Gerald Durrell (31 page)

I never saw
Chumley again, but I know his history: he became a great television star, going
down to Alexandra Palace and doing his act in front of the cameras like an old
trouper. Then his teeth started to worry him, and so he was moved from the
monkey-house back to the sanatorium to have an operation. One day, feeling
bored with life, he broke out and sallied forth across Regent’s Park. When he
reached the main road he found a bus conveniently at hand, so he swung himself
aboard; but his presence caused such horror amongst the occupants of the bus
that he got excited and forgot himself so far as to bite someone. If only
people would realize that to scream and panic is the best way of provoking an
attack from any wild animal. Leaving the bus and its now bloodstained
passengers, Chumley walked down the road, made a pass at a lady with a pram
(who nearly fainted) and was wandering about to see what else he could do to
liven life up for Londoners, when a member of the sanatorium staff arrived on
the scene. By now I expect Chumley had realized that civilized people were no
decent company for a well-brought-up chimp, so he took his keeper’s hand and
walked back home. After this he was branded as not safe and sent back to the
monkey-house. But he had not finished with publicity yet, for some time later
he had to go back to the sanatorium for yet more treatment on his teeth, and he
decided to repeat his little escapade.

It was Christmas
Eve and Chumley obviously had memories of other and more convivial festivities,
probably spent at some club in the depths of Africa. Anyway, he decided that if
he had a walk round London on Christmas Eve, season of goodwill, he might run
across someone who would offer him a beer. So he broke open his cage and set
off once more across Regent’s Park. At Gloucester Gate he looked about
hopefully for a bus, but there was not one in sight. But there were some cars
parked there and Chumley approached them and beat on the doors vigorously, in
the hope that the occupants would open up and offer him a lift. Chumley loved a
ride in any sort of conveyance. But the foolish humans misconstrued his
actions: there he was full of Christmas spirit, asking for a lift, and all they
could do was to wind up their windows and yell for help. This, thought Chumley,
was a damn poor way to show a fellow the traditional British hospitality. But
before he had time to explain his mission to the car owners, a panting posse of
keepers arrived, and he was bundled back to the Zoo. Chumley had escaped twice,
and they were not going to risk it happening again: from being a fine,
intelligent animal, good enough to be displayed on television, he had suddenly
become (by reason of his escapades) a fierce and untrustworthy monster, he
might escape yet again and bite some worthy citizen, so rather than risk this
Chumley was sentenced to death and shot.

CHAPTER
THIRTEEN

THE VILLAGE IN THE LAKE

KUMEA was a
large village and, for the Cameroons, comparatively civilized: that is to say,
it had a white population of about ten people, it could boast of a United
Africa Company store and a small hospital, and it was a regular stopping point
for all the lorries from the coast. In consequence we thought that it would
produce little in the way of rare specimens for us, and we looked on it more as
a base within easy reach of port rather than a collecting station of possible
value. To our surprise Kumba, and its inhabitants, produced for us some of our
very choicest specimens.

The first of
these arrived not long after we had settled in the three nice, airy
school-houses which were situated on the edge of the village. A wild-looking
fellow presented himself one day, bearing on his head a long cage skilfully
made out of bamboo, and carefully wrapped in banana leaves. The man, it turned
out, was a native from the French Cameroons, some thirty miles away, and he
could speak nothing but his own dialect and a sort of pidgin-French. As my
French is of much the same variety anyway, I found that we could converse. He
told me that he had heard that I was buying monkeys, and so he had gone off to
his farm and caught me some. Just like that. He then tore off the banana leaves
and displayed to my astonished eyes three monkeys of a species that I had never
seen before, sitting in the bamboo cage. On looking closer, moreover, I
discovered that there were, in reality, four monkeys, for one of the females
clutched a tiny baby to her breast, but it was so small that it was half buried
in her fur. They were big handsome beasts, a very dark slate-grey all over,
except for two spots of colour: under their chins the hair was soft and fluffy,
like a powder-puff, and pure white; on the lower back the hair was a bright
rust red in certain lights. Without argument I paid him the very modest price
he demanded, and then tried to interrogate him in my very best French. A man
who could catch monkeys in this quantity, and of this species, was, I knew,
worth cultivating.

“
Allons, mon
ami, avec quelles choses avez-vous entrappé ces animaux?
” I asked
hopefully.

“
Pardon,
monsieur?
”

I repeated,
substituting a word for “animaux” that I hoped meant monkey.

The man thought
for a long time, scratching his head.

“
Je ne
comprends pas, monsieur,
” he said apologetically.

Frantically I
looked around for rescue, and at that moment John appeared. Now I knew that my
stalwart companion had spent some time in Belgium, and remembered that he could
speak French or, at least, had told me that he could. So I called him over and
he entered the fray. Speaking with a delightful Oxford accent he translated to
my wild tattooed tribesman, and to my surprise the man understood. He replied
with a flood of speech, and this time it was John who could not understand.
After a hectic half-hour, during which we all spouted French, pidgin, and
English at each other, and used nearly every French phrase except “the pen of
my aunt”, we got the man’s story out of him. Apparently he would build a small
cage of logs in his farm, somewhere near the place he knew monkeys to be, and
then bait it with ripe bananas. When the monkey troop entered to feast on the
fruit they dislodged some sticks, carefully balanced, and the door slammed shut
behind them. I implored him to go and catch me more, and underlined it by dashing
him two packs of cigarettes. He promised he would try, and left, but I never
saw him again. I expect the price he had received for the first lot of monkeys
had been enough to keep him going for several months and, according to the
Cameroon outlook, why bother to work when you have enough money to buy what you
want? Time enough to find a job when you are out of cash. A delightful
sentiment, no doubt, and one that displays a very attractive philosophy, but it
is hardly the sort of thing a collector wants of his hunters.

The monkeys
turned out to be Preuss’s Guenon, or the Red-backed Monkey, and a species that
had not been seen alive in England for about forty years. As soon as I could I
moved them into decent cages, separating the mother and the baby so that they
would not be worried or bullied by the others. They were the pride of my monkey
collection, and I gloated over them for several days. Then, one frightful
morning, some dreadful little child (who I sincerely trust has met with a bad
and painful end) crept unseen into the animal house and started to open the
cage doors to feed the monkeys. This did not matter with most of them, for they
were tame and would accept food from the hand with confidence. But my precious
Preuss’s had not settled down yet and were certainly not used to strangers
opening their cage doors and waving fruit at them. One of the males jumped down
and proceeded to bite the hand that was trying to feed him. The boy, of course,
leapt back and for a couple of minutes the door was unguarded and open. That
was time enough for the monkeys, who were out of their cage and on to the
rafters in a second. Just at that moment the animal boys arrived and captured
the culprit, saw the monkeys dancing on the rafters, and came running for me.
But by the time we had rushed back to the animal house with nets it was too
late, and my lovely pair of monkeys were galloping away across the grass in the
direction of the nearest trees. The staff gave chase, but they were hopelessly
outdistanced. I only hoped that the animals would have the sense to make for
the deep forest with all speed, for if they hung around the trees in the
village they would most certainly be shot for chop. So now I was left with my
solitary female and her baby.

Carefully I
approached the cause of my loss whose hand, I noticed with immense
satisfaction, was badly bitten. But he glanced at my face, realized that I was
not going to be charitable, and fled as fast as his little black legs could
carry him. The panting staff returned, and immediately set off in pursuit of
the boy, but he, like the monkeys, had too much of a start, and he disappeared
among the back streets of the village.

I was still
moaning about my loss two days later and hoping that the man from the French
Cameroons would return with more of the Guenons, when I received a specimen
that more than compensated for the loss of my monkeys. A youth presented
himself to me clutching in his arms a box that had once, according to the
label, contained bars of Lifebuoy soap. A strong odour argued that it was only
recently the soap had been removed from the interior. I prised off the lid and
looked into the dark and smelly box, and there crouched an Angwantibo.

Once more there
was an uproar: the animal had to be confined in a makeshift cage while a proper
one was constructed. The temporary home was not worthy of the beast’s rarity
and value, but it was better than that suffocating box. The boy was paid,
congratulated, and told to try again, which he promised to do. The next day I
had just placed the animal in its proper cage, and placed the cage lovingly
next to the one that contained the original specimen, when the same boy walked
in carrying the same soap box.

“Ah . . . aaa!”
I greeted him jovially, “na what beef you done bring? Another same same for dis
one?” and I gestured at the Angwantibos.

“Yes, sah,” he
said unemotionally.

“What?” I said.
“You no get same beef again, eh?”

For answer he
lifted the lid of the box and displayed a third Angwantibo inside. I could
hardly believe my eyes: to get two Angwantibos in two days struck me as being
the sort of thing you dream about but never accomplish. Shakily I paid him,
told him to try for more, and went to see John about it.

“Guess what I’ve
just got?”

“Something
interesting?”

“Another
Angwantibo. . . .”

“I say, that’s
very good,” said John, in a pleased tone of voice. “Now we’ve got three.”

“Yes, but what
worries me is that I just ask this boy to try for another, and the next day he
walks in with one, as though it’s no trouble at all. I’ve just told him to try
and get me a fourth. What I will do if he comes back to-morrow with about six
of them, I don’t know. After all, I can’t go on paying that fantastic price.”

“Don’t worry,”
said John cheerfully, “I don’t expect you will get any more.”

As it turned out
he was right, but the thought of being confronted with a basketful of
Angwantibos at any moment haunted me for several days. I knew I could not have
resisted buying them if they had been brought in.

The next good
item was a rare and beautiful Superb Sunbird which a small boy brought in,
clutched in one hot and sticky hand. Moreover, it was a male, the more
colourful of the sexes, and undamaged. I happened to be in the bird house when
it arrived and had the pleasure of seeing the usually unemotional John actually
gasp with surprise and delight when he saw it. He recovered himself quickly,
and became once more the cool and self-possessed Englishman, but there was a
feverish glitter in his eye as he bargained with the boy, beating him down
mercilessly penny by penny. When he had purchased it he asked the boy how he
had caught it.