‘The Indian say they find a snake, Gerry, but she run very fast and she is sitting under that tree.’
‘Well, ask Señor Fernandez if the Indians can help us shift it, and then I can have a shot at catching it.’
Once again there was a pause while my request was translated, and then Fernandez gave an order, and the group of Indians sped towards the log, giggling and pushing each other like school-children, and started to hack the undergrowth away from its length. When a sufficient space around the log had been cleared, I cut myself a suitable stick and prepared for action. To Rafael’s extreme irritation, I would not let him help, for, as I explained, I had promised his mother that, whatever else I let him do, I would not let him mess about with snakes. After some argument, during which Rafael almost came to the point of rebellion, I persuaded him to retreat to a safe distance. Then I nodded to the Indians, they stuck their machetes under the curve of the log and with a quick heave turned it over and took to their heels.
As the log rolled over, a thick, brown snake about four feet long wriggled elegantly out of the depression, travelled for about six feet, when it suddenly saw me approaching, and stopped. As I leant forward to pin it down with my stick, it did something which shook me considerably: it raised its blunt, rather heavy-looking head, and some six inches of its body, from the ground, and proceeded to inflate the skin of its neck. Slowly the skin expanded until I was looking at what appeared to be a cobra with its hood up. Now, there is more than one species of snake in the world that can inflate the skin of its neck like a cobra, but this generally results in a slight balloon-like expansion which could not compare with the beautifully flattened hood of that reptile. Yet here, in the middle of the Chaco, in a continent which does not contain cobras, I was confronted by a snake that looked so like one that even an Asiatic snake-charmer might have been forgiven for getting out his flute. I lowered my stick gently to try to pin it to the ground, but the snake was well aware of my motives. It lowered its hood and proceeded to glide towards the nearest bit of forest with considerable agility. I made one or two ineffectual attempts to pin it down, and then, in desperation when it neared the undergrowth, I slid the stick under the gliding body, lifted it up, and flipped it back into the clearing again. This obviously irritated my quarry, for it paused for a moment and glared at me with open mouth before once more setting off determinedly in the direction of the nearest bush. Once more I pursued it, slid my stick under it, and lifted it into the air, preparatory to giving it the backward flick that would keep it away from the undergrowth, but this time the snake had its own ideas on the subject. It gave a violent wiggle as it felt itself lifted, and, while still in mid air, expanded its hood to the fullest extent and flung itself sideways at me with open mouth. Luckily, I realized what was happening and scuttled backwards, and the snake missed my trouser leg by a fraction. It fell to the ground and lay there quite quietly; presumably, having tried out all its tricks and failed, it decided to give up the unequal struggle, I picked it up by the back of the neck and put it into a bag without any further trouble. Jacquie came forward and gave me a bitter look.
‘If you insist on doing things like that,’ she said, ‘I’d be glad if you did them when I wasn’t around.’
‘Nearly she bite you,’ said Rafael, his eyes large behind his spectacles. ‘What sort of snake was it, anyway?’ asked Jacquie.
‘I don’t know. I can’t place that hood, although I have a feeling that I’ve read about the thing somewhere. I’ll look it up when we get back.’
‘She have poison?’ asked Rafael, seating himself on the log.
‘No, I don’t think it’s poisonous . . . only mildly so, anyway.’
‘I seem to remember that a snake you identified as being non-poisonous in Africa turned out to be exactly the opposite, after it had bitten you,’ said Jacquie.
‘Oh, that was different,’ I explained – ‘that one looked just like a non-poisonous kind, and I picked it up.’
‘Yes, and this one looks just like a cobra, and you picked it up,’ retorted my wife, crushingly.
‘Don’t sit on that log, Rafael,’ I said, changing the subject; ‘it might have scorpions under the bark.’
Rafael shifted rapidly, and, borrowing a machete from one of the Indians, I approached the log and began to hack away at the rotten bark. The first blow of the blade brought forth a shower of beetle larvae and a large centipede; the second, more beetle larvae, two beetles and a depressed-looking tree-frog. I worked slowly down the length of the trunk, sticking the point of the machete in and then levering the bark up and ripping it off with a soft scrunch. There seemed to be nothing except this wonderful array of insect life. Then I stripped the piece of bark away near the place where Rafael had been sitting, and a snake some six inches long and as thick as a cigarette fell out. It was gaily banded with black, cream, grey, and fire-engine red, and was very handsome.
‘Oh, migosh!’ said Rafael, as I picked it up, ‘I sit there, no?’ ‘Yes.’ I said severely, ‘You should be careful where you’re sitting. You might have killed it.’
‘What is it?’ asked Jacquie.
‘A baby coral snake . . . we seem to be having a rather snaky day today.’
‘But they’re deadly, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, but not so deadly that they could kill Rafael through half an inch of bark,’ I said.
Putting the snake into a bag, I investigated the rest of the log, but found nothing more of interest. Fernandez, who had been watching fascinated from a safe distance, now suggested that we should make our way back to the out-station and make a tour of the huts to see if they contained any pets. As we wandered back along the path, I caught the glint of water through the trees, and insisted we should all go and investigate. We found a large pond, its waters stained by decaying leaves to the colour of rum, from which rose the intoxicating smell of rotting leaves. I started to potter happily round the edge in search of frogs, and was still doing this some ten minutes later when I was brought to earth by an uproar that broke out at the far end of the pond. Looking up, I saw Fernandez, Rafael, and the two Indians dancing round Jacquie, shouting, while she was calling me loudly. Above the uproar a strange sound was wafted to me: it sounded like someone blowing prolonged blasts on a toy trumpet. I hurried round the pool to see what was happening. I found Jacquie clutching something in her hands which was producing the trumpet-like sound, while Fernandez and the Indians kept shouting ‘Venenosa, muy venenosa, señora,’ in a sort of despairing chorus.
Rafael approached me, looking very startled.
‘Gerry, some bad bicho Jacquie catch. They say she is very bad,’ he explained.
‘It’s only a frog,’ said Jacquie, raising her voice above the jabbering of the Indians and the irritated blasts from her capture.
‘Let’s have a look at it.’
She opened her hands and displayed the most extraordinary amphibian imaginable. It was black with a pale yellowish-white belly, and was almost completely circular in shape. Its golden eyes were perched up on the top of its broad, flat head, like those of a miniature hippo. But it was the mouth of the beast that startled me: it had thick, yellow lips which stretched from side to side of the frog’s head in a great, grinning curve, exactly like the Tenniel illustration of Humpty Dumpty. As I watched it, it suddenly blew up its body like a balloon, stood up on its short, stubby legs, opened its mouth wide (showing that the inside was a bright primrose yellow) and proceeded to give another series of yarring trumpet-blasts. When I took it in my hand, it struggled wildly, so I put it on the ground. It stood up on its small legs, opened wide its mouth, and took little jumps towards me, snapping its mouth fiercely and giving trumpet-blasts of rage. It was an enchanting beast.
‘Where did you catch it?’ I asked Jacquie.
‘Just there. It was sitting in the water with just its eye showing, rather like a hippo, so I grabbed it.
What is it?’
‘I haven’t the faintest idea. It looks like a horned toad in some ways, but it’s not the ordinary sort. Whatever it is, it’s jolly interesting . . . might even turn out to be something quite new.’
Filled with enthusiasm, we searched the little pond and managed to capture three more of these peculiar frogs, which elated me considerably. At the time I thought they might well turn out to be a new species, related to the horned toads which, in some respects, they resembled closely. However, on return to England, they were identified as being a Budgett’s frog, a name which I think is singularly appropriate to their portly form and demeanour. But, although they had already been scientifically described, they were considered very rare, and the Natural History Museum had only one specimen.
As we approached the cluster of dilapidated huts we could see that the cattlemen had returned for their midday meal and siesta. The horses were tethered near the houses, and close by was a cluster of the heavy, sheepskin-covered saddles. The men, their straw hats tilted on to the backs of their heads, leaned against the walls of the houses, sipping their mate out of the little pots. They were dressed in tattered shirts, grey with sweat, and the thick leather chaps over their bombachas were ripped and scarred by the thorns they had ridden through. In the lean-to kitchens their wives crouched over smoky fires, cooking the meal, while around them sprawled broods of dirty-faced, dark-eyed children and mangy dogs. As we approached the first of the houses, Jacquie imparted some advice.
‘Now, if they have got any pets, for goodness sake don’t leap at them with cries of delight. They double the price straight away,’ she said.
‘No, no, I won’t,’ I promised.
‘Well, you did it the other day with that bird. If you hadn’t looked so delighted with it, we’d have got it for half the price. Just pretend you’re not really interested in whatever it is they’ve got.’
’I shouldn’t think they’ll have much here, anyway,’ I said, surveying the decaying group of shanties.
We moved slowly from house to house, and Fernandez explained to the men what we wanted. They laughed and chattered among themselves, promising to try to catch specimens for us, but no pets were forthcoming. Outside one hut we were talking to the owner, a villainous, unshaven man, who was holding forth at great length about jaguar, when something appeared in the doorway of the house and trotted out into the open. At first, seeing it out of the corner of my eye, I thought it was a dog. The next thing I knew, Jacquie had uttered a shrill cry, and, turning, I found her embracing a small spotted fawn, who was regarding her suspiciously from large dark eyes.
‘Just look at this . . . isn’t it sweet?’ she cried, regardless of the fact that the fawn’s owner was standing within two feet of her. ‘Isn’t it adorable? Just look at its eyes . . . We must have it. D’you think they’ll sell it?’
I looked at the creature’s owner, noted the gleam in his eye, and sighed.
‘After watching your display of indifference to the beast’s charms, I should think he’s only too willing to sell,’ I said bitterly. ‘Rafael, ask him how much he wants for it, will you?’
The man, after devoting ten minutes to telling us how attached he was to the little deer, and how heartbroken he would be to part with it, named a price that made us all wilt. Half an hour later the price had dropped considerably, but was still much more than the animal was really worth. Jacquie gazed at me mutely.
‘Look,’ I said desperately, ‘he wants twice what the little wretch is worth. We’d have got it for a quarter the price if you hadn’t started to drool over it the minute it appeared.’
‘I didn’t drool,’ said Jacquie indignantly; ‘I was just drawing your attention to it.’
This monstrous understatement struck me speechless; silently I paid the man, and we made our way back towards the railway line, Jacquie clutching the fawn in her arms and whispering endearments into its silky ears. As we got into the autovia, the driver leant forward and stroked the little deer’s head, beaming at it.
‘Lindo,’ he said, ‘muy lindo bicho.’
‘Lindo means beautiful, doesn’t it?’ asked Jacquie.
‘Yes, that is right,’ said Rafael. ‘Why, Jacquie?’
‘I think it would be a good name for her, don’t you?’
So, Lindo, the beautiful, she became forthwith. She behaved with the utmost decorum, sniffing interestedly round inside the autovia, and then going to Jacquie and nuzzling her with a moist, black nose. But with the first jerk of the autovia starting she decided that she did not approve of this form of travel, and made a wild leap for the tailboard of the vehicle. She sprawled over it and was just about to crash on to the line when I managed to grab her hind legs and haul her back. She fought like a demon, lashing out with her sharp little hooves and uttering prolonged and piercing ‘barns’. Fawns are extremely difficult things to handle when they become frightened; their hind legs must be held, or they kick violently and are liable to rip you to bits with their sharp hooves. On the other hand their legs are so fragile that there is always the danger that you might break one if you hold them too tightly. After a hectic five minutes we managed to subdue Lindo, and then I took off my shirt and wrapped her in it, so that even if she did struggle she could not damage herself or us. The driver was so tickled with the sight of a fawn wearing a shirt that he narrowly missed overturning the autovia at a sharp corner.
As we walked down the road towards our little house we were surprised to see a group of some thirty people standing outside the gate, forming a circle round a man with a large wooden box. This man, and the crowd around him, were all waving their arms and chattering. On the veranda of our house stood the mountainous form of Paula, clutching in her hands a rusty shot-gun with which she was menacing the crowd. We pushed through the people and made our way on to the veranda, to find out what was going on. Paula greeted us with evident relief, and proceeded to spout Spanish at us, rolling her eyes, clutching her brow, and pointing the shot-gun at each of us in turn with complete impartiality. I removed the weapon from her reluctant hands, while Rafael listened to her story. That morning the señor had asked her to procure a shot-gun, in order to shoot some small birds for the lechuchita, the little owl, no? Well, she had gone to the village and procured this fine gun for the señor. On her return she had found that creature (here she pointed a trembling finger at the man with the box), sitting on the veranda. He said that he had brought a bicho for the señor. She, being curious, had asked him what sort of bicho, and he had removed the lid of the box and displayed to her horrified gaze a large and obviously angry yarará. Now, of all the dangerous creatures found in the Chaco, the yarará is the most feared, for a yarará is a fer-de-lance, one of the most poisonous and bad-tempered of South American snakes. Paula had not hesitated for a minute. She had ordered the man to remove his offering to a safe distance from the house. As it was very hot outside, and the veranda was shady, the man refused to do this, whereupon Paula had loaded the shot-gun and driven him off by force. The man, who turned out to be a trifle weak-minded, was not unnaturally rather upset at this reception. After having been brave enough to capture a yarará, he felt that he ought to be received with due solemnity and congratulation, not driven away by an irate out-size female with a shot-gun. Standing outside the gate, he had howled abuse at Paula, while she mounted guard over the front door with her gun. Our arrival, luckily, put an end to the whole business; we despatched Paula to the kitchen to make us some tea, and called the man inside.
The fer-de-lance, having been bumped about in the hot sun all afternoon, was not in the best of tempers, and as soon as I lifted the lid of the box to take a look at him he leapt at the opening and struck at me viciously. He was quite a small specimen, being only about two and a half feet long, but what he lacked in length he made up for in pugnacity, and it was a long time before I could get a noose round him and grab him behind the head. He was a very han
dsome reptile, the whole of his body being ashy grey, patterned with a series of diamond-shaped charcoal-black patches, bordered with creamy-white, that extended from head to tail. His head was flattened and arrow-shaped, with fierce, golden-flecked eyes. I managed to get him into a shallow snake-box with a gauze top, and he lay among the twigs and dead leaves, hissing loudly and vibrating his tail so rapidly that it struck among the leaves and rattled like a rattlesnake. If the slightest shadow fell across the box, he would strike up at the wire gauze, his fangs coming right through the mesh. I would never have believed this unless I had seen it, for normally a snake cannot make any impression on a completely flat surface. His gape was tremendous, and he would throw his head right back as he struck, to get the maximum force behind his long, curved fangs. Within half an hour there were several spots of golden venom on the wire gauze, and he was still striking wildly I was forced, in the end, to put another layer of gauze half an inch above the first, to prevent accidents.
That evening, as Paula surged round the table, serving the meal, she treated us to a long discourse on yarará and their habits. It appeared that nearly every member of her family had, at one time or other during their lives, been within inches of death from a yarará. One received the impression that the entire fer-de-lance population of the Chaco spent its time stalking Paula’s relatives. As they all escaped with monotonous regularity, the snakes must have led the most frustrating lives. Our meal over, Paula came in to say good night. She cast a black look at the fer-de-lance box in the corner of the room and observed that she would not spend the night in a house with a yarará, even if she were paid to do so, added a prayer that she would find us all still alive in the morning, and swept off in the direction of her home in the village. As it turned out, it was not snakes that disturbed us that evening.
The Drunken Forest Page 10