The Drunken Forest

by Gerald Durrell

  Presently the forest became more broken and open, and on every side was the gleam and reflection of water. Ibis, storks, and herons strolled two by two in the luxuriant herbage, with all the dignity of monks in a cloister. In the distance ahead of us we could see the small shack that was our destination, but to reach it we had to cross a level area like a small plain, which was in reality several acres of water overgrown with plants. We entered it, and within a few yards the horses and oxen were up to their bellies in water. The oxen, with their short, stubby, and very strong legs, came off better here, for the entangling underwater roots did not hamper them at all. They simply ploughed forward steadily at the same speed they had used on dry land, the thick herbage being crushed and pushed out of the way The horses, on the other hand, were constantly getting a long lily-root entwined round their legs and stumbling. We reached the other side, and the horses hauled themselves free of the web of plants with obvious relief, while the oxen marched ashore wearing decorative swathes of lily-roots and leaves round their legs.

  When we reached the hut, the Indian’s wife insisted on our having a short rest and the inevitable cup of mate, and after the hot ride we were glad enough to sit in the shade for ten minutes. Jacquie and I were offered cups to drink from, but the rest of them shared the pot and the pipe. A small girl stood near the group, solemnly handing it from person to person as each sucked up a mouthful of the mate through the pipe. Presently feeling rested and refreshed, we thanked our guide’s wife for her hospitality and continued on our hunt. If we had thought that the worst of the ride was over we were sadly disappointed, for the next hour or so was sheer hell. We made our way across a large swamp surrounded on all sides by forest, so that not a breath of wind came to relieve the fierce heat of the sun. The water was deep – up to the axles of the cart-wheels – and was so overgrown with weeds and lilies that even the oxen found it heavy going. This patch of water must have been a sort of gigantic hatching ground for mosquitoes of all shapes and sizes. They rose in front of us so thickly that it was like looking through a gauzy curtain of shimmering wings; they fell on us with shrill whines of joy, and clung to us in great scab-like crusts, half drowned by our sweat but hanging on grimly, sucking with ferocious eagerness at our blood. After the first few minutes of wild irritated swiping, you sank into a sort of hypnotic trance and let them drink their fill, for if we killed a hundred with one slap there were five million others to take their places. After a while, through the shifting veil of mosquitoes, I saw that we were approaching an island in the swamp, a hillock about two hundred feet square that raised itself above the flat carpet of plants and water. It was thickly wooded and shaded, and it looked a wonderful place for a rest.

  Apparently, our guide was of the same mind, for he turned in his saddle, wiping the insects away from his face with a careless hand, and pointed at the island.

  ‘Señor, bueno, eh?’

  ‘Si, si, muy lindo,’ I agreed, and turning my horse I floundered back to where the cart was following, trailing a wide train of uprooted plants from its wheels. Jacquie was squatting in the back, an enormous straw hat perched on her head and her face invisible under a tightly wound scarf.

  ‘Feel like a rest?’ I asked.

  One eye regarded me balefully from the depths of the scarf. Then she unwrapped it, displaying a face that was red and swollen with mosquito bites.

  ‘I would like a rest,’ she said bitterly, ‘I would also like a cold shower, an iced drink, and about four hundred tons of DDT, but I don’t expect for a minute I’ll get them.’

  ‘Well, you’ll get the rest, anyway There’s a little island ahead and we can sit there for a bit.’

  ‘Where is this blasted snake?’

  ‘I don’t know, but our guide seems quite confident.’

  ‘I suppose one of us has to be.’

  Our caravan hauled itself wearily out of the swamp and into the blessed shade of the trees, and while Jacquie and I sat and scratched moodily, our two Indians had a long conversation. Then the guide approached and explained that the snake should, according to his reckoning, be somewhere about here, but it had obviously gone farther than he had thought. He suggested that we should wait there for him while he rode ahead and reconnoitred. I commended the idea, gave him a cigarette, and watched him splash off into the swamp again, wearing a cloud of mosquitoes round his head and shoulders. After a doze and a cigarette I felt my spirits revive, and started to potter about among the thorn-bushes to see if I could find any reptile life. Presently I was roused by a loud cry of anguish from Jacquie.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I inquired.

  ‘Come here quickly and get it off,’ she called.

  ‘Get what off?’ I asked, hurrying through the bushes towards her.

  I found her with the leg of her trousers rolled up, and there on her shin was hanging an enormous leech, like an elongated fig, its body swollen with blood.

  ‘Good Lord!’ I said; ‘it’s a leech.’

  ‘I know it’s a leech . . . Get it off.’

  ‘It looks like a sort of horse-leech; I said, kneeling down and peering at it.

  ‘I don’t want to know what damn species it is; get it off; said Jacquie furiously; ‘get it off my leg – you know I can’t stand them.’

  I lit a cigarette and drew on it until the end was glowing red; then I applied it to the creature’s swollen posterior. It curved itself into the most violent contortions for a minute, and then released its hold and dropped to the ground, where I put my foot on it. It burst like a balloon, and a splash of scarlet blood stained the ground. Jacquie shuddered.

  ‘Have a look and see if there are any more on me.’

  But careful examination revealed no more leeches on her anatomy.

  ‘I can’t think where you got it from,’ I said – ‘none of us got any.’

  ‘I don’t know. . . . perhaps it came from the trees; she said, and gazed up into the branches above as though expecting to see an enormous flock of leeches perched on the branches, waiting to leap on us. Then suddenly she froze.

  ‘Gerry, look up there, quickly.’

  I peered up and saw that our little scene with the leech had been witnessed by another inhabitant of the island. Half-way up the trunk of the tree we had been sitting under there was a small hole, and from its dark depths was glaring a tiny feathered face the size of a half-crown in which were two huge golden eyes. It observed us in shocked silence for a minute and then disappeared.

  ‘What on earth was it?’ asked Jacquie.

  ‘It’s one of those pigmy owls. Quick, go and get the driver’s machete . . . only for heaven’s sake be quick and quiet about it.’

  While Jacquie crept away, I circled round the tree to see if there was an exit hole, but I could see none. Then Jacquie returned with the machete; I hastily cut a long slender sapling, and then took off my shirt.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘We’ve got to block that hole somehow until I can climb up there; I explained, hastily tying my shirt in a bundle at the end of the stick. I approached the tree carefully with my improvised plug, and when I had manoeuvred the stick into position I suddenly jammed the shirt over the mouth of the hole.

  ‘Hold this in place while I climb up,’ I said, and, when Jacquie had taken over the stick, I shinned my way up the bark of the tree until I was perched precariously on a branch stump near the place where my shirt was decorating the trunk. Very carefully I edged my hand under it and into the hole behind. To my relief, I found that the cavity was quite shallow, and groping round I soon felt the flutter of soft wings against my fingers; I grabbed quickly and got the owl’s body in my hand, but it felt so small that I wondered for the moment if I had caught the right bird. Then a small curved beak dug itself painfully into my thumb, and I knew I was not mistaken. I pulled my hand out of the hole with the ruffled and indignant l
ittle creature glaring at me over my fingers.

  ‘I’ve got him’ I called triumphantly, and at that moment the stump I was standing on snapped and the owl and I fell to the ground. Luckily, I fell on my back, with my hand holding the bird in the air, so the owl had the best of the fall. Jacquie helped me, up, and then I showed her our capture.

  ‘Is it a baby?’ she asked, staring at it fascinated.

  ‘No, it’s a pigmy.’

  ‘You mean it’s fully grown?’ she asked incredulously, staring at the sparrow-sized bundle of ferocity, blinking its eyes and clicking its beak at us in Lilliputian rage.

  ‘Yes, he’s fully-grown. They’re one of the smallest owls in the world. Let’s get a box out of the cart to put him in.’

  Placed in a box with a wire front, the owl drew himself up to his full height of four and a half inches and uttered a faint, wheezy, chattering noise before starting to preen his disarranged plumage. His back and head were a rich, dark chocolate colour, minutely speckled with grey, and his shirt-front was creamy grey streaked with black markings. The driver of the ox-cart was as captivated with the little bird as we were, and went to great lengths to explain to me that they were called Four-eyes. I found this a rather puzzling name, until the driver tapped on the edge of the box and the owl turned his head towards the noise. On the feathers just above the nape of his neck were two circular patches of grey, showing up well against the chocolate-coloured feathers, and making it look as though he really had eyes in the back of his head.

  While we were still gloating over the owl, our guide reappeared in a great flurry of water and mosquitoes, to tell us, excitedly, that he had found the snake. It was apparently about half a mile away, lying on the mat of water-plants on the surface of the swamp, quite close to the edge. He explained that we should have to take it by surprise, for it was so close to the trees that it might take cover there, and once in the thorny thickets it would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. We set off, and when we reached a spot that the guide said was close to the reptile we sent the cart off to a suitable vantage-point on the right, while we ploughed steadily forward. The water here at the edge of the swamp was fairly shallow, and not nearly so overgrown, but the bottom was uneven, and the horses kept stumbling. I realized that if the snake ran for it I could not follow on horse-back: to try to make one’s horse canter in that swamp was suicidal. I should have to follow it on foot, and I began to wonder for the first time if the snake was perhaps as big as our guide had described.

  Unfortunately, the snake saw us before we saw him. The guide suddenly uttered a sharp exclamation and pointed ahead. About fifty feet away, in a clear patch of water between two great rafts of weeds, I could see a V-shaped ripple heading rapidly towards the forest edge. Uttering a brief prayer that the snake would be of a suitable size for one person to handle, I flung the reins of my horse to the guide, grabbed a sack and leapt down into the lukewarm water. Running in water up to your knees is an exhausting pastime on any occasion, but to do it when the temperatures are in the hundreds is the sort of stupid action only a collector would con-template. I struggled on, the sweat pouring down my face in such quantities that even the mosquitoes had no chance to settle, while ahead I could see the arrow-head of ripples rapidly approaching dry land. I was some thirty feet away when the anaconda hauled his glossy yellow and black body out of the water and started to glide into the tall grass. As I rushed forward in a desperate spurt, I tripped and fell flat on my face in the water. When I got to my feet the anaconda had vanished. I waded ashore, cursing bitterly, and walked into the tall grass where he had disappeared, to see if I could follow his trail. I had only walked about six feet when a blunt head with open mouth struck at me from a small bush, making me leap like a startled rocket. Under the bush lay the anaconda, his gleaming coils with their pattern merging into the speckled shadows so beautifully that I had not noticed him. Apparently, being full of chicken, he had found progress through the swamp just as exhausting as I had, and on reaching the tall grass had decided to rest. As I had stumbled upon him, he felt he must fight for it.

  In nearly every book written about South America the author at some point or other (in some books once every other chapter) stumbles upon an anaconda. These generally measure anything from forty to a hundred and fifty feet, according to the description, in spite of the fact that the largest anaconda ever officially measured was a mere thirty feet. Inevitably, the monster attacks, and for three or four pages the author wrestles in its mighty coils until either he manages to shoot it with his trusty revolver, or it is speared by one of his trusty Indians. Now, at the risk of being described either as a charlatan or a man of immense modesty, I must describe my own joust with the anaconda.

  The reptile struck at me in a very half-hearted manner, to begin with. He was not really interested in giving me good copy for a fight to the death. He merely lunged forward with open mouth, in the faint hope that I would become scared and leave him in peace, so that his digestive juices could resume their work on his chicken, Having made the gesture, and upheld his tribe’s reputation for ferocity and unprovoked attack, he curled up into a tight knot under his bush and lay there, hissing gently and rather plaintively to himself. I realized that a stick of some sort would have been very useful, but the nearest clump of bushes was some distance away, and I did not dare leave him. I flipped my sack at him several times in the hope that he would bite at it and get his teeth caught in the cloth, a method which I have found useful on more than one occasion. However, he merely ducked his head under his coils and hissed a bit louder. I decided that I would have to have some assistance to distract the beast’s attention, so, turning round, I waved frantically to our guide, who was ensconced with the horses in the middle of the swamp. At first, being reluctant to come any closer, he just waved back amicably, but when he saw I was getting annoyed, he urged the horse forward and splashed through the water towards me. I turned round and was just in time to see the tail of the vicious, awe-inspiring, and deadly anaconda disappearing hurriedly among the grass-stalks. There was only one thing to do, I stepped forward, grabbed the end of his tail and hauled him back into the open again.

  Now what the anaconda should have done was immediately to envelop me in coil after coil of his muscular body. What he actually did was to curl up into a knot again and give a faint, frustrated hiss. I dropped the sack over his head quickly and then grabbed him behind the neck. And that, really, was that. He lay quite still, giving an occasional twitch to his tail and a faint hiss, until the guide arrived. In fact I had more trouble with the human than the reptile, for the guide was not at all keen to help me, and one is hampered in an argument when forced to embrace large quantities of snake. At last I managed to persuade the guide that I would not let the snake harm him, and he very gingerly held the sack open while I hoisted the reptile up and put it inside.

  ‘Did you get some good shots?’ I asked Jacquie when we got back to the cart.

  ‘I think so,’ she said, ‘although it was all filmed through a haze of mosquitoes. Did the snake give much trouble?’

  ‘No; he behaved better than our guide did.’

  ‘How big is it? It looked enormous in the view-finder. I began to wonder if you could handle it.’

  ‘He’s not terribly big. A fairly average size. I should say about eight feet, but he may not be as long as that’

  The cart and horse lurched tiredly through the swamp, where the leaves of the water-plants were touched with a pink glow from the sunset. Overhead, immense flocks of black-headed conures filled the sky, infected with the hysteria that always seems to appear in parrots towards roosting time. In great tattered formations they swept to and fro over us, chattering and screaming, while the sun sank into a lemon-coloured blur among the backs of cloud. Tired, itchy, and glowing from the sun, we reached our house at eight o’clock. After a shower and a meal we felt more human. The pigmy owl ate four fat frogs, pouncing o
n them with his curious tiny cry of delight, like the gentle stridulation of a baby cricket. The anaconda, now in a sort of digestive stupor, made no objection to being measured. Stretched out, he came to exactly nine feet three inches.

  Sarah Huggersack

  Next to the parakeets in the collection – who were shrill little friends – probably the noisiest and most cheeky of our birds were the two pileated jays. These birds are similar to the English jay in shape, though smaller and of a slighter build. Here, however, the resemblance ends, for pileated jays have long, magpie-like tails of black and white, dark velvet backs, and pale primrose-yellow shirt-fronts. The colouring on the head is extraordinary. To begin with, the feathers on the forehead were black, short, and plushy, and stuck up straight, so the bird looked as though it had just had a crew cut. Behind this, on the nape, the feathers were smooth, and formed a sort of bluish-white marking which resembled a bald patch. Above each bright and roguish bronze eye was a thick ‘eyebrow’ of feathers of the brightest delphinium-blue.

  The effect of this peculiar decoration was to give the birds a permanent appearance of surprise.

  The jays were inveterate hoarders. Their motto was obviously ‘waste not, want not’. Any other bird given more minced meat than it could eat would have wastefully scattered it about the cage, but not so the jays; all those bits which they could not manage were carefully collected and stored in, of all places, their water-pot. For some reason they had decided the water-pot was the best place in which to keep their supply of food, and nothing we could do would make them alter their opinion. I tried giving them two water-pots, so that they could store their meat in one and drink out of the other. The jays were delighted with the idea and promptly divided up their meat and stored it in both water-pots. They would also store peanuts, of which they were inordinately fond. There were several cracks and holes in their cage, which were admirably suited for nut-storing, except that the nuts were too big to fit in; so the jays would pick up the nuts one at a time and hop on to their perches, then by some remarkably clever juggling they would insert the peanut under the toes of their feet and proceed to deal it several hefty blows with their beaks until it was split up. Then they would pick up the pieces and try them for size; if they were too big, the same performance would be repeated. They did the same thing when eating the peanuts, except that when the nut was broken up they would put all the pieces carefully in one of their water-pots for ten minutes or so, so that they were softened and easier to eat.