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Overview
For many years I had wanted to start a zoo. . . . Any reasonable person smitten with an ambition of this sort would have secured the zoo first and obtained the animals afterwards. But throughout my life I have rarely if ever achieved what I wanted by tackling it in a logical fashion.
After a decade of supplying creatures for other people’s zoos, in 1957 Gerald Durrell and his wife set off on an adventurous journey to the Cameroons in West Africa, where they collected numerous mammals, birds, and reptiles.
The wild nature of the animals created quite a bit of chaos, but the Durrells’ problems really began when they attempted to return to Britain with their exotic new friends. Not only did they have to get them safely home, they also had to find somewhere able and—more importantly—willing to house them.
Told with wit and a zest for all things furry and feathered, Durrell’s A Zoo in My Luggage is a brilliant account of how a pioneer of wildlife preservation came to found a new type of zoo.
This ebook features an illustrated biography of Gerald Durrell including rare photos from the author’s estate.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504041652 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 11/29/2016 |
| Series: | The Zoo Memoirs , #1 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 179 |
| Sales rank: | 475,413 |
| File size: | 6 MB |
About the Author
Gerald Durrell (1925–1995) was a British naturalist, zookeeper, conservationist, author, and television presenter. He is the author of the memoirs My Family and Other Animals; Birds, Beasts and Relatives; A Zoo in My Luggage; The Whispering Lands; and The Garden of the Gods; and more than twenty-five nature books. A student of zoology, he founded the Durrell Wildlife Conservation Trust on the Channel Island of Jersey.
Read an Excerpt
A Zoo in My Luggage
By Gerald Durrell
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1960 Gerald DurrellAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-4165-2
CHAPTER 1
The Reluctant Python
I had decided that, on the way up country to Bafut, we would make a ten-day stop at a town called Mamfe. This was at the highest navigable point of the Cross River, on the edge of an enormous tract of uninhabited country; and on the two previous occasions when I had been to the Cameroons I had found it a good collecting centre. We set off from Victoria in an impressive convoy of three lorries, Jacquie and myself in the first, our young assistant Bob in the second, and Sophie, my long-suffering secretary, in the third. The trip was hot and dusty, and we arrived at Mamfe in the brief green twilight of the third day, hungry, thirsty and covered from head to foot with a fine film of red dust. We had been told to contact the United Africa Company's manager on arrival, and so our lorries roared up the drive and screeched to a halt outside a very impressive house, ablaze with lights.
The house stood in what was certainly the best position in Mamfe. It was perched on top of a conical hill, one side of which formed part of the gorge through which the Cross River ran. From the edge of the garden, fringed with a hedge of the inevitable hibiscus bushes, you could look straight down four hundred feet into the gorge, to where a tangle of low growth and taller trees perched precariously on thirty-foot cliffs of pleated granite, thickly overgrown with wild begonias, moss and ferns. At the foot of these cliffs, round gleaming white sandbanks and strange, ribbed slabs of rock, the river wound its way like a brown, sinuous muscle. On the opposite bank there were small patches of farmland along the edge of the river, and beyond that the forest reared up in a multitude of colours and textures, spreading endlessly back until it was turned into a dim, quivering frothy green sea by distance and heat haze.
I was, however, in no mood to admire views as I uncoiled myself from the red-hot interior of the lorry and jumped to the ground. What I wanted most in the world at that moment was a drink, a bath and a meal, in that order. Almost as urgently I wanted a wooden box to house the first animal we had acquired. This was an extremely rare creature, a baby black-footed mongoose, which I had purchased from a native in a village twenty-five miles back when we had stopped there to buy some fruit. I had been delighted that we had started the collection with such a rarity, but after struggling with her for two hours in the front seat of the lorry, my enthusiasm had begun to wane. She had wanted to investigate every nook and cranny in the cab, and fearing that she might go and get tangled up in the gears and perhaps break a leg I had imprisoned her inside my shirt. For the first half-hour she had stalked round and round my body, sniffing loudly. For the next half-hour she had made several determined attempts to dig a hole in my stomach with her exceedingly sharp claws, and on being persuaded to desist from this occupation, she had seized a large portion of my abdomen in her mouth and sucked it vigorously and hopefully, while irrigating me with an apparently unending stream of warm and pungent urine. This in no way improved my already dusty and sweaty appearance, and as I marched up the steps of the U.A.C. manager's house, with a mongoose tail dangling out of my tightly buttoned, urine-stained shirt, I looked, to say the least, slightly eccentric. Taking a deep breath and trying to seem nonchalant, I walked into the brilliantly lit living-room, and found three people seated round a card table. They looked at me with a faint air of inquiry. 'Good evening,' I said, feeling rather at a loss. 'My name's Durrell.'
It was not, I reflected, the most telling remark made in Africa since Stanley and Livingstone met. However, a small, dark man rose from the table and came towards me, smiling charmingly, his long black hair flopping down over his forehead. He held out his hand and clasped mine, and then, ignoring my sudden appearance and my unconventional condition, he peered earnestly into my face.
'Good evening,' he said. 'Do you by any chance play Canasta?'
'No,' I said, rather taken aback, 'I'm afraid I don't.'
He sighed, as if his worst fears had been realized. 'A pity ... a great pity,' he said; then he cocked his head on one side and peered at me closely.
'What did you say your name was?' he asked.
'Durrell ... Gerald Durrell.'
'Good heavens,' he exclaimed, realization dawning, 'are you that animal maniac head office warned me about?'
'I expect so.'
'But my dear chap, I expected you two days ago. Where have you been?'
'We would have been here two days ago if our lorry hadn't broken down with such monotonous regularity.'
'These local lorries are bloody unreliable,' he said, as if letting me into a secret. 'Have a drink?'
'I should love one,' I said fervently. 'May I bring the others in? They're all waiting in the lorries.'
'Yes, yes, bring 'em all in. Of course. Drinks all round.'
'Thanks a lot,' I said, and turned towards the door.
My host seized me by the arm and drew me back. 'Tell me, dear boy,' he said in a hoarse whisper, 'I don't want to be personal, but is it the gin I've drunk or does your stomach always wriggle like that?'
'No,' I said gravely. 'It's not my stomach. I've got a mongoose in my shirt.'
He gazed at me unblinkingly for a moment.
'Very reasonable explanation,' he said at last.
'Yes,' I said, 'and true.'
He sighed. 'Well, as long as it's not the gin I don't mind what you keep in your shirt,' he said seriously. 'Bring the others in and we'll kill a noggin or two before you eat.'
So we invaded John Henderson's house and within a couple of days we had turned him into what must have been the most long-suffering host on the West Coast of Africa. For a man who likes his privacy to invite four strangers to live in his house is a noble deed to start with. But when he has no liking for, and a grave mistrust of, any form of animal life, to invite four animal-collectors to stay is an action so heroic that no words can describe it. Within twenty-four hours of our arrival not only a mongoose, but a squirrel, a bushbaby and two monkeys were quartered on the verandah of John's house.
While John was getting used to the idea of having his legs embraced by a half-grown baboon every time he set foot outside his own front door, I sent messages to all my old contacts among the local hunters, gathered them together and told them the sort of creatures we were after. Then we sat back and awaited results. They were some time in coming. Then, early one afternoon, a local hunter called Agustine appeared, padding down the drive, wearing a scarlet-and-blue sarong and looking, as always, like a neat, eager, Mongolian shopwalker. He was accompanied by one of the largest West Africans I have ever seen, a great, scowling man who must have been at least six feet tall, and whose skin – in contrast to Agustine's golden bronze shade – was a deep soot black. He clumped along beside Agustine on such enormous feet that at first I thought he was suffering from elephantiasis. They stopped at the verandah steps, and while Agustine beamed cheerily, his companion glared at us in a preoccupied manner, as though endeavouring to assess our net weight for culinary purposes.
'Good morning, sah,' said Agustine, giving a twist to his highly-coloured sarong to anchor it more firmly round his slim hips.
'Good morning, sah,' intoned the giant, his voice sounding like the distant rumble of thunder.
'Good morning ... you bring beef?' I inquired hopefully, though they did not appear to be carrying any animals.
'No, sah,' said Agustine sorrowfully, 'we no get beef. I come to ask Masa if Masa go borrow us some rope.'
'Rope? What do you want rope for?'
'We done find some big boa, sah, for bush. But we no fit catch um if we no get rope, sah.'
Bob, whose speciality was reptiles, sat up with a jerk.
'Boa?' he said excitedly. 'What does he mean ... boa?'
'They mean a python,' I explained. One of the most confusing things about pidgin English, from the naturalist's point of view, was the number of wrong names used for various animals. Pythons were boas, leopards were tigers and so on. Bob's eyes gleamed with a fanatical light. Ever since we had boarded the ship at Southampton his conversation had been almost entirely confined to pythons, and I knew that he would not be really happy until he had added one of these reptiles to the collection.
'Where is it?' he asked, his voice quivering with ill-concealed eagerness.
"E dere dere for bush,' said Agustine, waving a vague arm that embraced approximately five hundred square miles of forest. "E dere dere for some hole inside ground.'
'Na big one?' I asked.
'Wah! Big?' exclaimed Agustine. "E big too much.'
"E big like dis,' said the giant, slapping his thigh which was about the size of a side of beef.
'We walka for bush since morning time, sah,' explained Agustine. 'Den we see dis boa. We run quick-quick, but we no catch lucky. Dat snake get power too much. 'E done run for some hole for ground and we no get rope so we no fit catch um.'
'You done leave some man for watch dis hole,' I asked, 'so dis boa no go run for bush?'
'Yes, sah, we done lef' two men for dere.'
I turned to Bob. 'Well, here's your chance: a genuine wild python holed up in a cave. Shall we go and have a shot at it?'
'God, yes! Let's go and get it right away,' exclaimed Bob.
I turned to Agustine. 'We go come look dis snake, Agustine, eh?'
'Yes, sah.'
'You go wait small time and we go come. First we get rope and catch net.'
While Bob hurried out to our pile of equipment to fetch rope and nets, I filled a couple of bottles with water and rounded up Ben, our animal boy, who was squatting outside the back door, flirting with a damsel of voluptuous charms.
'Ben, leave that unfortunate young woman alone and get ready. We're going for bush to catch a boa.'
'Yes, sah,' said Ben, reluctantly leaving his girl friend. 'Which side dis boa, sah?'
'Agustine say it's in a hole for ground. That's why I want you. If this hole is so small that Mr Golding and I no fit pass you will have to go for inside and catch the boa.'
'Me, sah?' said Ben.
'Yes, you. All alone.'
'All right,' he said, grinning philosophically. 'I no de fear, sah.'
'You lie,' I said. 'You know you de fear too much.'
'I no de fear, for true, sah,' said Ben in a dignified manner. 'I never tell Masa how I done kill bush-cow?'
'Yes, you told me twice, and I still don't believe you. Now, go to Mr Golding and get the ropes and catch nets. Hurry.'
To reach the area of country in which our quarry was waiting, we had to go down the hill and cross the river by the ferry, a large, banana-shaped canoe which appeared to have been constructed about three centuries ago, and to have been deteriorating slowly ever since. It was paddled by a very old man who looked in immediate danger of dying of a heart attack, and he was accompanied by a small boy whose job it was to bale out. This was something of an unequal struggle, for the boy had a small rusty tin for the job, while the sides of the canoe were as watertight as a colander. Inevitably, by the time one reached the opposite bank one was sitting in about six inches of water. When we arrived with our equipment on the water-worn steps in the granite cliff that formed the landing-stage, we found the ferry was at the opposite shore, so while Ben, Agustine and the enormous African (whom we had christened Gargantua) lifted their voices and roared at the ferryman to return with all speed, Bob and I squatted in the shade and watched the usual crowd of Mamfe people bathing and washing in the brown waters below.
Swarms of small boys leapt shrieking off the cliffs and splashed into the water, and then shot to the surface again, their palms and the soles of their feet gleaming shell pink, their bodies like polished chocolate. The girls, more demure, bathed in their sarongs, only to emerge from the water with the cloth clinging to their bodies so tightly that it left nothing to the imagination. One small toddler, who could not have been more than five or six, made his way carefully down the cliff, his tongue protruding with concentration, carrying on his head an enormous water-jar. On reaching the edge of the water he did not pause to remove the jar from his head, or to take off his sarong. He walked straight into the water and waded slowly and determinedly out into the river until he completely disappeared; only the jar could be seen moving mysteriously along the surface of the water. At length this too vanished. There was a moment's pause, and then the jar reappeared, this time moving shorewards, and eventually, beneath it, the boy's head bobbed up. He gave a tremendous snort to expel the air from his lungs, and then struggled grimly towards the beach, the now brimming jar on his head. When he reached the shore he edged the jar carefully on to a ledge of rock, and then re-entered the water, still wearing his sarong. From some intricate fold in his garment he produced a small fragment of Lifebuoy soap, and proceeded to rub it all over himself and the sarong with complete impartiality. Presently, when he had worked up such a lather all over himself that he looked like an animated pink snowman, he ducked beneath the surface to wash off the soap, waded ashore, settled the jar once more on his head and slowly climbed the cliff and disappeared. It was the perfect example of the African application of time-and-motion study.
By this time the ferry had arrived, and Ben and Agustine were arguing hotly with its aged occupant. Instead of taking us straight across the river, they wanted him to paddle us about half a mile upstream to a large sandbank. This would save us having to walk about a mile along the bank to reach the path that led to the forest. The old man appeared to be singularly obstinate about the proposal.
'What's the matter with him, Ben?' I inquired.
'Eh! Dis na foolish man, sah,' said Ben, turning to me in exasperation, "e no agree for take us for up de river.'
'Why you no agree, my friend?' I asked the old man. 'If you go take us I go pay you more money and I go dash you.'
'Masa,' said the old man firmly, 'dis na my boat, and if I go lose um I no fit catch money again ... I no get chop for my belly ... I no get one-one penny.'
'But how you go lose you boat?' I asked in amazement, for I knew this strip of river and there were no rapids or bad currents along it.
'Ipopo, Masa,' explained the old man.
I stared at the ferryman, wondering what on earth he was talking about. Was Ipopo perhaps some powerful local juju I had not come across before?
'Dis Ipopo,' I asked soothingly, 'which side 'e live?'
'Wah! Masa never see urn?' asked the old man in astonishment. "E dere dere for water close to D.O.'s house ... 'e big like so-so motor ... 'e de holla ... 'e de get power too much.'
'What's he talking about?' asked Bob in bewilderment.
And suddenly it dawned on me. 'He's talking about the hippo herd in the river below the D.O.'s house,' I explained, 'but it's such a novel abbreviation of the word that he had me foxed for a moment.'
'Does he think they're dangerous?'
'Apparently, though I can't think why. They were perfectly placid last time I was here.'
'Well, I hope they're still placid,' said Bob.
I turned to the old man again. 'Listen, my friend. If you go take us for up dis water, I go pay you six shilling and I go dash you cigarette, eh? And if sometime dis ipopo go damage dis your boat I go pay for new one, you hear?'
'I hear, sah.'
'You agree?'
'I agree, sah,' said the old man, avarice struggling with caution. We progressed slowly upstream, squatting in half an inch of water in the belly of the canoe.
'I suppose they can't really be dangerous,' said Bob casually, trailing his hand nonchalantly in the water.
'When I was here last I used to go up to within thirty feet of them in a canoe and take photographs,' I said.
'Dis ipopo get strong head now, sah,' said Ben tactlessly. 'Two months pass dey kill three men and break two boats.'
'That's a comforting thought,' said Bob.
Ahead of us the brown waters were broken in many places by rocks. At any other time they would have looked exactly like rocks but now each one looked exactly like the head of a hippo, a cunning, maniacal hippo, lurking in the dark waters, awaiting our approach. Ben, presumably remembering his tale of daring with the bush-cow, attempted to whistle, but it was a feeble effort, and I noticed that he scanned the waters ahead anxiously. After all, a hippo that has developed the habit of attacking canoes gets a taste for it, like a man-eating tiger, and will go out of his way to be unpleasant, apparently regarding it as a sport. I was not feeling in the mood for gambolling in twenty feet of murky water with half a ton of sadistic hippo.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Zoo in My Luggage by Gerald Durrell. Copyright © 1960 Gerald Durrell. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Table of Contents
- Dedication
- Contents
- A Word in Advance
- Mail by Hand
- Part One: En Route
- 1. The Reluctant Python
- 2. The Bald-headed Birds
- Part Two: Back to Bafut
- 3. The Fon’s Beef
- 4. Beef in Boxes
- 5. Film Star Beef
- 6. Beef with Hand Like Man
- Part Three: Coastwards and Zoowards
- 7. Zoo in Our Luggage
- 8. Zoo in Suburbia
- The Last Word
- Preview: The Whispering Land
- Acknowledgments
- A Biography of Gerald Durrell
- A Message from Durrell Wildlife
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