Gerald Durrell (20 page)

At midday the
sun beat down upon the forest and the camp, and all the birds fell silent in
the intense sticky heat. The only sound was the faint, far-away whisper of the
cicadas in the cool depths of the forest. The birds drowsed in their cages with
their eyes closed, the rats lay on their back sound asleep, their little paws
twitching. Under their palm-leaf shelter the monkeys would be stretched out
full length on the warm ground, blissfully dreaming, angelic expressions on
their little faces. The only one who rarely had an afternoon siesta was the
Red-eared Guenon: she would squat by George’s recumbent, heavily breathing
form, industriously cleaning his fur, uttering soft little cries of
encouragement to herself, as absorbed as an old woman at a spinning-wheel. With
her long fingers she would part the hair, peering at the pink skin beneath, in
this exciting search. She was not searching for fleas: it cannot be said too
often that no monkey searches another for fleas. Should they happen upon a
flea, which would be unusual, during the search, it would, of course, be eaten.
No, the real reason that monkeys search each other’s fur is to obtain the tiny
flakes of salt which appear after the Sweat has evaporated from the skin: these
flakes of salt are a great delicacy in the monkey world. The searcher is rewarded
by this titbit, while the one who is searched is compensated by the delightful
tickly sensation he receives, as his fur is ruffled and parted by the other’s
fingers. Sometimes the position would be reversed and the Guenon would lie on
the ground with her eyes closed in ecstasy while George searched her soft fur
with his big, black, clumsy fingers. Sometimes he would get so absorbed that he
would forget he was not dealing with a monkey his own size, and he would handle
her a trifle roughly. The only protest she would make would be her soft
twittering cry, and then George would realize what he had done and grunt
apologetically.

At night the
monkeys were untied from their stakes, given a drink of milk with cod-liver oil
in it, and then tied up inside a special small hut I had built for them, next
door to my tent. The nearer they were to me at night the safer I felt, for I
never knew when a local leopard might fancy monkey for his nightly feed, and
tied out in the middle of the compound they would not stand a chance. So, each
night the monkeys would be carried to their house, dripping milk, and screaming
because they did not want to go to bed. George was last, and while the others
were being tethered he would make a hasty round of all the pots, hoping against
hope that one of the others had left a drop of milk. Then he too, protesting
strongly, would be dragged off to bed. One night George revolted. After they
had all been put to bed, and I had had my supper, I went down to a dance in the
village. George must have watched me going through a crack in his bedroom wall,
and he decided that if I could spend an evening out he could also. Very
carefully he unpicked his tether and quietly eased his way through the
palm-leaf wall. Then he slipped across the compound, and was just gaining the
path when the Watchnight saw him.

The Watchnight
uttered a wild cry, seized a banana and rushed forward to try and tempt him
back. George paused and watched his approach. He let him get within a foot or
so of his trailing leash, then he ran forward, bit the poor man in the calf of
the leg, and fled down the path towards the village, leaving the Watchnight
standing on one leg and screaming. On reaching the village George was surprised
to see so many people gathered round a Tilly lamp. Just as he arrived the
‘band’ struck up, and the crowd broke into the shuffling, swaying dance that
was the favourite at Eshobi at that time. George watched them for a moment,
astonished, and then decided that this was a very superior game which had been
arranged for his special benefit. Uttering a loud scream he rushed into the
circle of dancers, his trailing rope tripping several couples up, and then he
proceeded to leap and scream in the centre of the circle, occasionally making a
rush at a passing dancer. Then he overturned the Tilly lamp which promptly went
out. Scared of the dark and the pandemonium his sudden appearance had caused,
he rushed to the nearest person and clung to his legs, screaming with all his
might.

Eventually the
lamp was relit, George was chastised and seated on my knee, where he behaved
very well, taking sips out of my glass when I wasn’t looking, and watching the
dancers with an absorbed expression. The dancers, keeping a wary eye on him,
once more formed a circle. Presently I called for a small drum and, putting
George on the ground, I gave the instrument to him. He had been watching the
band with great attention and knew just what to do. He squatted there showing
his great canines in a huge grin of delight, beating the drum with all his
might. Unfortunately his sense of rhythm was not as good as the other drummers’
and his erratic playing threw the dancers into confusion once again, so I was
forced to take the drum away from him and send him off to bed, protesting
loudly all the way.

George attended
one other dance, and this was by special request. Two days before I left Eshobi
to go and join John at Bakebe, the chief arrived to say that the village was
throwing a dance as a sort of farewell party for me. They would be very glad if
I would attend, and could I bring the monkey that played the drum as a friend
of the chief’s was coming to the dance and he was very anxious to see this feat
performed by a monkey. I promised that both George and I would be there. The
Tilly lamps were polished and lit, and both transported down to the village
half an hour before my arrival. When I arrived, clad in my dressing-gown and
pyjamas, George walking sedately beside me on his leash, we were greeted with
much handclapping and cries of “welcome”. I was surprised to see such a large
crowd, all dressed in their very best clothes, which ranged from a boy clad in
a very fetching two-piece costume made out of old flour sacks with the name of
the brand printed in large blue letters across his posterior, to the council
and chief who were dressed in their brightest ceremonial robes. Elias I hardly
recognized: he was to be the Master of Ceremonies, and had dressed himself to
kill: plimsoles on his great feet, a bright green shirt, and brown pin-striped trousers.
He had an enormous watch-chain on the end of which was a huge whistle which he
kept blowing frantically to restore order. The band was the largest yet: three
drums, two flutes, and a triangle.

As soon as my
table and chair had been set up, and I had shaken hands with the council
members and the chief, and exchanged a few complimentary words, Elias sallied
into the middle of the street, and stood between the Tilly lamps blowing the
whistle for silence. Then he spoke:

“All you people
savvay na dis last dance we get Masa. So all you people go dance fine, show
Masa what kind of fine dance we make for Eshobi, you hear?”

A roar of
delight came from the crowd, and they surged forward to form a circle. Elias
stood in the centre of the circle, signalled the band, and they were off. Elias
danced round and round inside of the circle, wagging his bottom and roaring
instructions to the dancers:

“
Advance
. . . meet and waltz . . . right turn . . . let we set . . .
all
move .
. . back we set again. . . .
Advance
. . . right turn . . . meet and
waltz . . . conduct for yourself . . . back we set. . . .
Advance
. . .
.” and so on. The dancers bobbed and shuffled round to his directions, arms,
legs, bodies, eyes, all dancing, their shadows thrown large and grotesque by
the lamps, sliding and interweaving on the red earth. The drums thumped and
stuttered in a complicated rhythm, and the flutes bound it together with their
thin cries. On and on went the dance, faster and faster, the dancers’ faces
gleaming in the lamplight, their eyes glazed, their bodies twisting and their
feet stamping until the earth shook. The watchers clapped and swayed, and
occasionally ejaculated an appreciative “eh . . . aehh!” as some young blood
executed a particularly complicated step. At length, through sheer exhaustion,
the band stopped and the dance was at an end. Everyone sat down and the buzz of
conversation filled the air.

Presently, after
three or four more dances, Elias approached leading a detestable youth called
Samuel by the hand. Samuel was a most objectionable young man, a product of a
Mission School education which made him speak in that stilted style of English
which I detested. However, he was the only one in the village that could speak
proper English, Elias explained, and he was to act as interpreter, for the
chief council member was about to make a speech. The chief council member rose
to his feet on the other side of the street, drew his lovely pale pink robes
closer about him, and commenced to speak loudly, volubly, and rapidly in
Banyangi. Samuel had taken a place by his side and listened carefully. At the
end of each sentence he would rush across the street, translate into English
for me, and then rush back to catch the next sentence. At first the council
member would wait for Samuel to return before starting the next sentence, but
as the speech progressed he got carried away by his own flow of words, and poor
Samuel was kept dashing to and fro at some speed. The night was warm and Samuel
unused to such exercise; his white shirt was soon grey with sweat. The speech,
as translated to me, went something like this:

“People of
Eshobi! You all know why we are here to-night . . . to say good-bye to the
master who has been with us for so long. Never in the whole history of Eshobi
have we had such a master . . . money has flowed as freely from him as water in
the river-bed. [As it was a dry season and most of the rivers a mere trickle, I
felt this was hardly complimentary.] Those who had the power went to bush and
caught beef, for which they were paid handsomely. Those who were weak, the
women and children, could obtain salt and money by bringing grasshoppers and
white ants. We, the elders of the village, would like the master to settle down
here: we would give him land, and build him a fine house. But he must go back
to his own country with the beef that we of Eshobi have got for him. We can
only hope that he tells the people of his country how we of Eshobi tried to
help him, and to hope that, on his next tour, he will come back here and stay
even longer.”

This speech was
followed by prolonged cheers, under cover of which Samuel was helped away by a
friend. I then rose and thanked them for their kindness, and promised that I
would come back if I could, for I had grown very fond of Eshobi and all the
inhabitants. This, indeed, was quite true. I spoke in my very best pidgin, and
apologized for not being able to speak in their own language. Tumultuous cheers
followed, aided and abetted by George, who yelled his applause loudly. Then the
band struck up again, George was given a drum and proceeded to play it with
great dash and vigour to the amazement and delight of the visiting tribesman.
It was very late when I led George, yawning prodigiously on the end of his
leash, back to the camp. The dance went on until dawn flamed in the sky.

We worked all
night before we left, packing up the animals, tying the cages into suitable
head-loads. At five o’clock the entire village turned out: half were to act as
carriers for my large collection, and the other half had come to see me off.
The cook had been sent on ahead to prepare breakfast at Mamfe, where we were to
be picked up by the lorry. Slowly the camp site disintegrated. Loads were
carefully tested, all the more valuable specimens being given to the most
trustworthy carriers. The women carried the palm mats, the collecting
equipment, the kitchen things, and other items of little value, and they were
sent on ahead. Then the carriers with the animals picked up their loads and
followed. I disposed of a pile of empty tins and bottles to various hunters and
others in the village who had come to say good-bye, as these things were most
valuable in their eyes. Then, accompanied by a dense crowd of villagers all
rushing to shake my hand and say good-bye, I walked to the banks of the small
stream outside the village, where the forest path began. More handshaking,
white teeth gleaming, cries of good-bye, and I crossed the stream and started
in pursuit of the carriers, whose voices I could hear echoing in the depths of
the forest ahead.

By the time my
long line of carriers had emerged from the forest into the grass fields dawn
had broken. The sky was azure blue, and the rising sun was gilding the tops of
the forest trees. Ahead of us, across the grass field and the line of carriers,
three hornbills flew, honking wildly and soulfully as hornbills will. Elias
turned to me, his face gleaming with sweat, a great cage of fruit bats balanced
on his head.

“Dis bird sorry
too much, sah, that you leave Eshobi,” he said.

I, also, was
sorry too much that I was leaving Eshobi.

PART TWO

BAKEBE & BEYOND

CHAPTER
EIGHT