Life in the marquee with half a hundred animals to look after was anything but dull. We were surrounded on all sides by animals of all shapes, sizes, and kinds, from tree-frogs to owls, and from pythons to monkeys. At all hours of the day and night a steady mutter of strange noises filled the air –noises that ranged from the maniacal screams and giggles of the chimpanzees to the steady rasping sound of a Pouched Rat who was convinced that, by sticking to it in spite of all opposition, he could gnaw his way through a metal feeding-pot. At any time of the day you could find something to do, or something new to note or observe. The following extracts from a week's entries in my diary give some indication of the wealth of small but exciting or interesting incidents that were worth noting:
The young female Stanger's Squirrel's eyes have now changed from that beautiful shade of sky blue to steel grey; when you disturb her at night she makes a noise like a clockwork train when it is lifted off the rails… one of the Palm Vipers has given birth toeleven young: about five inches long, ground colour pale slate grey with cross bands of dark ash grey, making wonderful contrast to vivid green and white mother; they all struck viciously at a stick when only a couple of hours old … large green tree frogs make a noise like a clock slowly ticking, just before rain, but will stop if you go near their cage, and won't perform again until next cloudburst… discovered that the galagos like the flowers of a species of marigold that grows around here; they hold flower head in one hand and pluck off petals with the other, cramming them into their mouths; then they play with the remains as though it were a shuttlecock, looking quite ridiculous, with their great eyes staring…
Feeding notes: Golden Cat adores brain and liver chopped up and mixed with raw egg – exotic tastes some of these beasts have! Pangolins [Scaly Anteaters] won't eat their egg and milk mixture if it's sweetened, but simply overturn dish – extremely annoying 1 Fruit Bats prefer their bananas to be given with the skins on; they eat the whole lot, and the skin seems to prevent their bowels from becoming too loose. Over-ripe fruit causes havoc among the monkey bowels (especially chimps – messy I), yet the bats will eat and enjoy without ill-effects fruit that is fermenting, providing there is roughage with it. Too much goat meat causes rupture of the anus in the Marsh Mongooses, for some peculiar reason; warm cod-liver oil an dvery gentle pressure will get it back into place; animal will become very exhausted and then one drop whisky in tablespoon of water helps them.
These were the little things that made up life in the base camp, but they were of absorbing interest to us, and the days seemed so full of colour and incident that they sped past unnoticed. So it is not surprising that I was rather terse with a pleasant but stupid young man who said, after being shown round the collection, 'Don't you ever go out and have a pot at a monkey or something? Should have thought you would have died of boredom, stuck down here all day with this lot.'
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Forest of Flying Mice
When I returned from the mountains to our Cross River base camp there was only one gap of importance in our collection. The gap was noticeable to me, for it was caused by the absence of a tiny animal which I wanted to catch more than practically any other creature in the Cameroons. The English name for this beast is the Pigmy Scaly-tail, while zoologists, in their usual flippant and familiar manner, call it idiurus kivuensis. When in England I had pored over drawings and museum skins of the beast, and since our arrival in Africa I had talked about it incessantly, until even the staff knew thatidiurus kivuensis was the name of a beef that I prize dbeyond all measure. I knew thatidiurus was a strictly nocturnal animal; it was, moreover, only the size of a small mouse, which made it unlikely that any of the hunters would know it. I was right, for they did not recognize the drawing I had. From the small amount of literature dealing with the species I had managed to glean the fact that they lived in colonies in hollow trees, preferring the less accessible portions of the forest. I explained this to the hunters, in the faint hope that it would spur them on to search for specimens, but it was no use; the African will not hunt for an animal he has never seen, for he considers it likely that it may not exist – to hunt for it would be a waste of time. I had had precisely the same trouble over the Hairy Frogs, so I realised that my tales of small-small rats that flew like birds from tree to tree were doomed from the start. One thing was very clear: if I w antedidiurus I would have to go out and hunt for it myself, and I should have to do so quickly, for our time was short. I decided to make the village of Eshobi my headquarters for theidiurus hunt; it was a day's march from base camp, in the depths of the forest, and I knew the inhabitants well, for I had stayed there on a previous visit to the Cameroons. Hunting for a creature the size of a mouse in the deep rain-forest that stretches for several hundred miles in all directions may sound like an improved version of the needle-in-the-haystack routine but it is this sort of thing that makes collecting so interesting. My chances of success were one in a thousand, but I set off cheerfully into the forest.
The Eshobi road can only be appreciated by someone with a saint-like predilection for mortifying the flesh. Most of it resembles an old dried watercourse, though it follows a route that no self-respecting river would take. It runs in a series of erratic zig-zags through the trees, occasionally tumbling down a steep slope into a valley, crossing a small stream and climbing up the opposite side. On the downward slope the rocks and stones which made up its surface were always loose, so that on occasions your descent was quicker than you anticipated. As the road started to climb up the opposite side of the valley, however, you would find that the rocks had increased considerably in size and were placed like a series of steps. This was a snare and a delusion, for each rock had been so cunningly placed that it was quite impossible to step from it to the next one. They were all thickly covered with a cloak of green moss, wild begonias, and ferns, so you could not tell, before jumping, exactly what shape your landing ground was going to be.
The track went on like this for some three miles, then we toiled up from the bottom of a deep valley and found that the forest floor was level and the path almost as smooth as a motor road. It wound and twisted its way through the giant trees, and here and there along its length there was a rent in the foliage above, which let through a shaft of sunlight. In these patches of sun, warming themselves after the night's dew, sat a host of butterflies. They rose and flew round us as we walked, dipping and fluttering and wheeling in a sun-drunken condition. There were tiny white ones like fragile chips of snow, great clumsy ones whose wings shone like burnished copper, and others decked out in blacks, greens, reds, and yellows. Once we had passed, they settled again on the sunlit path and sat there gaily, occasionally opening and closing their wings. This ballet of butterflies was always to be seen on the Eshobi path, and is moreover the only life you are likely to see, for the deep forest does not teem with dangerous game, as some books would have you believe.
We followed this path for about three hours, stopping at times so that the sweating carriers could lower their loads to the ground and have a rest. Presently the path curved, and as we rounded a corner the forest ended and we found ourselves walking up the main and only street of Eshobi. Dogs barked, chickens scuttled and squawked out of our way, and a small toddler rose from the dust where he had been playing and fled into the nearest hut, screaming his lungs out. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, we were surrounded by a milling crowd of humanity: men and boys, women of all ages, all grinning and clapping, pushing forward to shake me by the hand.