blood from my cheek thoughtfully; obviously my latest specimen was not going to be easy. Wrapping my hand in a piece of sacking I placed a saucer of raw egg and minced meat in one corner of the box, and a bowl of milk in the other, and then left the kitten to its own devices. The next morning neither of the two offerings of food had been touched. With a premonition that this was going to hurt me more than the kitten, I filled one of my feeding-bottles with warm milk, wrapped my hand in sacking and approached the box.
Now I have had, at one time and another, a fair amount of experience in trying to get frightened, irritated or just plain stupid animals to feed from a bottle, and I thought that I knew most of the tricks. The Geoffroy’s kitten proceeded to show me that, as far as it was concerned, I was a mere tyro at the game. It was so lithe, quick and strong for its size that after half an hour of struggling I felt as though I had been trying to pick up a drop of quicksilver with a couple of crowbars. I was covered in milk and blood and thoroughly exhausted, whereas the kitten regarded me with blazing eyes and seemed quite ready to continue the fight for the next three days if necessary. The thing that really irritated me was that the kitten had – as I knew to my cost – very well-developed teeth, and there seemed no reason why it should not eat and drink of its own accord, but, in this stubborn mood, I knew that it was capable of quite literally starving itself to death. A bottle seemed the only way of getting any nourishment down it. I put it back in its box, washed my wounds, and was just applying plaster to the deeper of them when Luna arrived, singing cheerfully.
‘Good morning, Gerry,’ he said, and then stopped short and examined my bloodstained condition. His eyes widened, for I was still bleeding profusely from a number of minor scratches.
‘What’s this?’ he asked.
‘A cat … gato,’ I said irritably.
‘Puma … jaguar?’ he asked hopefully.
‘No,’ I said reluctantly, ‘chico gato montes.’
‘Chico gato montes,’ he repeated incredulously, ‘do this?’
‘Yes. The bloody little fool won’t eat. I tried it on the bottle, but it’s just like a damned tiger. What it really needs is an example …’ my voice died away as an idea struck me.
‘Come on, Luna, we’ll go and see Edna.’
‘Why Edna?’ inquired Luna breathlessly as he followed me down the road to Helmuth’s flat.
‘She can help,’ I said.
‘But, Gerry, Helmuth won’t like it if Edna is bitten by a gato montes,’ Luna pointed out in Spanish.
‘She won’t get bitten,’ I explained. ‘I just want her to give me a kitten.’
Luna gazed at me with dark, puzzled eyes, but the conundrum was too much for him, and so he merely shrugged and followed me round to Helmuth’s front door. I clapped my hands and went into Helmuth’s and Edna’s comfortable sitting-room, where Edna was ensconced over a huge pile of socks, darning placidly and listening to the gramophone.
‘Hullo,’ she said, giving us her wide, attractive smile, ‘the gin is over there, help yourself.’
Edna had a beautiful and placid nature: nothing seemed to worry her unduly. I am sure that if you walked into her sitting-room with fourteen Martians in tow she would merely smile and point out the location of the gin.
‘Thank you dear,’ I said, ‘but I didn’t come for gin, strange though it may sound.’
‘It does sound strange,’ agreed Edna, grinning at me mischievously. ‘Well, if you don’t want gin, what do you want?’
‘A kitten.’
‘A kitten?’
‘Yes … you know, a small cat.’
‘Today Gerry is loco,’ said Luna with conviction, pouring out two liberal measures of gin and handing one to me.
‘I have just bought a baby gato montes,’ I explained to Edna. ‘It’s extremely wild. It won’t eat by itself, and this is what it did to me when I tried to feed it on the bottle.’ I displayed my wounds. Edna’s eyes widened.
‘But how big is this animal?’ she asked.
‘About the size of a two-week-old domestic cat.’
Edna looked stern. She folded up the sock she was darning.
‘Have you put disinfectant on those cuts?’ she inquired, obviously preparing herself for a medical orgy.
‘Never mind the cuts … I washed them … But what I want from you is a kitten, an ordinary kitten. Didn’t you say the other day that you were infested with kittens over here?’
‘Yes,’ said Edna, ‘we have plenty of kittens.’
‘Good. Well, can I have one?’
Edna considered.
‘If I give you a kitten will you let me disinfect your cuts?’ she asked cunningly. I sighed.
‘All right, blackmailer,’ I said.
So Edna disappeared into the kitchen quarters, from whence came a lot of shrill exclamations and much giggling. Then Edna returned with a bowl of hot water and proceeded to minister unto my cuts and bites, while a procession of semi-hysterical Indian maids filed into the room, carrying in their arms groups of kittens of all shapes and colours, from ones still blind to ones that were half-grown and looked almost as wild as my Geoffroy’s cat. Eventually I chose a fat, placid female tabby which was approximately the same size and age as my wild cat, and carried it back in triumph to the garage. Here I spent an hour constructing a rough cage, while the tabby kitten purred vigorously and rubbed itself round my legs, occasionally tripping me up. When the cage was ready I put the tabby kitten in first, and left it for an hour or so to settle down.
Most wild animals have a very strong sense of territory. In the wild state, they have their own particular bit of forest or grassland which they consider their own preserve, and will defend it against any other member of their own species (or other animals sometimes) that tries to enter it. When you put wild animals
into cages the cages become, as far as they are concerned, their territory. So, if you introduce another animal into the same cage, the first inmate will in all probability defend it vigorously, and you may easily have a fight to the death on your hands. So you generally have to employ low cunning. Suppose, for example, you have a large vigorous creature who is obviously quite capable of looking after itself, and it has been in a cage for a period of a few weeks. Then you get a second animal of the same species, and you want to confine them together, for the sake of convenience. Introduce the new specimen into the old one’s cage, and the old one may well kill it. So the best thing to do is to build an entirely new cage, and into this you introduce the weaker of the two animals. When it has settled down, you then put the stronger one in with it. The stronger one will, of course, still remain the dominant animal, and may even bully the weaker one, but as far as he is concerned he had been introduced into someone else’s territory, and this takes the edge off his potential viciousness. It’s a sort of Lifemanship that any collector has to practise at one time or another.
In this case I was sure that the baby Geoffroy’s was quite capable of killing the domestic kitten, if I introduced the kitten to it, instead of the other way round. So, once the tabby had settled down, I seized the Geoffroy’s and pushed it, snarling and raving, into the cage, and stood back to see what would happen. The tabby was delighted. It came forward to the angry Geoffroy’s and started to rub itself against its neck, purring loudly. The Geoffroy’s, taken aback by its greeting as I had hoped, merely spat rather rudely, and retreated into a corner. The tabby, having made the first overtures of friendship, sat down, purring loudly, and proceeded to wash itself with a self-satisfied air. I covered the front of the cage with a piece of sacking and left them to settle down, for I was sure now that the Geoffroy’s would do the tabby no real harm.
That evening, when I lifted the sacking, I found them lying side by side, and the Geoffroy’s, instead of spitting at me as it had done up until now, contented itself with merely lifting its lip in a warning manner. I carefully inserted a large bowl of milk into the cage, and a plate containing the finely chopped meat and raw egg, which I wanted the Geoffroy’s to eat. This was the crucial test, for I was hoping that the tabby would fall upon this delicious fare and, by example, encourage the Geoffroy’s to eat. Sure enough, the tabby, purring like an ancient outboard engine, flung itself at the bowl of milk, took a long drink and then settled down to the meat and egg. I had retreated to a place where I could see without being seen, and I watched the Geoffroy’s carefully. To begin with it took no interest at all, lying there with half-closed eyes. But eventually the noise the tabby was making over the egg and meat – it was a rather messy feeder – attracted its attention. It rose cautiously and approached the plate, while I held my breath. Delicately it sniffed round the edge of the plate, while the tabby lifted a face that was dripping with raw egg and gave a mew of encouragement, slightly muffled by the portion of meat it had in its mouth. The Geoffroy’s stood pondering for a moment, and then, to my delight, sank down by the plate and started to eat. In spite of the fact that it must have been extremely hungry it ate daintily, lapping a little raw egg, and then picking up a morsel of meat which it chewed thoroughly before swallowing. I watched them until, between them, they had cleaned both plates, then I replenished them with more milk, egg and meat, and went to bed well satisfied. The next morning both plates were spotless, and the Geoffroy’s and the tabby were locked in each other’s arms, fast asleep, their stomachs bulging like two little hairy balloons. They did not wake up until midday, and then they both looked distinctly debauched. But when they saw me approaching with the plates of food they both displayed considerable interest, and I knew that my battle with the Geoffroy’s was won.
6.
A City of Bichos
The excitement from the novelty of objects, and the chance of success, stimulate him to increased activity.
CHARLES DARWIN: THE VOYAGE OF H.M.S. BEAGLE
Ever since my arrival in Calilegua, Luna had been pestering me to accompany him to a town called Oran, which lay some fifty miles away, and where, he assured me, I would get plenty of bichos. I was a bit chary about this idea, for I knew how easy it is to rush frantically from one place to another on a collecting trip, and, though each place in itself might be a good centre, you achieve very little by virtue of your grasshopper-like activities. I decided to discuss it with Charles, and so, that evening, as we sat gently imbibing gin and watching a moon with a blue halo silvering the palm fronds, I put my problem to him.
‘Why is Luna so keen on Oran?’ I asked.
‘Well,’ said Charles drily, ‘it’s his home town, for one thing, but this might prove an advantage, for it means that he knows everyone. I think you could do worse than go and investigate, Gerry. It’s got a much bigger population than Calilegua, and in view of what you’ve found here, I should think you’d get twice as much stuff there.’
‘Can Luna get the time off?’ I asked.
Charles smiled his gentle smile.
‘I don’t think that we would notice his absence for three days,’ he said, ‘and that should give you time to denude Oran of whatever fauna is lurking there.’
‘Could we leave on Monday?’ I inquired hopefully.
‘Yes,’ said Charles, ‘that would be all right.’
‘Wonderful,’ I said, finishing my drink, ‘and now I must go across and see Edna.’
‘Why Edna?’
‘Well, someone’s got to feed my animals while I’m away, and I’m hoping Edna has a kind heart.’
I found Helmuth, Edna and Luna arguing over the relative merits of two folk-songs which they kept playing over and over again on the gramophone. Edna pointed silently to the drinks and I helped myself, and then went and sat on the floor at her feet.
‘Edna,’ I said, during a lull in the argument, ‘I love you.’
She raised one eyebrow sardonically and regarded me.
‘If Helmuth wasn’t bigger than me I would suggest that we elope,’ I went on, ‘since the first day I saw you I have been mad about you, your eyes, your hair, the way you pour gin …’
‘What do you want?’ she inquired.
I sighed.
‘You have no soul,’ I complained. ‘I was just getting into my stride. Well, if you must know, Charles says that Luna and I can go to Oran for three days. Will you look after my animals for me?’
‘But, of course,’ she said, surprised that there should have been any doubt in my mind.
‘But, of course,’ echoed Helmuth. ‘Gerry, you are very stupid. I tell you we will help all we can. You have only to ask. We will try and do anything for you.’
He splashed more gin into my glass.
‘Except,’ he added reluctantly, ‘let you elope with my wife.’
So, early on Monday morning, Luna and I set out in a small station-wagon driven by a gay, semi-inebriated individual, sporting a moustache so large it looked like a Nature Reserve. We took with us only the bare essentials of travel: Luna’s guitar, three bottles of wine, my wallet well stuffed with pesos, recording machine and cameras. We also had a clean shirt each, which our driver had placed reverently and tenderly in a pool of oil. All the previous night it had rained with a loudness and thoroughness that only the tropics can achieve; this now had thinned out to a fine grey drizzle, but the earth road had turned into something resembling the consistency of a badly-made blancmange. Luna, undeterred by the weather, the surface of the road and the doubtful driving capabilities of our driver, the fate of our clean shirts and the fact that the roof of the station-wagon leaked daintily but persistently, sang happily to himself as we slithered and swooped along the road to Oran.
We had been travelling some three-quarters of an hour when our driver, concentrating more on harmonizing with Luna in a mournful song than on the car, rounded a corner on two wheels, and as we slithered miraculously on to the straight again I saw something ahead that made my heart sink. Befo
re us lay a torrent of red, froth-flecked water some four hundred yards across. At the edge of this, like a line of depressed elephants, stood three lorries, while in mid-stream, twisted to one side by the force of the water, another lorry was being laboriously dragged across to the opposite bank by a thing like a gigantic tractor, fitted with a winch and steel cable. Our driver joined the line of waiting lorries, switched off his engine and beamed at us.
‘Mucho agua,’ he pointed out to me, in case my eyesight should be defective and I had missed noticing the miniature Bay of Biscay we had to cross. I knew that the previous day this broad torrent had probably been a mere trickle of water, shallow and glinting over its bed of pebbles, but one night’s rain had swollen it suddenly and out of all proportion. I knew, from experience, how a tiny stream can grow into a fierce full-sized river in next to no time, for once in West Africa I had had my camp almost washed away by a stream that started by being a mere three feet wide and four inches deep, and had, in the course of an hour or so, turned into something resembling the upper reaches of the Amazon. No one who has not seen this sudden transformation can believe it, but it can be one of the most irritating (and sometimes dangerous) aspects of travel in the tropics.
At last, after an hour of waiting, the last of the lorries had been hauled over and it was our turn. The hawser was attached to our bumper and gingerly we were drawn into the flood. Slowly the water rose higher and higher, and became stronger, until it was rustling and lapping along one side of the station-wagon like a miniature tidal wave. The water spurted in through the cracks of the door and trickled across the floor under our feet. Gradually the water rose until it covered our shoes. We were now approximately half-way across, and the force of the water was kindly but firmly pushing us downstream so that, although to begin with we had been opposite the tractor and the winch, we were now some fifty yards downstream from them. The hawser was taut, and I felt as though we were some gigantic and misshapen fish that the two laconic-looking Indians on the tractor were playing. The water had now reached the level of the seats; here it paused for a moment and then overflowed generously under our behinds. At this crucial moment, sitting in half an inch of icy water, we heard the winch stop.
The Whispering Land Page 11