Gerald Durrell Read Online Free PDF

view of this example of my hunting powers.
     
    “Na bush pig
dat,” said Elias sadly, as we listened to the faint sound of the retreating
hogs.
     
    “Na fine chop,”
said Andraia wistfully. “Na fine chop for European, too,” he continued, fixing
me with a reproachful eye, in case I should think his disappointment was purely
selfish.
     
    “This gun no got
power for kill bush pig,” I explained hurriedly, “at Eshobi I get other gun
much bigger.”
     
    ““E get plenty
power?”
     
    “Yes, he get
plenty power, he fit kill bush pig, tiger, even elephant,” I said, boasting
wildly.
     
    “Eh . . . aehh!
Na true, sah?”
     

    “Na true. One
day we go for bush and we go get plenty bush pig, plenty.”
     
    “Yessir,” they
chorused.
     
    We continued on
our way, the hunters happy with the thought of the roast bush pig to come, and
I dwelling pleasantly on the memory of the two beautiful beasts we had just
seen, and feeling that my prestige was still intact.
     
    A long time
after we met the Red River Hogs I was in a considerably more exhausted
condition when we had our third and last encounter for that day. We came to an
area of the forest floor which looked as though it had been ploughed up: the
leaf-mould had been raked and scrabbled, rocks and branches overturned, and
green saplings bent and chewed.
     
    My two hunters
examined the signs and then Elias crept to my side and whispered the magic word
“soombo”. Now soombo means a Drill, and the Drill is that prepossessing baboon
one sees in the zoos with a glowing posterior and the savage frown. I always
have had a soft spot in my heart for Drills, perhaps because they always
display the more unmentionable parts of their bodies with such refreshing
candour, to the horror of the zoo public. In any case, here, if I was to
believe Elias, was a whole herd of them, and I was not going to miss the chance
of seeing them in the wild state, so we crept forward with all speed in the
direction of the grunts and peevish screams which we could hear echoing through
the forest ahead. For an hour we followed them, scrambling and ducking,
crawling on all fours, and once, rather reluctantly on my part, we traversed
about a hundred yards of swamp, flat on our tummies. But try as we would, we
could not get close enough for a good view, and our only reward was an
occasional flash of grey fur amongst the bushes. At length we gave it up and
lay exhausted on the ground, smoking much-needed cigarettes and listening to
the sounds of the departing Drills.
     
    We continued on
our circuitous route and reached the outlying huts of the village just after
dark. I was scratched and dirty and extremely tired, but I felt elated that I
had done what I had set out to do. Round a bright fire outside one of the huts
squatted a circle of black figures. A child ran screaming into the hut at the
sudden sight of this tattered white apparition. The parents rose to greet me.
     
    “Welcome, Masa,
welcome.”
     
    “Evening, Masa .
. . you done come?”
     
    Soft voices and
gleaming teeth in the firelight, and the pleasant smell of wood smoke.
     
    “We go rest here
small time, Elias,” I said, and squatted down thankfully by the fire. The earth
was still warm from the sun. I could feel the ache in my legs disappearing and
a pleasant glow running through my body.
     
    “Masa go for
bush?” inquired the elder man of the fireside party.
     
    “Yes, we done go
for bush,” said Elias importantly, and then broke into a torrent of Bayangi,
gesturing into the dark forest to show the way we had gone.
     
    There was a
surprised chorus of “Eh . .. aehh’s” and more questioning. Elias turned to me,
his buck teeth gleaming:
     
    “I tell dis man,
Masa, dat Masa savvay walk too much. Masa get plenty power . . .” he said,
obviously thinking that I deserved flattery.
     
    I smiled as
modestly as I could.
     
    “I tell him you
get power pass black man, sah,” he continued, and then jokingly,